Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “You here for the funeral or the food?” She motioned to the bowls on the table, to the stack of plates adorned with the Star Dancer logo, to neatly arranged dinnerware, all looking like she’d prepped for a state dinner.

  “Fact is, I’m hungrier than a woodpecker in a steel mill.”

  “You don’t look hungry.”

  Manny patted his stomach. “This is just my disguise.”

  “Well, I’m sure you didn’t come all the way out here to snack. Have you caught Sam’s killer yet?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “Then I don’t want you here, Agent Tanno.”

  “Because I haven’t found Sam’s killer yet, or because I came down hard on Cubby yesterday?”

  Chenoa nodded to Cubby following Wilson around back to the cemetery. “Got nothing to do with my husband. I just want some answers about Sam’s death, and if you’re here you’re not looking for them.”

  “I’m here for answers.” Manny took out his pocket notebook and flipped pages.

  Chenoa stopped arranging the food buckets and squared up to Manny. “What answers?”

  “About Sam’s death?”

  “I got no answers.”

  Manny ignored her and flipped pages as if he had written questions. “Like where was Cubby when Sam’s house was torched?”

  “How should I know?”

  “As owner of this ranch, I’d think you’d know the whereabouts of all your ranch hands. Especially your husband.”

  She glanced at Cubby as he reemerged from around the back of the house and disappeared inside. “Reality’s the only obstacle to true happiness. My reality of happiness with my husband went south about the time his belly did. But he comes and goes as he pleases.” She stepped back as if realizing Manny’s question for the first time. “Surely you don’t suspect Cubby?”

  Manny gave her the headline version of Cubby riding with Degas in Pine Ridge the morning Willie was shot, and how Cubby had lied about it initially. “I understand the ranch would run even smoother with Sam out of the way. When I connect the dots, Cubby’s always there.”

  Chenoa lowered her voice. “Back when Cubby was a rodeo champ and competing around the region, I competed in bogus beauty contests . . .”

  “Stumper tells me those bogus contests are what landed you a lucrative Montana Tourism contract years ago.”

  “Do I look like I need the money?” She laughed, waving her hand around Star Dancer pastures visible for miles. “When Cubby and I competed in the same circuits, we grew close. Very close.” She looked out into the field in back of the house with a faraway look. “He was something back then, sitting a bull for a full eight seconds, or riding saddle bronc without losing even his hat.” She turned back to Manny. “He cut a dashing figure back then, with his broad shoulders and slim hips that swaggered when he walked. Yeah, we grew close, and I’ve grown to know him like I know myself. I can tell you, Cubby had nothing to do with the fire.”

  Manny shrugged and flipped a notebook page. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, where was he at the time of the fire?”

  “Who knows? I run the ranch: hire and fire hands, pay bills, oversee investments in the Star Dancer name. Cubby runs the horse and cow part of our operation, and I don’t see him much these days. I’m plenty busy with other things.”

  As if to punctuate her statement, Wilson Eagle Bull walked from in back of the house and smiled at Chenoa before leading more mourners around back. She caught Manny looking after Wilson. “And no matter what you think, Cubby and I both loved Sam.”

  “You’re mighty fast to bury your brother when we don’t have positive confirmation it was him in that house fire.”

  Chenoa turned to the tables and began taping plastic tablecloths down against the strong wind. “I said I loved my brother. I didn’t say I was overly upset by his death. Burning up in that house was a lot quicker death than him drowning in the bottle.”

  “That’s pretty cold.”

  Chenoa stood and faced Manny. Had another button came undone from her top, or was that Manny’s imagination? He averted his eyes while she moved food buckets back onto the tablecloth. Stalling. “Look, Sam had a chance to walk the Red Road, same as the rest of us. Instead, he chose the Black Road, drinking and wasting the life the Creator gave him. I needed his signature on most things ranch-related. It was nearly impossible to find him when he was on a bender.” Chenoa smoothed her skirt. “I know positive ID hasn’t been made yet. But it’s better to start the process to declare him dead now.”

