Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  In Levi’s field to the west across from his hay field, corn stood taller than he. He had bought Poor Deer’s forty acres two years ago when the young man tired of working the land. Levi had bought the land the same year he bought two other adjacent pastures, their owners lacking patience for farming. Levi had bought the deeded land cheaply from young men pursuing buffalo rumored to be plentiful at the base of the Shining Mountains to the west.

  Buffalo they would never find.

  Levi scooped Hollow Horn and his bow and hoisted him onto the wagon seat, then climbed beside him. He tripped the brake and slowly guided the wagon down into the valley, to the mud hut Poor Deer’s sons had built and where their meeting would take place. Levi was certain that, by day’s end, he would own the sons’ land as well and would have to hire more farmhands. The one Crow and three White men that had failed in the Gold Fields of the Black Hills would be strapped with three more quarters of land as Poor Deer’s sons fled to the buffalo. Except for the growing pain in Levi’s inside, life was good for the Star Dancer family.

  * * *

  Pretty Paw wiped beef stew from Hollow Horn’s mouth. She swatted him on the rump and looked after him as he ran giggling, chasing his puppy running outside with a soup bone in its mouth.

  Levi picked up his bowl, but Pretty Paw shooed him away from the dinner table and took the dishes to the washbasin.

  Levi walked to the kerosene light dangling over his chair and touched a match to it before sitting. He grabbed his journal from the top of a small table beside the chair and opened it to the last entry, fishing inside his shirt pocket for his pencil. Pretty Paw laughed and reached over, grabbing the stub from behind Levi’s ear and handing it to him.

  “Guess I’m getting forgetful.”

  “Guess?” She grinned.

  Pretty Paw turned back to the basin and began washing the dishes. Levi lit his pipe and sat back as he licked the end of his pencil.

  “Why do you always write in the book? And why always in the White man’s words?” Clanking of metal dishes mingled with the sloshing of water in the basin muffled her words.

  Levi’s pencil hovered over the paper as he paused. “By the time anyone wants to know what happened, there will only be the words of the baashchiili.”

  “But why?” she pressed.

  “So that others will know about that murderer.”

  “Conte Eagle Bull?”

  “Who else?”

  Pretty Paw draped the dish towel over her shoulder. She knelt beside his chair and stroked his head. “You should enjoy life more, my husband. You spend too much time thinking about that day.”

  Levi took off his reading glasses and rubbed his forehead. “The One Who Is Not Here was my iilapaache. He was my best friend in life, since we were boys. If I would have ridden to Pine Ridge and killed Eagle Bull, justice would have been served.”

  Pretty Paw frowned. “That was a terrible day, when you rode after Eagle Bull. If Lieutenant Magnuson had not stopped you . . .”

  “If he had not, I would have killed the man that hung this curse around my neck.” The memory of White Crow’s death had haunted Levi ever since the murder. Levi second-guessed himself: If Eagle Bull had not shot him that day at the Shining Mountains, he would not have the running sickness. If the running sickness had not come upon him that day overlooking the Greasy Grass, he would have been at White Crow’s side to fight Eagle Bull and the other Lakota warrior. If he had not hidden like a coward in the grass while Eagle Bull scalped White Crow and took their horses and rifles, Levi would not have this obsession like a hornet’s stinger that festered in one’s skin and wouldn’t pry loose.

  Levi had cursed his timing that morning five years ago when he planned to ride to Pine Ridge and avenge his friend’s death. He had stowed a week’s provisions in his saddlebags and draped his medicine pouch around his pony’s neck. He had just finished praying to masa’ka, the god of sun, that morning when Lieutenant Magnuson rode up.

  “I need a scout I can trust today.”

  “I have a trip to make.”

  “To Red Cloud’s Agency?”

  Levi looked away, certain that Pretty Paw had ridden for the soldier.

  Magnuson coaxed his pony closer to Levi’s. “Revenge for White Crow will do you no good, my friend. It will continue to eat away at you, and it will destroy you.”

