The Bakken Blade

by Jeff Siebold

“They must pay for their weakness,” she said. “We must stand strong together against the white man and his evil drugs.”

  The young man nodded, still distracted by the television screen.

  “Do you know what we must do now?” she asked.

  “We must eliminate the weakness,” he said, speaking by rote. It was a mantra.

  She nodded. “It is time now.”

  He got up slowly from the couch and shut the television off with the remote. He stretched his back and shrugged out of the red and tan vest, setting it carefully on the coffee table. Then he walked over to the woman.

  “Who’s next, Gramm?” he asked.

  * * *

  He could see it all from the shadows. He’d been there for hours, it seemed, ever since the sun went down.

  He was a hunter, like his ancestors before him. A silent, deadly hunter, he thought.

  The small bar was lit up with activity, cars parked askew in the lot and motorcycles on the street in front of it. The girl stepped out and for a moment he heard a Johnny Cash song wafting from the open door. It was “Ring of Fire”. Then the door closed and the girl stood on the sidewalk, looking at the door, watching and waiting. She swayed, caught herself, and leaned against a wall, still facing the door.

  Good, this will be easy, he thought.

  Nothing happened for a long time. Then, the door opened and a large man stepped out under the streetlight. An Indian. He was dressed in a plaid work shirt, blue jeans and boots, and he looked to his left, squinting. Then he looked to his right and saw the girl. He walked over to her and said something.

  The girl laughed, said something back and leaned against him. Then she hooked her arm through his and led him away, around the corner and up the street.

  The hunter followed, distant and patient. They walked east a block, then two, and then turned up East Avenue. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

  The trailer park was like so many others in New Town. Beat up and worn out, from being there long before the oil, from being a place of hopelessness. The drugs did that, he knew. His Gramm had told him.

  He watched as the big Indian and the girl walked to a green trailer. They stopped and the girl, still giggling, pulled him toward her by the shoulder until he was close enough to kiss. Then she kissed him lightly and laughed again.

  He straightened and waited while she opened the front door to the trailer. Yellow light spilled out of the door onto the dirt driveway. Standing in the door, she looked back at him and made a motion, and he followed her inside.

  * * *

  It was about twenty minutes later that he emerged from the trailer, the large man with the dark hair. The man was big, but the hunter wasn’t afraid. He looked around, and then he walked briskly away from the trailer.

  The hunter waited.

  The light of the harvest moon was calming, reassuring. It had always been the best light for hunting. Judging from its position, it was close to midnight.

  Five minutes later, the girl emerged from the trailer. She exited a side door, not the door she’d entered with the man, and she closed it quietly. She stepped off the small porch and walked across the dirt drive, hesitating as she went, uncertain. Then she decided something and started walking back in the direction of downtown and the bar.

  The hunter stepped out in the darkness and felt the weight of the knife in his pocket. The Bakken Blade. It was in an outside pocket of his cargo pants. He unbuttoned the pocket flap as he followed her.

  * * *

  It had to be done. A message had to be sent. The pride of the Sioux Nation was at stake.

  It was a retaliation for the many wrongs they had suffered. Their history was one of loss and abuse. And the latest abuse was the worst. The sacred grounds of their ancestors had been violated by ruthless men who valued money over truth.

  It wasn’t difficult. The girl had walked to the town, past the bar, and then she’d headed to her mother’s home, her route along the railroad tracks. She walked slowly, but she had steadied herself and was no longer laughing.

  The hunter had caught up with her, smiled at her. She’d seen him before, around town, in tribal meetings, at social events on the reservation. He was her neighbor.

  He offered to walk with her. She said she wasn’t afraid. Then she asked him if he had anything he could share to help her take the edge off. She’d fought with her boyfriend, she confided.

  The hunter handed her a pint bottle filled with Smirnoff vodka, 90 proof. He was carrying it in another pocket of his cargo pants.

