Winter Counts

by David Heska Wanbli Weiden

  He paused and stared off into the distance. “How many?”

  “Not sure. Could be five or six, maybe more.”

  He was quiet again. “You know what they drive?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do they look like? Indians, white?”

  “Not sure. Most likely from Mexico, so Hispanic, I guess. Rick Crow might have been with them.”

  “Tough one. This time of year we get some tourists, usually on their way to Pine Ridge. Get some of the charity people and a few going down to the casino. Can’t think of anybody like you mention.” He took a drink of his soda and frowned.

  “That’s all right, Bill. Just thought I’d stop by, see if you’d—”

  “Wait, you say Rick Crow was with them?”

  I nodded.

  “Now that I think of it, Rick was here a while back. In some brand-new SUV. You don’t see too many of those around here. Don’t know if he was with anybody, but I asked him about the car. He said it wasn’t his.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Ah, can’t really remember. Shit, I’m trying to think.” His face creased as he searched his memory. “Wait, he may have said he was on his way to Valentine. Yeah, I think so. Valentine.”

  Of course. Just ten miles across the state line from the rez. Small town in the heart of the Nebraska Sandhills, so there were loads of tourists who wanted to hunt, fish, and float down the dark river in a canoe. There were seven or eight motels in the town as well as several campgrounds. And the town was surrounded by farms, so there was a steady stream of agricultural workers moving in and out. Valentine was no Denver, but it was the best place in the area to hide out and blend in.

  I thanked Bill and headed due south.

  THE ROLLING HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA transformed into the flatter terrain of Nebraska during the short drive. Soon I hit the city limits of Valentine, being careful to slow my speed to twenty-five miles per hour so I wouldn’t be pulled over. My first stop would be the Derby Bar, where I used to know most of the bartenders and could ask some questions.

  I was the only customer in the place, which surprised me, given that it was early afternoon. Behind the bar a large Native woman was hunched over her phone. I’d gone to high school with her about a million years ago, but couldn’t remember her name.

  “You got Shasta?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Just Coke.” She filled up a glass with ice and poured some syrup out of the beverage gun, then went back to her cell phone.

  “We went to school together, right?” I said. “Tell me your name again.”

  “Sharlene. You’re, ah—”

  “Virgil. Virgil Wounded Horse.”

  “Oh yeah, I think we were in math class together. Who was that teacher?”

  “Shit, I can’t remember. Too many dead brain cells. How you been doing?”

  She set her phone down and poured herself a beer. “Same old, same old. You still in Mission?”

  I took a drink of my Coke. “Yeah, lived in Rapid for a while, ended up back on the rez. What about you?”

  “Got a place here in Valentine. Pretty cheap, get to stay close to my kids.”

  “You got kids? Nice.”

  “Two. Boy and a girl. Share custody with my ex. He’s a real asshole.”

  “I know him?”

  “Nope. Wasicu from Omaha. Hooked up with him after I left my mom’s house. Worst move I ever made.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” I motioned toward my glass, and she filled it up again. I slipped a five-dollar bill on the bar.

  “All good. I got two great kids out of the deal, more than I can say for others.”

  “I hear you.” I took a sip of my Coke. “Hey, ask you a question? Wondering if you’ve seen some guys come in here lately—like five or six dudes, they maybe came with Rick Crow. You remember him from school?”

  She shook her head. “Lot of people drink here. Don’t keep track.”

  “You remember anyone with some fancy SUV?”

  She shook her head again. “Unless they park right in front, I can’t see what people are driving.”

  This was a dead end. “One more thing. If somebody was trying to hole up around here, you know, lay low, where would they stay?”

  Now she looked interested. “What’s going on? These guys in trouble?”

  “No. They might be able to help me with some stuff I got going on.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but I hoped the beer had loosened her tongue.

  “Well, I doubt someone trying to hole up would stay in the motels. They rent out mainly to the campers and the hunters. Rooms are pretty expensive; they don’t like any trouble. The Econo Lodge just kicked out some college kids that were drinking too much and being loud.”