  Levi looked away so that Magnuson couldn’t see the tears. “Revenge is the ira’xaxe, the shadow, that wakes me at the first hint of day, and tucks me in at night. It is true I mourn for the One That Is Not Here. But it is justice I seek the most. It is justice I need the most.”

  Magnuson reached over and laid his hand on Levi’s shoulder. “Eagle Bull will be tried by his own conscience . . .”

  “He has none.”

  “Then justice will one day find him. This day I have need of you.”

  Levi started to protest when Magnuson interrupted him. “We had an arrangement, did we not?”

  Levi nodded. “I got the first pick of the land. In return, I will scout for you when you need me.”

  “And I need you now.”

  “But fighting is over.”

  Magnuson shook his head. “There is rumor that Crazy Horse and his lodges are hiding in the Shining Mountains.”

  Pretty Paw had come out of the lodge, baby Hollow Horn sucking beneath the heavy buffalo robe. She had meant well by riding after Magnuson, and Levi could hold no anger toward her. In the manner of the Apsa’alooke warrior riding into battle, he nodded at his wife and fell in beside Lieutenant Magnuson. Pretty Paw had saved him from a soldier’s hangman’s noose that day.

  * * *

  Pretty Paw joined Levi on the bank of the slow-moving creek. She studied stones lining the bank and selected one, skipping it across the water. Five skips. “Bet you cannot do better than that.”

  Levi looked sideways at her. “No bet.”

  “You won’t even try?”

  He shrugged.

  “What is bothering you?”

  “Nothing.”

  She used his shoulder for support and sat beside him. “A wife knows her husband. You come here every day with that same hound dog look One Ear gets.”

  Levi smiled. One Ear did have a droopy expression, ever since that range bull hooked a horn into the dog’s head and Levi had to slice off what was left of the torn ear.

  Pretty Paw leaned around and took his face in her hands. “It is the same thing, is it not?”

  Levi looked away, but he knew he could hide nothing from Pretty Paw. “The Indian agent at Pine Ridge Agency made Eagle Bull Boss Farmer.” He picked up a rock and skipped it onto the water. One skip.

  Levi had ridden beside Lieutenant Magnuson that day as they led Crazy Horse and his bedraggled band into Red Cloud’s Agency—later Pine Ridge—weary and bedraggled from being pursued, their women and children starving, the warrior beaten out of them, with no choice but to surrender.

  Levi felt a deep sadness and empathy for the Oglala Lakota, but none for Eagle Bull. Levi had started when he saw Conte Eagle Bull that day. Levi’s hand fell on his rifle, but Lieutenant Magnuson held him back. Levi had glared with hatred at Eagle Bull, his hollow eyes set deep into gaunt, meatless cheeks, his teeth pulled back in a defeated snarl, for he, too, had had the warrior beaten out of him. And as suddenly as the bloodlust rose within Levi, it had faded. He was certain the murderer would soon die.

  “I thought he was dying?” Pretty Paw skipped another pebble. Six skips.

  “Some say a ak’bari’a healed him.”

  “But he was nothing. How could he be Boss Farmer?”

  Levi shrugged. “His father-in-law. Stuck In The Clouds was named chief of the Oglala, vying for control with Red Cloud. And Stuck In The Clouds made sure his son-in-law was appointed Boss Farmer.”

  Pretty Paw moved Levi’s arms aside and
sat on his lap. “What the Oglala do is of no concern to us. The wars are over.”

  “It will never be over.” Levi patted her head. “I love you dearly, my wife, but often you do not see everything. Eagle Bull will control people as Boss Farmer. He will prosper, when he should be dead. He will prosper on the backs of the Oglala.”

  “He would do this to his own people?”

  He stroked her head. Pretty Paw always saw the good in people, even someone with a heart as black as Eagle Bull’s. “If he murdered his own friend, surely he will not hesitate to hurt his own people if it profits him.”

  “But what can you do?”

