The Genuine Article

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  I had never seen Eagle Charlie, or, if I had, I couldn’t remember. He came through the door, a short, square-built man with a striking thatch of hair that had turned mostly white. He was, I thought, too damn old for his wife, even if his face would have adorned a coin, not a nickel but a sure-enough silver dollar.

  Charleston shook hands with him and introduced me. Eagle Charlie motioned to the blocks, and we sat down. Before anyone spoke again, I heard a door close and concluded that Rosa Charlie had left the cabin.

  “We are asking questions that might put us on the track of the man who murdered F. Y. Grimsley,” Charleston said.

  Eagle Charlie answered, “Too bad.”

  “What’s too bad, Charlie?” Charleston asked. “That he got killed or that we’re trying to find out who killed him?”

  From that classic Indian face came, “Him dead.”

  “Yes, he’s dead. How come? Any idea? Got a hunch?”

  “Me, him friends. Good friends,” Eagle Charlie said. “Too bad him dead. How?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “Dead is all.”

  Charleston leaned forward, and a hand came out. One finger on it jabbed at Eagle Charlie. “Stop that fake Indian talk, Charlie. Speak plain!”

  Eagle Charlie smiled a wide smile, which didn’t hurt his appearance one bit. “English? French? Piegan?” he asked.

  “English will do. You have no idea as to the murder, no information, no suspicion, no leads at all?”

  “My head, he’s empty.”

  “Empty, huh? Not that empty. Your wife was having dates with Grimsley.”

  Not a flicker appeared in the dark eyes, not a twitch in the cheeks. The mouth said, “So?”

  “What’s more, you knew about it. You traded her off for money or, more likely, a beef now and then.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe you fell out. Maybe you conked him. Don’t give me that ‘so’ again.”

  “So maybe not. Me, him friends, I tell you. Grimsley give me a beef sometimes.” It was plain now that Charlie wouldn’t forsake his brand of language, fake or not.

  “In trade?”

  Eagle Charlie smiled that wide smile again. He thrust both hands out, fingers spread. It occurred to me that he was enjoying himself.

  “No, my friend, no,” he was saying. “No trade. Sure, once a week, maybe, she see him. She always come back. Beef never go back. No trade then, see? She same woman as before, so why not? Same woman, I say, and all the time Charlie’s squaw, and we have meat in the pot. Savvy? Why not?”

  Charleston looked at him and looked at me. “A real businessman, Jase.” Then he turned back to Charlie. “Did you make her whore with anyone else?”

  “I no make her do one thing. Whore? No. All right with her, all right with me, good for Grimsley, good for us.”

  Charleston rose from the block with nothing showing in his face. “Come on, Jase.” Eagle Charlie smiled us goodbye.

  Outside, women and children and a couple of men were pretending not to be interested. Among them was a sure-enough squaw, a pureblood who seemed close to a hundred years old. The eyes in her ancient face glinted with wisdom or hatred or maybe indifference. The snarling dogs hurried me into the car.

  Once we had crossed the little creek, Charleston said, “What do you make of him, Jase?”

  “He was putting on a show.”

  “Oh, sure. He knows English as well as most men, and he knew we knew it. He was laughing at us. But what else?”

  I said, “I can’t figure him. What kind of a man trades his wife off that way?”

  “He does, for one. And he probably thinks he’s getting the best of the deal. The goods he trades—his wife, I mean—he gets back, undamaged according to his lights. But he keeps and eats the meat. Neat trick on the white man.”

  Charleston allowed me a little time to think, then went on. “I would guess he’s a sly character, Jase. Just consider. For the most part, around here, nearly everyone with Indian blood in him is regarded as a little less than human, nearly everybody but Eagle Charlie. He’s pretty much accepted. He laughs and jokes with the boys and gets slapped on the shoulder and takes his turn buying drinks.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. But I bet if he could get away with it he’d play dirty with any white man and count it an Indian victory. It may be all an act, this palsy-walsy business.”

  “Play dirty? Including murder?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What do you say then?”

  He answered, “Pisswillie.”

