Winter Counts

  I was at Wounded Knee, the massacre unfolding before me.

  The remaining Natives were running at top speed, racing up the hill and into the museum for shelter. I got knocked down in the rush and covered my head with my hands. Then I looked up and saw a rifleman in the distance drawing a bead on me. I tried to stand up and dash away, but something was wrong with my legs and I stayed, vulnerable, there on the hillside, helpless. I waited for the sound of the shot.

  Then somebody grabbed me and pulled me up onto my feet. Still unsteady, I looked at who’d helped me.

  It was Nathan.

  “Come on!” he shouted, and he led me up the hill amid the crowd of people. Nathan ran inside the building, and I made my way to the door. I opened it and looked into the pitch-black darkness, then slammed the door shut behind me.

  All of a sudden a dim light came on, and I could see people crouching around a fallen man, trying to help him. I peered over somebody’s shoulder and saw that it was Jerome, flat on his back, freed from the ropes, but his face gray and ashen. His grandson Rocky was bent over him, saying something I couldn’t hear.

  “Did the soldiers shoot him?” I said to the woman next to me.

  “What?” Marie said. “What soldiers?”

  My mind whirled as I struggled to orient myself. I looked at the tobacco ties, the altar, and the darkened windows; I smelled the sweetgrass and the sage. Marie’s face was an anchor, bringing me back to the yuwipi house.

  “He collapsed during the ceremony,” she told me. “I hope he just fainted, but I’m worried this could be a heart attack. It doesn’t look good.”

  I was trying to focus on Jerome, but couldn’t shake what I’d just experienced at Wounded Knee. The terror of the people, the unspeakable cruelty of the soldiers.

  Then I knew what I needed to do.

  “Come on,” I said to Marie. “We have to leave right now. I know where Nathan is.”

  27

  What are you talking about?” she said, as we walked outside. “Did Dennis call you?”

  “I’ll explain later. But I have to go. Nathan’s in danger.”

  She stopped and turned to me. “No, you can’t just leave me in the dark. I need to know what’s happening. Where is he?”

  “He’s at Pine Ridge. The abandoned museum at Wounded Knee. The one on top of the hill.”

  Her mouth opened in amazement. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. But I need to get out there, right now. Tell you more later.”

  “Wait. I’ll go with you. I know that place well.”

  There was no way I’d let Marie come along, given what I’d just experienced.

  “You’re staying here,” I said. “Don’t know what I’ll be up against.”

  She planted her legs like a football lineman. “Not a chance in hell. I’ve been in this from the beginning, and I’m in it now. I’m coming along.”

  I knew better than to argue. “All right. But you stay in my car while I check it out. Bottom line.”

  She nodded grudgingly.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I need to get something first.”

  I opened the glove box in my car, grabbed the Glock, and pulled the clip. Loaded. But I didn’t have any extra ammo, so I popped the trunk and got my backup, the little Smith & Wesson revolver that held only five rounds. I stuck it in the inside pocket of my denim jacket. It made a crunching noise, and I realized I still had the old items from my medicine bag in there—the sage, feather, and rocks. The items I’d carried with me as a kid.

  Marie’s eyes widened. “Why do you need two guns?”

  “I might not need any, but I got to be ready.”

  “Maybe we should call Dennis?”

  I considered this. “Okay, I’ll call him. But I’m not waiting. I’ve got a feeling this is something I’m supposed to do by myself.”

  I phoned Dennis, but there was no answer. I left a message telling him to call and where to find me. While we drove, I told her about what I’d seen at the yuwipi. I was worried she might doubt my vision or tease me, but she just asked questions about what I’d witnessed. I told her it was no dream; it was real.

  I gunned the accelerator all the way to Pine Ridge, and we got to Wounded Knee in record time. I hadn’t been to the site for years. When I’d visited in the past, I always paid my respects to the Lakotas buried in the mass grave. Right after the massacre in 1890, the army simply dug a pit in the ground and just tossed in the corpses—men, women, children, and babies. It’s a sad place, not only because of the innocent victims but also because it represents the end of the Indian era, when Natives lived freely on our traditional lands. After the so-called battle, soldiers rounded up the last few hostile bands and shipped them all off to reservations. The end of the dream, and, as Black Elk said, it was a beautiful dream.