  She thanked him and tipped the bottle up.

  As she did, distracted, the hunter jabbed her thigh with the needle, injecting the Xylazine into her system. The needle hurt, and she lowered the bottle and said, “Ouch! Crap!”

  He said, “What was that?”

  As she looked at him, her eyes lost focus and she dropped the bottle, weaved for a moment and suddenly sat down in the middle of the road. She whimpered.

  * * *

  Then it was simple. The hunter moved her to the tracks, set her down and sat down beside her in the dark and emptied his pockets. He still held the needle. He snapped it off on a railroad tie and slipped both parts of the broken hypodermic into his shirt pocket.

  First he pulled on the rubber gloves. They were yellow housecleaning gloves that reached almost to his elbows.

  The girl sat next to him, head bowed. She snored lightly.

  He took out the small plastic container with the Oxiclean and set it aside. He picked up the folded plastic bag, a thirty-gallon size, unfolded it and tore a hole in the bottom before wrapping it around his neck like a bib.

  Her head lolled.

  He took out the blade. It was razor sharp. He carefully cut her shirt from her body and then her bra. He did it by feel, for the most part. There was very little light in the rail yard. He’d broken the nearby streetlights earlier, and the grain silos cast long shadows over the two of them.

  The night was cool and quiet. He worked quickly and quietly. Occasionally, the girl would make a noise, a whimper. After an hour, she was silent. The hunter finished up and removed the plastic bag and rolled it around the blade, inside out. The blood spatter stayed inside with the knife. He took off the gloves, left them inside out and shoved them back in his pocket. Then he stood and stretched. He spilled the Oxiclean all around and on the girl.

  He said his mantra, slowly and quietly as his grandmother had taught him, and walked away.

  Chapter 17

  “Tribal Leadership offices,” said the pert, blonde receptionist. “How can I direct your call?”

  She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with light blue eyes and a turned up nose.

  Zeke watched her handle the phone calls efficiently and listened while she worked the bureaucratic triage, diverting callers to members of the Tribal Leader’s staff.

  Her teeth were even, white and capped, and she smiled into the phone each time she spoke. The smile was audible.

  She’s good at it, thought Zeke.

  Clive Greene had agreed that the killings seemed to be random. The killings could have been the result of a sick mind, a serial killer preying on Native American girls. The victims had enemies. Or the killings could be politically motivated or committed by someone who was angry. Or they could have been personal, motivated by jealousy or rage. Or something else entirely.

  The blonde woman smiled up at Zeke and then answered her phone once again. “Tribal Leader Grayhorse’s office.”

  A week ago, they’d set Sally, Clive’s best researcher, on the scent. A day later, in their D.C. office, Sally had isolated some possibilities. Zeke had joined the discussion via speakerphone.

  “There’s not much happening in the Dakotas except oil,” she’d said during their briefing. “But the oil is big enough to get everyone’s attention.”

  Clive nodded. “How big?”

  “Scandalously big,” said Sally, dramatically. She used a wispy voice and, on occasion, Marilyn’s signature po
ut.

  They waited a moment.

  “Like half a trillion dollars, based on the latest estimate.”

  “The latest estimate…?” asked Clive.

  “The USGS did a study… Well, an update to an earlier study. They determined that there’s at least 7.4 billion barrels of crude that can be taken out of the Bakken Formation. Times about seventy dollars per barrel…”

  “Five hundred eighteen billion dollars,” said Zeke under his breath.

  “That’s for the entire formation, mind you. Part of it is in Montana, part in South Dakota and then there’s quite a bit in Saskatchewan. Plus North Dakota.”

  “Wow. The good folks must be lining up to get paid…” said Clive.

  “So, who’s at the top of the food chain?” asked Zeke. “Who can’t afford to lose what they have? Their position, their power, their control.”

  “Some of the pioneer families,” Sally commented. “And politicians.”

  “Pioneer?” asked Clive. “Like wagon trains?”

