Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Your taxpayer dollars at work.”

  “Taxpayer dollars, my ass. If the government used money wisely, they’d have hired you a full-time driver.”

  Lumpy leaned over the seat. “Look at the bright side—Manny’s driving will probably kill you before the cramps do.”

  When they reached Highway 18, they turned west, hitting the dreaded construction area that people hereabouts were so upset about. Manny read the police blotter where a pickup had dropped into a ten-foot-deep washout with no warning. Seems that the yellow warning signs and construction sawhorses had been stolen, and the flagman had left for an extended afternoon brewski in Hot Springs.

  “You ever hear of this Carson Degas?” Lumpy’s breath smelled of chocolate and peanuts as he nudged Reuben. “Seeing you two are cut from the same cloth.”

  Reuben glared at Lumpy, who shrank back into the seat. Reuben started to turn toward him when Manny broke in. “What have you heard of him?”

  Reuben eyed Lumpy one last time before he turned back around. “He showed up at Eagle Bull’s last year. Claimed he was a horse whisperer. Claimed to know damned near everything there was to know about horseflesh.”

  “Does he?” Manny slammed on the brakes just before hitting a skunk crossing the road.

  Reuben rubbed his forehead where he’d smacked the windshield. “Be careful.”

  “Put your seat belt on.”

  “Won’t fit.”

  Manny slowed. “You were expounding on Degas.”

  Reuben nodded. “That what I was doing, expounding?” He laughed. “Word is, he’s sharper ’n hell with horses. Knows everyone in the business it seems. Got contracts for Eagle Bull in five states, and . . .” He reached for the CD player but Manny slapped his hand away. “Can’t you turn this to KILI? What is it anyway?”

  “The Who,” Lumpy said proudly from the backseat.

  “Wrong.” Manny turned the volume down. “It’s Three Dog Night now. But continue.”

  “Degas came on the scene about the time that Wilson Eagle Bull fired his last horse wrangler,” Reuben said, squirming in the seat, trying to make the seat belt stretch. It didn’t. “Rumor has it that Degas spent some time in the hoosegow. Like a lot of Eagle Bull hands.”

  “Ever meet him?”

  Reuben nodded.

  “In stir?” Lumpy asked.

  Reuben shook his head, staring out the window searching for the answer in the low-hanging clouds. He had spent twenty-five years in the state prison for the Billy Two Moons murder. For all Reuben’s past faults, he was walking the Good Red Road now as a sacred man. “Degas came to the Rosebud Wacipi last year with a bottle of booze and a bad attitude.”

  “Can’t have alcohol at powwows,” Lumpy said. “They give Rosebud cops a call to have him booted?”

  Reuben nodded. “They did, but there was no one available. Shorthanded. Anyways, Degas got in a row with the gate security. Kicked the shit out of two before they left him alone. He had everyone spooked, and picked a fight with some guy from Scenic riding saddle bronc. He was putting the boots to the guy big-time when one of the fancy dancers came and got me.”

  Manny popped a piece of sugar-free candy in his mouth and offered one to Reuben and Lumpy. Reuben grabbed one, but Lumpy waved it away. Manny never knew the man to ingest anything sugar-free. “And you stopped the fight?”

  “I did, but I didn’t faze him much.” He grabbed Manny’s bag of candy and popped three more pieces. “Even though I had him by fifty pounds and a couple inches, he wasn’t scared of me one bit. I saw that in those black eyes of his. He didn’t stop beating that guy because of me. He stopped because he wanted to. Me stepping in just reminded him of how tired his ass-kicking leg was getting.”

  They turned onto Tribal Road 41 on their way to Slim Buttes. “Another mile on the right”—Lumpy leaned over the seat—“to where we found Willie.”

  “And you didn’t assign Willie any backup?” Reuben asked.

  Lumpy snorted. “Now you, too. You a cop now or something?”

  Reuben smiled. “No, but I’ve kicked ass on enough.”

  “There.” Lumpy pointed.

  Manny stopped beside a yellow evidence barrier tape stretched between two wooden fence posts. He started to get out and turned to Reuben. “You gonna get out and stretch your legs?”

