Winter Counts

by David Heska Wanbli Weiden

  I lowered the Glock and walked back a few steps.

  “It’s your lucky day, loser. You get to live, for now anyway.”

  Relief passed over his face, and he started shaking. The stain on his pants had grown.

  I heard a noise coming from the back door of the museum, and looked around.

  “Put the gun down, Virgil.”

  I looked over and saw Ben Short Bear, pointing a Colt 1911 pistol at me. At this range, it’d blow a hole the size of a grapefruit out of my body. What was he doing here?

  “Ben,” I said, “I got it under control. This asshole is talking shit, but I got it covered.”

  “Virgil, put the gun on the ground and kick it over to me. Don’t even think about trying anything. You do, and the first bullet goes in your chest. Do it now.”

  I studied Ben’s face to see if he was serious. He didn’t waver and kept his gun pointed at me. I did as he said and kicked mine over to him, the weapon rattling as it traveled across the pockmarked concrete floor. He picked it up and put it on an old chair to his right.

  “Now, sit down next to Rick and put your hands behind your head. They come down, you get a bullet.”

  I sat down, Indian style, and held up my hands. Rick’s odor filled my nostrils, the smell of piss and fear. “I told you,” he whispered.

  “Ben, what’s this about?” I said. “You hear this dirtbag’s lies? He’s trying to say you’re selling drugs on the rez. I know he’s full of shit, so let’s—”

  “Yes, he is a dirtbag. I’ve built a successful business, and this jackass and his Denver buddies are trying to take it away. I was hoping you’d finish him off, but it looks like you’re not the tough guy everyone thinks you are. I suppose it’s up to me.”

  He leaned over to Rick, put the gun on the center of his forehead and pulled the trigger, the sound like a bomb in the enclosed space. Rick fell back, most of his head gone.

  28

  Why’d you do that?” I yelled at Ben.

  He stepped back, pointing the gun at me again. “He knew too much. I was hoping your nephew’s testimony could put them away, but he didn’t get the chance once someone told them Nathan was working with the cops. Too bad.” He motioned with the pistol. “The Mexicans have a code, you know. A crude type of justice. Anyone who cooperates with the police gets killed. But never a quick death. They make an example of snitches, usually hanging or burning them after cutting off some body parts.”

  I jumped up. “Let’s go! I’ll take those fuckers out!”

  “Sit down, Virgil.” He moved toward me, just feet away, the gun glinting in the dim kerosene light. “Now.”

  I sat down again next to Rick’s corpse, the smell of shit and death beginning to fill the room. “Ben, you want those guys gone, I’ll do it. Just let me save Nathan. But I need to get out there now.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Both you and Nathan have outlived your usefulness. You and Rick were killed by the heroin cartel, sad to say, then those savage gangbangers burned this building down. And the FBI will soon learn that our Mexican friends tortured and murdered a teenager. The feds will really go nuts when that news breaks. And I can go back to my business, without any foreign interference. Sorry about your nephew—he seemed like a nice kid.”

  The thought of Nathan being tortured was enough to drive me insane. But I couldn’t think about that. I needed to get past Ben and out of this stinking building. If I kept him talking, he might let down his guard. My only move was to make a play for his gun if and when he got distracted.

  “One thing I don’t understand,” I said, eyeing the gun. “Why’d you tell the gang Nathan was an informant? Why not go through with the buy and let the feds arrest them? Then they’re gone, and you’re in the clear.”

  “I didn’t tell them. Why would I? Not to mention the fact I have no contact with those thugs. I assume they discovered it on their own, or possibly this idiot said something to them.” He waved the gun toward Rick’s body.

  “But you must’ve been working with Rick,” I said. “How else did you know he was here?”

  “You told me.” He smiled, arrogantly. “I’ve had a GPS tracker on your car for months now. Needed to keep tabs on you, make sure you didn’t get too close to anything you weren’t supposed to know about.”

  A tracker, shit. No wonder Ben knew every time I’d visited the lawyer in Rapid City. “Ben, please. Nathan’s innocent. I don’t give a crap if you sell pills. I’ll keep my mouth shut and won’t say a word to Marie, I promise you.”

