“No. I’m just glad to see you got out of Big Bertha’s in one piece and made it here alive.”
She briskly waved me inside, where a pot of stew sat waiting on the stove. Her cabin appeared even more welcoming than it had before. A soft amber light gave the place a muted glow.
“So, did you find whatever you were looking for at Big Bertha’s?”
“Yes and no,” I admitted. “I’d been told one of the dancers was performing in an Indian headdress. Only it turned out to be made from turkey feathers, rather than those of an eagle.”
“That’s an old trick,” Sally scoffed, and handed me a glass of red wine. “But it’s a good way of parting tourists from their money.”
“You know about it?” I asked, somewhat surprised.
“Let’s just say I’ve done a lot of things in my life to get by.” She smiled.
I was perfectly willing to let that go for now, though I filed the information away to possibly be pursued later. Sally placed two bowls of stew on a squat coffee table, where we sat cross-legged on cushions before the fire. She proceeded to grill me on each dancer’s routine as we ate, along with exactly what they wore. Only after receiving a detailed report did Sally appear to be satisfied.
“It’s just as I said. Any girl with a boob job can grind away and call herself a dancer these days. Tell me, where’s the artistry in that?”
I nodded sympathetically, wondering if Sally was really artistically insulted, or just resentful of these girls because of their age. Sally answered my question by coquettishly drawing a lock of hair across her face like Salome’s veil, and batting her eyes.
“So, what do you think? Can older women retain their beauty and charm?”
“Absolutely.”
I sure as hell hoped so. I’d recently spotted a new wrinkle and had made a beeline directly to the nearest department store, where I’d bought fancy moisturizing cream and a twenty-four-dollar bar of soap. Both were guaranteed to be chockful of vitamins C and E, as well as grape extract, bee pollen, and alpha hydroxy. They had cost me a small fortune. I was beginning to consider cutting out the middleman and just shooting formaldehyde straight into my veins. At least that way I knew I’d be getting a decent preservative.
“Growing old is a bunch of crap,” Sally responded, as if reading my mind.
She was right. I had a flash of my mother as she’d lain those last days in a coma. Even now I felt angry and tearful, blaming myself that she’d refused to rail against death.
“As for growing old gracefully, whoever came up with that bunk was just looking for a way to make denture cream, Metamucil, and Depends seem more palatable.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t see you ever growing old, Sally.” How could she? The woman’s spirit was as wild and ageless as the woods and mountains that surrounded her.
“Thank you, my dear. For that you get another glass of wine. I also want to show you something special.”
She took the glass from my hand and headed for the kitchen. On the way back, she turned off the lights. The next thing I knew, her palm was covering my face, its skin as cool and delicate as papyrus. I took a deep whiff and imagined I could smell my mother’s fragrance.
“Now lift your head toward the ceiling, and when I remove my hand, open your eyes.”
I did as instructed and heard myself gasp. Hundreds of fluorescent stars were painted on the ceiling, where they twinkled like a colony of captive Tinker Bells. I was able to identify constellations, from Orion’s Belt to the Big and Little Dippers.
“My husband painted that for me as a wedding gift. He said this way I’d always be surrounded by starlight, even though I gave up my last name when we got married.”
Sally gazed at her own private galaxy and seemed momentarily transported back in time, before she looked at me again.
“One of the most important things you have to realize about the Blackfeet people is their tie to nature and the land. They believe wild things must be honored. So much so that it’s taboo for them to kill a bear. Few outsiders know that grizzlies are the one animal whose name the Blackfeet won’t even speak. Instead, tribal members refer to them as badgers or the unmentionable ones. Saying the word grizzly is considered bad luck.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
The fire crackled as Sally took a sip of wine. The color reflected on her cheeks, giving her skin a youthful glow.
“Because bears are thought to be wise creatures with immortal powers. Think of their cycles and what they represent. It’s when they disappear in the winter that snow comes. Food doesn’t grow and people fall sick. But when bears awaken in the springtime, they bring with them the sun, crops, and flowers. Their appearance is a sign of rebirth.”
That was all fine and dandy, except for one catch.
“Matthew Running used the word grizzly several times the other day. How do you explain that?”
Sally sighed and gently nudged a stray lock of hair from her face. “Matthew is different. Many of the younger people have strayed from the old ways and no longer have any regard for Mother Earth or tradition. They’ve become seduced by what they think society has to offer. Rather than stay out here in their old family homes, they’ve flocked to the tribal seat of Browning, hoping to find something better and more exciting than what they already have. Instead, it’s reservation life at its worst.”
I’d heard Browning was more or less a hellhole and was curious to get Sally’s take. “What makes the place so bad?”
Sally shook her head in disgust. “The best way to describe Browning is that it’s akin to a refugee camp. The government moved most of the Blackfeet people off the land and into HUD housing in town years ago. Once that happened, people seemed to lose heart. They began to apply for welfare and became dependent on federal dole. Now, instead of just unemployment, we also have alcoholism, suicide, drugs, and anger. That’s what happens when there’s no hope. People keep going back to the government trough.”
“Then why don’t young people just move off the reservation?” I curiously inquired.
