Cold Dish

6

In 1939, Lucian Connally had been told by his mother to sweep the front porch of their dry and dusty ranch house. He had refused and, when asked what it was that he intended to do, he had replied, “Go to China.” Which he did.

Lucian didn’t like family.

After finishing Army Air Corps flight school in California, he immediately joined the American Volunteer Group, a collection of a hundred U.S. military pilots released from enlistment so that they might serve as mercenaries in the lend-lease born, fledgling Chinese Nationalist Air Force. Lucian’s political zeal was reinforced by the $750 a month salary and by the $500 a head bonus promised by the Chinese for every Japanese plane shot down. Lucian found he had a knack for such activities and, by the time he left China on August 6, 1941, he had accumulated quite a little nest egg. A little over a year later he returned to the Pacific on the aircraft carrier Hornet and, in a cumbersome B-25, bombed Tokyo, crashed into the Yellow Sea, and was captured by the Japanese and sentenced to life imprisonment.

Lucian didn’t like Japs.

There was a sun-yellowed, decomposing circular in an intricate gold frame on the wall of private suite number 32 at the Durant Home of Assisted Living. Below the grainy photograph of five men in flight jackets and the exotic print was the translation, “The cruel, inhuman, and beastlike American pilots who, in a bold intrusion of the holy territory of the Empire on April 18, 1942, dropped incendiaries and bombs on nonmilitary hospitals, schools, and private houses, and even dive-strafed playing school children, were captured, courtmartialed, and severely punished according to military law.” Two of the men had been ushered outside immediately following the mock trial and summarily executed; the remaining three survived forty months of torture and starvation. Lucian was the short one in the middle with the cocky look on his face, who was smiling like hell.

After the war, Lucian had drifted back to Wyoming and then back to Absaroka County. He then drifted into being sheriff on the strength of his being the toughest piece of gristle in four states. This had been tested when Lucian had had his right leg almost blown off by Basque bootleggers back in the midfifties.

Lucian didn’t like Basquos.

He had tied the strap from an 03 Springfield he carried in the backseat of his Nash Ambassador around the exploded leg and drove himself back to Durant from Jim Creek Hill, thirty-two miles. They took the leg.

Lucian didn’t like sawbones.

They say the subzero temperatures that night saved his life, but I knew better. His more than a quarter century of sheriffing had been nothing short of epic, and his reputation in the Equality State was ferocious. Simply stated, he was the most highly decorated, retired law enforcement official in the country. “How’s them big titties on that Eye-talian deputy of yours?”

He was also a colossal pervert.

I kept my finger on the bishop and looked up at him. “Lucian.. ”

“Just askin’.” It was one of his favorite tactics, shocking me out of any sense of concentration. This might be why I had not won a chess game since the spring of 1998. I slid the bishop against the border as he looked at me through his bushy eyebrows. “What’s goin’ on?”

I settled back in the horsehide wing chair and took in the site of the losing battle. Lucian had been allowed to bring his own furnishings to the “old folks home” as he called it, and the jarring effect of the genuine western antiques in the sterile environment was unsettling. I had been coming here and playing chess with Lucian since he had moved in eight years ago. I never missed a Tuesday for fear that Lucian might lose some of his faculties and, in the eight years, he had not lost one iota. I, on the other hand, was sinking fast. “Nothing, why do you ask?”

He moved. “You ain’t said shit since you got here.”

I looked at the board. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Ain’t gonna do you no good, I’m jus’ gonna spank yer ass again, anyway.” He dug a finger in his ear, examined the wax on his pinkie, and wiped it on the faded blue-jean flap at the end of his stump. “I can’t believe you didn’t bring any beer.”

I couldn’t believe it either. For almost a decade I had been sneaking beer and Bryer’s blackberry brandy in to Lucian on Tuesday nights. “I need to talk to you about some stuff.”

“I figured as much, I’m just waitin’ for you to start.” He moved. “Important stuff?”

“Sheriff stuff.”

“Oh, that shit.” He watched me move a knight out to the slaughter and slowly shook his head. “Well, let’s talk it out and get it over with so I can get at least one decent game tonight.”

“It’s about your great-nephew.”

He looked up. “What’d he do now?”

“Beat on Jules Belden.”

His hands stayed still. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.”

