Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Tears formed at the corners of Pretty Paw’s brown eyes. Levi started to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and tell her all would be right. But he resisted and sat immobile, listening. “What am I to do Father? You don’t want Levi to walk beside me, and I cannot live in peace among our people with a fatherless baby . . .”

  Broken Rib touched Pretty Paw’s leg and she stopped. “Here is the future: Levi will give me four ponies for your hand, one for each of the four sacred directions that will carry you and my grandbaby through life.”

  Pretty Paw’s face flushed. “Ponies again? Is that all . . .”

  “If I allowed Star Dancer to marry you without giving the customary ponies as a gift, people will wonder. They will question. They will ask, ‘How is it that Star Dancer receives Pretty Paw’s hand and her father demands nothing?’ People will add up the days. They will figure out that the baby comes to us when trapper Beauchamp shared my lodge. By Star Dancer giving me ponies, people will believe the child is his.” He turned to Levi. “Do you accept my decision?”

  Levi dropped his head. “I have but one war pony and one hunting pony. I do not have four others to give.”

  Broken Rib smiled as he reached around and took the pipe bag from the tipi wall. “I have four ponies that you can give me.”

  “Give you horses you already own?”

  The old man nodded and slipped the pipe from the bag. He held the stem and carefully inserted the bowl of red stone. “I will hobble four of my finest ponies in the deep earth gash”—he pursed his lips and pointed to the west—“where you led your horse soldiers to the Cheyenne.”

  “What their maps called Weather Vane Canyon.” Levi and White Crow had found a small group of Cheyenne lodges in the canyon, leading the soldiers down a narrow ledge path, single file. They surprised the enemy, who put up a fierce rear guard defense while their woman and children and old men escaped. In the end, only one Cheyenne warrior lay bleeding on the canyon floor. But that had been all right with Levi: He had no wish that the soldiers kill their women and children, even if they had invaded Crow country.

  “I will hobble four horses,” Broken Rib continued as he opened his tobacco pouch and began tamping the bowl of his pipe. “Tomorrow you go there. Lead the ponies to the village with great fanfare. Everyone will believe they are yours.”

  “The ponies will be recognized. People will know they belong to you.”

  The old warrior nodded and reached to the fire for a smoldering twig. “All the better. They will say, ‘Star Dancer is a great warrior to steal ponies from such a fierce fighter as Broken Rib.’ They will forever respect you, and your courage. As for me, of course I will refuse at first, denying you the privilege of marrying Pretty Paw. But eventually I will accept the ponies, and people will believe I fear Star Dancer.”

  Levi’s mouth drooped.

  “What is it?”

  “I have no desire that you—a warrior that has been such an influence on our people—be thought afraid of another man.”

  Broken Rib lit the pipe, the sweet aroma filling the tipi before escaping upward. “To ensure my daughter will have a good future with a good man? It is of little consequence. It is worth what people say.”

  Levi marveled at the old man’s wisdom. Brilliant. Four ponies for the hand of a daughter of a respected elder of the tribe was fair. And no one dared challenge Broken Rib’s judgment.

  * * *

  Pretty Paw walked a step behind Levi as they left the lodge of Broken Rib, careful in the darkness lit only by Baappaaihk’e. The Evening Star, bright tonight, giving them just enough light to make their way to the edge of the pond. Levi rubbed moss from the top of a rock glistening from what the White men called fool’s gold. He took Pretty Paw’s hand and eased her onto the rock. Although she was not far along, pain showed in her face, and Levi knew it was the cloth beneath her dress, pulled tight to conceal her condition to the other lodges, that caused her such discomfort. Levi sat opposite her on a partially submerged log and skipped a rock across the green water. It skipped once and sank. Levi never was good with throwing the rocks.

  He took his journal from his shoulder pouch and fished around until he found the stub of pencil and began sharpening it with his knife.

  “What do you write about every day in that White man’s book?”

  Levi licked the tip of the pencil and paused. “Today I write about the happiest day of my life. Today I write how a grizzled old warrior softened and gave his blessing to marry his most beautiful daughter.”