  “Too late for that,” he said. “Time to clean up the reservation. It’s for the best, I hope you see.” He paused and looked down at the remains of Rick Crow. “This one is no loss. The fool was even trying to set up a marijuana grow out here with his buddies. But maybe we can save others from the poison he was selling.”

  He focused his attention on me and took a step closer. “And you didn’t think I’d let my daughter be with you? She’s been talking nonsense about staying here. Not going to happen. I had Delia Kills in Water fire her. She’ll go to medical school.”

  He moved even closer and pointed the gun at my head. “Goodbye, Virgil, I hope—”

  “Stop, Dad!”

  I looked over at the back door. Marie was standing there, pointing my Smith & Wesson directly at her father.

  “Marie, what are you doing?” Ben said.

  She held the gun steady. He lowered his Colt a bit, but it stayed in his hand, pointed at me. I saw her glance at Rick’s dead body, but she kept the revolver aimed at her father.

  “I saw you drive up and followed you in. I recognized your car.”

  “How much did you hear?” Ben said.

  “Enough. Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “That you’ve been selling drugs on the rez. To our people. And you had me fired!”

  He frowned. I kept my eye on his gun.

  “Not drugs,” he said. “Pain medication. Medicine. Now put the gun down.”

  Her voice caught in her throat. “How could you? Sell that stuff.”

  “Marie, listen,” he said. “Everything I did was for our family. How do you think we paid for Dartmouth for your sister? Not to mention your clothes, vacations, everything. All I did was provide a service. These heroin dealers—they’re bad guys, they sell to kids. My people never sold to children. Not once. Now, enough of this nonsense.”

  “No, Dad. This has to end. You’re going to the police. Turn yourself in.”

  He laughed. “Police? I control those idiots. They won’t do a thing to me.” He changed his tone. “Honey, anything I did was so you and your sister could have a better life. That’s how the world works. You have to take what you want, that’s the wasicu way. Everyone skims from federal grants, that’s how—”

  “The buffalo money!” she cried. “You stole that, too?”

  “Marie, it doesn’t matter now. The money’s for your medical school. That’s a good cause, better than a freezer full of rotting meat. It was for you, don’t you see?”

  While Ben and Marie were engaged in their family drama, I studied the situation. Ben was about ten feet away, next to Marie. I could try for Ben’s pistol, but that was far too risky at close quarters. The better move was to grab my Glock, which was on the chair. That looked to be my only play. I waited for the right moment.

  “You aren’t like the people here,” Ben said. “We raised you to be different, do things—”

  Seeing my chance, I jumped up and sprinted over to the chair, reaching for the Glock.

  Too late! Ben saw what I was doing and kicked the chair, the Glock spinning away out of my reach. He raised his gun and pointed it at me.

  BANG! A shot rang out, a deafening roar.

  I looked up and watched Ben stumble and fall to the ground. Marie stood there with her arm still extended, the revolver in her hand.

  I quickly pulled the Colt out of Ben’s hand, but by then it didn’t matter. She’d shot him ri
ght through the heart.

  I could tell she was in shock. Her pupils were dilated and her skin ashen. I took the revolver from her hand and put it in my jacket. She didn’t object. Instead of looking down at her father, she gazed out through the doorframe into the blackness of the night. Stars, space. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking at that moment.

  I led her outside and sat her down on the ground, away from the bodies and the blood and the rank smell of death.

  “Do you think my mother knew?” she said. “About the pills?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I just—I can’t believe he’d—I don’t—” Then the tears came, quiet ones that looked like they hurt her skin. I touched her face. It was cold, like she’d traveled across an icy plain.

  “You need to call Dennis, okay?” I said. “He doesn’t answer, call the tribal police. Tell them what happened here and that Nathan’s in the old slaughterhouse in Porcupine. That he’s been kidnapped and they need to get there right away. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, and I wondered if she’d come to blame me for all of this. I wondered if she’d ever see me again, or if I’d always be only a living reminder of the pain she’d suffered, and of the pain her father had wrought. The pain of our people. Perhaps I’d have to become a ghost myself, unseen but forever haunting her.