  Chapter Six

  It was mid-morning of the next day when Charleston and I set out for Guy Jamison’s ranch.

  The office had been full-staffed when I reached there earlier, Jimmy and Halvor both being on hand, and Charleston, too, in the inner office. I asked Halvor, mostly to make conversation, “How was the show last night?”

  He shook his head, as if some roll of thought made him do it. “The man’s got something, Hawkshaw. You can’t deny it.”

  “Yea, Brother Sam!” Jimmy said. “All aboard on the glory train.”

  “Not with you on it,” Halvor told him. “What do you know about him, anyway? Nothin’, so shut up.”

  I said, “I guess Red Fall has a ticket.”

  “What if he has?” Halvor asked. “Never knock a believer, you two. A man’s got a right to believe, and who says it don’t help him? Think on that. The preacher’s got something, I tell you.”

  I didn’t answer, thinking what Brother Sam had was a slick way of selling salvation to suckers. It beat me that a man like Halvor would buy it. He had the morals of a tomcat until his intended put a leash on him, and here he was mewing for heaven instead of the alley. I think I felt a little sad for him.

  I went into the inner office. Charleston put down the paper he had been glancing at. “Want to make a thousand dollars, Jase?” he asked.

  “Any time, depending.”

  “No strings. Just find out who killed F. Y. Grimsley.”

  “Who pays?”

  “It’s solid enough. The Stockmen’s Association. Reward money posted.”

  “Kind of stingy, isn’t it?”

  “Generous enough, since nobody liked him.”

  He tapped the letter with a forefinger. “There are a couple of stipulations.”

  My eyes asked him what.

  “First off, I’m to determine the winner, no one else. No advice and consent from the county commissioners, no approval by the stockmen themselves. I’m judge and jury.”

  “How will that set with the commissioners?”

  He shrugged. “No skin off us. Politics in action, Jase. Opposite parties. The stockmen are mostly Republican.”

  Charleston was an independent, largely supported by both parties. As if to enforce what I knew, he smiled and said, “So they tap a eunuch.”

  “You said two stipulations?”

  “Next, the reward must go to an individual, not to this office or any other agency, public or private.”

  “What about you? What about any deputy? All out of the running?”

  “Nope. Not specified, but leave me out.” He smiled again. “Pretty picture—the judge and jury rewarding himself.”

  Charleston got up. “You have yesterday’s report to type?” When I nodded, he went on, “I have to see the treasurer and the county commissioners. Then what say we ride out to Guy Jamison’s?”

  Now, riding along, I asked, “Why Jamison in particular?”

  “Nothing particular about it. Straw in the water to grab at. Might be he could tell us something about his dude wrangler.”

  “Those red hairs you found—?”

  I thought his head moved a little, sidewise. “Who knows, Jase? Seems like a long-distance maybe.”

  That was that, it seemed. He wasn’t going to tell me any more.

  It didn’t matter. The day did, a nice day, the rare day in June. The sun rode high and just warm enough, and along
the banks of the Rose River to our left the cottonwoods and aspens had a green-hold on hope. I got a sniff of chokecherry in bloom. And there were always the mountains, shining clear now, four miles away and as near as the windshield. But for them, it struck me, my eye would see the coasts of Japan. The nearer peaks were only snow-patched but the farther ones cloaked in almost unbroken white.

  To our right a gravel lane led to Charleston’s upland home, which he didn’t own but his father-in-law did. The father-in-law was off, as usual, on some geological expedition, this time in Arizona, so I had heard. Charleston had a special phone at the place and kept his little apartment in the Jackson Hotel for nights when things were hot.

  Charleston turned into the lane, saying, “I’ll just tell Geet.” He smiled. “Who knows, she might have some lunch for us later.”

  As he braked, he said, “Just a minute.” He got out. Geet had come to the door. They embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other since the presidential election. Once, two years ago, I had been stuck on that girl, but just in a moony way. Charleston was the man for her.

  When he came back, he said with a smile, “Geet thinks she may be able to scrape up something.”