He leaned back in his own chair, readjusting his weight and looking at his reflection in the dark surface of the sliding glass door behind me. He was a handsome old booger, movie starish like the judge, but in a more rugged way. The spiderweb wrinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes to his unreceding hairline and the trim landing strip of platinum white hair. He lacked the aesthetic of the judge; everything on him was square, even his flattop haircut, which I’m sure hadn’t changed since Roosevelt had been in office. His eyes were the darkest brown I had ever seen, the black of the pupils seemed to blend into the mahogany surrounding them. I’m sure they were swallowing the darkness outside and in. Lucian didn’t have any children of his own, and the responsibility of carrying the line into perpetuity rested solely with Turk. He was not completely satisfied with this turn of events, and the set of his jaw made that fact clear. “You wanna drink?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, after reminding me all these times, I didn’t bring anything.”

He scratched the slight stubble on his jaw with fingernails that had been cut down to the cuticles. “Well, thank Christ I don’t depend on you for much.” He pointed to the corner cupboard. “There’s a bottle of bourbon behind the star quilt on the bottom shelf.”

I got up and retrieved the bottle, Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, nothing but the finest at the Durant Home of Assisted Living. I brought the three-quarters of a bottle over. “You got any glasses?”

“What, you too good to drink out ’a the bottle?” I handed it to him and watched as he took a slug and then with a great deal of animation wiped off the mouth of the bottle with a flannel shirtsleeve I was sure hadn’t been changed in a week.

“Thanks.” I didn’t like bourbon, as a general rule, but I sure liked this. I couldn’t even describe the number of smooth buttery tastes in my mouth, but I felt like I should chew. The fire in my throat felt cleansing, like part of a scorched-earth policy.

“Jules in custody at the time?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna press charges?” I took another sip and handed the bottle back to him, unwiped.

“Mighty damn liberal with my bourbon, for a man that didn’t bring me a thing to drink this week.” I sat, and he returned to looking out the glass doors. I wondered at the vitality of the man. Aristotle said that some minds are not vases to be filled, but fires to be lit. Excluding the bourbon, Lucian had been lit for a long time, and the flying tiger’s eyes still burned very bright. “If I had two good legs, I’d go out and kick that little son of a bitch’s ass myself.” The finger pointed at me this time. “You gonna handle this yourself?”

“I suppose so.”

He settled farther back in his chair. It was starting to sound like a contract hit. He sniffed, worked his jaw a little, and took another slug. “What you want from me?”

“Formal absolution.”

He took another slug and handed the bottle back. “Damn, that stuff’s addicting. Better have another pull and put it back in there where it came from.” He burped. “Fore we get drunk as a couple ’a hooty-owls. Bastards around here’ll steal anything that ain’t nailed down… What?”

“Sheriff stuff.”

“More?”

He watched me look out the glass doors for a change. “I don’t know how much of this you want to hear about…”

“Oh, hell, I got important crafts to make out ’a tongue depressors tomorrow morning. I’m not sure if I wanna cloud my mind with a murder case.”

I turned around. “What makes you think it’s a murder case?”

“What makes you think it’s not?” I stood there looking at him. “Sit down, you’re puttin’ a crick in my neck.” I did as ordered. “Don’t look so surprised, I read the damn newspaper.”

“It could be a hunting accident, Lucian.”

He crossed his arms, concentrating. “Bullshit. Near as I can figure, there’s an awful lot of folks out there that would just as soon see that kid dead, one of ’em just decided to take the law into his own hands.” I told him about the ballistics. “Goddamn, was there anything left of the little bastard?”

“Extremities.”

“Where’d it hit him?”

“Center shot.”

“Front or back?”

“Back.”

“Not much of the front left, I suppose?”

“Nope.”

“Lead?”

“Yep. It’s pretty scattered, but everything seems to support the theory that it’s a big caliber breechloader.”

“Sharps.”

“Well, there are others…”

“Sharps.” He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, the stubby fingers wrapped around his jaw like a knuckleball. The gnarled old fingers looked like they could crack walnuts. Lucian’s grip was legendary and, if you were ever unfortunate enough to have him lay hands on you, you suddenly paid very close attention. It was fun to watch the mechanisms start up, to see Lucian’s eyes flying over Absaroka County, sweeping down from the mountains, through the gulleys, over the foothills, and into every attic, cedar chest, closet, and gun case in a hundred square miles. He added five more names to the list, none of which were Indians. I told him about the feather. “Shit. Anything else?”

“Nope.” He chewed on the inside of his mouth but, other than that, he was still. After a while, I asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinkin’ about gettin’ that bottle ’a bourbon back out.” I carefully put the little kingdoms back into their storage place in the compartment within the board. I figured we were done with chess for the night. “You still runnin’ with that Indian buddy of yours, Ladies Wear?”

