As the crow flies wl-8

by Craig Johnson

  I smiled. “You let him keep the deer?”

  Karl nodded with the self-assurance of someone who has barely escaped death, perhaps numerous times, and is wiser for it. “You bet your ass we did; the guy’s a psycho.” He shuddered dramatically.

  It was dark, but from my vantage point I could still see the old woman lift the planks and check the pit-roasted elk underneath. The shower of sparks rose like a constellation of orange celestial bodies reaching out for their brethren above, lighting the face of the woman as though she was onstage.

  I was lodged at the base of a Y-shaped pine, the fallen branches making for a pretty good hiding place, or so I thought until the medicine woman looked up the hillside and directly at me-even from this distance I could feel the weight of those opaque eyes.

  She had pulled a rumpled CPO jacket around her shoulders and the shawl she had been wearing earlier was around her head to protect against the slight chill of the evening. She might not know exactly where I was, but she seemed to know that I was out there and that most likely I wasn’t alone. There were other eyes than mine here and maybe the eyes of Artie Small Song to boot.

  Almost an hour earlier I’d discovered the spot and had carefully made my way down the slope to where I now sat. I’d learned long ago that you needed to get comfortable at the beginning of things, because you wouldn’t have the luxury later on.

  I usually had plenty to occupy my mind in these situations, and tonight was no different. My daughter and the impending wedding loomed large, and I was beginning to question my motives for sitting in the woods. Was I just avoiding the oncoming disaster that was around the corner by stretching my jurisdictional responsibilities, or was I focusing on a situation and a fellow officer who needed my help? Was I just out here because it was the path of least resistance and the kind of thing I was used to doing?

  I had to fight to keep from sighing.

  My daughter would be here tomorrow and, so far, Henry and I had not accomplished many of our assigned duties, the most important being finding a place for her to get married. Henry had actually gone over and spoken with Arbutis about the situation, but when I’d asked him about the meeting, he’d closed his mouth and said nothing-not a good sign.

  This was a nice spot. Maybe I could talk Cady into a stakeout marriage ceremony that included armed guests-I’m pretty sure the groom’s side would have no problem with that since they were almost all cops anyway.

  Not only was my daughter arriving tomorrow but so was Lena Moretti, Vic’s mother and Cady’s soon-to-be mother-in-law.

  The wedding was in less than two weeks.

  I could just stay here; chances are they’d never find me.

  The medicine woman returned to the kitchen chair that she had stationed by the back door, turned her head, and spat. She brought a forefinger up and slid it across her lip where a little tobacco residue must have remained, then flicked the offending particle away.

  Despite the distance, I could still make out the erosion-filled plains of her face. It was not unique in these situations that you start developing a feeling for the person you’re watching, almost as if they become an extension of yourself. It always comes down to being able to sit quietly and wait. Most lose the ability, the honing of their skills dulled and rusting in the forgotten kitchen drawers of their minds, but it was part of my job and I could just go away without going away and become a part of the landscape.

  I had all night, but Artie didn’t. It was late, and she wasn’t going to be able to leave the elk on there for much longer. How much did Artie Small Song care about this meat? How much did he care about feeding his mother?

  The answer came slowly, almost glacially, as I became aware of something to my left-something in the dark, vertical shapes of the trees that hadn’t been there before.

  I waited, the sides of my eyes aching from being locked in one direction. Move first and die is the maxim that had been taught to me, the one I’d followed on the high plains, in Vietnam, and in every dire situation in my life.

  I waited.

  It was possible that we were staking out an innocent man, as innocent as somebody like Artie Small Song could be, but an ounce of prevention is always worth a pound of bloody results.

  I could’ve sworn that I’d heard something behind me.

  He would be at a much better vantage point to see me, front lit by the fire below. Had the old woman known from which direction he would come? Had she spoken with him? Did he know we were there? All these questions and a multitude of others attempted to dislodge me from my suddenly uncomfortable seat.

  I waited.

  A dark form melted into the trees to my right. I could make out a hand resting against the rough surface of the bark. The fingers flexed, no more than three feet from my head. I stopped breathing, thinking that he might hear me. Then he disappeared again, the fingers slipping away as if they’d never been there at all.

  After a while I saw him again, a little further down the hill, his outline breaking with the stark form of the trees. The old woman was now looking directly at him and, consequently, me.

  My eyes were momentarily drawn to the medicine woman as she took a step toward the fire pit. She gripped a knee and lowered herself so that she could move some of the boards, and another flurry of sparks rose into the night.

  I could see where Artie Small Song stood, and I saw him pause for just a second before his head turned and the rifle in his hands swung around.

  The Cheyenne Nation struck like a war lance, carrying the two of them down the hill, and all I could hear was grunting and heavy breathing as both combatants refused to give way to the slightest energy loss by crying out.

  I threw myself from the relative comfort of my hiding place and stumbled down the hill in a striding attempt at speed, hoping I wouldn’t simply land on my face. The men continued to crash through the trees, and I heard a resounding thump as they reached the flat at the back of the house. I glanced off a creeping pine, which diverted my direction a bit, and tripped a little in an attempt to keep my footing.