  We rolled into the Rose River canyon, and the mountains folded us in, only to draw back a couple of miles farther on and allow for a natural park on which Jamison had put up his buildings. A couple of new cabins, neat as neat could be, had been constructed since I was there last. An artist with both wood and metal, Jamison was doing something in his tool shed when we stopped. “Got a minute, Guy?” Charleston called.

  Jamison flicked off some kind of saw, let go a piece of wood and walked out to us. “Sure thing,” he said. He gave us a good hand and smile: “Go on up to the house. See you in a minute.”

  We gathered in the lodge room after Guy had introduced us to his wife’s grandpa, whose name I didn’t catch. The old man was in a wheelchair, sucking on a pipe that he had to hold with his hand for lack of teeth. He was drooling a little on his age-puckered chin, but his eyes were as bright as a chipmunk’s. “The wife’s gone to town,” Jamison told us. Then, “Everything all right, Grandpa?”

  Grandpa answered, “Why not?” and pulled on the pipe, which had gone out.

  To us Jamison said, “Cook watches out for him when we’re not around. He pinches her butt if she doesn’t take care. Don’t you, old pardner?”

  Grandpa answered, “What’d you say? You, Guy, isn’t it?”

  “Off and on,” Guy told us. “He’s a game old rooster, though.” He offered us beer, which we turned down in favor of coffee.

  Once we were sipping it, Charleston said, “You know about Grimsley, of course?”

  “I haven’t been to town. Mail just twice a week until later. What little I know came from the radio. Got his head beat in, didn’t he?”

  “Right. He was found dead on his back stoop by his man, Dave Becker. No clues yet.”

  “You could suspect practically everyone in the county, including me.”

  “Becker, too?”

  “Who knows? I can’t guess.”

  I had my book out but wasn’t taking notes yet. The cook, who was running to fat, appeared at the door to the kitchen and looked the situation over. She padded up and lit a match for Grandpa’s pipe, being careful to keep her rear in the rear.

  “So a lot of people are suspect,” Charleston went on after she had disappeared. “The day before Grimsley was murdered, he was raising hell about his stock being rustled. He pointed us—the office, that is—toward Breedtown. He was wondering, too, about Luke McGluke. Know him?”

  “To see. You have to see him to believe it. Not the murder. The man.”

  “It seems he spends some time at Breedtown. At least Grimsley said so.”

  “Maybe so. I don’t know.”

  Charleston put his cup in the saucer and went on. “You got a young fellow here, working, name of Red Fall.”

  “Working off and on until later. But what in hell brings him up?”

  Charleston shook his head. “Not him more than others. What can you tell me?”

  “I met him at a dude ranchers’ convention. He wanted work. He had the references. I hired him.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t had much for him to do. He shod the horses and mules, all of them. Good job, too. He put the gear in working order. No complaint at all, not from me or him. He’ll come back when the first party of dudes arrives, or maybe a day or two before then.”

  “No trouble with him? Gambling? Drinking?”

  “Good God, no! Not one bit. And polite and clean-spoken. Doesn’t swear or like to hear others swear. I tell you, he takes his religion straight, old-fashioned, fundamental, absolute.”

  I wasn’t aware that Grandpa was listening until he spoke in his broken voice. “Ha. Ha. Give me a son of a bitch any time.’

  Jamison said easily, “Now, Grandpa, you don’t know anything about him.”

  “My light’s gone out,” the old man said, waving his pipe as if it were to blame.

  Jamison got up, saying, “So your light’s out.” He took the pipe, knocked it out in an ashtray, filled it from a Prince Albert can, gave it back and scratched a match, holding it while Grandpa puffed.

  Seated again, Jamison said, “Breedtown.” He paused before he spoke again. “My man, Red, goes there quite often, I understand.” He waited for a response and, getting none, added, “Don’t get the wrong idea, though.”

  “What’s the right one?”

  “Among other things he’s a student. Interested, anyhow, in the beliefs, the superstitions, the old tribal stories of Indians.”

  “Yes?” Charleston said.

  “There’s a pureblood squaw there, a crone, old as time. I guess she’s Eagle Charlie’s mother. He talks to her, takes notes, I believe.”

