Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  Henry shrugged. “A Custer is a Custer.”

  “She stared up at the sculpture and the skeletal figures on horseback. “Do you think they knew who was attacking them?”

  The Bear shook his head. “No, I think not. They simply knew that they were being attacked and that they needed to protect the women, children, and the aged.”

  “They didn’t know that they’d killed Custer?”

  “Eventually.” He glanced at me and turned to look at her. “Do you know what the winter count is?”

  “No.”

  “It is a pictorial account of a tribe’s achievements painted on an animal hide, a sort of annual calendar of events of any great importance to the Cheyenne.”

  “So?”

  “The Battle of the Greasy Grass appears in none of them; for my people it was a skirmish and a disorderly one at that.” Watching his eyes, I saw them travel past Vic and me.

  Turning, we found about a hundred and twenty people standing behind us with their sunglasses and ball caps, the tour buses having just disgorged their contents. Everyone was silent, held in thrall as they recorded the Bear on their cell phones, held aloft.

  The Cheyenne Nation nodded solemnly and raised his hands. “The next show is at two o’clock.”

  * * *

  —

  Under the watchful eyes of Cassilly Adams’s print of Custer’s Last Fight, we ate our Big Crow Indian tacos, sipped iced tea, and looked out from under the eaves of the outdoor dining room at the teepees along the edge of the Custer Battlefield Trading Post parking lot. “So, when does the guest of honor arrive?”

  The Bear smiled. “Who knows, he is a chief and works on Indian time.”

  “Has he always been that way?”

  “Um hmm, yes, it is so.”

  We both smiled into our empty plates as Vic continued eating like a civilized person. “So, what are we going to do about your stolen painting?”

  “It wasn’t really a painting, and it wasn’t really mine.”

  Taking another bite, she chewed on that and swallowed. “What was it worth?”

  “Not much, according to the experts.”

  She turned to Henry, who had already finished his mammoth lunch. “What would you do if you had a million dollars?”

  “Buy a heater for my bar that worked.”

  “And a sump pump for the basement during irrigation season.”

  He sipped his iced tea. “I could afford both?”

  “I think so.”

  She gestured toward me. “My lamebrain boss just gave away a cool million.”

  The Bear shrugged. “It is his nature.”

  Vic made a face. “What’s that?”

  “Honesty.”

  She turned back to me. “I want a new truck.”

  “Go buy one.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “The county does.”

  She slumped back in her chair. “They do?”

  “The Department hasn’t bought a vehicle in more than twelve years, so we’re probably due.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  She sat forward, studying me. “Don’t you want a new truck?”

  “No.”

  She thought about it. “How come you don’t ever tell me these things?”

  “You never asked. It’s like the computer I got: you just put in a requisition and the county commissioners say yay or nay.”

  Henry leaned in and stuck a hand out to stall the conversation. “Wait, you have a computer?”

  I nodded and gestured toward my second-in-command. “Yep, but they made me give it back.”

  He turned to Vic, who shrugged. “Wasn’t me. Ruby decided it was more trouble teaching him how to use it than it was just doing the shit herself.”

  “É-peve-ešeeva!” The Chief of the Cheyenne Nation and Tribal Elder Lonnie Littlebird was rolled forward to our table, a muscular young man who looked familiar steering him over and smiling down at us as the chief displayed a mock anger. “You have eaten without me?” Glancing up at the young man, he shook his fist. “Gone are the days when the younger generation paid tribute and treated their elders with the respect they richly deserved. Um hmm, yes, it is so.”

  Barrett Long, Police Chief Lolo Long’s little brother, extended a hand to Vic, then to Henry, and finally to me before glancing back at Lonnie. “You wanna Coke, old man?”

  The indignity disappeared. “Yes, with ice, please.” He turned back to us once the young man was safely out of ear reach. “He is a very good boy.”

  The Bear placed a hand on the old Indian’s arm, slender with pronounced veins. “How are you, Lonnie?”

  “My legs hurt.”

  “You do not have any legs.”

  “That is probably why they hurt.” He glanced at Vic. “Haaahe.”

  She smiled. “Hi.”

  “Have we met?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned in toward her. “Did we sleep together?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, hopefully we will get another chance. Um hmm, yes it is so.” He turned back to me. “Someone has stolen your painting?”

  I gave out with my rote response. “It wasn’t really a painting, and it wasn’t really mine.”

  Ignoring me, he threw the lock on his wheelchair and leaned back like a self-satisfied potentate. “When was the last time we worked on a case together?”

  I glanced at Henry and cleared my throat. “I don’t think we’ve ever worked on a case together, Lonnie . . .”

  “The time we caught that guy who robbed the Blue Cow Cafe and then the other one a year and a half ago.” He reached out and patted my hand. “That was a good case, the one with the girl who fell. We broke that one wide open, didn’t we?”

  I glanced at Henry, who shrugged. “Um, yep, we did.”

  “You should be looking for a white person. They steal things.” He glanced around. “They stole a whole country from us.”