  “What if it wasn’t Sam?”

  “Of course it was,” she snapped.

  “I don’t think so,” Manny lied. “Sam was a bona fide war hero . . .”

  “What’s that got to do with his death?”

  Manny had called the medical examiner in Billings. The autopsy wouldn’t be filed for another forty-eight hours, when Sam’s military medical records would be sent from Kansas City. Manny had a little wiggle room until Sam was identified. “His wounds.” Manny flipped pages as if he needed to refresh his memory. “He earned his last Purple Heart when he stepped on a Willie Pete,” Manny repeated what the old vet in the Four Aces had told him. “Damned booby trap shattered his leg. Left him with a unique set of breaks the ME didn’t see at autopsy.”

  Chenoa walked around the table, her face red. She stood nose-to-nose with him, her jaw tightening, pointing to the driveway leading out of the ranch. “I want you out there finding my brother’s killer instead of wasting time badgering me.”

  Manny nodded to the ranch house. Jamie and Cubby stood looking at them. “No matter how close to home it gets?”

  “I want you off my property. Now!”

  She turned and stormed into the house, slamming the door. Manny waited until she’d disappeared, waited until he was sure Jamie Hawk wasn’t rushing out of the house with bad intentions, before he turned to his car.

  “Agent Tanno.” Wilson brushed past Mary Slagy carrying pots of food to the table. Manny stopped and waited for him. “Chenoa’s understandably upset over Sam’s death. Don’t hold it against her.”

  “Then she mentioned the victim might not be him?”

  Wilson turned away.

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  Wilson adjusted his turquoise bolo tie. “How so?”

  “You and he were friends.”

  “I was just his company commander.”

  “I saw a picture of you and Sam taken when you were together in Vietnam. You looked closer than mere CO and grunt.”

  Wilson looked to a butte to the east as if gathering courage to talk about the war. “Sam was the best tunnel rat we had. Nothing scared that little bastard. I was grateful to have someone like Lance Corporal Star Dancer under me.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.” Wilson rubbed his forehead and looked to that same butte. “Sam and I got together after we’d rotated back to the world after ’Nam. In fact, he introduced me to Chenoa.”

  Manny smiled. “Sam must have been an unlikely matchmaker.”

  The hair ties bounced on his chest as Wilson turned around and sat on the hood of the Oldsmobile. “Not like that. Chenoa was involved in tribal politics, and involved in the National Congress of American Indians. I’d just been appointed Fifth Member of the Pine Ridge Tribal Council, and Chenoa thought I’d be a good contact person there.” He smiled. “Sam figured we’d get along, her fighting for the rights of her people here at Crow Agency, me on Pine Ridge.”

  “Didn’t hurt that she’s as beautiful as she is?”

  “She was married.”

  “And still is.”

  Wilson’s face flushed, and he turned away.

  “Look, Wilson, I’m not here as moral arbitrator, or to expose anyone’s indiscretions. I’m her
e to find out who killed Harlan White Bird and Sam. And to find Carson Degas for shooting Officer With Horn.”

  Wilson turned back. His brows came together and seemed to wrestle with his answer. “When I heard about your officer being shot, I asked the ranch hands what they knew. Harvey said Carson might have done the shooting, though Harvey had just a feeling.”

  “And you believe old Harv?”

  Wilson nodded. “It took a lot for Harvey to suggest Carson. Harvey knows if it got back to Carson, that his life wouldn’t be worth much. You know, the son of a bitch has been more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “I heard he had a habit of finding trouble.”

  Wilson forced a laugh. “But nothing really serious. Nothing like shooting an officer. If he did. He’d go into Gordon or Hot Springs. Pick fights with cowboys, like it was his hobby or something. He’d get locked up and me or Harv would have to bail him out. He’d be good for a while, then all of a sudden, he’d get the call of the wild and go into town again and go ape-shit again.”