  “Talks? In English, Blackfoot? What?”

  “I don’t know. Through an interpreter, maybe. I don’t imagine she understands his language or he understands hers. I just can’t tell you.”

  Charleston was fiddling with a cigar. “You kind of vouch for this man?”

  “From what I know of him, yes. I like his work. He’s dependable. He knows horses.”

  “You know his background?”

  “Mostly from his references. He’s worked in Arizona and New Mexico. Raised somewhere down there, I suppose. But, Chick, what makes you suspect him? I ask again.”

  “Did I say I did?”

  “All these questions. Is it just because he’s a newcomer?”

  There was no heat in Jamison’s words and none in Charleston’s reply. “I bark up a lot of wrong trees, Guy, but I have to ask, foolish or not.”

  Charleston got to his feet. So did Jamison and I. Jamison said, “Yeah, I know, Chick. I guess I know.”

  Before we reached the door, Grandpa got hold of Charleston’s sleeve with one hand. The pipe in the other jabbed toward me. To Charleston he said, “Watch out for that Jesus Christ.”

  Behind us Jamison murmured, “Grandpa. Now, Grandpa.”

  We drove back and took Charleston’s turn-in. Geet was ready for us, with ham sandwiches, tuna fish, milk, coffee and pie. Married life agreed with her, I thought as I ate. She was more comely—my dad’s word—than even I remembered.

  As we were finishing, she asked, “I hope you’ll be back tonight, Chick?”

  “Barring an act of God,” he answered. In his circumstances I doubted even an act of God could keep me in town. He wiped his mouth, rose, kissed her and said to me, “Let’s go, J.C.”

  Quite a promotion, from Hawkshaw to J.C. I would have to ask Halvor to show more respect.

  Chapter Seven

  As we approached town that afternoon, Charleston said to me, “I’m going to drop you off, Jase. See if you can round up Framboise and Pete Pambrun. Not likely they’re working. Bring them to the office.”

  I asked, “How?”

  His teeth showed in a grin. “You figure it out. That’s what deputies are for—to d
o the sheriff’s thinking.”

  He dropped me off in front of the Bar Star, raised his hand in a cheerful good-bye and headed down for the office.

  I stood outside for a minute or two. How to get those two men to the office? Not by a show of authority. They weren’t suspects, not yet. They would high-tail it if I acted bossy and didn’t charge them because I couldn’t. Buy them a few drinks, then, and cozen them into a visit? Nope. White man buy firewater for poor Injun? Nope. They didn’t look so dumb. They’d see through my generosity. Let inspiration visit me, Brother Sam.

  I entered the Bar Star. Only Tad Frazier was there, reading a newspaper and picking his teeth while he waited for customers. He raised the toothpick in salute.

  “Good place to start a saloon,” I told him.

  “Yeah. It just might make out, but not if every day was like today.”

  “Maybe everyone’s got religion. Maybe that tent preacher is bobtailing your business.”

  “Naw,” Tad said. “Crap. He makes people thirsty. Too bad for us tonight’s his last night.”

  I knew I was killing time, not wanting to come up against Framboise and Pambrun. “Break the drouth and draw me a beer,” I said. I didn’t want the beer. “Have one yourself.”

  He answered he would.

  I didn’t ask about the two breeds. If word got out that I was looking for them, they’d be long gone. Instead I asked, “You have any hunches about who killed one Grimsley?”

  “Sure. I did. I gave him one of my poison looks, and it took. But why ask me? Better I ask you. You’re the law and smart.”

  “Thanks. Not smart, though. Not smart enough.”

  Tad said, “What does it matter?”

  “It matters a thousand dollars.”

  “Too much. A nickel would be about right.”

  I said, “See you later,” and went out, leaving half my beer.

  The Club Pool Hall stood at a diagonal across the street. It was called a pool hall because it had one table in it, never used and hardly usable, its felt torn by forgotten players who had miscued. Its attractions were soft drinks, beer and low-stake card games, rum and pitch mostly. Old men frequented it, and younger ones with only a few nickels in their jeans. I decided to have a look.