“Standing Bear.”

“Yeah, him.” Lucian did things to Indian names that were nothing short of criminal. He called the Big Crows the Big Blows, and the Red Arrows were Dead Sparrows. The list was endless and, no matter how many times you corrected him, he would just smile a little smile and keep on talking. Even with all this, the Indians loved him. They respected him for his toughness and his sense of fair play. On the bridge where I had recuperated yesterday, Lucian had waged a campaign against public intoxication when he stopped his overturned bathtub of a Nash and demanded the bottle from which two middle-aged braves were drinking. They took one last sip and then tossed the container into Piney Creek. “What bottle?”

Lucian unstrapped his wooden leg at the bank, took off his hat, jumped into the creek, and a minute later came up. “This goddamned bottle.” They helped him with his leg and his hat and then cheerfully jumped in the back of the squad car for the ride into town. The Cheyenne elders were careful when they spoke his name, Nedon Nes Stigo, He Who Sheds His Leg.

Lucian knew who Henry was, and he knew his name. “He can probably help you figure out who did the feather and where on the Rez it came from. Gawd, all my contacts out there are dried up dead and traveling on the wings of the wind. But you gotta start with that girl’s family.”

“Henry is her family.”

He shook his head. “How’s Ladies Wear tied into the Thunderbirds?”

“Little Birds. Melissa’s father is Henry’s cousin.”

“So, the daughter’d be his second cousin.”

“Yep, but with the age discrepancy they just call her his niece.”

“Her father the one that lost his legs, Lonnie?”

“Diabetes.”

“Damn, that’s rough.” I looked at the one-legged man before me. “The mother was a drunk, and the kid turning out feebleminded the way she did…” The hand went back to his face, and the air that came from his lungs rattled like a snake. “Well, go talk to ol’ Ladies Wear.”

“You don’t think he’s a suspect?”

His eyes quickly looked like the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. “Do you?”

“No.”

He continued to look at me. “He’s your best friend, seems like it’s something you’d know.”

“Yep.”

He leaned his head to one side and half-closed the nearest eye, sighting me in. “You don’t sound so sure.”

“I am.” He watched me as I reached over to the sofa and got my coat. “Anybody else I should put on the list?”

He shrugged. “How the hell should I know. I’m retired.”

It was still nice when I got outside. I always used the emergency exit by the commissary at the end of the hallway. I never looked down into the sliding glass windows as I crossed the parking lot; it seemed demeaning to Lucian. In my peripheral view, I could see the lights were still on, and I was sure he still sat there watching me, waiting for next Tuesday. I turned around.

“What the hell do you want now?”

It hadn’t taken long to get back to his room. I leaned on the doorway, pretty much filling the opening and pushed the brim of my hat back. “Have you thought about that dispatcher’s job we talked about a while ago?”

He had unbuttoned his shirt and hopped to the dividing wall, his hand steadying him. “Two years ago?”

“Yep.” He stared at me through the eyebrows. “Things are awful busy, and I could use some help.”

“Two days a week?”

“Weekends, yeah.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” He didn’t move, embarrassed at being caught hopping through his suite and heading for bed.

“You were going after that bourbon, weren’t you?” He didn’t smile very often but, when he did, he had great teeth. I wondered idly if they were his.

I started back to the office with the windows down. If it was going to snow, it wasn’t giving any indication of it. The moon glowed a clear white, slipping through the slender arms of the willows along Clear Creek. Late at night you could hear the water, and most of the summer I would leave the windows in my office open so I could listen. It was only about eight-thirty, but the town had already put itself to bed.

There was a note from Ruby saying that Ferg had swung by the Espers but that nobody had been home. He would telephone them himself and stop by again tomorrow. There was an addendum Post-it, in which she related that she had informed him that he was being drafted to full time. She said his response hadn’t been enthusiastic, but he hadn’t been spiteful enough not to leave four dressed brown trout in the refrigerator for me. I wandered past Vic’s office and looked in at the explosion of legal pads. The display was daunting, and I would be cursed at if I messed up any of what I’m sure was a carefully detailed arrangement. We were little but we were mighty. I thought of Don Quixote, being far too powerful to war with mere mortals and pleading for giants.