  But there was no time to pay my respects tonight. I pulled up to the makeshift museum next to the grave site. Not really a museum; the round building had only a couple rooms and a few crude paintings of Lakota leaders—Red Cloud, Sitting Bull—hanging on the walls and a little bit of Native history scrawled underneath. There was no electricity and not much furniture inside; it was just a run-down structure that had been taken over by the locals. After complaints from tourists who’d wandered in and gotten scared by panhandlers, the building had been closed, and the doors were usually chained shut.

  I parked at the bottom of the hill, about five hundred yards away. I stuck the Glock in my pocket and handed Marie the little Smith & Wesson.

  “You know how to use this?” I asked.

  “Of course. You want me to go in first?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I’ll go check out the place, you keep watch down here in the car. You see anybody drive in, fire a warning shot so I know they’re coming. But don’t follow them! Just take off and get the hell out of here. You good with that?”

  She nodded, unhappy, but seemed resigned. Before I left, I grabbed some plastic zip cuffs I kept in the car just in case I needed to shackle someone. Not really a long-term restraint, but they’d keep somebody’s hands bound for a few hours.

  I walked up the hill, checking for any activity. I had no idea what I’d find inside—the entire gang or maybe just Nathan, as I’d seen in my vision. The building had no windows; I couldn’t look inside to scope out what I was up against. But the door wasn’t locked when I tried it. Somebody was in there. But how many? There was only one thing to do: burst in, move to the side, and hope to get the drop on whoever was there.

  I stood outside the door, waiting for a sign telling me when to go in. I heard the wind in the trees, and then an owl hooting. Good enough for me.

  I lifted my gun up and slowly turned the knob. Then I kicked the door open and hurtled into the room, ducking to the side in case anyone took a shot at me. It was dark in there, but two small kerosene lanterns burned in the far corner. A man sat by the nearest lamp, but I couldn’t see who it was.

  “Don’t move!” I shouted, pointing my gun. “Put your hands up!”

  I think he raised his hands, though it was hard to see in the black space. I kept the Glock trained on him as I moved closer. When my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw who it was.

  Rick Crow.

  He had his hands up, and I pointed my gun at his chest, dead center, and moved closer to him.

  “Where is he?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Nathan, you asshole. My nephew. I know he’s here, so don’t fuck with me.”

  “He’s not, so why don’t you piss off and leave me alone?”

  I looked around the large room to see if Rick was telling the truth. I didn’t see anyone else. “You get one more chance. Where is he?”

  “I told you. Not here, so clear the fuck out.”

  “You lose.” I reared back and smashed his left cheek with the gun’s muzzle. He grunted and held his head down, trying to unscramble his thoughts. While he was stunned, I walked behind him, moved his arms behind his back, and put the zip cuffs on him
. Now I could relax a little. I looked up and noticed one of the crude paintings on the wall. It said THE INDIAN WARS ARE NOT OVER. I moved back in front of him.

  “That’s your freebie,” I said.

  He didn’t respond, just stared outward, shaking his head, his eyes unfocused. I worried for a second that I’d hit him too hard and fried his brains. Then I saw him trying to speak and knew he was just dazed.

  He struggled to speak for a few seconds, then he put some words together. “Eat shit,” he mumbled.

  Everybody had to be a tough guy. Christ, I just wanted to find out where Nathan was, but I could tell he was going to make this difficult. But on second thought, that was fine with me. Time for some payback. Payback for the years of bullying, the drug dealing, the fucking kidnapping. I wouldn’t kill him. Well, not right away. I’d get some information, then decide what he deserved.

