He spoke over the aged engine as he made third, breezed through the stop sign at the corner of one of Lame Deer’s few intersections, and headed south on Bureau of Indian Affairs Route 4, the rumble strips sounding like war drums underneath us. “It is a universal folkloric phrase.” He threw Rezdawg into fourth, and we tooled back through the main part of town past the White Buffalo Sinclair Station, the Big Store IGA, which Henry says stands for Indians Grab Anything, and the tribal government buildings. “The Italian version is the same as ours but the French one is Le diable se marie avec sa fille, or the devil becomes his daughter’s husband.”
I stopped petting Dog, threw my arm over the back seat, and looked out the rear window. “Perverts.”
“The German proverb is Wenn’s regnet und die Sonne scheint, so schlagt der Teufel seine Gro?mutter: er lacht und sie weint, which means that the devil is beating his grandmother: he laughs and she cries.”
A black Yukon with a heavy grille guard and Montana plates had started following us in town and was a little close to Rezdawg’s back bumper, at which point I noticed that there was an understated halogen emergency light flashing red on the dash.
“There are similar phrases in Hungary and Holland.”
“Have you been hanging around Jules Beldon?” The emergency lights in the vehicle behind us were definitely signaling us to pull over. “Hey, Henry?”
Unaware that some sort of official vehicle was dogging us, or more likely ignoring the summons, he continued to navigate our way out of town. “The Polish say that when the sun is shining and the rain is raining that the devil is making butter.”
I fully turned in the seat to get a better look. “Henry…”
The GMC made an aggressive move and started to pull up beside us; the Yukon’s engine surged, and the Bear finally noticed it.
“The Russians call it a blind rain; somewhat depressing but still poetic.” He waited a moment for the SUV to go around and when it didn’t, he pulled Rezdawg over to the gravel between the reflector posts at the side of the road. “Either way, the devil gets the blame for everything.”
I watched as the Yukon, in direct violation of standard police procedure, pulled slanted in front of us as if we might make a run for it, which, considering it was Rezdawg, made the situation that much funnier. There were no markings on the vehicle, and I watched as the driver’s-side door was jerked open and a very tall, athletic-looking woman with dark hair got out.
Resting a hand on the roof of the GMC, she concentrated her Oakley reflective sunglasses on us. She stood there for a second, then slammed the door and, ignoring the few cars that swerved to avoid her, started around the rear of her vehicle. She had high, wide cheekbones and a strong jaw that balanced the features framed in the blue-black hair that was braided to her elbows. Late twenties, she was wearing black jeans, a Tribal Police uniform shirt, black ropers, and a matching gun belt with a very large caliber Smith amp; Wesson N-Frame revolver banging against her hip.
She looked like one of those ultimate warriors who can step out on the sidewalk and run a marathon at the drop of a war bonnet.
“License and registration.”
Henry didn’t move, just continued to look at her. I didn’t blame him.
She made the statement again, this time with a little more force, separating the words as she spoke. “License. And. Registration.”
Henry glanced at me and then pulled the naked, cardboard sun visor down, the vinyl covering having disintegrated and shed like snakeskin long ago. The registration and insurance card fluttered onto his lap like a shot bird. He leaned up on one side and pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed his license, adding it to the collection he handed her. “What is the problem, Officer?”
She studied the collection of documents and then gestured toward the black Yukon. “Do you see that vehicle?”
Henry made a production of lowering his Wayfarers and placing the flat palm of his hand above his eyes like some B-movie Indian spotting a wagon train. “Yes, I think I do.”
The next statement had even more heat in it. “That is an official vehicle, and when it indicates for you to pull over-you pull over.” She glanced down at the license and studied it for a moment. “I know you, Mr. Henry Standing Bear.”
He studied her in an indifferent manner. “And I have heard of you, Ms. Lolo Long.”
I noticed that this time when he called her by name, he did not proffer the title of officer.