  I took another sip. “Anyplace else people might stay?”

  “There’s a travel park across town, out by Highway 83. Pretty beat up, not many people camp there. I hear they got a few cabins, though. It’s called the Pay-E-Zee.”

  I FOUND THE PLACE EASILY. There was a big sign advertising accommodations with nightly, weekly, or monthly rates. It was an old-fashioned campground, just like the bartender had said. Hookups for campers and RVs, a dilapidated building that probably housed the bathrooms and laundry facilities, and a small main office. I didn’t see any motor homes or campers, which made me wonder if the place was still open. I spotted a few cabins down the road. One of them looked occupied. There was a big vehicle parked in front, but I couldn’t identify the make or model from a distance. No sense in attracting attention, so I drove my car back through the entrance and pulled around to the rear of the travel park, where I was able to get closer to the cabin. I got out of my car and walked around the outskirts of the campground so I could get a better view of what was parked there. A shiny black Lincoln Navigator with Colorado plates.

  Maybe I’d found them, but I needed to be sure. There were plenty of tourists and hunters from Colorado who passed through Nebraska with their fancy trucks and SUVs. I went back to my car and settled in for some surveillance. My view wasn’t perfect, but I could see if anyone entered or left the cabin. It was pretty deserted, but if somebody came by, my cover story would be that I’d pulled off to make some calls.

  The minutes passed slowly while I staked out the place. I couldn’t see any movement inside the cabin, but I had time to kill. While I waited, I called Marie and updated her on my status. She said she couldn’t talk long because she was headed out to the indigi-chef’s cooking class. I felt the blood in my veins begin to throb, but kept my mouth shut and told her to have a good time. For the next few hours, visions of Marie and Chef Longhair crowded into my mind, despite my best efforts to focus solely on the cabin.

  After what seemed like an eternity, there was finally some action. A man opened the door, went behind the cabin, and urinated in the dirt. Couldn’t see him well, but he looked to be young, with short black hair. Half an hour later, another man did the same thing. This time, I was ready and got a better look at him. Definitely wasn’t white. Dark hair, shorter guy, dressed in jeans and a plaid Western shirt.

  Why didn’t they go to the main restroom at the campgrounds? Maybe they were drinking or lazy. Over the next hour, three more men pissed in the back. Now I was pretty sure they were boozing in there, a fact I could use to my advantage if I needed to enter. Of course, I didn’t know anything about their weaponry or how many more were inside. For that matter, I still didn’t know if these were gang members or farm workers. I decided to continue the surveillance.

  About an hour later, a beat-up Ford truck pulled in. By now it was pretty dark, so I couldn’t see well, although there was some moonlight. One man came out of the passenger door. From what I could see, he looked to be a little older, maybe in his forties, and carried several duffel bags. Another man came out of the driver’s side, carrying what looked like sacks of fast food. The driver was dressed in an old denim jacket and had long black hair. I shifted in my seat to get a better vi
ew. It took me a moment, but I realized I knew him.

  Rick Crow.

  So it was true. Son of a bitch.

  FOR A MOMENT I flashed back to middle school, when Rick had given me the most grief. I remembered one time when his friends had held me down while he pounded my face. I’d tried to fight back, but it was no use. For some reason, Rick had it in for me more than any other kid. Maybe because he knew I had no older brothers or cousins to stick up for me, maybe he just hated me. An old familiar anger flowed through me, and I started to get out of the car.

  But I came to my senses and began to control my adrenaline so I could think this through. It looked like there were seven or eight men in the house, most of them likely drunk. I’d have the advantages of surprise and sobriety if I stormed in, but I didn’t have any weapons beyond my Spyder knife and a little Smith & Wesson revolver with a five-round cylinder. If they were armed—and they almost certainly were—it would be a suicide mission.