  Pretty Paw nodded to the journal. “But you always write in it. Surely every day you do not write about such happy things.”

  Levi frowned. “I write about life. Things that I can look backward on when I am old and forgetful. I write to help me to remember such things.”

  “And the bad times? Do you wish to remember those as well?”

  Levi licked the stub again. “I write about those times, too, so that those coming after us know our troubles. Know what hardships we have seen.” And so someone—anyone—can one day know how Eagle Bull murdered White Crow and the other Lakota. Levi wanted to talk to Pretty Paw about his obsession with Eagle Bull, but he looked away and closed his eyes. Eagle Bull had shot him in battle, when he was younger, wounding Levi so he would always have the running sickness in his gut. The same wound that would prevent him from ever having a child of his own. Levi had forgiven Eagle Bull, for the two men had faced one another in battle and Levi had lost. But that was before he killed White Crow, killing Levi’s friend he had loved since a little boy growing up. That had elevated Eagle Bull into something that warranted Levi’s obsession.

  Levi dried his eyes and turned back to Pretty Paw. “I could teach you the White man’s words.” He changed the subject.

  She chuckled and held her belly. “Do not make me laugh. It hurts.” She leaned back on the rock and dangled her feet in the pond. “I do not have time to sit and learn the soldier words as you did. I have to practice cooking, beading, fleshing out the skin if I am to be a good wife to my future husband.”

  “You will be a fine wife.” He patted her foot. “Besides, what else did I have to do over campfires, when soldiers passed liquor, while others blew that piece of metal in their mouths. Making music. And dancing.”

  Pretty Paw’s eyebrows rose so far they appeared to touch in the middle of her forehead. “Dance? Like us?”

  Levi laughed and shook his head. “No. They dance together. They tell me they would prefer dancing with women. But none were in the field. So men danced together.”

  “And you crept away when the dancing began?”

  “I did. Some soldiers were as we Apsa’alooke—nondrinkers. So I joined them away from the others and they showed me the words.”

  She sat silent.

  “But there is another reason you do not wish to learn the words?”

  Pretty Paw bent and grabbed a flat stone, skipping it across the pond. Unlike Levi’s, it bounced off the surface a half-dozen times before it sank out of sight. “I do not wish to know the words. They look too much like trapper Beauchamp’s writing, and his words—like the White man’s—are not worthy of learning. Our language is above theirs. Besides”—she smiled—“one Crow in the family writing White man’s words is enough. So write if you must, my husband-to-be.”

  “I will.” Levi turned the page and licked the pencil end. “So that people one day will read of us.” And especially read about the murderer Eagle Bull.

  CHAPTER 8

  Manny held Clara’s paisley-framed, diamond-studded glasses as he scooted his chair closer to the television. BIA officer Matthew Moccasin Top disconnected one of six camcorders and began hooking another to the TV. The four previous camcorders showed Tess shooting Harlan, and Harlan lying in the field after he fell from his horse.

  “This recorder is Thelma Deer Slayer’s.”

  “Any re
lation to the police chief?”

  Moccasin Top smiled as he continued working. “We’re all related here in some manner.” He finished the connection and stepped back with the remote in his hand. “While everyone else was busy recording the buildup to the battle, Thelma went behind the scenes and photographed people just milling about. Including the good Sergeant Tess. I suspect she’s got a thing for him.”

  “Thelma’s eighty years old,” Stumper said.

  Moccasin Top started the tape. “So she’s a very old cougar.”

  The tape began with Thelma panning the area behind the bleachers. Manny recognized the two young Arapaho girls hustling to sell as many reenactment T-shirts as they could as they collected money between two enormous piles of shirts stacked on a makeshift counter.

  Manny nudged Willie as he entered the picture. It showed him lumbering toward the taco stand past an old couple. They appeared unsure as to what to order as they stared at the prices scribbled with a grease pen on a whiteboard hanging above the counter. Before Willie left the taco stand and the recording, he slapped salsa on top of Manny’s taco.