Her chin came out as she locked eyes with him-something not too many people would or could do. “And what have you heard?”
“I have heard that you are the tightest…”
I interrupted, sensing that what the Cheyenne Nation was about to say wasn’t likely to help our situation. “Why didn’t you hit your siren?”
A long moment passed as she shifted her gaze from Henry, past Dog, to me. She lowered her own sunglasses to get a better look into the gloom of the cab, and her jasper-colored eyes leveled on me like the twin-bore of a battleship turret. “Excuse me, but was I speaking to you?”
I shrugged a shoulder and smiled inwardly at her resemblance to Vic. “Well, I guess it’s none of my business, but there are no markings on that vehicle and this thing sits awfully high and as close as you were I had to really look to see your emergency lights-if you’d have just hit your…”
She threw an arm up on the door sill and interrupted me. “You know, Mister…?” She left the statement hanging there like her arm.
“Longmire.”
She shook her head ever so slightly, as if my name was an annoyance in itself. “That first part, the one about this not being any of your business?” She pointed a no-nonsense fingernail in the air, as if pinning my words, like bugs in a collection. “I liked that; let’s stick with that one.” The iridescent glasses came back up, and she turned to face Henry. “I know a lot of people around here consider you to be something kind of special, but that doesn’t exclude you from the rules of the road.” She raised a hand, gesturing back toward town. “That sign back there at the intersection says stop, not pause, not hesitate-stop is what it says, and whenever I’m around you better damn well stop.”
I watched as she took his cards and disappeared back toward the Yukon, her wrist-thick braid held fast by a beaded barrette bobbing in counterpoint to her strut and the slap of the revolver.
The Bear looked bored and supported his chin with a fist and placed an elbow out the window. “So, when did you start wearing a pinkie ring?”
I stopped twirling it. “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”
“The witch?”
I sighed at the Bear’s knowledge of my family history. “She wasn’t a witch; she was just one of those herb doctors.” He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t agree. “Martha wore it but gave it back to me to give it to Cady when she got married. The problem is that Michael already got her an engagement ring so I don’t know what to do with it.”
He mumbled into his fist. “Give it to her.”
“People are weird about that kind of thing sometimes.”
“Just give it to her.” He reached out and smoothed a piece of duct tape that held the instrument panel to the dash. “Is that why you are wearing it, to remind you?”
“Kind of. I lost it a while back and then discovered it in a little cedar box I’ve got on my dresser. I thought maybe if I kept it on my finger I wouldn’t lose it again.”
The Bear didn’t say anything but looked back at the Yukon. I could still see the adhesive where the sticker price had been on the inside of the window-and ventured a question. “Who’s Ms. Lolo Long?”
“The new tribal police chief, an appointment from the last tribal chief.”
I nodded. “The indicted one.”
“Yes-the one whom Lonnie replaced.” He pursed his lips and pointed them toward the Yukon, where it looked as if Officer Long was in the act of writing a lengthy ticket. “Iraqi war vet; I do not know what she did over there, but she came back wire
d tight like a Montana-made mandolin. I guess the old chief was trying to make up for his tenure and thought he was doing everybody a favor by installing a by-the-book police chief, but so far as I can tell, all she has done is made the lives of everyone miserable.”
I watched as she opened the door and approached, the hi-tech sunglasses now secured in her breast pocket. “Including yours?”
He smiled the close-lipped smile. “Lately.”
Officer Long stopped at the door and handed Henry his papers along with an aluminum clipboard and pen. “I’ve cited you for failure to stop at the intersection, failure to respond to an official vehicle, and the fact that you have no brake lights.” She glanced down the dented, mottled-green length of Rezdawg and then back to the Bear. “I’m sure I could find plenty of other violations attached to this particular vehicle, but seeing as how this is our first official meeting, I thought I’d take it easy on you.”