  Attempting to distract him, Henry inquired as to the subject of late. “They were asking about the Battle of the Greasy Grass, Lonnie.”

  Lost in thought for a moment, he pursed his lips and began speaking. “My grandfather fought in this battle, but he never talked about it; he never talked about anything. There was a time when I was growing up that I thought he didn’t know how to talk. One time when we were sitting under a tree reading, he farted and closed his book and said, ‘Excuse me,’ and I remember looking around and thinking the tree had spoken.”

  Barrett arrived with the Coke and sat it in front of Lonnie.

  “No straw?”

  “You said ice, you didn’t say anything about a straw, old man.”

  “Get me a straw before I run over your big feet with my chair.” Watching him go, he turned back to us. “He is a very good boy.” Puzzled, he stared at the soda. “Where was I?”

  The Bear quietly urged. “Your grandfather.”

  “What about him?”

  “The Battle of the Greasy Grass.”

  “My grandfather, he was there.”

  Henry nodded patiently. “Tell us some more?”

  Lonnie gave out with a tiny gasp, struck with recommencing his story. “I was going through his dresser drawer one time looking for his pocketknife, something that I wasn’t supposed to be doing, and I found something strange in with his socks, a totem or charm. It was shaped like a bird but with this funny tuft of hair on top of its head.”

  Barrett arrived with the straw and unwrapped it, placing it in the chief’s glass and pulling up the chair he’d moved for Lonnie. “You still telling that same story, má’haeso?” Seeing Vic make a face, the young man explained. “He had another guy who rolled him around and said yes-sir and no-sir, but he got bored and fired him.
” He whispered. “You might think I’m being disrespectful, but it’s just job security.”

  Lonnie waved a hand at him. “Hush up and learn something.” He turned back to us. “So, I found this tiny stuffed bird made of deerskin and took it out in the yard and was playing with it when he came over and snatched it away from me.” Lonnie thought back. “He was very angry, and I’d never seen him that way. He held the totem up to me and said that this was the true Littlebird in battle and that he had worn it since his first combat experience when he was thirteen years old—that he would tie the charm to himself and that it gave him protective powers so long as the charm was never hit.”

  Vic smiled, never one to be taken in by spirituality. “And he tried this out, did he?”

  Lonnie nodded. “The second time at the Battle of the Greasy Grass he was maybe seventeen years of age and said that he was old enough to notice a great many things and see the reasons for them. He said the Cheyenne had been on the camp by the Little Bighorn for only one night. He said the next day around noon, the troopers charged down Reno Creek and drove all the people out of the northern camp and set fire to the lodges, but the people from the lower camp heard the noise and rushed north. The troopers retreated as the people surrounded them. My grandfather said the soldiers seemed drunk, but I think he meant panic-stricken, and that they couldn’t shoot straight.”

  The Bear rested a chin in his palm. “This would be Reno’s detachment?”

  Lonnie nodded. “Um hmm, yes, it is so.”

  “Perhaps they were drunk.”

  Lonnie shrugged. “Perhaps. If I had been there surrounded by that many hostiles, I would have wished to be stinko too.” His eyes went past me to the hill on the other side of the road where the battle had actually taken place. “The soldiers could have stayed in the cover of the trees but instead crossed the river and rode to the high bluff where my grandfather said they were left alone because the men wished to return to the village to check on their loved ones. As they returned, they heard more noise and realized it was another assault. My grandfather said there was a woman who grabbed at his foot and told him that the soldiers were attacking from the north, so my grandfather turned and rode toward them. He said that the Long Hair and his men were at the level space at the bottom of the dry creek, and that the men on both sides fought valiantly, and that a man tried to shoot him from his pony when he charged him, but the soldier’s carbine misfired, and so he knocked the man down with the butt of his pistol. When he turned his horse, the cavalryman was getting up and clearing his weapon and reloading. Raising the gun toward my grandfather, he fired.”

  Lonnie lifted the straw to his mouth as we all waited.

  Tasting the soda, he made a face and looked at Barrett. “Did you get me a Diet Coke?”

  “I got you a Coke, old man.”

  Lonnie made a face, licking his lips. “This tastes like Diet Coke.”

  Barrett made an agonizing cry in the back of his throat. “Ayeegah . . . Finish your story.”

  “What story?”

  “The story you’re going to tell before I strangle you to death.”

  He nudged the glass toward the young man with his fingertips. “Go get me a real Coke.”

  Barrett folded his tan arms. “Finish the story before I roll you into traffic.”

  Lonnie turned back to us, leaning in confidentially. “Have I spoken of the lack of respect that these young ones have for their elders these days?”

  The Cheyenne Nation blew his breath out from pursed lips. “You have mentioned it, yes.”

  Lonnie glanced around. “Where was I?”

  “The cavalryman at the Battle of the Greasy Grass who shot your grandfather,” I ventured.

  “Which time?”

  “The second, I think.”