  Reuben sat back in the seat. “Just make it harder for me to get back in. I’ll get out when it’s necessary.”

  Manny shrugged and followed Lumpy to where faint orange spray paint revealed where Willie had lain, the outline nearly obliterated by the fine dust that blew into everything on the rez. Like Willie’s life that’s fading away and nothing I can do about it.

  To one side of the tape flies had gathered around black blotches and had already laid their eggs in the blood. Willie’s blood, and Manny turned away. P. P. Pourier, evidence tech extraordinaire, had worked the crime scene as a homicide. Would it end up being a homicide? Manny found himself praying to Wakan Tanka and to God. It didn’t hurt to cover all the bases.

  “We’re not sure how long he lay there leaking blood.” Lumpy seemed to read Manny’s thoughts. “From the time of his last transmission until Officer Lone Tree found him, it was an hour. He said Willie’s pulse was so weak he wasn’t sure he had one.”

  “Witnesses?”

  Lumpy shook his head. “At least none that would come forward.” Lumpy nodded to Wilson Eagle Bull’s bunkhouse a half mile to the south. The single-story ranch-hand quarters sat between the main house and a two-story barn. “We’re just lucky that Willie wasn’t shot at one of the other ranches Wilson owns.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “You asking a lowly tribal cop what happened, Hotshot?”

  Despite their rivalry that went back to childhood days and later their tribal police days, Manny knew Lumpy had an analytical mind street cops envied.

  “Willie was shot at close range. Powder stippling at the front and back of his uniform indicated two hits.”

  “I thought you said there were three cases found?”

  Lumpy walked to where Willie had lain and shooed the flies away as he took out his bandanna and held it over his mouth. “There were. Two there”—he pointed—“and the third six feet away. Way I figure it, the first shot came when the shooter was six or seven feet to Willie’s back.”

  “And he walked up to finish the job.”

  Lumpy nodded. “Way I figure it.”

  Manny bent and ran his hand over impressions, deep impressions that had survived the assault by the wind, Willie’s impressions. “I’d say he put up a fight.”

  “He had a clump of black hair balled in his fist as the paramedics prepped him for the life flight,” Lumpy said. “Like he knew we’d need it for DNA testing later if we found his shooter.”

  “Black hair. Doesn’t narrow it down very much here on the rez.”

  “There were three shots.” Lumpy paced across the scene. “Way I see it, Willie was shot, but managed to wrestle with the shooter, and the second shot missed. Went God-knows-where. But the shooter got the upper hand finishing Willie off with one to the chest. Contact wound.”

  Manny thought back to what Willie had said during their last conversation. “Willie told me he was sitting a quarter mile from Wilson, about twice this distance.”

  Lumpy rubbed his forehead and bent to the tracks. “Pee Pee said he cast two sets of tire tracks by where Willie was found. Might be that Willie found Degas, and was trying to get him to pull over. That’d account for two sets.”

  Manny nodded. Willie might have tried pulling Degas over and was shot when he stopped. Unless Willie chased someone besides Degas. “Good analysis.”

  “You just give me a compliment?”

  Before Manny was forced to admit it, a black dually pickup kicking dust barreled toward them. “We got c
ompany.”

  The truck skidded to a stop, and the wind took the dust over them in a faint fog. Manny turned away and Lumpy held his hand tight around his mouth until the dust settled. The driver folded himself out of the one-ton and it rose several inches. The man that stepped toward them was big enough to be Jamie Hawk’s twin. He put on a black Stetson that made him appear even bigger, and he stopped in front of Lumpy and Manny, looking down at them, his face contorted into a snarl. Manny nudged his side, realizing the holster was there but he’d forgotten the gun at Clara’s.

  “You’re on Eagle Bull land,” the big man spit.

  Manny fumbled into his pocket for his ID wallet and flipped it open, holding it for the man to read.

  “That supposed to mean something?”

  Manny took a step closer, craning his neck up. “We’re here on an investigation. An officer was shot here yesterday.”