The Cheyenne Nation looked at me, but I didn’t say anything and continued to pet Dog. The beast looked at Lolo Long with expectation, all smiles and wagging tail.
Traitor.
“You have thirty days to respond in the mail or in person at the law enforcement and detention center-you know where that is?”
“You mean the jail?” Henry smiled. “I do.”
“I bet you do.”
Henry signed the ticket and handed it back to her.
“Do you understand the violations as they have been explained to you?”
“Yes.”
She pulled the space-age sunglasses from her pocket and dramatically placed them over the opaque chalcedony eyes, ripped his copy of the ticket from the clipboard, and handed it to him. “Have a nice day.”
He continued to smile, pushed his old-school Ray-Bans over his eyes again in response, and handed me the $262 ticket as she started to turn and go. “Here, file this in the glove box-under chicken shit.”
She paused for only an instant and slightly turned her head.
I watched as she took a breath and tasted in her mouth the words she wanted to say. I half expected her to draw the big. 44, but instead she hitched her thumbs in her gun belt, held that last look, and then walked off, punishing the roadway with the heels of her boots.
It was the most professional thing she’d done during the entire interaction.
She started the SUV, did a tire-smoking reentrance to BIA 4, and continued south with a full head of steam.
Henry yawned, placed his license back in his wallet, and flipped it onto the dash. “I do not think that I ever have had brake lights.”
The lower ridge that leads to Painted Warrior cliff runs for about a mile north and west from Red Birney, and the only way to the site is from along the ridge or back up through the dirt roads below. I doubted that Cady and Michael would want to be married on a cliff, but Henry assured me that the area at the base was as picturesque as it was dramatic.
He was right.
We’d followed Lonnie’s instructions and eased Rezdaw g off the road between the grass-covered hills that ringed the base of the cliffs and a large sedimentary rock cairn. We climbed steadily until we reached a saddle and a scattering of large boulders and parked at the top of a small ridge, just as wisps of steam were floating out from under Rezdawg’s hood.
There was a thick-bodied mule deer a little off to our right, heading down toward Tie Creek, and I allowed her a substantial lead before opening the door and letting Dog out to patrol the area. He immediately went to where the doe had been standing and watched impatiently as she bounded through the scrub pine and clamored over the rocks toward the base of the cliffs.
“You never would’ve caught her anyhow.”
He turned to look at me as I closed the door and joined Henry, who was leaning on the homemade, Day-Glo orange grille guard and partial steam bath at the front of the truck. “What do you think?”
It was just the way Lonnie had described it. I had heard of the site and might’ve even been here when I was a kid, but I guess I’d never really seen it. Framed by a box canyon below, the Painted Warrior raised his face from the ridge and looked toward the sky. As with cloud images, you had to look at the thing for a while before you saw it, but he was there. The features reminded me of another friend, Virgil White Buffalo, all the way down to the deep furrows that indented the rock visage’s face. The majority was a khaki-colored stone, but there were a few massive streaks of war paint, the rocks stained by the deposits of scoria that ran vertically down the giant’s face-hence the name, Painted Warrior.
It was a straight-up climb of about two hundred feet to the base of the ridge where the sheer cliff began.
The Bear tripped the latch, lifted Rezdawg’s hood, and watched as a ghostly cloud of steam trailed away in the breeze. I wondered if it too would turn into something recognizable. Henry was gently working the radiator cap off with a red shop rag he’d retrieved from the cab. “When I was young, we used to hunt deer here; just run them up through the canyon and have somebody waiting at the ridge.”
I looked around at the surrounding saddle studded with Krummholz pines, stunted by the altitude and atmospheric conditions. If you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t think that the diminutive trees were actually hundreds of years old. Reflecting the sun that peeked through the assembled thunderheads were small outcroppings of rocks that surrounded the ridge like a wreath. “Is this the spot Lonnie was thinking of?”
“Here, or possibly just past the creek.” He finally loosened the cap enough for a gurgling release and antifreeze dribbled down the radiator.