  Placing his hands on the table, he reared back. “Misfire, the soldier’s rifle misfired again, and my grandfather shot him in the chest.” He touched a spot at his sternum. “Here.” The hand dropped to his lap. “My grandfather used to say that there were many kinds of men before a battle, but only two kinds after—the living and the dead.”

  He turned to Barrett. “Go get me a proper Coke.”

  * * *

  —

  “What are you going to do with Lonnie?”

  “I don’t know, put him on the case, I guess. He’s bound to have more luck than I’m having.” I thought about it as I drove across the Montana-Wyoming border, the light fading behind the Bighorn Mountains in a stringent purple that refused to turn black. “I was surprised to see Lolo Long’s brother still around. I figured he would’ve moved on by now.”

  Henry looked out the window. “Did you know that most deer are born, live, and die within one square mile?”

  “Barrett’s not a deer.”

  “No, but he is also not very adventurous.”

  “Okay.”

  “He wants to be a police officer, but he does not want to work for his sister, which limits his options.”

  “I seem to remember that.”

  “Perhaps you should offer him a job.”

  I glanced at him. “Are you joking?”

  “No.” He turned to look back at me. “Why would you think that?”

  “You just said he didn’t want to leave the Rez.”

  “Absaroka County is not that far—besides, he could visit his family on weekends. He has a degree in law enforcement and speaks fluent Cheyenne and Crow. He could be an asset to you.”

  I continued to drive into the darkness, aware that I was not the first white man to be bushwhacked in this territory. “You’ve put some thought into this.”

  “I would like to see him out from under his sister, and I think he is capable of more than simply pushing Lonnie around.”

  Vic took a break from petting Dog and leaned forward between the seats. “You really don’t like her, do you?”

  “Immaterial.” The Bear pivoted to glance at her. “She is a dominating personality, and I think it is difficult for her brother, as a family member, to overcome that and find his own path.”

  “What’s his sister going to think about all this?”

  “I do not see it as being any of her business.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  He turned back to me. “In a general sense; I mentioned that perhaps he should be looking elsewhere for a job, but I did not mention your department specifically.”

  “He’d have to go down to Douglas for two months if we did hire him.” I thought about it. “We are an officer short, but I have to confer with my undersheriff on all matters concerning staff.”

  “You know my theory, if he’s got a pulse and a pecker we put him on patrol.” The voice from the back confirmed. “Besides, he can have my old unit after you buy me my new one.”

  * * *

  —

  “Car shopping on a Sunday night?”

  “There aren’t any crowds, or salespeople for that matter.” She sashayed up and down the rows of vehicles at the dealership in Sheridan. “Do I have to go with silver or black and white? What if I want red?”

  I called after her, “Join the fire department.”

  Henry leaned on the hood of a freshly minted pickup and watched her. “I think you have created a monster.”

  “You may be right.” I called out to her again, “White, black or silver, or combinations of all of the above.”

  “Will the county actually pay for a new vehicle?”

  “It’ll have to go through the commissioners, but I don’t see them saying no. Heck, I’m about to return a two-thousand-dollar computer.”

  “I thought it was downstairs?”

  “Yep, but nobody uses it.”

  “Barrett would.”

  I laughed. “You’re really pushing this kid.”

  “I think he is deserving.�
�

  “That’s it?”

  He turned to look at me. “Meaning?”

  “You’re not just trying to get under Lolo Long’s skin?”

  “I never have to try very hard to do that.”

  I nodded as a security guard exited the main building of the dealership and walked toward us with a flashlight in hand. “Which is why it surprises me that she’s willing to ask us for help with this situation with her niece.”

  “That tells you how desperate she is. I think she is correct in having you involved in an investigation, and she knows I can provide a measure of security.”

  The guard arrived, an elderly man with a more salt than pepper mustache and a black operational dress uniform complete with ball cap and tactical shoes. He glanced at my truck, emblazoned with the Absaroka County Sheriff stars, emergency lights, and Dog’s head hanging out the side window. “Walt?”

  I stared at the man, finally recognizing him as security from the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home. “Gene?”

  “Yeah, hey how are you guys doin’?”

  “You work here too?”

  “Gotta make ends meet after retirin’.” He glanced at Henry and then back to me. “I saw your truck and thought there might be a problem.”

  I gestured toward Vic, who was now standing in front of a tricked-out half-ton with all the scoops, wheels, bells, and whistles. “My undersheriff needs a new unit.”

  “Oh.” He glanced at Henry again. “I thought there might be something wrong.”

  “Nope, just shopping.”

  “Okay.” He started backing away and then waved as he turned and walked by Vic, who ignored him.

  Henry watched him go. “Conscientious worker.”

  “Maybe we can get Barrett a job here.” I pushed off and moved over to where Vic studied her potential truck. “So?”

  “I want this one.”

  “Why?”

  “It has a ten-speed transmission and close to five hundred horsepower.”

  “No.”

  She turned to look at me. “What do you mean, no?”

  “No, because you’d be dead in a week.”

  Placing her fists on her hips, she swiveled back and forth. “You said I could have anything I wanted.”