  “Reminds me what a pain in the butt you are.”

  “Shuh,” Manny said as Moccasin Top turned a chair around and sat backward in front of the set. “Here it is.”

  Thelma recorded Tess standing in front of his tent giving his mini-history lesson to a half-dozen spectators. A girl with jeans ripped on both knees, tight over a ripped seat, listened intently beside a braided Indian boy wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, while Tess held up an 1870s-era mess kit. There was no audio, but Manny could imagine the sergeant’s deep voice filtering up to where Manny sat turned in his bleacher seat watching.

  “It doesn’t show anything we don’t already know.” Stumper propped his feet on the conference room table and started picking his teeth with his pocketknife. “All this shows is that this Tess character is a blowhard who likes to hear himself talk.”

  Moccasin Top scowled at Stumper and turned his chair to face Manny. “Thelma had some fascination for Tess. Seems like she spent most of her time filming him.” As if to reinforce his theory, the camcorder zoomed in as Tess laid his mess kit down and grabbed his Springfield rifle. Manny recognized the group of people gathered in a semicircle around the sergeant. He took a nip from his hip flask, and a moment later leaned his rifle against the tent pole as he ran out of the picture frame. “This is where he made a beeline for the crapper,” Manny said. “And where I stopped watching the people.”

  “So he got the two-minute warning a minute late.” Stumper dropped his boots on the floor and stood. “We all get an attack of groaning gut now and again.”

  “But this is where it’s interesting.”

  Willie looked at Moccasin Top. “Interesting? Nothing happening.” The camcorder stopped moving, permanently zoomed in on Tess’s tent.

  “Thelma told me she left the recorder sitting on back of the bleachers,” Moccasin Top said, “when Tess ran to the big-hole potty. Said she had to go herself.” He grinned. “My guess is she just wanted to catch a glimpse of Tess as he was dropping his knickers. She got a little sidetracked on the way back to get her recorder. She found some other old dude to hit on by the T-shirt stand. By the time she came back to the bleachers, Tess had already mounted up and was sitting his horse waiting to fire the opening shot.”

  “So we got Thelma feeling her oats. This is a waste of time—”

  “Here’s where we see our man,” Moccasin Top interrupted.

  Manny leaned forward, squinting. “Shut the lights off.”

  Stumper hit the switch. “We’re not going to see anything.”

  A man stopped in front of Tess’s tent and casually looked around before stepping just inside the tent flap. He grabbed Tess’s rifle leaning against the tent pole and reached into his pocket. The tape clearly showed the man opening the trapdoor, prying out the dummy round with his thumb nail, and inserting what appeared to be a live round before closing the chamber. He replaced the yellow ribbon sticking in the action, proof that the prop man had inspected Tess’s rifle. His deed finished, he ducked back outside and seemed to smile at Thelma Deer Slayer’s camcorder before disappearing off camera.

  “The last four minutes just shows Tess returning from the port-a-potty and gathering his rifle and tunic for the show.”

  “Rewind the tape.” Stumper squatted in front of the television. “Let me see the dude’s face.”

  Moccasin Top rewound it and played it back at half speed.

  “Shit!” Stumper slapped his thigh. “I know that guy.”

  “I know him, too,” Manny said. The dried mustard on the front of the man’s BILLINGS OR BUST T-shirt was as Manny remembered it. “I only saw him for a moment standing around listening to Tess. He’s tall. Like Willie. But not so heavy.” Manny moved aside to give Stumper a better view. “Where you know him from?”

  Stumper leaned back and grabbed his can of Copenhagen from his back pocket. He was slow in putting the can away, and Willie reached over and grabbed it, stuffing the last of the tobacco in his lip. Stumper didn’t give his obligatory scowl this time, but ignored Willie as he tapped the screen with his finger. “He was outside Harlan’s auction barn two days ago when we responded to that suspicious call.”

  “False alarm, wasn’t it?” Moccasin Top turned to Manny. “Some guy living at the corner where you turn on the street saw a strange car—fancy car from what I remember the call coming in—and some guy walked into the building. The moccasin telegraph got around quick, and the guy knew Harlan was dead. So the neighbor called right away.”