“Some do. But they almost always come back. Reservation life is the only way they’ve ever known. They can’t assimilate into anything else.”
“And their attitude toward bears?” I questioned, attempting to bring the subject back home.
“They don’t honor the same taboos. When people lose their tie to the land, they also lose their tie to the culture.”
I looked again at her stars. They danced before my eyes, and the constellation Ursus Major, the Great Bear, came into view.
“Which means they could also kill bears without any concern for tribal beliefs or restrictions,” I concluded.
Sally impatiently clucked her tongue. “I don’t believe that’s necessarily true. They might use the word grizzly, but a full-blooded tribal member still wouldn’t kill a bear. Most likely, it would be done by an apple.”
I had absolutely no idea what Sally was talking about. “An apple?”
“Sorry, you wouldn’t know that reference, would you? Skinjin and apple are slang terms for a half-breed. You know, red on the outside and white on the in.”
Interesting. Apparently Native Americans had their own caste system, too. “You still haven’t told me what makes Matthew Running so special.”
Sally propped an elbow on the coffee table and rested her head in her hand. “Matthew was one of those who left the reservation for a while. He went off to college and got a degree. After that, he landed a good job, and could have stayed off the rez forever.”
“Then why’d he come back?” Perhaps the wine was going to my head, but I could have sworn Sally’s eyes grew misty.
“For the very reason I explained earlier. He has strong ties to the land and to his people. Besides, he felt he had an obligation.”
“To what?”
“To me,” she said quietly.
I waited for Sally to continue, not wanting to push her, afraid she might clam up.
“Matthe
w and my son grew up together, and were best friends. In fact, they were more like brothers. Which is why they were excited when they were both called upon to serve in Desert Storm.”
Sally began to look her age for the very first time. Her shoulders slumped, her chest caved in, and the hollows in her cheeks grew deeper. My stomach clenched in a knot. I hadn’t known Sally had a son, and it was easy enough to guess what had happened.
“Justin died in Kuwait. He was killed by friendly fire. Matthew was with him at the time. He’ll never admit it, but I think he came back partly to look after me. That, and to help protect the wildlife on the rez. Matthew brings me all the roadkill he finds. That’s how I’m able to feed the injured raptors and orphaned cubs.”
I used that to get off the topic of her son and segue back to bears.
“Then who do you think is killing the grizzlies? Could it be the half-breeds that are living on the rez?”
Sally stared at something I was unable to see. “I’m not sure,” she finally answered. “But I can tell you that a lot more grizzlies have been killed than Matthew chose to reveal the other day.”
My stomach clenched another degree. “How many?”
Outrage began to blaze in Sally’s eyes. “Eighteen, to be precise. And it’s going to be difficult to discover who’s responsible for their deaths. There’s something out here in the West that’s called the Law of the Three S’s. Do you know what that stands for?”
I nodded, all too aware of the unofficial law of the land. “Shoot, shovel, and shut up.”
“Exactly.” Sally’s lips compressed into a hard, straight line, and her jaw was firmly set. “What do you think should be done to those who kill grizzlies?”
The crackling fire behind her made her look like an avenging angel, its flames shooting up around her arms, her shoulders and head.
“I think they should serve time in jail and pay a large fine,” I cautiously answered, curious as to what she was getting at.
“Do you want to know what I think should be done to them?” she softly inquired.
I silently nodded.
“I’d like to see them placed in front of a firing squad, and be one of those allowed to pull the trigger. Anyone who blows a life off the face of this earth should be forced to pay with his own.”
A chill crept through my bones as I wondered exactly which it was that Sally was talking about—the grizzlies or her son.
Seven
I woke up in a large, sun-filled bedroom that made my room in Hal’s house seem like a hovel. I quickly washed, dressed, and headed into the kitchen. Sally wasn’t yet up, so I didn’t bother with breakfast, but tiptoed out the front door. Her metal bears instantly froze in position. Apparently, I’d almost caught them at play in the early morning light. I went along with the pretense and did my best to ignore them. After all, I was the guest and this was their territory.
I drove slowly out through the quiet arbor of cottonwoods. The colorful material on their pale gray limbs was still half asleep. These were the sturdy trees on which outlaws had regularly been hanged, giving rise to the term cottonwood justice.
The road wound down from Kiowa toward Browning, with the prairie on my left and the mountains of Glacier towering behind. The park’s cliffs rose like a fortress, as if doing their best to keep Canada at bay. Before long, I began to near the town. I could tell I was almost there by the rows of tiny shacks that I passed. Each had a piece of plywood nailed into place where a window would normally have been.
Postage-stamp lots of land masqueraded as yards, littered with junked cars, propane tanks, and assorted trash and broken bottles. A large poster of the Marlboro Man had been slapped on one of the metal front doors. Torn and tattered, its image had become a tempting target for crude graffiti. I slowly drove along, careful not to sideswipe any of the stray dogs. They roamed the streets in packs, feeding on whatever they could wrap their mouths around.
I passed the housing area for single mothers, called Sesame Street. Nearby stood Death Row, a grim cement structure where senior citizens dwelt. From there, I turned onto Main. This was the twenty-four-hour, hot-to-trot spot where the local teens came to cruise. Each night car after car drove from one end of the strip to the other, turning around at the War Bonnet Motel.