  But now I had to save Nathan. I picked up the Glock and stuffed it in my pocket.

  29

  There was only one building in Porcupine that could’ve ever been a slaughterhouse. Most houses in town were prefab shacks, with satellite TV dishes screwed onto the frames and kids’ toys scattered across the yards. But north of town I spotted a large building that looked like an old military structure, with foreboding gray walls, rusty ladders hanging on the sides, and giant circular ports with fans built into the walls. The exterior was unmarked except for some patches of bright pink graffiti that read KUKA and ZINTKALA NUNI in a cloudlike script. Though it looked deserted, a faint light was shining in one of the windows.

  I kept the Glock in my hand—it was fully loaded, hadn’t fired a single bullet—and put the Smith & Wesson in my back pocket. The front door was open, so I walked in, taking care to be as quiet as possible. I could barely make out faint voices coming from somewhere inside. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight so that I could see and step carefully around the piles of trash and old lumber on the floor.

  The interior light was brighter on one side, and I followed the voices and the light down a central hallway, then I came to a stairway. I could tell they were downstairs, but I didn’t have a clue about the layout of the area down there. The stairs themselves were wooden, rotted and rickety.

  I walked down them as if barefoot, desperate to not make any creaking or scraping noises. Finally I got to the bottom, but stayed in the stairwell, listening. I could hear the men talking in the room around the corner. Their voices reverberated and echoed, so I knew it was a large space. They sounded cheerful, though they were speaking Spanish and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

  I didn’t hear Nathan’s voice.

  I waited for the right moment to peer into the room. There was a sudden burst of conversation, and I crouched down so I’d stay out of their sightlines.

  They’d put out some camping lanterns for lighting, which gave the space an eerie look. Even in the dim light, I could tell that this large, open room was the place where the cattle had been killed. There were big troughs, cables with hooks attached to the ceiling, and several concrete columns and pillars in the center, dotted with what looked like blood.

  Nathan was tied up in a chair in the middle of the room, his shirt off and his head slumped down. His medicine bag was on the floor next to him. His hands were roped behind his back, and they’d also bound his torso to the chair. His legs weren’t tied up, and they hadn’t bothered to gag him. In the hazy light, it looked like he was sleeping. It tore my heart to see him like this.

  I spotted the kidnappers off to the side. There were three of them, Loco and two others. Despite the bad light, I recognized the lightning-bolt scar on Loco’s face. Rick had said one of the other guys was called Manuel, not that it mattered. They were sitting on a bench and smoking cigarettes. I didn’t see any guns in their hands, but I knew their weapons had to be nearby. I scanned the room to see how heavily they might be armed.

  Other objects were scattered on the floor around the lanterns—a hacksaw, some lumber, and a large butane torch, the kind used by jewelers or metalworkers. I also noticed a weird-looking device, a long yellow rod with a handle and a pointed tip. I realized I’d seen one of these years ago, at a ranch on the rez. It was a cattle prod, but the rancher had called it a hotshot.

  A cattle prod.

  There was a strange odor in the air, a smell like burned popcorn. I tried to get a better look at Nathan without exposing myself. My view wasn’t perfect, but it looked like his face was swollen, and I saw some welts on his chest and arms. Burn marks. From the cattle prod? The torch? Or both?

  The men quit talking, and the first guy stood up and threw his cigarette down. Then Loco and the other one joined him and walked across the room to Nathan. Loco said something to the men, then picked up and lit the butane torch, the flame burning a blue as bright as the sky on a beautiful summer day. He moved closer to Nathan, who stirred and started moving his head, muttering words I couldn’t make out. Then Loco squatted down to adjust the torch, and the flame expanded, creating a longer, ominous flame that extended a foot or so, its base a white-hot supernova flickering near Nathan.

  Oh, hell no.

  Columbus and the Spanish conquistadors had burned Indians alive in their quest to subdue the continent, and I’d make damn sure these motherfuckers wouldn’t do it to my nephew.

