Cold Dish

by Craig Johnson

  Lonnie watched soap operas because there was no baseball in November. The rumors of Lonnie’s playing pro ball turned out to be true. There was baseball paraphernalia scattered in a few spots around the place, baseball bats tucked into corners, old gloves stacked up on shelves. There were pictures of Lonnie standing around with Cubs, Billy Williams and Ferguson Jenkins; Cardinals, Lou Brock and Joe Torre; Reds, Tony Perez and Johnny Bench, whom he blamed for ending his career. “After I saw him coming up, I just didn’t see any reason to go on playing. He’s part Indian too, you know. Choctaw. Mm, hmm . . . Yes, it is so.”

  The only thing that outnumbered the baseball pictures were photographs of Melissa. The only photographs I had of Melissa were not good ones. I stopped before an especially wonderful one of her in full dancing regalia, seated on a Palomino in front of a painted teepee. Its frame had started out as gold but was now rusted and tarnished at the edges. It was likely it was taken down and handled a great deal. I thought about defects, about the rape, the trial, and the Little Big Horn reenactment where I had seen her last. Lonnie probably thought about those things a lot, too.

  It was nearing one o’clock, and Lonnie had wheeled himself into the kitchen to instruct Henry how to make the pickle-loaf, yellow American sliced cheese, and Kraft-spread sandwiches on Wonder Bread that would be our lunch. This was my kind of food, but Henry’s gourmet sensibilities were having a hard time of it. “Lonnie, I buy you good food, why don’t you eat it?”

  “Your good food is complicated and takes too long to make. Mm . . . There are Vlassic pickle stackers in the door there.”

  With a sigh, Henry returned to the refrigerator, retrieved the jar of sliced pickles, and got ice from the freezer side of the appliance. “Lonnie, are you buying all that frozen food off the Schwan’s truck again?”

  He looked over at me through those thick, metal-frame glasses, needing an ally. And if Lonnie had said that little green men had deposited the eight boxes of Hot Pockets in his freezer, I was going to agree. “I feel sorry for him when he drives all the way up the driveway.” I nodded as he continued. “We have good talks; he is from Kentucky.” I nodded some more.

  It was a little single-level ranch house that must have been built in the fifties, and the only things that kept me from thinking I was on one of those family sitcoms from the period was the amount of Indian art and craft that decorated it and the concrete ramps that led up to the doors of the spotless house. Lonnie Little Bird was on a campaign to get his daughter back from that gaggle of aunts in closer to town. This campaign meant Lonnie didn’t drink, Lonnie didn’t smoke, and Lonnie didn’t use the Lord’s name in vain, at least when any of the aunts were in earshot. There was Barq’s root beer in the refrigerator beside the pickled pig’s feet, and that’s what we were drinking. I finished off the end of my two sandwiches. “When did Artie sell that rifle, Lonnie?”

  “Mm, hmm. About a year ago. He sold that gun to that Buffalo Bill Museum over in Cody. Yes. It was winter, and he needed the money.” He took a swig of his root beer and studied the Formica for a moment. “Not everybody has a nice house like mine . . .” His eyes glanced furtively at Henry. I got the feeling Lonnie liked secrets. A moment passed. “Sheriff?”

  “Yep, Lonnie.”

  “Do you think that Artie did this thing to this boy?”

  I picked up the root beer can and looked at it; as near as I could figure it had been about twenty years since I had tasted the stuff. “Well, I’m just checking everything out, everything and everybody.”

  He smiled. “Mm, hmm. Am I being checked out also?”

  I looked at the little spark behind the glasses and wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that without any legs he was kind of low on our list of suspects. “Just following up on all the leads, Lonnie.”

  He continued to smile but looked over to Henry and said a few short words in Cheyenne. Henry glanced at me, then back to his cousin, and then got up and walked out, turning the corner at the hallway. My eyes returned to Lonnie with a question, but he only sat there looking back through glasses so thick you could see little rainbows at the edges. After a moment or two I heard Henry returning down the hallway, his boots padding softly on the wall-to-wall carpeting. When he turned the corner again, he was carrying an old leather rifle scabbard with the straps you attach to a saddle hanging down, unbuckled. Due to my recent course of study, I recognized the Sharps butt plate that stuck out the end. When he got to the counter, he handed the weapon to me. I looked up at Lonnie, who gestured for me to take out the buffalo gun.