  I felt physical pain as I realized there was no way to get Rick tonight. I’d have to get more guns and ammo, stake out the place again, and wait for the right moment. Tonight I’d regroup and map out a strategy. But tomorrow would be the day.

  The day I finally got my revenge on Rick Crow.

  18

  The next morning, my cell phone rang, awakening me from a deep sleep.

  “Virgil? Charley Leader Charge. Are you free? Some new information about Nathan’s case has come in that I need to discuss with you.”

  It took a moment to extricate myself from my dreams. “Yeah, I can talk. Go ahead.”

  “Better if we do it in person. Can you make it to my office today? I’ll clear out my schedule.”

  “I’ll leave right now.”

  I drove without stopping to Rapid City, wondering what the new info could be. Maybe more drugs were found in Nathan’s locker? Or perhaps they’d agreed to drop the charges? As much as I wanted to go back to the gang cabin, I needed to find out what was going on first.

  Charley’s assistant escorted me directly to his office. The lawyer looked as spotless as before in a gray double-breasted suit and green tie.

  “Thanks for coming in,” he said, motioning me to sit down. “Here’s what’s happening. I got a call from the federal prosecutor on a couple of issues. First, it looks like Nathan’s involved—tangentially—with something big. The DEA and other agencies have got some investigations going. You know about this?”

  I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. “Uh, not really. Do you mean the cop in Denver?”

  The lawyer didn’t look happy. “Yes, the Colorado and New Mexico investigations, apparently a task force led by the DEA, from what I can dig up. You didn’t tell me you’d been in contact with the police down there.”

  “That was before Nathan’s arrest. Before all this went down. I was going to tell you, honest. Called and left a message for you just yesterday.”

  Charley tapped his pen on the desk. “You need to tell me everything—and I mean everything—if I’m going to help Nathan. Everything, not bits and pieces. Remember, what you say is privileged, so you don’t have to hold back. Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay,” I said, “what happened was, I was trying to find a guy in Colorado—a real asshole—and this cop chased me. Turns out the cop is part of the investigation you mentioned, and he wanted to use Nathan as bait, you know, wire him up and have him buy drugs from these dealers here, but I told him no way—”

  “Yes, I’ve been briefed on the offer to make Nathan a confidential informant. This thing is a lot bigger than you know. They won’t tell me much, but it looks like they’re going after the cartels. Somehow they got word that Nathan had been arrested here, and the investigator in Denver—the police officer you spoke to—was brought in for a briefing.”

  “Dennis. That’s the cop’s name.”

  “All right. The other news I have is that—as I’d suspected—Nathan’s case has been referred to the federal prosecutors by the state. No surprise there. I was hoping the feds might decline the referral, but they didn’t. Especially with this big drug investigation. So, Nathan will be prosecuted in federal court. The AUSA—that’s the federal prosecutor—told me what they’re planning to file against Nathan. I’ve got to warn you, they’re playing hardball.”

  He opened a folder and pulled out some papers.

  “As I’d feared, Nathan will be charged with a narcotics distribution charge and moved to federal detention. The reason a federal charge is so rough is because of the sentencing guidelines. In criminal cases, federal judges have to use these rules for sentencing, no flexibility at all. Bottom line, if he’s found guilty, he’s looking at a minimum of ten years in prison, no parole, along with some pretty massive fines.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What’s the charge against him?”

  “Narcotics distribution, class C.”

  “Distribution? Does that mean selling drugs? Nathan’s no drug dealer!”

  “Relax. Prosecutors typically overcharge to give themselves some wiggle room for plea bargains. It might not come to that. I hope. Anyway, there’s some good news. Maybe a silver lining.”

  I waited for him to say more.

  “So, the feds made an offer. A deal that could keep Nathan out of jail.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “It’s called ‘substantial assistance to authorities.’ If a defendant helps with an investigation, the judge can depart from the sentencing guidelines and issue a more reasonable punishment. Usually that means a lot less time in prison. What this means is, if Nathan helps out with the feds, he’d get a lighter sentence, but he’d have to plead guilty. The other option is to plead not guilty and take our chances in court. I’ve reviewed the file, and I can tell you there’s a pretty strong case against Nathan. I would bombard them with motions to suppress evidence, but I can’t guarantee how a jury would decide. Especially if we get a white jury. But maybe we would win—you never know.”