  There was no time to make a plan. I leaped out from behind the wall with the Glock in my hand. The three men heard me and turned away from Nathan. I aimed the gun at Loco’s chest and fired, but he was moving and the shot went wide, the sound booming in the cavernous room. He jumped behind Nathan, dropping the torch, and I took aim at the second man to his right, who was fumbling for his gun. I shot him straight in the chest, the casing flying off behind me, and he dropped down beside an old wooden table.

  Where was the third asshole? I’d lost sight of him in the chaos and swiveled my head to see what he was doing.

  A shot rang out, the bullet whizzing near my head and cratering into the wall behind me. I ducked behind a large concrete pillar for cover. In the dim light, I couldn’t see where the third gunman was hiding.

  “Nathan!” I shouted. “Get down if you can! Knock the fucking chair over!”

  “Uncle?” he called. “Is that you?”

  “Kick it over!” I yelled. “Get your body down on the floor!”

  I poked my head out and another bullet flew past me. Because of my limited ammo, I needed to wait for a clean shot. But when I saw Loco start moving from behind Nathan, I stood up and fired at him.

  Another fucking miss. Loco ducked back down behind my nephew, still a sitting duck in that chair.

  Three shots left in my Glock. I had the little revolver, but doubted it would do any good in here except at close range.

  “Drop the gun, or I burn this rat’s face off!” Loco yelled.

  I looked around the pillar. Loco now had the torch burning full blast just inches from Nathan’s face. In the light of the torch, I could see he was terrified. He’d moved his head back as far as he could go, still too damn close to the flame.

  “You got one second, vato, or I burn him!”

  What to do? I didn’t have a clear shot at Loco, and the other jackoff would shoot me the second I exposed myself.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Let the boy go, and I’ll toss you my gun. You guys can have me. Just let him go.”

  It was quiet for a second. “Throw the gun first, then we untie him,” yelled Loco.

  All of a sudden Nathan shouted, “Uncle, run! Save yourself! Get out of here!” H
e was telling me to save my own skin, even with a blowtorch burning inches from his face.

  Fuck that.

  “All right,” I shouted to Loco. “I’ll give you my gun if you promise to let him go. Okay?”

  No answer.

  “I’m throwing my gun now! Here it comes!” I slid my Glock down the floor toward Loco, but the second shooter darted out to grab it. He’d been hiding near an exhaust vent in the corner. I quickly pulled the Smith & Wesson revolver from my pocket and stepped out into the room. The guy was reaching down for the Glock. If he got it, it was game over. Without even thinking, I shouted, “Look!”

  It was enough. He stopped for a moment and glanced up, giving me time to move in closer. I shot him at close range, right in the head, then I fired again. His brains splattered against the wall and on Nathan, still tied up in the chair.

  “You okay?” I yelled to Nathan.

  “I’m all right!” His voice was high and shaky with fear.

  Wait, where’d Loco go? No movement that I could see. He’d been right behind Nathan when I shot his last backup, but now I didn’t know his position, and that put me in a bad spot. I could hear the sound of the wind, blowing through some broken window high above me, and my own breathing, choppy and rough.

  A shot rang out, and I ducked down. Damn! Loco must’ve gotten his own fucking gun. I had no idea what kind he had, much less where he was now.

  How many rounds were still in the revolver? Marie had fired it once, and I’d fired twice, so there must be two rounds left. I heard a rustling noise coming from the far end of the room, and that gave me enough time to brace the gun with both hands. I wasn’t sure if he’d come at me directly or try something else, but I had to be ready.

  Loco jumped out and ran toward me, his gun already pointed in my direction. I got a clear look at him. He had a little goatee, and the hair on his face hadn’t grown back from where he was scarred. He was wearing a polo shirt with blue stripes, kind of like the ones my mother had bought for me at Kmart when I was a kid. His eyes were ferocious, and I felt his hatred. It was either him or me—one of us was about to die. I hoped it was him, but I knew there was a good chance it would be me.