An elongated one-story building stood on one side of the street. Besides having bars on its windows, the structure was surrounded by a tall, chain-link fence. Its defensive attitude struck me as similar to pioneers circling their wagons. Considering that these were the federal government’s offices, the analogy made perfect sense.
I continued to the end of the street and parked in front of a tiny, nondescript building. The exterior was meant to be that of a charming wood cabin, but the brown paint peeling off its cement ‘logs’ betrayed the illusion. A weathered sign announced that I was about to enter the BLACKFEET FISH AND WILDLIFE GRIZZLY MANAGEMENT office. I walked in through the unlocked door and found a room that held a desk, a chair, a phone, and nothing more.
“I’m in here,” called a voice.
I poked my head into the doorway of the other office and found Matthew Running already busy at work. Custer lay at his feet.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m here so early.” I’d planned to arrive first, so Running would know I was no slug-about. The best way to do that was to make him think he’d kept me waiting.
“To be honest, I figured you’d have been here even earlier,” he countered. “To me, this is kinda late.”
Damn the man!
He looked up from his paperwork, and the hint of a smile danced about his lips. But it was those eyes, those eyes, those eyes that once again nailed me. It was as though Running had the ability to look straight into my soul.
I glanced around, searching for something to latch on to, refusing to give him access to my thoughts. My gaze landed on a small bookcase, allowing me an unexpected peek into the man with whom I was dealing. On the top shelf stood two books—Macchiavelli’s The Prince, and Sun Tzu’s essay The Art of War. But it was what sat next to them that drew my attention. Walking over, I discovered it was a miniature sandbox with a tiny wooden rake. Lying on its surface was a single grizzly claw, some military dog tags, and a gold wedding band. I took a closer look. Inscribed on one set of the metal dog tags was the name Justin Crossbow.
“That’s my Zen meditation garden.”
The voice was as smooth as liquid velvet in my ear, causing my heart to jump. I turned my head and found Matthew Running standing directly behind me. I hadn’t even heard the man get up.
Running reached past me and picked up the rake. “I push the sand around whenever I need to think. Sometimes it helps my totem spirit’s voice come through to me. Take now, for instance. It’s telling me that I need to get something to eat.”
I spun around to face him. “Are you mocking me?”
“No—although white people do like to romanticize Indian mysticism. But in this case, I’m serious. Let’s go to the Red Crow Café and grab some breakfast. I’m starving.”
Custer got up and wagged his tail.
“No, not you, Custer. The white woman.” Running grinned. “You stay here and guard the place.”
Custer lay back down and placed his chin on his paws, his eyes jealously following our every move.
Running pushed the doorknob’s button in and closed it behind us as we left.
“Do you really think that simple lock is going to keep people out of your office?”
“I’m surprised at you, Porter. You should know that if people really want something badly enough, there’s nothing on this earth that can stop them.” Though his tone was neutral, his words held an underlying edge—until the hint of a smile swept it away. “Then again, they should at least have to work at it.”
We pulled into a strip mall that was amazingly called Teepee Village. I cringed and wondered why the Blackfeet people hadn’t risen en masse and torn the sign down. Running swung his old Chevy into a space, where it blended in with
all the other unwashed pickups like one more bad-ass kid in a street gang. I’d quickly learned that in Montana the only clean pickups are those that belong to uncool “dudes.”
We headed inside a storefront filled with eight booths and four tables. Every eye in the place turned our way and stared. Little wonder—I was the only white person there. Running thoughtfully headed for a booth in the back of the room.
The menu offered everything from “hangover stew” to eggs. I decided to be politically correct and order the Indian fry bread along with a side of homemade jam called wajapi. Running ordered the breakfast that I craved—eggs over easy, homefries, and bacon. He hungrily dug into his food as my own order was placed before me. The fry bread was a greedy cardiologist’s dream. A large pool of melted butter slowly coagulated on the dough’s greasy top. I took a bite and could instantly feel my arteries begin to harden.
Running noted my expression with a chuckle. “Yeah, you really impressed me by going native with your order. Personally, I wouldn’t touch that stuff. Let’s get you something you can actually eat.”
He waved for the waitress and another plate of eggs and bacon instantly appeared. Hmm, talk about your perfect timing. It was almost as if they’d secretly suspected I would cave. Running confirmed as much by exchanging winks with the waitress.
So far he was winning this round. It was time that I stepped up to bat. I waited until we’d each polished off a cup of coffee and were on our second refill before I peppered Running with a round of questions.
“By the way, what was done with the grizzly carcasses that you found?”
Running didn’t answer until he’d finished buttering a slice of toast and then slathered it with strawberry jam.
“I’ve never found a carcass. I haven’t found anything besides some orphaned cubs running around.”
I doubted that was true, and it made me wonder what other information Running might be withholding.
“It seems pretty damn convenient that you always manage to stumble upon cubs the way you do. Few people even see a grizzly once in their life. How would you explain it happening to you so often?”
A Killing Season Page 7