I sat at my desk and looked at the phone as the windmills loomed overhead. Vonnie would still be up, but my courage had curdled. There was a sheet of paper from one of Vic’s legal pads with her angry scrawl spreading across the top quarter. I picked it up, turned on my desk lamp, and read… “Where the hell are you? Spiral searched the site with a fine-tooth comb. Full six hundred yards, and do you have any idea how fucking long that took? Numb-nuts thought there might have been some grass blowdown on one of the rises about five hundred yards away, so we had to stake and cover it. Guess how fucking long that took? He’s an expert with a camera, too. Go figure. Asked me out for a drink. Guess how fucking long that took?” It was signed, VIC. With an addendum, “PS: More grist for the investigative ballistics’ mill tomorrow, nothing worth hampering your extensive social life with.” And another. “PPS: I took the film over to the drugstore, and they said they would drop it off tomorrow morning, first thing. Read: noon.”

I had never received a note from Vic that had less than two PSs. I continued to hold up the yellow legal sheet and noticed the little pinholes of light shining through everywhere she had made a period. I laid the sheet of paper down and looked at the phone again. The feather caught my attention, and I picked it up, turning it in my fingers as it had turned in my mind all day. I picked up the phone, but it just hovered in my hand, a foot away. I could hear the dial tone, so it was working. I gently sat it back on the cradle and looked out the windows; as I suspected, the clouds were starting to haze out the mountains. I hoped that whatever Vic had found with Omar this afternoon was safely tucked away or covered with a staked plastic drop cloth.

I picked up the phone again, dialed, and listened to it ring. On the fourth ring there was the mechanical fumbling of the answering machine, and I left the daily message I had been leaving since last week, “This is your father, I just want to know if you’ve escaped, or do we have to pay the ransom?” Nothing, so I hung up.

My attempts at reviving my mood were failing, so I went back to the refrigerator in the jail to retrieve my trout dinner, and there, proudly standing at the front of the top shelf among the potpies and Reynolds-wrapped fish, was a mountain fresh, twelve-ounce bottle of Rainier beer. There was a yellow Post-it stuck to the bottleneck with Ruby’s careful handwriting, “In honor of your getting in shape.” That Ruby.

I twisted off the top and tossed it into the trash can, headed back into my office, and sat back down. I took a swig of the beer and felt a lot better. I picked up the phone yet again, and then remembered I was going to have to look up her number. I finally found my battered phonebook in the bottom drawer of my desk and sat about working my way through the H s. Michael Hayes. I dialed, and she picked it up on the second ring. “Yes?”

The yes surprised me, but I got back on my feet quick. “Hey, I haven’t even asked you yet.”

The response was soft. “Hello, Walter.”

I could see her curled up on one of those leather couches by the fire with the phone pulled in close. It had been so long and I was so out of my depths, I was always feeling dizzy when I spoke with her. “I can take that yes as a blanket response?”

“Is a sheriff supposed to be making these kinds of phone calls?”

I sat the bottle down and began working on the label with my thumbnail. “Sheriff who?”

“I was thinking about inviting you over for dinner.” There was a pause. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Perfect. What can I bring?”

“How about a bottle of fine wine and your fine self.”

“I can do that. Tomorrow’s a court day, but then I’ll just be running around like a chicken with its head cut off, standard operating procedure.” She laughed, and it was warm and melodic. I should have pushed for tonight. She advised me to take care of my head till then and bid me farewell till light through yonder window break. It was hard to describe, but courting Vonnie seemed to elevate me onto another plane. Without trying to sound like some lovesick teenager, the world just seemed better, like the air I was breathing had a little something extra.

I finished off the beer, gathered up the feather and fish, and headed for the Bullet. I looked at the smear of clouds reflected by the moon. It looked cold on the mountain. We were in the fifth year of a drought cycle, and the ranchers would be glad of the moisture collecting up there. In the spring, the life-giving water would trickle down from the precipices, growing the grass, feeding the cows, making the hamburgers, and paying the sheriff’s wages. It was all in the natural order of things, or so the ranchers told me… and told me.

I fired the truck up and let her run, rolling up the windows and looking at my right eye in the rearview mirror. It was a handsome right eye, roguish yet debonair. The right ear was also evident, a handsome ear as ears go, well formed with a disattached lobe. A sideburn had a little gray, just enough for seasoning, and it blended well with the silver-belly hat. A damn fine figure of a man or a man’s eye and ear. I avoided the temptation of ruining the effect by readjusting the mirror for a fuller view.