  The man’s fists balled up and his gaze settled on Manny’s chin. “I’m telling you to scat.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Just call me Harvey. I’m Mr. Eagle Bull’s foreman. Now, maybe you didn’t hear me right—get the hell off this ranch!”

  “He heard, but I didn’t quite catch that.” Reuben had stepped soundlessly from the car and moved Manny aside. He stepped toward Harvey, winking at Manny in passing. “Guess it was necessary for me to get out after all.” As big as Reuben was, he had to stretch his neck up to talk to Wilson’s foreman. “Maybe we want to be here. Maybe we’ll drive up that road.” He chin-pointed to the road leading to the ranch house and bunkhouse. Reuben’s right foot dropped back slightly, a move Harvey picked up on.

  “Well, well.” Harvey took off his hat and set it on the hood of his truck as he dropped his watch into the hat.

  “We’ll see how our agent sells a policy,” Manny whispered in Lumpy’s ear.

  Harvey smiled when he turned back to Reuben. “And what name should I tell the gravedigger to chisel on your headstone?”

  “Reuben Tanno.”

  Harvey’s smile vanished. He jammed his fists into his pockets as he stepped back, just out of Reuben’s reach. “I heard of you.”

  “From who?” Reuben stepped closer, to within finger-jabbing distance of Harvey.

  Manny stepped back. He didn’t want Harvey’s blood splattering his shirt.

  “Who told you about me, big man? Might it be that Carson Degas, beater of young boys?”

  Harvey’s face went blank and he shuffled back until the fender of his truck stopped him.

  “Come on now, Harvey.” Reuben smiled, enjoying putting Harvey on the hot seat. He poked Harvey in the chest. “How we going to be friends if you won’t talk to me?”

  Harvey had a wild bronc look in his eyes, pinned against the truck, and he nodded.

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Degas told me about you,” Harvey said, barely audible. He looked around for a way out, but Reuben wasn’t ready to let him slide just yet. Manny imagined a feral cat batting a field mouse around before biting its head off.

  “What he say, Harvey?”

  “He said you got a habit of sticking your nose in where it don’t belong.”

  “Well, my nose is one piece, unlike yours in a moment if I don’t get answers.”

  Harvey’s eyes darted to Manny, then Lumpy. “Just tell me what you guys want,” he blurted.

  Reuben nodded to Manny.

  “Tell me about the shooting yesterday.” Manny held his notebook as if ready to take notes.

  “I don’t know a thing.”

  Reuben stepped closer, but Harvey held up his hands in front of his face. “All I know is your officer came to the bunkhouse. The kid was on the prod, big-time, demanding to talk with Degas. Said he was suspect in a homicide on Crow Agency.”

  “And that pissed you and the other ranch hands off, I’d wager?”

  Harvey’s face flushed, and his jaw muscles tightened. “Typical cop pushing his weight around.” He spit out cop like it was an affront to even say it aloud.

  “And my guess is you guys couldn’t let a tribal cop push his weight around?” Manny said. “My guess is you set Officer With Horn up.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Harvey stepped toward Manny; when he realized Reuben was still within striking distance, he stopped. “Sure we had some fun with him.”

  “Define fun?” Lumpy pushed past Manny and stood nose-to-nipple with Harvey. “If your idea of fun is trying to kill him . . .”

  “We never. Honest.” Harvey’s eyes darted from Reuben to Lumpy, settling on Manny. “We never.”

  Manny took Lumpy by the arm and moved him aside. “Tell us just what you did to Willie.”

  Harvey looked away.

  “Tell them what you did,” Reuben said.

  Harvey kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot and remained silent.

  Reuben’s hand shot out so quickly that Manny barely caught movement in his periphery. The slap sounded like a rifle shot as it landed on the side of Harvey’s head. He slumped against his truck as his hand covered his ear. Reuben smiled. “These officers didn’t hear you. Tell them what you did.”

  “We just scared him a little.”

  “Willie doesn’t scare easily.”

  Harvey looked to Lumpy. “He did a couple days ago. Me and some of the boys surrounded him. We weren’t going to hurt him. Really. We just jostled him around a little before we put the run on him.”