  I took a good look at him. Long greasy hair, a dirty T-shirt that read SCARFACE, and the fading remnants of a black eye. It looked like he’d already been beaten down recently. And he’d take some more tonight.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” I said. “You’re going to tell me where Nathan is, and why your drug buddies took him. If you don’t, I break your thumb. Then the other one. After that, I shoot your kneecaps. Last bullet goes through your head.”

  The kerosene lamp flickered, creating weird shadows on the painting of Chief Red Cloud, the only leader to defeat the US Army on the turf they’d stolen only a few years before. Red Cloud, who’d died forgotten and alone in his old age just miles from here. Rick would join him if he didn’t cooperate.

  “We in agreement? Because I don’t got time to waste. Now, where’s Nathan?”

  Rick stayed silent, a defiant look on his face.

  “I’m not playing with you, scumbag. You know what I do for a living, right? I’ll pound your ass right into the ground.”

  He sneered. “Yeah, I know what you do. Beat people up for money. Think that makes you a big man. But you’re still just a half-breed punk.”

  I kicked him in the chin, but my boot glanced off his greasy face without doing any damage.

  “Why don’t you take these cuffs off, we’ll go at it man to man,” he said. “Unless you’re the same pussy you were back in school.”

  “Nothing I’d like better. You tell me what I need to know, you get to leave here alive. I’ll take you on another time, promise. Now, where’s Nathan?”

  “Fuck you.”

  The fun and games were over. I moved behind Rick and kept the Glock pointed at him. “You right-handed?”

  No answer. I put my gun down on the floor, then took hold of his right thumb and started bending it back. The thumb is less flexible than other fingers, and it’s the easiest to snap. I steadily increased the pressure until it was at the breaking point. “All right, asshole, where’s Nathan? Last chance to save this thumb.”

  He was making sounds, but no actual words came from his mouth.

  “I warned you.” I pulled the thumb all the way until it snapped, the ligament sounding like a chicken bone fracturing.

  He screamed, his cries echoing off the walls of the museum. I stood back and let him endure the pain for a minute. He began to cry, the greasy rivulets running down his face.

  “You’ll never write with that hand again, but if you start talking, you can keep the other thumb. Maybe learn to be a lefty.”

  I walked behind him, took hold of his other thumb, and bent it back quickly, until it couldn’t budge any farther. I could feel the tension in the hand as I worked it some more.

  “Stop! Stop! They took him!”

  I let go of his hand and stepped around in front of him. He was trembling and shaking with pain.

  “Who took him?”

  “Loco! And the others! He was here, but they took him. Jesus fucking Christ, this hurts!”

  He was shivering like a wounded dog, but that was nothing compared to the pain and misery he’d brought to the rez.

  “Where’d they take him? You lie, I’ll break it and cut it off.”

  “I can’t say! They’ll fuckin’ kill me.”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  “They’re gonna torture him. Set an example.”

  “Example of what?”

  “He’s a snitch! They’re gonna kill him so he can’t testify in court.”

  “Who said he’s a snitch?”

  “How the hell would I know! They’re not stupid, they figured he flipped after he was set up.”

  “What do you mean, set up?”

  “Shit, how stupid are you? There’s a war going on. The pill guys against the heroin guys. The pill guys set him up.”

  I didn’t understand what this had to do with Nathan. I glared at him. “You better start explaining.”

  “They run pain pills on the rez. Oxys, vikes, dillies. They don’t want to compete with heroin, right? No more sales. So they planted the pills in Nathan’s locker. They knew he’d flip, rat out the heroin gang. They also hate your guts, wanted to get back at you. Set the kid up, he goes to jail or he flips. Win-win.”

  He moaned from the pain, his face contorted in a grimace.

  “Who hates me?” I said.

  “Jesus, who do you think? Guv Yellowhawk. He hates your guts after that beating you put on him. And he handles the lockers at the school.”

  I was trying to keep up with this crazy story, but it seemed like Rick was just trying to shift the blame and save his own sorry ass.

  “You’re telling me Guv controls pills on the rez? Bullshit, he’s too dumb for that. And too lazy.”