I had a date. My first date in… since before I was married. Wine, I had to remember wine. The only place that would be open was the Sinclair station’s liquor annex. Somehow, I didn’t think they would have the vintage I was looking for. If I could catch Henry at the bar, he could supply me. I backed out and headed for the Wolf Valley.

When I got to the bar my mood deflated a little; the lights were all off, and there wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Henry often closed up if no one was around. I suppose he figured that nursing the drunks through the nights when they were there was one thing, but anticipating them was another. I swung around and headed back home. I thought about continuing on out to his place but figured I would just call him at the Pony tomorrow. I looked over at the lovely fish resting on the passenger-side floor mat and tried to think of how to cook them without messing them up. I relaxed a little when I caught a flash of reflected taillight as I pulled up the drive to my little cabin. I looked in at the powder blue Thunderbird convertible with its top down and at the pristine white interior as I gathered my assortment of things.

Henry’s father had bought the car new in Rapid City back in 1959, about three months before he was diagnosed with “the” cancer. That’s what they called it back then, “the” cancer, like “the” winter, or “the” Black Death. I leaned over the door and read the odometer: 33,432 miles. When the old man passed over, there had been a great deal of controversy in the family as to who would get the T-bird. Henry ended the debate by fishing the keys out of the old man’s last pair of pants that lay crumpled beside his deathbed. Henry started the Thunderbird, drove the old girl forty miles, and parked her in an undisclosed garage somewhere in Sheridan. None of them ever asked him about it again, ever. He called the car Lola.

“Hey, get away from that car.” The deep voice had come from the darkness, somewhere under the new porch roof. I walked up the slight grade to the front of my newly transformed log cabin. The porch ran the entire length of the house, and the smell of the freshly cut redwood was enchanting. The roof consisted of two-by-six tongue and groove; the green tin surrounded the edges and joined seamlessly with the already existing roof. It was a really good job, even I could see that. The rough-cut six-by-sixes gave the place a look of permanence, the look of a home. There were a couple of concrete blocks stacked on the ground at the center, which allowed access between the railings.

I stood beside the blocks and leaned against one of the upright timbers. “Damn.”

“Not bad, huh?” He sat by the front door and leaned against the wall with his legs crossed and stretched out in front of him. His worn moccasins translated the print of his feet through the moosehide. He reached down and plucked out a bottle of beer from the holder and tossed it to me; it almost slipped, but I caught it. “You were going to be able to have three, but then it got late. Now, you only get two.”

I opened the beer and took a sip. “They do good work.”

“They are going to be back tomorrow to finish the railings and put some steps in.”

“They know it’s going to snow tonight?”

He shrugged and straightened his shoulders against the log wall. “Not until after midnight.” I looked out at the convertible and hoped he was right.

I took another sip, wandered down the porch, and nodded toward the car. “Special occasion?”

“Last hurrah. I do not suppose I will get a chance to drive her anymore this year.” His eyes stayed on the car and, in the flat moonlight, it looked very pale; another ghost pony for Henry.

“Slow night at the bar?”

“Yes. What is in the tinfoil?”

“Couple ’a browns.” I stuck out a hand and pulled him up. “You want help putting her top up?”

He looked past me to the hills across the valley. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I laid the fish on the counter by the sink and tossed the feather packet over toward the edge. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk and eggs he must have brought Sunday. He opened the carton and sniffed. “Do you still have the cornmeal?”

I went over to the lower cabinet by the door and retrieved the cardboard container; the corner was already eaten through. I shrugged as I handed it to him. “Sorry.” He shook his head and cracked two eggs in a bowl, whisking them with a fork and adding some milk. He retrieved the frying pan from earlier in the week, checked it for mouse shit, turned on a front burner, and dropped a dollop of butter onto the slowly warming iron. He was fun to watch in the kitchen, his movements easy and smooth. It dawned on me that I should ask, “Anything I can do?”

“No, I prefer my trout meuniere sans poopi.” He opened the tinfoil and admired the fish. “Beautiful. Where did you get them?”

“What makes you think I didn’t catch them?”

He didn’t honor this statement with a response but dumped out a bed of cornmeal in a dish and whisked the batter some more. Finishing this, he picked up his beer and started to take a sip. “I don’t suppose you have any peanut oil, parsley, or white wine?”

“No, but I have a date tomorrow night.”

He nodded, extended his arm, and poured part of his beer in the batter. He coated the fish, layered them in the cornmeal, then took a dish towel hanging from the drawer pull under the sink and tilted the handle of the frying pan. “Good.”

“I need some help.”