I glanced back at the panoramic display. “Where the opening in the rock walls leads toward the cliff?”
He rested the cap on the inner fender and turned to look along with me. “Yes.” He glanced back at the steam continuing to roil from Rezdawg. “Would you like to hike over there and see it?”
“I guess I’d better. I just wish I’d brought a camera so that I could send Cady pictures.”
“I have one in the truck.” He wiped his hands on the rag, which he returned to the cab, and came back with a medium-sized bag with a strap that he threw over his shoulder. “I also have two bottles of water. I am prepared.”
Tie Creek was at the base of the ridge, but it was summer and the water was only ankle deep. We forded the stream by walking on the rounded stones-Dog just splashed through-and continued among the trees to the next hill. There was a clearer view of the lower cliffs reflecting the bright sunlight that cascaded down in beams like some biblical illustration, the cliffs surrounding the bottom of the more impressive rocks above, and I had to admit that the whole area was pretty breathtaking.
I stopped at the top of the hill to catch my breath and stared up at something that had reflected near the top of Painted Warrior. I stood there and took in a few lungfuls, wondering what it was I thought I’d seen. I’d had quite the adventure in the Cloud Peak Wilderness Area only two months earlier, and the effects were still lingering. The Cheyenne Nation was watching me.
“Thought I saw something up there.”
He turned and looked. “Where?”
“Near the top; something flashed.”
His keen eyes played across the uppermost ridge. “I do not see anything.”
I nodded. “Probably just a reflection off some quartz or an old beer can. Speaking of, can we get a beer after this?”
His eyes scanned the ridge. “Sure.” He checked his wristwatch. “We can go up to the Jimtown Bar and get a drink before the professionals show up. We might not even get into a fight.”
“In the meantime, can I have one of those bottles of water?”
He slung the bag from his shoulder, unzipped one of the compartments, and handed me a bottle, the condensation slick on the outside.
I sipped my water, slipped my hat off of my head, and wiped the sweat from inside the band. “Is that professional courtesy, when you visit somebody else’s bar?”
He nodded and then squatted down and began pulling a
large camera body and lens from the bag. “You bet.” Having assembled the camera, he popped off the cap and pointed the lens toward me.
I held my hat up to block the shot. “Just the surroundings, please-not the inhabitants.” Dog sat beside me and looked at Henry. “Take a picture of him; he doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Your daughter would like a photo of you, I’m sure, and since we are in the position of negotiating our way out of disaster…”
I put my hat back on my head. “All right, but then you have to let me take one of you for her.”
He raised the camera and directed it toward me. “I am like Dog-I do not mind; I am photogenic.”
When I laughed, he took the picture.
I held my hand out for the camera, and he gave it to me without argument. I turned it around and looked at the multitude of dials and buttons. “I’m used to the IPH cameras…” I looked up at him. “You know, Idiot Push Here.”
He took it and set the focus on automatic, then handed it back to me. “There, just push the big button on the top.”
I raised the expensive device and looked through the viewer. “Thanks.”
The Painted Warrior background made for an interesting effect, with one native face mirroring the other. I watched with my one eye as the autofocus first defined the features of the Cheyenne Nation and then the sandstone cliffs behind him, searching for whatever my wandering hand chose to photograph.
He repeated patiently through his close-lipped smile, “The large button on the top.”
“Okay.” I readjusted my aim, but the automatic function on the camera continued to focus on the cliffs just over the Bear’s shoulder-almost as if the Painted Warrior was demanding a photograph of itself. “Damn.”
It was right as I went ahead and pushed the button that I could see something scrambling at the top, above the giant Indian’s forehead, and then plummet from the face.
I yanked the camera down just as a high-pitched wail carried through the canyon walls, and someone fell in an awkward position, almost as if holding something. Henry turned quickly and we watched, helpless.
As the crow flies wl-8 Page 2