  Rick sneered. “Of course he is. Don’t you know who’s in charge?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Ben. Ben Short Bear. He’s been bringing in pills for years, making bank and paying off dipshits like Guv. Got all kinds of scams going on. But it’s the end of the gravy train once the heroin comes in. He’s been playing you, using you and Nathan to run those Mexicans off the rez. But they figured it out and took your guy.” He snorted a little. “Pretty goddamn funny, you’re fucking his daughter and didn’t even know.”

  Ben Short Bear, tribal councilman, dealing drugs? Yeah, Rick was feeding me crap so I wouldn’t hurt him again. How could he know all of this, assuming it wasn’t a complete lie?

  “You’re full of shit,” I told him. “You and the Aztec Kingz work together. I saw you at their cabin. How would you know anything about Ben? He thinks you’re scum, he wouldn’t tell you jack. Hell, he sent me to take you out. I think you set Nathan up.” I moved toward him. “Had enough of your bullshit. Now I’m gonna break that thumb, then take it off.”

  I reached around him, trying to take hold of his arm.

  “Guv told me!” he shrieked. “When he was drunk! He told me everything! Ben set up your nephew, not me!”

  I grabbed his hand. “Sorry, not buying it, shithead. Here goes that thumb.”

  He started shouting, but I ignored him. He was flailing and thrashing, but I pinned him down, took hold of the left thumb and bent it back. When it snapped, Rick screamed again. But I wasn’t finished. I started twisting it, trying to take it off with my bare hands, wrenching it back and forth, tearing through the skin and tendons.

  “He’s at the goddamn slaughterhouse! Now stop!”

  I let go of his hand. “What slaughterhouse? Where?”

  “The one in Porcupine! You fucking animal!”

  I vaguely remembered hearing about some old slaughterhouse in Pine Ridge, but had never been there. There was no way of telling if this was the truth or more of his bullshit, but I had a hunch the pain was extracting something a little more factual out of him. “Who took him there?” I asked.

  “Loco, Manuel, some other guy. I was supposed to meet ’em there after they’re done.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know, three hours? Okay, I told you, so get me out of here. I need a goddamn hospital!”

  Hospital? Did this asshole really t
hink I was going to drive him to a doctor for some pain pills? The irony was pretty profound, though I didn’t have time to savor it. This waste of human flesh helped snatch my nephew, after spreading misery and pain across the reservation for decades. He’d bullied me and countless others in school, then gone on to sell booze and drugs all over the rez. He’d had his hand in nearly every scam and hustle, every shitty scheme and conspiracy to make a buck, all at the expense of his cherished full-blood Indians.

  That ended today. It was time, finally, that Rick got his due.

  I put the gun to his head. He started whimpering, sobbing, and I saw he’d pissed his pants. That was fine, he could die in his own urine. For years I’d been helping people get some justice on the rez, the only means they had left to them by a legal system that had sold them down the river. Rick Crow deserved to die for what he’d done to me, to Nathan, to all the people. There needed to be a reckoning, a balancing of the books. It was time.

  I started to pull the trigger, then stopped, momentarily disoriented. I saw my sister, Sybil, standing behind Rick, and I wondered if I was still affected by the yuwipi and having some flashback. She looked sad, desolate, and it was like she was talking to me without speaking. I could understand what she was saying, even though her lips weren’t moving. She said that, while I didn’t like it, I was connected to Rick, that he was my relation. I needed to sacrifice, to take the tougher road by granting forgiveness to Rick, and to myself.

  And what was justice? The wasicu version was to impose retribution—vengeance—for wrongs and injuries, but the Lakota principle was to repair whatever harm had been done. Kiciyuskapi, the untying-each-other ceremony, where the parents of a murdered child and the parents of the murderer would smoke the pipe, make amends, and release one another from retribution. But how could anyone heal and restore the countless evils Rick had wrought?

  He kept looking at my gun, wondering what I was going to do, cowering, pathetic, a vision of wretchedness and desolation. Mitakuye oyasin, all my relations.