He watched the butter slide down the inside of the pan, added a little more, and rested it back on the burner. “Yes?”

“Wine?”

“Yes, wine is a good thing.”

He didn’t see the sarcastic look I was giving him. “I need help picking one out.”

He stared at the fish. “Dinner is in her home?”

“Yes.”

“What is she serving?”

“I don’t know.” He slowly shook his head and took a sip of his beer; I was driving him to drink. I took a swig of my own and smiled, putting a good face on things. “She didn’t say.”

He nodded, spreading his hands over the repast. “Red with beef, white with fish, or cheap beer with everything.” He leaned against the counter and braced his weight on one arm. “Is this to be a gift or to accompany dinner?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. If it is to accompany dinner and it is white, then it must arrive chilled. If it is a gift, then it should not.”

“What if I just don’t let her touch the bottle?”

He nodded sagely. “Are you going to let her drink any?”

“Oh, there is that.” He finished off the abbreviated beer and pulled the last one from the cardboard carrier. “I thought that was mine?”

“You do not deserve it.” He opened it and took a swig before I could grab it away. “Then there is chicken.”

“What about chicken?”

“It can go either way.”

“I’ve heard that about chickens.”

He shook his head some more. “According to how it is prepared, it can go with either red or white. The whole idea of wine is to complement the meal. There are dry wines, moderately dry wines, dessert wines, aperitifs, sparkling wines, fortified wines, sherries, and ports…”

“Mad Dog 20–20?” I was trying to be helpful.

“There are an infinite number of both white and red wines: sauternes, chardonnays, pinot grigios, sauvignon blancs on the white side; bordeaux, burgundy, beaujolais, pinot noir, zinfandel, shiraz, merlot, syrah on the red side; never mind the vineyards themselves and the vintners. The wine of the year is a cabernet blend from the coastal region of Bolgheri. Antinori planted sixty percent to cabernet sauvignon, thirty-five percent to merlot, and five percent to cabernet franc. Then there are the appellations-St. Emilion, Margaux, Barolo, Barbera, and Chianti…”

“Which ones come in cartons?”

He nudged the empty carrier with the punt of his bottle. “How about a nice six-pack?”

“I’m trying to change my image.”

“Yes, I am trying to change it, too, but it does not seem to be working.” He took two of the fish and plopped them in their reflective image in melted butter; they sizzled and settled in as he returned the skillet to the stovetop. There was only room for two of the fillets at a time.

“What about the chenin blanc she drinks at the bar?”

“That is a good choice, along with a merlot. Just in case.”

“You can hook me up?” A term I had picked up from Vic.

“Yes.”

I went ahead and ate while thinking about which subject I wanted to raise first as he prepared the next brace of trout. “Things really that slow at the bar?”

He flipped his own dinner onto a plate and joined me at the counter. “Slow enough that I could get out of there this evening.”

“Ever get tired of it?”

“Every day, but then I look at my bank account and get over it.” He started on his dinner, and I let him eat for a while before I disturbed him with another question. I knew why he owned the bar, why he had gravitated to it. A sense of community. In a way, it was why we both did what we did. It was a way of looking after things, making sure everything was all right. “How is your fish?”

I guess that meant he was ready to talk. “Great, thanks.”

“Hey, they were your fish.”

“Jim Ferguson’s, to be exact.” He was like that, always making an attempt to put everyone at ease. “Roger Russell come out to the bar a lot?”

He thought about it. “No.”

“That time the other night, the only time he’s been in?”

“Yes.” His head rolled to one side, and he leaned back a little to keep his hair out of his food.

“He’s on Omar’s short list of shooters.”

He continued eating. “Who else is on the list?”

I told him, and his face carried nothing. “Comment?”

He grunted. “I am not sayin’ nothin’, shamus, till I talk to my mouthpiece.” We talked about the list for a while, his assumptions riding alongside mine. He didn’t spend enough time in town to make any real connections to the group. The only one he was interested in, for obvious reasons, was Artie Small Song. “He has worked for Omar.”

“Yep, Omar said.”

I watched the air fill his lungs and admired the way the weight of his chest didn’t force it out. I would never be built like Henry, capable of fight or flee. I was stuck with fight, but maybe I could be a little better at it. I could still feel the dull ache in my legs, and somewhere, down deep, I could feel a slight twinge at my stomach where most people had abdominal muscles. I readjusted my weight on the stool, and his eyes came up. “Artie was in the bar the day Cody Pritchard was shot.”