  “And what did Degas do?” Manny asked.

  Harvey looked away again without answering, and Reuben took a step closer. Harvey cringed. His hands shot to his face. Reuben had clearly established himself as the alpha dog in this fight. “We told your officer that Degas wasn’t on the place . . .”

  “Was he?”

  Harvey nodded. “He was in the bunkhouse. But we didn’t tell the officer that. We told him to get the hell off the property.”

  “And he did?”

  Harvey nodded again. “When he got back in his pickup and started to leave, we went back to work.”

  Manny flipped pages in his notebook. “What did Degas do?”

  Harvey bit his lip.

  “Harv?” Reuben said, raising his hand.

  “He said he was going to stop the officer down the road and have a talk with him,” Harvey blurted out. “He lit out in his truck and drove the right of way along the fence line. Last we saw Degas, he was just getting ready to drop over the hill.” Harvey motioned to the hill a quarter mile north.

  “So you figure Degas got ahead of him?”

  Harvey held his ear and nodded. “He could have easily got ahead of your officer and stopped him.”

  “Did you hear the shots?”

  Harvey’s hand dropped from his head and he straightened up. “No way. It’s a half mile north where your officer got shot. Even if we were outside doing nothing, we wouldn’t have heard gunfire.”

  “So you stellar citizens would have reported it if you heard gunshots?” Reuben said.

  Harvey nodded. “We would have, but like I said we went back to work.”

  Manny nodded toward Wilson’s house. “Can your boss verify that?”

  Harvey shrugged. “Mr. Eagle Bull’s busy.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Busy.”

  Reuben raised his hand, and Harvey jerked back. “All right. Mr. Eagle Bull’s at the house. But he’s working on his campaign.”

  Reuben grinned. “Surely he’s not too busy for us voters.” He straightened Harvey’s shirt and knocked the dust from his cowboy hat before setting it on his head. He stepped close and whispered in Harvey’s ear: “I’m with you—I don’t much cotton to cops, either.” He chin-pointed to Manny and Lumpy. “But sometimes they’re necessary. Now do us a huge favor and lead us to the ranch house.”

  Harvey turned to h
is truck, and Reuben snatched his cell phone from the holder on Harvey’s belt. “I’ll give it back as soon we’re at the house. Wouldn’t want you lining up a welcoming committee for us.”

  They climbed in the car and waited for Harvey to turn his truck around. They followed him down the Slim Buttes Road, every twenty yards passing a red, white, and blue EAGLE BULL FOR SENATE campaign poster tacked to a fence post. Harvey led them past the long, single-story bunkhouse to the ranch house that loomed large on the other side. Manny hit the CD button and Crosby, Stills, and Nash faded. Manny nodded to a sign as big as a Volkswagen plastered on the side of the bunkhouse. “At least Wilson’s hands will vote for him.”

  Lumpy leaned over the seat. “He’ll get more votes than just his guys. Last poll I saw, Wilson was inching ahead of his opponent.”

  Reuben fidgeted in the seat. “Good Scandinavian name like Arvid Johansson will get a ton of votes in South Dakota. Voter perception.”

  Lumpy laughed. “That something you read in Felons R Us magazine?”

  “No, that’s something I learned working on my master’s thesis.”

  “Master of what? Bait?”

  “Sociology,” Reuben answered.

  “Where . . .”

  “State pen.” Reuben smiled. “What else did I have to do for twenty-five years but fold clothes in the prison laundry and get an education. Especially when you fine taxpayers picked up the tab.” Reuben winked at Lumpy. “Which brings us back to Wilson Eagle Bull—his reputation for honesty precedes his campaign.”

  Manny agreed. Since meeting Wilson at Crow Agency, Manny had researched the senatorial candidate. Wilson traced his family history back to the Fetterman Massacre during Red Cloud’s War. Wilson’s great-grandfather, Conte Eagle Bull, was a young brave looking to prove himself against the Whites when he volunteered to ride with Crazy Horse. What the Lakota referred to as the Battle of a Hundred Slain would remain prominent in their oral history as a great victory against White incursion.