  I carefully slid the rifle from its wool-lined sheath and rested the butt on my knee, and it was the most beautiful gun I had ever seen. It wasn’t in as good shape as Omar’s, there were scratches along the stock and the part of the foregrip that was wood, but each scar had been lovingly poulticed with oil and polished to a gleaming sheen. The metal had not been so lucky. Someone had taken steel wool to it at some point, and the ruddy sepia tone of its original color only showed in small creases; the rest was ghostly silver. There was a simple cross of brass tacks in the stock, the pattern a great deal like the one on the side of Red Road Contracting’s truck, and ten distinct notches along the top ridge of the stock. The foregrip had three red-wool trading-cloth wraps ornamented with quillwork and with smaller feathers than I had seen on the scabbard of Omar’s gun or, lately, in plastic bags. I touched the feathers and looked at Henry. “Owl.” Messenger from the world of the dead indeed.

  I turned the rifle around and looked at the magnificent pattern beaded underneath. Lonnie looked at me through the magnifying glasses. “Mm, hmm. The pattern is called Dead Man’s Body. Yes, it is so.”

  8

  On the afternoon of June 25, 1876, as the heat waves rolled from the buffalo grass, giving the impression of a breeze that did not exist, Colonel George Armstrong Custer and five companies of the Seventh Cavalry rode into the valley of the Little Big Horn. Also that afternoon, Davey Force, a pitcher for the Philadelphia Athletics, went six for six against Chicago, who scored four runs in the ninth to pull out a 14 to 13 victory. Custer was not so lucky.

  The report of the Secretary of War states that the five companies had 405 Springfield carbines caliber .45, along with their single action 396 Colt revolvers caliber .45. What the Seventh Cavalry contingency did not carry were any Sharps. When the fight began, only about half the Indians had guns, and they were a varied sort: muzzleloaders, Spencer carbines, old-fashioned Henry rifles, and an unspecified number of Sharps. The army didn’t stand much of a chance, trapped on that beautiful hillside, with no reinforcements coming. I thought about how those gentle slopes smelled and sounded on a glorious summer day, about how they might have smelled and sounded that June day in 1876. I also thought about the pumpkin that had exploded from a very long distance in Omar’s back pasture.

  When Little Wolf led a straggling band of thirty-three Northern Cheyenne warriors into surrender two and a half years later on March 25, 1879, they handed in twenty assorted rifles and carbines, of which the majority were Sharps, numbering nine. I held in my hands the tenth. “So, your great-great-grandfather didn’t surrender his?”

  He continued to look out the windshield as he drove. “I guess he did not completely trust the white man. Go figure.”

  I looked down at the rifle, the butt resting on the toe of my boot; I didn’t want the truck to touch it. “Do these ten little notches along the ridge here mean what I think they mean?”

  “Another potato digger bites the dust.” He slowed as a mule deer darted across the road a couple of hundred yards ahead and, sure as anything, another followed. “No, it stands for the tenth rifle. It was so they could tell them apart.” He saw me looking at all the beads, feathers, and silver tacks. “All that was put on later.”

  The Cheyenne got their weapons by trading or capture; I didn’t ask how they got this lot of ten. “Okay, so your great great grandfather surrenders in 1879 but hides this ol’ boy out on the range?”

  �
�Wrapped up in two inches of bear grease.”

  “When did they get out?”

  “As near as I can tell, we never have.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “When did the soldiers let him go?”

  “About six months later; winter was coming on, and they did not want to have to feed them.”

  “He went back and got it six months later?”

  “Yes.” He smiled to himself. “We were tough, in the day.”

  I looked at the gun again. “Any idea when it was last shot?”

  The smile played out thinly on his lips. “Friday of last week?”

  “Very funny. How come your cousin has it?”

  “It is in the family; that is all that matters. No one in the family has personal ownership, but I doubt anybody would argue if I claimed it.”

  I thought of the T-bird. “Like Lola?”

  “Like Lola.” He smiled to himself some more. “Anyway, it is haunted.”