  “Actually, most of the pioneers arrived in North Dakota by train. Immigrant trains. And some arrived by steamboats and barges,” Sally said helpfully.

  “Hmm,” Clive said. “Immigrant trains?”

  “The trains were stationed on Ellis Island back at the end of the nineteenth century,” said Sally, warming to the topic. “Immigrants from Europe could get off the boat and go directly to a train that would transport them out west to St. Paul and then to the Dakota Territory. A lot of them did just that.”

  “What was the draw?” asked Clive.

  “Free land,” said Zeke. “Homestead claims. The government was giving away 160-acre tracts to people who would farm it and commit to build, cultivate and stay on the land for five years. Lincoln started it when he signed the Homestead Act into law right after the Civil War.”

  “And all this land was sitting on an oil field the whole time?” asked Clive.

  Sally nodded. “But it wasn’t an issue. They were all using steam, back then… Steam engines and steamboats. Oil didn’t become important until later on.”

  “OK, good. And who else can’t afford to lose what they have?” asked Zeke.

  “Some of the tribal leadership has done very well since the oil boom,” said Sally. “The reservation is located on the oil formation. So, they’ve come into more money than they ever imagined.”

  “I’d say so,” said Clive. “Plenty of motivation to keep the spigot flowing.”

  * * *

  “I found something else,” said Sally. “In my research.”

  “Do tell,” said Clive.

  “It’s about the women. There are over 5,700 cases of missing Native American women that have been reported to the National Crime Information Center. And a lot more of the cases don’t get reported,” she continued.

  “Hmm,” Clive said.

  “It gets worse. In some places, the murder rate of Native American women is ten times higher than the national average for all races.”

  Zeke, on his phone, said, “Who’s responsible?”

  “Not always their own people,” said Sally. “Two thirds of the sexual assaults on Native American women are committed by white and other non-Native American people. And now that you have so many men moving into the area for the oil jobs…”

  “The incidents just increase,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “Mr. Reid?” Zeke heard. He stood and turned in the direction of the sound.

  “I’m Henry Wolsnoki, Tribal Leader Grayhorse’s Chief of Staff.” He offered Zeke a warm handshake.

  “Mr. Wolsnoki, how are you? Edward Reid,” Zeke said.

  In investigating the North Dakota deaths, Zeke had decided to take a look at those who had the most to lose. And starting in the Tribal Leaders’ offices in New Town seemed right.

  William Grayhorse was one of four Tribal Leaders who led the Sioux nation in North Dakota. Based on the available pictures, he was an imposing man, thick and tall with black hair that fell to the middle of his back. He typically wore it in a long single braid, decorated with native beads and feathers. In the newspaper photos he always smiled, showing large, white teeth.

  Some quick research showed that Grayhorse had facilitated the way for big oil to establish its presence in northwest North Dakota and on the Fort Berthold reservation.

  Posing as Edward Reid, a reporter for a national weekly magazine, Zeke had arranged for an interview with the Tribal Leader. The response had come back from William Grayhorse’s offices and a schedule was set.

  “We’re excited about the interview,” said Wolsnoki. “I’m glad we were able to pull it together this quickly.”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Zeke, smiling sincerely.

  “You’re interested in the effects of the oil boom on education in our state, then?”

  “Yes. It’s a follow-up piece to an article I wrote about the financial impact of fracking on another state’s educational system,” said Zeke.

  “Where was that?” asked Wolsnoki.

  “Pennsylvania.”

  Wolsnoki nodded. “You’ll find we’re much less political up here. Let’s use my office to prepare. Grayhorse will be able to join us at the end. Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  The office was a small room decorated primarily with pictures of Native Americans on the walls and on the credenza.