  The old woman had uncovered the pit and was holding one of the boards in her hands. The fire was blinding after sitting out there in the dark for so long, and I’m pretty sure that’s what she’d had in mind. Directly below me, the two men were struggling, one rolling on top of the other until they reached the rocks at the edge of the fire.

  I was still a good thirty feet away when Mrs. Small Song swung the board in her hands and comically struck at the Bear in an attempt to get her son free. I landed on the two of them, receiving the majority of the medicine woman’s pummeling as Lolo Long joined us from around the side of the house, where we’d stationed her.

  I was able to yank the rifle out of Artie’s hands and tossed it to the side, somewhat surprised that it appeared to be a simple single-shot bolt-action. 22.

  His mother was screaming as the chief pulled her away from us; she was surprisingly spry, and it was all Lolo could do to hold on, finally resorting to wrapping her arms completely around the old lady and lifting her from the ground.

  We dragged Artie to his feet. I’d seen pictures of Small Song but hadn’t ever met him face to face. With all the stories I’d heard about him cleaning out bars, I’d assumed he was a bigger man, but he stood only about shoulder height.

  Once I got my breath back, I gasped out a few words. “Lolo, are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” She sat on the kitchen chair with the old woman in her lap and continued to hold fast.

  I looked at Henry. “How about you?”

  The Bear nodded and felt the back of his head, where the medicine woman had landed a telling blow. “Yes.”

  Artie took the opportunity to elbow me and try and make a break for it, but Henry grabbed him with both hands and stood him up, locking an arm into his back. “He is an active little rascal, is he not?”

  He tried to head-butt Henry, the man’s hair flying away from his face as he looked defiantly first at me, then at Chief Long, and
finally at the Cheyenne Nation.

  “There is only one problem.”

  I glanced up from Artie’s surprisingly youthful face. “What’s that?”

  Henry grabbed the young man’s jaw and examined him like a horse he was intent on buying. “This is not Artie.”

  6

  The elk was really good, and I thought it was awfully nice of the medicine woman to invite us to dinner considering we’d staked out her house and had all but beaten the crap out of Nate, Artie’s nephew and the smallest of the Small Songs.

  We’d helped them pull the elk from the pit-it seemed like the least we could do. Then one thing had led to another and, seated in more kitchen chairs liberated from inside, all of us ate elk and watched the fire in the pit. The old woman had tossed the boards in on top of the coals, and there was now a nice fire going as she retreated into the house for more potato salad.

  Nate’s mood had improved when Henry had produced a twelve-pack of Rainier. He smiled at all of us. “So, you thought I was Art?”

  Henry shrugged, and I nodded with my mouth full.

  “If I’d been Art, man, you never would’ve heard me.” He returned his gaze to the Cheyenne Nation. “I used to hear about how you were really something; I guess you’re getting old, huh?”

  Henry sipped his beer, and if you looked closely you could see the barest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I caught you.”

  Defiance glowed in the kid’s eyes, his ego still stinging from having been taken. “You’d never catch Art.”

  The Bear chewed his elk and said nothing.

  I caught the boy’s attention. “When’s the last time you saw your uncle?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What was he up to?”

  The kid gestured toward the meat on his plate. “Hunting.”

  Lolo Long’s voice rose from by the door. “He know it’s not elk season?”

  “He doesn’t care.”

  I sipped my beer. “Where was he hunting yesterday?”

  The young man gestured with his fork in a vague direction. “South of here.”

  “Were you with him?”

  “No, he hunts alone.”

  I nodded sage-like, fished the elk call from my pocket, and tossed it between his hiking boots. “Is that yours or his?”

  Nate balanced his plate on one knee and picked up the carved bone. “Artie’s-you can tell from the notch on the bottom; it’s his signature.” He looked back up. “Where did you get it?”

  “Somebody tried to run me over in a ’70s red GMC pickup last night.”

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  “Doesn’t your uncle have a ’71 GMC?”

  “Yeah, man, but I had that truck last night.” He stuffed the elk call in his shirt pocket. “I had a date, if it’s any of your business.”

  “Do you always go out on dates with an elk tied to the hood?”

  He looked a little uncertain. “Um… yeah.”

  Mrs. Small Song exited the cabin and stopped to place a dollop of potato salad on Chief Long’s plate, paused to deposit more on Henry’s, and then advanced on me.

  “Then you were the one who tried to run me over last night?”

  His eyes dropped to his lap. “Um, yeah.”

  The old woman paused and then gave me another portion as I continued talking to the kid. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know why you tried to run me over last night?”

  He shrugged but stayed silent. He was obviously covering for his uncle-or for somebody-and wasn’t very good at it. I thought about the man I’d been able to make out at the wheel of the truck and thought he’d been bigger than the kid. “Where’s the truck now?”

  “Art must have it-he lets me drive it over to work at the radio station, then he picks it up. I do the afternoon drive.”

  “KRZZ?”