  As it grew darker, the soft Wyoming sky drifted into night. I pulled out my watch to see what time it was: 5:30. I still had time to go home and take a shower and get the truck off of me. I was looking forward to being with Vonnie, with somebody who didn’t have any connection with the case.

  When we picked up the wine at the Pony, he left the truck running. Dena Many Camps came out to talk with me while Henry rummaged through the wine coolers. She tended bar for Henry when he wasn’t there, was one of Henry’s protégés in billiards, and was a good friend of Cady’s, although she was about four years older. You would be hard pressed to find a better-looking woman. She walked with a wicked grace, like a panther with a pool cue. “What’re you doing, Trouble?” She always called me Trouble, even though I’m sure she had caused more than I ever would.

  “Well, if it isn’t what makes the Badlands look good.” She wrote poetry and had been offered a scholarship to Dartmouth but had decided to pursue billiards instead. She probably made more money at pool, but I wondered if she ever regretted not going to college. “What’re you up to other than luring men to their financial doom a quarter at a time?”

  She rested her arms on the scaly sill of the truck, fingers drumming lightly on her exposed elbows. “I like torturing them slowly. Anyway, a girl’s gotta make a living, and I can’t do it on what this guy pays me.” She pulled her lips back into a broad smile, just to show me there was no malice. “There’s a pool tournament down in Vegas, and I’m leaving next week.”

  I looked at the white fringe on the silk yoke of the western shirt-dress she wore. She always had on flamboyant western clothes when she competed in the tournaments. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair. She looked back toward the bar. “What’s he doing in there?”

  “Getting some wine for me.”

  “Wine . . . for you?”

  “What, I don’t look like a wine guy to you?”

  She reached in and felt the feathers on the rifle with her fingertips. “Owl.” She looked closer and her hand froze. “Ohohyaa . . .”

  “That mean owl?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, it means . . . terrible. Sehan . . .” Her eyes narrowed, and her hand came away from the gun as though the rifle might bite. “This is a weapon from the Camp of the Dead.”

  “Actually, it’s from Lonnie Little Bird.” Her hands went to her hair, and I could tell she was unbraiding it for a reason. “It’s for a ballistics test.”

  Her eyes met mine, and she continued to undo her long braid. “This is a ghost weapon, a weapon sent from the dead to retrieve.”

  “Retrieve what?”

  “Not what . . . who.”

  “What, they need a fourth for bridge?”

  Her eyes sharpened to slits of flint. “This is not funny. It’s big medicine.”

  “Big medicine.” I started to make another smart-aleck remark but thought better of it. “I was just . . .”

  “Lonnie Little Bird gave this to you?”

  “For ballistics, we’ve got to check it against the one that killed Cody Pritchard.”

  She finished unbraiding and shook her head, the dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. “Give it back to him.”

  “I will, after we shoot it.” I reached out to touch her arm, but she shifted away. “What’s the story with the hair?”

  “It is a sign of respect and protection. There are spirits that linger near that weapon, and they can easily take away the soul of someone still living for the enjoyment of their society.”

  The hand that held the rifle suddenly felt cold, so I shifted to the other one. “I’ll get it right back to him, just as soon as we get a test fire.” Henry had exited the bar with the two bottles of wine and opened the door of the truck, his eyes meeting Dena’s.

  “What is up, Toots?” He climbed in, but her eyes stayed on him as he concerned himself with the shifter and with shutting the door. Finally, he cocked his head and looked at her again. “What?”

  “You let Lonnie give him this?”

  His voice growled, low and steady. “It is his job.” A full fifteen seconds passed before she exhaled, turned, and walked into the Red Pony without looking back; the fringe on her dress matched the sway of her hair. I turned to look at him. “Women.” He put the truck in gear and backed away from the bar, hitting the tired brakes, shifting into first, and pulling out toward my place. I continued to look at him. “What?”

  “What? I’ve got ‘the’ Cheyenne death rifle here?”

  He shook his head. “So to speak.” He glanced over. “Bother you?”

  “Only if ghosts are going to fly out of the barrel and carry me off to the Camp of the Dead.” He laughed a hearty, honest laugh. “What?”

  He laughed some more. “Your company is not that good.”