  For the next hour and ten minutes, Zeke queried the Tribal Leader’s Chief of Staff about the direct and indirect impact of North Dakota’s windfall on the state’s education system. He lobbed softball questions at Wolsnoki, who smiled through the interview and answered the questions patiently. Zeke took copious notes. They talked about pending legislation, pools of funding, the impact of the oil industry on North Dakota’s economy and the future of the Bakken Formation’s revenues.

  They also discussed the impact of the oil boom on the Native American reservations in this part of the state.

  “Well, you know, that’s a topic that’s close to my heart. I’m actually about a quarter Sioux.”

  Zeke said, “Really? With a name like ‘Wolsnoki’?”

  “My great-grandfather’s contribution. He arrived in the Dakotas in the late 1800s, right off the boat from Europe. Married a Sioux woman a year or two later, and the Wolsnokis have been here ever since.”

  Zeke nodded and made a note.

  “Who administers the revenues?” he asked.

  “Well, we have a number of programs set up, you know, funded from the oil money.”

  “Sure.”

  “The money comes into the state through the 11.5% severance tax on the gross value of all the oil produced. That’s why North Dakota has a billion dollar budget surplus,” added Wolsnoki.

  “Impressive.”

  “You did your homework. You know that North Dakota produces more oil than any other state, save one.”

  “Texas,” said Zeke, absently. “Yes. So who administers this state’s budget? That’s a huge surplus.”

  “Well, the Governor’s office is ultimately responsible for that. We have a budget committee, of course, and the Tribal Councils have a lot of input…”

  * * *

  The interview was winding down. Henry Wolsnoki kept looking at his watch and fidgeting. Zeke sat and watched.

  “Tribal Leader Grayhorse should be here in a moment,” Wolsnoki said, looking at the door.

  “No problem.”

  A moment later, the door to Henry Wolsnoki’s office opened and a tall, black haired man with a thick torso and squinted eyes walked in. From the skin on his hands and throat Zeke guessed he was about sixty. He wore traditional Native American Indian clothing, jeans and a leather vest over a colorful shirt, but with Parigi croc driving slippers on his feet.

  Wolsnoki stood up. Zeke followed his example.

  “Tribal Leader William Grayhorse,” said Wolsnoki. “This is Edward Reid. He’s writing an article for his national magazine about education in North Dakota. The results of our fra
cking efforts.”

  The men shook hands and the Tribal Leader pulled a chair up to the table. They all sat.

  “I’m sure Henry has filled you in. Answered your questions,” said Grayhorse.

  “He’s been very accommodating and generous with his time,” said Zeke.

  For a quick moment, Wolsnoki looked almost demure.

  “It must make you proud to be able to do so much good,” said Zeke. “To help so many children.”

  Grayhorse nodded slightly. “After the years of abuse my people took, it’s something.”

  Zeke nodded empathetically.

  “And I would hope for much more for my people.” He paused. Then he added, “It’s a shame the abuse we took. My people have been pushed around, robbed, moved from place to place, and taken advantage of. Whenever there was something found on the land that had value, well, we were moved by the government again.”

  Zeke nodded. “I can see where that would be a contentious issue.”

  “It has never been right. It makes me proud that we won at Little Big Horn. You know, that battleground is less than 300 miles from here. And it happened 142 years ago,” Grayhorse said with pride in his voice. “But we’ve lost everything since then.”

  * * *

  Zeke dialed the secure number.

  “7428,” said Sally, reversing the last two digits. The number changed daily.

  “Mandy, how are you?” asked Zeke, using a simple word code. He confirmed security by using a name that started with the same letter as the day of the week. In this case, it was Monday.

  “Hey, long time no see,” said Sally, teasing.

  “Is Eric in today?” asked Zeke. Eric was Clive’s code name within The Agency.

  “He’s over at the FBI offices.”

  “I want to chat with him as soon as I can,” Zeke continued. “About the state of the State.”

  “North Dakota?” she asked.

  “Yep. I just had an interesting meeting with one of the Tribal Leaders. I could see him being involved with the murder. We just need to find the motive.”