  He picked up a gold pen and pointed it at the ceiling. “My advice is that Nathan take the deal to assist the investigation.”

  I started to talk, but he held up his hand.

  “Let me finish. I told the prosecutors their deal wasn’t good enough, that they’d have to do better. We went round and round, and here’s what they’re offering now: if Nathan cooperates, the feds will allow the case to stay in state court, no transfer to the federal system. That means he stays in the juvenile court system, no prison, and his record is wiped clean when he turns eighteen. I’d request probation and drug counseling at sentencing in the juvenile court. They even agreed to a PR bond, so he’d be out of detention soon, no bail. Frankly, this is an incredible deal, far better than I thought we’d get.”

  “You mean he wouldn’t go to jail?” I asked. “He’d get to stay in school?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s the catch?” I asked.

  “The catch? We’ll get all this in writing, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I mean what does Nathan have to do? Meet with the cops, tell them what he knows? He can do that.”

  The lawyer looked at me like I was slow.

  “Nathan has to wear the wire and buy the drugs. They made it clear, that’s nonnegotiable. If he does it, this all goes away. Otherwise he’s looking at ten years. Or more.”

  THE DRIVE BACK TO THE REZ felt longer than the drive out. Ten years in prison with no parole? That didn’t seem fair for a teenage offender, but Charley had told me it was standard in drug cases. But there was a magic bullet to keep Nathan out of prison. All he had to do was wear a wire during a drug buy, which I’d been assured would be completely safe for him.

  But I knew better than to take them at their word. These were violent criminals who’d protect their business and their profits. And if word got out that Nathan had cooperated with the authorities, he’d be finished on the rez. Not only with kids his own age, but everyone. The lawyer had said we could refuse the deal and take the case to trial. It seemed pre
tty unlikely to me that a jury would convict a kid only fourteen years old. If the jury found him innocent, then Nathan would be in the clear completely. No juvenile detention, no probation officers, no counseling or therapy. Our family had never shied away from a battle; maybe this was the honorable way to go. Fight these charges in court, let the FBI catch the dealers without our help.

  The bitterest pill was the realization that I couldn’t go after Rick. Storming in and shooting Rick Crow and the gang now would remove any incentive for the feds to make a deal with Nathan. Rick Crow would have to wait. For now.

  The lawyer had said we needed to sign the agreement to assist the feds right away, so there wasn’t much time to think things over. I had to talk to Nathan immediately and see how he felt about the offer. He was old enough to weigh in on this decision. But he was also a scared kid, and he’d rely upon my guidance. I had to figure out what I was going to tell him. But I knew who I had to see first.

  I PULLED INTO the medicine man’s camp. Jerome lived outside of town in a small house surrounded by brown, weedy fields and a few defiant trees. He was alone on his porch, drinking some coffee.

  “You want a cup?” he asked.

  “Sure. Where is everyone?” There were usually numerous nieces, nephews, and grandchildren running around the place.

  “Don’t know. Kids are probably in town playing with their friends. Rocky’s at his mom’s house. They invited me over for some wohanpi, but I thought I’d stay here.”

  I sat down with him on a battered plastic chair. We were quiet for a long time, drinking java and listening to the wind. After a while, I held out a cigarette as a tobacco offering. He took it and lit up, then looked into the sky.

  “Thunder Beings off in the distance. Think the spirits might water the grass tonight.”

  “Looks like it. Better shut the windows,” I said, then paused a moment. “Wanted to ask you something.” He was quiet, so I went on. “There’s some talk about heroin dealers from Denver coming here. Selling some new kind of dope, dangerous stuff. One hit can kill you.”