Shit. “At the same time, before, after?”

He nodded his head ever so slightly. “Before.”

“How much before?”

“About an hour before, left when Cody came in.”

I sat my fork and knife down, as I rapidly lost my appetite. “You see which way he went?”

“No.”

We sat for a few moments more. “I need you to tell me what you’re thinking.” He got up and walked over to the window with his hands on his hips and looked out at the wind picking up and at his car with the top down. “You want me to help you put the top up on the T-bird?”

He didn’t turn, and his voice sounded far away. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I waited for what seemed like a very long time. “You must understand that this puts me in a very uncomfortable position.”

“How about I just call Billings or Hardin?”

“How about you just put your questions in a bottle and float them up the Powder River? Same result.” I waited some more, watching him breathe.

“I’m perfectly willing to be turned down.”

“Yes, you are, and that is one of many reasons I would do it.”

“Think he’ll be cooperative?”

“No. Not if he has any suspicions.” I didn’t like using Henry like this, but I convinced myself it was for a greater good. I was sure that the same thought was going through the back of the head at which I was looking.

“Know him very well?”

“Well enough.”

I changed the subject in my usual subtle fashion. “Know of any Sharps out on the Rez?”

There was no pause. “Lonnie Little Bird has one.”

“What?”

He half turned and smiled. “Lonnie has one.”

I leaned back on my stool and crossed my arms. “You know, for a relatively rare firearm, the damn things are popping up all over the place.”

His hands gravitated forward and into his pockets. “It was given to him by my great uncle, many years ago.”

“Where’d he get it?”

“From his father, who got it from a white man.”

“Dead white man?”

“Eventually.” He was still looking at me from the side of his face.

“. 45–70?”

“Yes.” He looked back out the window, and I turned back to the counter. He could see me plain as day in the reflection of the glass. I was getting tired of looking at people’s reflections, and I was damn sure I was tired of them looking at me. “You are going to have to talk to Melissa Little Bird’s family. I will go with you.”

“I’ve got something else to show you.” I picked up the envelope from DCI, tossing it to his side of the counter. He turned and looked at me. “Yet another reason I have to go onto the reservation.” He came back and sat down, opened the cardboard envelope, and pulled out the cellophane-wrapped feather. His eyes narrowed a little, but that was all.

“Turkey.”

“How the hell could you tell that so fast?”

He laughed and looked down the length of the feather like the sight on a gun. “Bend.” He held it up straight between us. “Turkey feathers have a wicked bend to them, this one has been straightened, over-bent, then flipped over, and bent again.”

“How?”

“Household iron, light bulb, or steam, but steam is more difficult.”

“Why bother?”

“Eagle feathers are straight.” I thought about the feathers on Omar’s rifle scabbard; they were straight. “There’s also a deeper ridge on the spline. Can I open the plastic?”

“Sure, there are no fingerprints.”

He smiled again. “You are not going to use this against me later, are you?”

“Nah, I was going to get your prints off the beer bottle.”

He opened the cellophane by loosening the Scotch tape at one side. He was one of those guys who saved Christmas wrapping. He held the feather by the stem and ran his fingers up the side, the delicate quills tracing the movement between his index finger and thumb. He was looking at something, but I didn’t know what it was. “Some artisans use Minwax to get the right color. It is a much richer tint than the turkey’s. Mahogany furniture stain, with a sponge. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?”

“Cody Pritchard.”

His eyes stayed with mine. “On the body?”

“Yep, we thought it was just a leftover from one of the local critters, but…”

“Yes.” He reconsidered the feather. “Yes…”

“He didn’t have anything like this on him at the bar, did he?”

“No.” He turned the feather in his fingers, much like I had all day. “This is a good one. There are only a few individuals who could have made this.”

I nodded. “Can you get me a list?”

“I can check them myself.” He sighed and sat the feather down between us.

“You think someone is counting coup?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure if you understand the spirit of the thing. When we used to fight battles against other tribes and the army, no deed was more honored than counting coup. It means to touch an armed enemy who is still in full possession of his powers. The touch is not a blow and only serves to show the enemy your prowess-an act considered greater than any other, a display of absolute courage, conveying a sense of playfulness.”

“Well, that lets this out.” I watched him. He studied the feather again, his eyes running the length, back and forth. “For many reasons, this does not make sense.”

I took the last swig of my beer and sat the bottle aside. “Like?”