  The rifle, Henry, the ghosts, and me drove up the road and deposited me at my cabin. The rifle and I went in, Henry went back down the road, and where the ghosts went was anybody’s guess. I carefully sat the rifle on the arms of my easy chair and looked at it.

  Retriever of the Dead. The thing was worth a million dollars—was priceless probably—and leaving it lying around my little house that had no locks didn’t seem like a good idea. I was going to have to take it with me over to Vonnie’s, but I could always leave it in the Bullet. I wrestled a shower out of the bathroom and put on clean clothes. The phone machine in my bedroom was blinking, but I ignored it. The rifle was still there when I got back to the living room, so I looked around the place for any apparitions and was a little disappointed when none appeared. Maybe Henry was right; maybe I was lousy company, even at a dead man’s party. I walked back into my bedroom and stared at the answering machine. I hoped that Cady had called, but the little blinking red light was looking angry. Maybe the ghosts had left a message, so I pushed the button.

  “Okay, we had three mailboxes at Rock Creek reportedly hit, got a call on some kid chasing horses with his snow machine, turns out the kid owned the horses and there’s no law saying you can’t herd livestock with a snow machine . . . that from the eleven-year-old perpetrator. Earl Walters slid off the road at Klondike and Upper Clear Creek and took out a yield sign; I always knew the ancient fucker couldn’t read. And our crime of the day, Old Lady Grossman reported somebody stealing the snowman out of her yard and driving off with it. Ferg stopped the suspect, who turned out to be her nephew who had taken it as a joke.”

  We weren’t likely to make America’s Most Wanted with a selection of crimes such as these, but it was premium Roundup material.

  “So, out of our list, the only ones that have reloading equipment are Mike Rubin and Stanley Fogel.”

  The dentist.

  “The dentist.” There was a pause, as the machine recorded her thinking. “Wouldn’t it be a pisser if it turned out to be the dentist? I know it doesn’t have the ring that the butler does, but wouldn’t people be surprised?”

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  “Anyway, I went over and checked on him. He’s cute. I think I’m going to change dentists.”r />
  Jesus. There was a rustling of papers, and she continued.

  “I also went out to Mike Rubin’s shop while you were out joyriding on the Rez. Is that fucker goofy or what?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t know if he was more rattled by having a sheriff’s deputy there or a woman. He doesn’t get out much, does he?”

  I shook my head this time.

  “I got samples from both, and neither match up with what we think we’ve got. The Ferg finally got around to checking on the Esper place, and he says that there weren’t any tracks in the snow leading up to the house. I called the post office and, sure enough, they put a hold on their mail that goes off tomorrow. I called the mine and asked them. They said he was down in Colorado, visiting his sister, no number left. The sister is married, and nobody here seems to know the name or where in Colorado they live, so here we are at the beginning. I’ll swing around there tonight and see if they’ve gotten back from the other square state.”

  There was a pause, then the machine beeped, and she spoke again, “Okay, so I swung by the Espers and left a note behind the storm door telling them to contact us as soon as they get in. Ferg’s right, there hasn’t been anybody there for days. If they call, I’ll call you. I’ll be here tonight, if you need me. All night. Glen and I are fighting, so I’m sleeping here.”

  I stared at the machine.

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing big, just the usual shit. Don’t call to check on me and don’t come in here. I’m fine. Oh, and by the way, Phil La Vante died about three months ago, so should I take him off our short list?”

  I nodded, and the machine clicked off. I hated marital discord; I hated it when I was married. I often wondered about Vic’s marriage. There were times when she and Glen appeared to get along, but most of the time it seemed like they led separate but unequal lives. This wasn’t the first night she’d spent at the jail. She wasn’t the frequent lodger I was but, only a month ago, I’d been in my office one night catching up on paperwork when I heard somebody open the front door. As she walked into her office opposite mine, all she said was “Don’t ask” and slammed her door behind her. After a few moments though, she reappeared with her Philadelphia Police mug and a bottle of tequila, had sat down in the chair by my door, threw her feet up on my desk, poured herself a drink and hissed, “All men are assholes, right?” I nodded vigorously, quietly finished my reports as she drank, and then crept out, my back to the wall.