  Manny flipped his notebook open. “And where can I find him?”

  “Wish I knew. I haven’t heard from him since that morning your officer was shot.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  Wilson stood from the hood of the car and brushed dust off his jeans. “He could be anywhere.” He looked out to the pasture as if Degas lay in wait there. “Wish I could be more help. I’d like to get this cleared up before the election.”

  Manny nodded, studying Wilson for any signs of deception, any facial giveaways, any micro tics. He saw none. “Let’s talk about your association with Sam a little more. I’m trying to get a handle on who he hung around with besides Harlan, who he might have talked to or seen before he died.”

  Wilson’s mouth drooped, and a sadness overcame his normally vibrant eyes. “Sam was different when he came back from the war. We saw each other less and less when I came to Crow Agency on business. Sam would drink. Raise hell. When I entered politics, I knew I had to distance myself from him. I didn’t need to be associated with a drunk and a troublemaker. As far as I know, Harlan and Itchy were his only friends.”

  Manny nodded to a yellow Cessna cabled to the ground in the flat pasture west of the house. Winds buffeted the wings with every gust and got the rudder kicking sideways. “Thought you drove here?”

  Wilson shook his head. “I got a fund-raiser in Rapid City tonight so I thought I’d better fly.” He smiled for the first time. “Helps me think, being up there alone. My vehicle of choice when I can.” He turned back to Manny. “Sam was a good friend. Once.”

  “You think it was Sam in that fire?”

  Wilson chin-pointed toward the ranch house. “Chenoa thinks it was. I got to respect her opinion.”

  Manny pocketed his notebook. “I may have more questions later.” He turned to his car when Wilson stopped him.

  “Have you got anywhere on Harlan’s murder?”

  “I can’t tell you much. It’s an open investigation.”

  “I just want to know if my horse wrangler is involved in that for certain, too.”

  Manny shrugged. “We’ll know once we find Degas and I can interview him.”

  “You mean arrest him?”

  Manny nodded.

  “Can you at least tell me if you’ve located the journal?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It must contain something important to have started these killings.”

  Manny turned and faced Wilson. “Levi Star Dancer’s journal contains some . . . interesting things.”

  Wilson’s eyes narrowed, and the veins at the side of his head started throbbing. “How could you know what the journal contains if you can’t find it?”

  “I talked with a man that read it.”

  “What man?”

  “For now, just a man.”

  Wilson moved closer to Manny, looking down on him, an imposing figure, a figure used to having his way. “What did the journal have to say?”

  “You don’t have any idea?”

  “None,” Wilson answered, but he looked away and his voice wavered. Gone was the tone and timbre of the seasoned politician, replaced by a face as devoid of emotion and flat as the scalp locks in his glass display case. He knows just what the journal contains.

  CHAPTER 29

  As Manny topped the first tall hill east of the Star Dancer Ranch, his cell phone beeped. Lumpy had left a message to call and Manny hit speed dial.

  “You took your sweet ass time getting back to me, Hotshot.”

  “Cell service is no better here than at Pine Ridge. What you got?”

  “A letter from the Marine Corps for you that came here to Pine Ridge for some ungodly reason.”

  “I figured I’d be working there more than out of the Rapid City office. Certainly more than here at Crow Agency. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Marines probably want you to enlist.” Lumpy laughed. “At your age, that’d be interesting.”

  Manny had sent a request to the Marines for service records on both Sam and Wilson. “What’s it say?”

  “How the hell should I know? I don’t open other people’s mail. Haven’t you heard, that’s a federal offense? I do that and some hotshot FBI agent will have to spend more time here than I’d like.”

  “Just open it and read it to me.”

  Lumpy swore at the other end between paper rustling. “Cut my damned thumb opening the envelope.”

  “Just man up and tell me what it says.”

  After long moments Manny was certain Lumpy had fallen asleep. “Well, what’s it say?”

  “I’m still reading.”

  “Is English your second language? Tell me what it says.”