  Levi opened his book and grabbed the pencil stub and began writing. “This is all I can do.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The drive from Rapid City Regional Airport through Rapid Valley on the way to the hospital took less than twenty minutes, but it seemed to take forever. Manny ducked around slower drivers, cussing at an elderly man taking up two lanes, even flooring the rental through a red light. Willie’s condition replaced concerns about his bad driving, and he made it to Rapid City Regional somehow without an accident.

  He double-parked in the loading zone and rushed to the hospital elevator. The ride to the fifth floor, like the ride from the airport, dragged on. His jacket caught on the door of the elevator and he ripped it free as he ran to the nurse’s station outside Intensive Care.

  “Mr. With Horn already has visitors,” an RN sitting behind the desk said over a People magazine without looking up. “I can’t allow anyone else . . .”

  “You’re telling me you’re denying me access to a victim in an attempted homicide?” Manny said, flipping his ID wallet open.

  She dropped her magazine and stood. As she glared down at Manny, he figured she had him by thirty pounds. He sized her up in case she refused his request to see Willie, and figured on a good day he could take her. But this wasn’t a good day. For him or Willie.

  “Suit yourself, but the patient’s not much of a witness right now.” She jerked her thumb to a room across the hall. “You got ten minutes, then I test those self-defense classes you FBI are always stumbling through.”

  Manny ran across the hall and stood outside Willie’s room, breathing deep, steeling himself for what he feared he would see. He shoved the door open. Doreen Big Eagle and Clara stood leaning on the bed railing looking down, obscuring Willie. Clara nodded to him and moved aside.

  Manny gasped. He had seen far too many victims of violent crimes in his career, more than he dared recount, victims kept teetering in the land of the living by IVs and O2 and all sorts of drug cocktails shoved down their throats or in their veins or stuck up their rectums. But he wasn’t prepared for Willie. He lay on his back, his thick chest not as thick and robust as Manny remembered it a few days ago. Willie’s arm remained flaccid beside him, a host to tubes and IVs, and his breaths came labored past tubes sticking down his throat and nasal cavity. Willie gasped air, seemingly in time with the beep-beep-beeping of the monitor above his bed.

  Manny bent to Willie’s ear. “Willie, buddy. I’m betting you can hear me . . .”

  “When the hell did he become your buddy?” Doreen stepped between Manny and the bed railing. “If you were his buddy, you would have encouraged him to get his teaching degree. Quit the tribal police. He wouldn’t be in this position . . .”

  “There’s enough time for that later.” Clara stepped around and rested her hand on Doreen’s arm. “Right now, it’s more important that Willie have quiet.”

  “I’ll second that.” The hefty RN had taken off her glasses as if she anticipated a fight. She even talked to Manny in a bladed stance as if she’d boxed a time or two. “I said you could come in if you were quiet. FBI or not, clear out Agent.”

  Manny thought for the briefest moment of arguing with her. But if she argued like she looked, he could end up in a crumpled heap on the floor. Images of Beetle Bailey after Sarge finished with him came creeping into his thoughts, supplanted by Nurse Ratched ordering Jack Nicholson around the padded room.

  Clara saved Manny’s pride when she hooked her arm in his and ushered him out to a waiting room down the hall. Nurse Ratched kept an evil eye on him from Willie’s room before making her way back to the nurse’s station.

  “My God, he looks like hell.” Manny eased himself into a hard plastic chair before he fell down. “But what did I expect with him being shot twice?” He looked up at Clara. “Will he make it? What did his doctors say? What can we do . . .”

  Clara pressed her fingers to Manny’s lips and sat beside him. She took his hand in hers. “I’m getting this through Doreen. The only reason the doctors told her anything is she’s the closest thing to Willie’s next of kin with his aunt Lizzy in the asylum. They figured they could trust his fiancée.”

  “And?”

  “They’re pushing it giving Willie a fifty-fifty chance. Doreen said she overheard one of the doctors saying he’d give better odds to someone hitting the slots in Deadwood than Willie ever walking out of that room alive.”