  Stumper nodded. “This guy was just coming out of Harlan’s shop as I pulled up.”

  “He broke in then?”

  Stumper shook his head. “He said Harlan had showed him where the key was. Said he’d forgotten his bid sheet and needed to get it for when Harlan’s estate was settled and the artifacts eventually auctioned off.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days ago,” Stumper answered. “Shortly after Sam was there.”

  “He was there about an hour before,” Moccasin Top volunteered. “We had the place on a loose security watch because of the relics Harlan had sitting around waiting for the auction.”

  “And someone called him in?”

  “Naw,” Moccasin Top said, rewinding the recording. “Sam has run of the place, and I spotted him when I did my security check. I told him the place was sealed for evidence and he left.”

  “Harlan ever had a break-in before?”

  Moccasin Top shook his head. “Despite what Harlan thought, we’re pretty trusting on Crow Agency.”

  Manny flipped his notebook out, not to take notes, but to prod Moccasin Top to continue with his story. “So you saw Sam coming out . . .”

  Moccasin Top nodded. “Carrying a pile of old papers and books. Sam loved to read and Harlan saved him all the mysteries when he finished reading them.”

  Manny put Clara’s glasses back into his pocket, instantly feeling more manly. “Sam always sneak into Harlan’s shop?”

  Stumper shook his head. “Was no sneaking to it. Like I said before, Sam crashed in Harlan’s spare room whenever he felt like it, whether Harlan was there or not.”

  “Wasn’t Harlan afraid Sam would steal some of the relics?”

  Moccasin Top laughed. “Sam would be more likely to steal Harlan’s beer than any artifacts.”

  “Tell us you got the dude’s name that you caught coming out of the shop.” Willie sat on the edge of the chair sipping coffee from a Mighty Mouse mug Moccasin Top had given him.

  Stumper spit chew in a round file. “No reason to get his name; his story checked out. The only thing he had in his hands was a bid sheet with items circled.”

  Willie set Mighty Mouse on the table. “Where I work law enforcement, it’s basic police procedure to get names . . .”
/>   “Didn’t ask.”

  Willie shook his head. “Jeza. If that don’t beat all.”

  Stumper turned to Willie, and poked him in the chest. “Look, big ’un. The guy ran in for a second to grab his sheet. End of story. Wasn’t like he was running out of the shop carrying stuff from the auction or anything.”

  Manny slipped between Stumper and Willie. The last thing he needed was to break up a brawl between the two. He motioned to Willie’s chair and he sat.

  “Tell me what Sam was carrying when you saw him,” Manny asked Moccasin Top.

  “Just junk.” Moccasin Top said. “Like I said, he had old Billings Gazette newspapers. Books. It looked like Sam was making a Dumpster run.”

  “Might he have been carrying a journal?”

  Moccasin Top looked down at the floor and kicked a wad of paper. “Hard to say. Could have been.”

  Manny turned in his chair toward Stumper, who had sat back down and propped his feet on the table. “And the tall man? What did he have?”

  “Nothing. He just stood on the sidewalk, smiling friendly like. Said Sam could vouch for him.”

  “And did he?”

  Stumper looked to Moccasin Top. “By the time I heard Moccasin Top had talked with Sam coming out of Harlan’s shop, he’d released him.”

  “And I’ll bet you didn’t spend a lot of time looking for Sam,” Willie said, sitting on the edge of his chair, ready for a rematch with Stumper.

  Manny scooted his chair between Stumper and Willie and turned to Moccasin Top. “Can we get a still photo of the tall man coming out of Tess’s tent?”

  “Sure. Only take a minute.” Moccasin Top breathed a sigh, and Manny was certain he was glad to be away from Stumper and Willie. Moccasin Top disconnected Thelma Deer Slayer’s camcorder and disappeared around the corner.

  Manny dribbled some type of brown liquid from the coffeepot into his cup and sat back down beside Stumper. “Can we hunt up Sampson Star Dancer?”