  “Looks like Sampson Star Dancer and Wilson enlisted in the Corps a month apart in 1967, and both went to boot camp in San Diego.”

  “They would, living in the western part of the country. What else?”

  “Sam was shipped straight to ’Nam out of basic. 0311 it says.”

  Grunt. Manny found himself nodding. From what Reuben had told him, nearly every Marine coming out of boot camp went to ’Nam as infantry. Wilson had been one of those “nearlys.”

  “Wilson got selected for Officer Candidate School.”

  “And went straight to ’Nam right out of OCS I’d wager.”

  “Seems like it.” Lumpy swore into the phone again, and Manny imagined him sucking blood from his thumb. “Wilson was assigned to Sam’s rifle company right out of the chute. Looks like they served under a First Lieutenant Osmon.”

  “Any trouble with either of them?”

  More rustling. “Just one speed bump.”

  “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

  “What?”

  “Is this twenty questions? Just tell me what the hell their service records say.”

  “Okay.” Lumpy dropped something, accompanied by another round of swearing. “Here’s the skinny. This Osmon got the company shot up in some firefights. Testimony by Naval Intelligence was that Osmon was a real screwup. Had complaints up the ass from the Marines of Echo Company. Command did nothing about them. So it looks like someone solved the problem for them.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Someone fragged Osmon in the crapper.”

  “And Second Lieutenant Eagle Bull was next in line to lead the rifle company?”

  “You guessed it,” Lumpy answered.

  “Was Wilson a suspect?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Wilson and Sam corroborated each other’s whereabouts—they were in a poker game at the time. Looks like they interviewed everyone in the company, but no one knew who lobbed a fragmentation grenade into the shitter while Osmon sat reading Stars and Stripes.”

  “Killer ever caught?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “
Thanks,” Manny said, then: “Anything new on Willie?”

  Lumpy choked, and Manny imagined tears leaking from his bloodshot eyes. Just as they’d be if Manny was there with Willie all night. “They drained his lungs twice since you left. Sergeant Hollow Thunder’s guarding Willie’s room. I’m heading up to Rapid to spell him now. Good thing you took his dying declaration,” Lumpy added and disconnected.

  Manny looked at the dead cell phone for a moment before pocketing it. Had Second Lieutenant Eagle Bull fragged his own CO? Manny recalled what Emile Beauchamp said Levi Star Dancer had written about Conte Eagle Bull killing his companion. Given the history of the Eagle Bulls, it wasn’t a far stretch to imagine that Wilson had killed a fellow Marine, with the only other person knowing Wilson had lied being Sam, supposedly in a poker game with him. Dual alibis. Too pat.

  And had Sam slipped far enough that he’d stooped to blackmailing Wilson on the eve of his senatorial election? The drive to drink caused men to do some desperate things.

  As Manny’s thumb poised to hit Stumper’s speed dial, Manny prayed he’d have information that would allow him to leave Crow Agency and return to Willie’s bedside.

  CHAPTER 30

  “We found Itchy.” Stumper’s voice rose an octave. “Finally.”

  “Good. Get him ready in the interview room and I’ll be there . . .”

  “I said we found him, but the only thing he’s ready for is an autopsy. His own. We found Itchy deader’n shit.”

  Manny closed his eyes. A key witness—and the person who may have called Chenoa with the threat of the journal—was dead. “Give me the headline version.”

  “Surveillance cameras at the Little Big Horn Casino caught Itchy playing penny slots yesterday. He looked more nervous than a cat in a Chinese restaurant playing that machine, looking around constantly, like someone was after him.”

  “Sounds like the last time we spoke with him, climbing the walls, needing to score some crank.”

  “I thought of that.” Clicking in the receiver, and Manny was certain Stumper had a toothpick jammed between his teeth. “But I looked at that surveillance tape until I was blue. Itchy kept shelling in pennies, looking around like he expected someone. After about an hour of playing, he jerked around and said something to someone in back of him.”