  Manny squirmed to get comfortable. Failing, he stood and paced the room. “What can I do now? I should have talked him out of the tribal police. You know he was a semester away from getting his teaching degree.”

  “Like I had any success talking you out of the bureau.” She smiled for the first time. “Made no difference to you. Wouldn’t have to Willie either.”

  Manny’s decision to remain with the bureau had nearly cost them their relationship. Clara had accepted his wedding proposal, assuming he would be leaving the bureau for some safe job. When he didn’t look into teaching college or private consulting, she had put their engagement on hold while she worked out the thought that—like Willie—Manny could end up in the ICU hanging on by a thin thread. She had finally accepted his career choice, and he still had her. He prayed Willie would have Doreen if he pulled out of this.

  * * *

  Manny walked Clara past Nurse Ratched, who eyed him all the while. Doreen glared at him from the far side of Willie’s bed as Manny kissed Clara and returned to the waiting room. Lumpy had slipped into the room. He slumped in a green plastic chair that had seen better days with its warped arms and one leg shorter than the rest. He thumbed through last month’s issue of Cosmopolitan, tattered pages competing with ones that had been torn out. A large coffee stain graced the cover, obscuring the robust cleavage of the twenty-something espousing “Ten Techniques of the Highly Orgasmic.”

  Lumpy looked up and squinted as if seeing Manny for the first time, his lids drooping over green eyes that appeared to be swimming in red pools. Dark circles hung suspended under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved in days, his splotchy stubble making him appear far older than he was. He followed Manny’s gaze to the Cosmopolitan, and quickly slipped it between a Humpty Dumpty and Paternity Today. He stood and stumbled to the one hundred-cup percolator sitting on a card table in one corner of the room. “Might be some left,” he called over his shoulder.

  “I’ll pass.” Manny sat in a chair in a long line of other plastic chairs, the only difference was his chair was missing a ragged chunk of plastic as if some rabid dog had gnawed through it. “What happened?”

  Lumpy turned with his foam cup full of some dark, oozing liquid and walked back to the chairs. He hiked his dirty sweatpants up over his belly and dropped into a chair beside Manny, spilling week-old coffee onto the front of his T-shirt. He paid no mind to it and closed his eyes, while Manny sat quietly waiting for Lumpy to gather his words. “Willie did some impressive legwork,” he said at last, sitting up and opening his eyes. “Chief Horn told Willie which place Degas might be working out of—Wilson Eagle Bull has four ranches—and Willie took Horn’s advice and went to Wilson’s Oglala ranch. I warned Willie to tread lightly . . .”

  “Because Wilson’s running for State Senate?”

  Lumpy nodded. A trickle of coffee ran from one co
rner of his mouth, but he made no effort to wipe it away. “Willie was staking out Wilson’s bunkhouse, and he radioed he was going in once he saw the ranch hands were awake.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you send backup along with him?”

  Lumpy shook his head. “All he was going to do was interview Degas. We never figured there was enough to arrest him, so I didn’t send backup just for an interview.”

  Manny checked his voice and continued quietly. “Surveillance of someone potentially dangerous—if Degas meant for Harlan White Bird to get killed—required two officers . . .”

  “I had no one to spare, Hotshot,” Lumpy fired back. He stood and tossed the cup in the round file. “Maybe you’re forgetting we’re running on quarter manpower here. Men are working back-to-back twelves regularly. Besides”—he met Manny’s stare—“he was working on your case. It didn’t even happen in his jurisdiction. Why didn’t you come back and work surveillance with him? You sit there on your throne and condemn me.”

  Manny dropped his head between his legs. “I should have.”

  Lumpy sat back beside Manny and nudged him. “Guess we both should have done things differently. Important thing now is for Willie to get on the mend.”

  “If there’s any mend in him.”

  Lumpy leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Nothing we can do now except to pray to God.”

  “And to Wakan Tanka.” Now where did that come from? The old ways got us nowhere before, and they sure as hell won’t help Willie now. “We know for certain it was Degas?”