  “Yeah.” He slipped into his on-air voice: “Nate Small Song with the big sound.”

  I raised a fist in concert with Henry and Lolo, and we all chanted together, “Stay calm, have courage, and wait for signs.”

  I ate a little bit, washing it down with the beer, giving him plenty of time to elaborate. I risked a glance up at the medicine woman, but she was looking off into the trees behind her house. I followed her clouded gaze and thought about how, even with her limited physical abilities, she was seeing far more than I was.

  “I unloaded the elk and then parked the truck down the hill. It was gone this morning, so I figure Art took it.”

  I glanced at the Bear, who continued eating. “How did Artie get here? You say you got the truck from him last night; where did you do that?”

  If it hadn’t been for the seriousness of the subject, it would’ve been funny to see how fast the kid was trying to think. “Lame Deer.”

  I continued badgering him. “Where in Lame Deer?”

  “Well, not really Lame Deer-at the bar in Jimtown.”

  It was actually a pretty good play; it would be difficult to get a straight answer out of anybody who was there as to whether they had seen Artie or what time that might’ve been. “So, Artie gave you the truck last night with this elk tied to the hood. Any idea what time that might’ve been?”

  “Nope.”

  I watched as the old woman beside me placed a hand on my shoulder, carefully took the can of beer from my hand, and then turned and went back in the house. It was a simple gesture, and you might’ve thought that it was completely innocent but for the touch. The medicine woman had tried to translate something to me in that instant. I attempted to see her in the kitchen, but she had disappeared. I turned back to look at Nate. “But the truck was gone this morning?”

  He nodded his head, thankful that I’d taken the “nope” on his timing. “Maybe he got a ride from somebody in the bar, man. Maybe he just hiked over.”

  I was a little incredulous. “That’s thirty miles.”

  “He’s been known to do it.”

  Henry’s voice rose from where he sat, across from the fire. “In the dark?”

  The kid smiled back at him. “Tracking in the dark scare you, old Bear?”

  Staring into the fire, the Cheyenne Nation took another bite of elk and chewed. The kid, naive as he was, didn’t know that Henry Standing Bear was the thing that scared the things in the dark.

  Later, we helped collect the rest of the elk, clean up the site, and dampen the pit. The old woman was washing the dishes in a porcelain sink speckled with lead divots set in an equally battered metal kitchen cabinet.

  It was as I was drying the mismatched discount-store plates that I took the time to take the place in; it reminded me of my grandparents’ house. Low-slung and notched into the back of the hillside, the house had been constructed with hand-scribed logs puttied with the old Oregon cement.

  Her voice was little more than a whisper. “ Ahsanta, you’re the one whose wife died?”

  I was always surprised by the way the Indians referenced me through my deceased wife. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I could see three different types of wallpaper in the kitchen addition over which the upper cabinets were affixed. They were also metal but were the kind found in gas stations, complete with stickers advertising AUTOLITE, CRANE CAMS, and PUROLATOR OIL amp; AIR FILTERS.

  “You like my cabinets?”

  “I do.”

  “My son, he got them for me.”

  I wondered which gas station he’d stolen them from. “They’re very nice.”

  Her eyes looked over the sink and out the window to where the others were killing the fire. “Because Artie is the way he is, he is blamed for things he hasn’t done.” She shrugged. “Because he is who he is, he gets away with some of the things he has done-it is the nature of things.”

  I smiled down at her. “I understand.”

  She looked up at me, and again it was as if her eyes were reflecting the clouds I couldn’t see in the nighttime sky. “He didn’t do this thing you think he has
.” Her knotted hands gripped the edge of the sink. “He done some bad things, I know, but nothing like this.”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes stayed on mine. “You believe me?”

  “I do, but you are his mother.” She smiled a becoming smile for somebody with that much chewing tobacco in her teeth, but it faded a little when I asked the next question. “How is it you know why I’m looking for him, other than what I’ve told you?”

  She nodded her head slowly. “I have a way with these things, powers that I use for the good of my family and my people.” She gestured toward the wall. “And somebody called me this afternoon on the telephone.”

  She cackled a brief laugh, and I shook my head. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who it was that called you?”

  She hung her own dishrag over the faucet. “Artie.”

  “He called you?”

  Her smile faded completely now. “He said you were looking for him; that a woman was dead, but he didn’t do nothing.”

  I rolled down the sleeves of my shirt and snapped the cuffs. “In all honesty, Mrs. Small Song, all we want to do is talk to him. He had an argument with a young woman over at Tribal Services last week-had words with her. This week she ends up dead and somebody tries to run me over with Artie’s truck-I think that warrants a conversation, don’t you?”

  She said nothing for a while, and I started thinking that I should’ve known better than to confront an Elder, a medicine woman, and a traditional in such a way.

  “After the claims settlement in 1963, my husband and me built this house from the logs of our old days house. My husband died not too long after that, and like so many do in great sorrow times, I took the religious road and became a peyote person. My oldest son was also religious, and he used to go to meetings with me. Five years later he died in the Vietnam, and I stopped going to meetings so much because it reminded me of him.”