“It is the owl feathers that are the sign of death, the messengers from the other world. The eagle feather is a sign of life, attached to all the activities of the living: making rain, planting and harvesting crops, success in fishing, protecting homes, and curing illness. The feather is considered the breath of life, processing the power and spirit of the bird of which it was once a living part.”

I sometimes forgot about how spiritual Henry was. I had been raised as a Methodist where the highest sacrament was the bake sale. “The eagle is big medicine. It symbolizes life, boldness, freedom, and the unity of all. In the Nations, the eagle feather must be blessed. The eagle feather must be pure, so that the recipient does not catch the evil that might be in the unblessed feather. A medicine man must bless the feather, and then it can be passed on to someone else.”

It didn’t seem like we were getting anywhere. “That doesn’t make sense in our particular situation.”

He took the plates away and sat them in the sink, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “That is not a real eagle feather.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“I am not sure. It could be an Indian sending mixed signals, or..?”

“Or what?”

“A white attempting to make it look like an Indian.” I thought of that. “Or back to square one; not all Indians would be able to tell the difference between this feather and a real one.” He shrugged.

“You’re a lot of help.”

“This is going to be tougher than the wine. It means we have to go ask some questions.” He looked around at the makings of dinner. “Do you want me to clean up?”

“I think I can handle it. You’re leaving?”

“I have an early morning tomorrow.”

A slow but steady panic was starting to set in, and the pain in my legs began to grow. “We’re not going running again, are we?”

He didn’t say anything, just turned and walked out the door.

I went over to the window and watched him start up the Thunderbird and carefully back it around my truck. The two taillights bobbed and weaved down the gravel driveway and faded into the night like red turbines. It still looked nice out, so I took the remainder of his beer onto the new porch and leaned against one of the supporting timbers. They were rough-cuts, and the splinters felt like fur being brushed the wrong way. I lifted up the bottle and took a swig. It was almost full, and I smiled. Small gifts.

I looked up at all the little pinpricks in the heavens and thought about Vic’s handwriting, the tiny holes in the paper. I thought about my daughter for a while and Vonnie, but then my mind settled on Melissa Little Bird. I was going to have to see Melissa again. I hadn’t really had any interaction with the young woman since the trial, only seeing her once at the reenactment at Little Big Horn and that was more than a year ago.

She had been sitting in her aunt Arbutus’s car and was waiting to leave one of the roped-off grass parking lots that caught the overflow of the yearly event. It was the end of June, and the waves of heat and the reflection of the afternoon sun made it hard to see, but I saw her. I had raised my head and laughed at something Henry had said, trudging along in the late-afternoon sun, thinking about the individuals who had died there, wondering if their ghosts hovered near. They must have because, when we came up over the rise, my eyes came to rest on Melissa Little Bird, and everything happened in slow motion.

She was wearing the Cheyenne jingle-bob dance headgear, with a band of beaded sunbursts and feathers. It was different than any I had ever seen before; it had three loops of beads that draped below Melissa’s eyes. Trade beads flowed down past her ears to the mussel-shell choker at her throat and onto the elk-bone breastplate. There was also a cardboard number, printed in red, hanging from around her neck, and it read 383. Instantly, I wondered at the number of hours that her family must have taken to prepare her for the dance competitions. I hoped she had won. Her head turned from the direction in which the car was then slowly traveling. Her eyes were soft, yet animated, but they froze when they saw me. Her hand crept up against the glass, flattening against the surface with the pressure she applied. Her lips parted, just enough for me to glimpse the perfect white of her teeth, and she was gone.

Somewhere in all this musing, I noticed a fat little snowflake drift across my field of vision and settle against one of the concrete blocks and disappear. There were others, now that I noticed, gently floating through the cooling night air. Scientists say there is a noise that snowflakes make when they land on water, like the wail of a coyote; the sound reaches a climax and then fades away, all in about one ten-thousandth of a second. They noticed it when they were using sonar to track migrating salmon in Alaska. The snowflakes made so much noise that it masked the signals of the fish, and the experiment had to be aborted. The flake floats on the water, and there is little sound below; but, as soon as it starts to melt, water is sucked up by capillary action. They figure that air bubbles are released from the snowflake or are trapped by the rising water. Each of these bubbles vibrates as it struggles to reach equilibrium with its surroundings and sends out sound waves, a cry so small and so high that it’s undetectable by the human ear.

I looked up at the few remaining stars. It seemed that an awful lot of the voices in my life were so small and high as to be undetectable by the human ear.

I pulled out my pocket watch and read, 12:01.