Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  He squinted in the darkness. Tables covered with auction items blended into the darkness to become mere shapeless outlines. His legs cramped as he peeked over a table.

  Another shot, and pottery next to him shattered, shards falling down his shirt collar, cutting into his skin. He dove to the floor and scrambled away from the table. He crawled under the first row of tables and paused on the other side, rising off the floor so his heaving chest could gulp air.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he chanced a look over the table. He spotted the gun display four tables over. Manny recalled ammunition in original boxes had been set up for the sale and prayed it still worked after a century of sitting in someone’s collection.

  He ducked under the table as another round went off inside the auction barn, the sound deafening. Manny saw the muzzle flash by the EXIT sign at that last random shot, scrambling so he could reach the gun display without getting ventilated.

  He crawled under tables displaying beaded purses and possible bags, under another with saddles and tipi bags and halters, reaching the gun display as another random shot erupted. A pinging sound as the bullet went through the metal barn.

  Manny reached up and over the table, his hand falling on a revolver. He grabbed it but lost his grip, and it fell to the floor. Immediately, the attacker fired two quick rounds in Manny’s direction, hitting a beaded cradleboard. Beads flew into the air and rolled onto the floor. Manny slipped, but caught himself on the edge of the table. The shooter knew where he was.

  Manny crawled to the far end of the display as a shadow moved across the EXIT sign. Manny’s hand grasped a box of ammunition, .45-70, of the type used by Custer’s troops. He saw a row of rifles on the opposite end of the table, and he duckwalked to where the display was. His hand found the butt of a rifle. He brought it down, along with a rifle sling that clattered on the concrete floor. Another shot, this time kicking up pieces of table only inches from Manny’s face, and he sat on the floor as he fumbled opening the ammunition box. The brittle one-hundred-year-old cardboard came apart and spilled cartridges onto the floor. The shadow moved, nearer, shoes scraping on the concrete.

  Manny grabbed two rolling rounds and slid along the floor to the next table over, his eyes finding a shape closing in. He sat back against the table and cradled the Springfield in his hands. He had never fired a trapdoor Springfield before, and his hands shook. Manny imagined Custer’s soldiers loading their rifles, hands fumbling to reload, as the enemy closed in for the kill.

  He found the lever that opened the rifle’s action, exposing the rifle’s chamber. Manny felt the tip of the bullet and shoved it into the breech, the closing seeming louder than he could ever imagine, expecting another shot his way. Please Wakan Tanka, let this old rifle and ammo work just this once. I promise never to forget my gun again.

  Manny fished into his pocket and grabbed a quarter. He drew his legs under him and shouldered the rifle, tossing the coin across the other side of the room. The shooter touched off a shot. Manny estimated the flash to where he thought the shooter was and squeezed the trigger. Click. The ammunition failed, or else the rifle was too old to fire.

  Manny paused for a moment, his FBI instructors yelling at him to wait for a ten count, that it might be a hang-fire caused by moisture. But Manny didn’t have ten seconds. He opened the breech and extracted the round, thumbing another in and closing the action.

  He grabbed the bad cartridge and cocked his arm while he shouldered the rifle once more, finding the sights in the dim light. He took a breath, squatted, and tossed the round across the room. It hit the far wall a heartbeat before the shooter sent two more rounds in that direction. Manny estimated back from the half-foot flame and squeezed the trigger. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, sending him back on his haunches, black smoke engulfing him, burning his eyes and spreading a bitter taste in his mouth, powder mingled with the taste of fear.

  The shooter yelled, metal clanged to the floor, a table overturned as Manny crawled to where the ammunition box had been torn open. His hand fell on two more rounds. But he didn’t need a follow-up shot. Footsteps ran toward the exit, the shooter briefly silhouetted as the door flung open.

  Manny breathed deep, his heart just now calming enough that he could think. He waited for what seemed like an hour before he crept to the exit door and shut it. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and hit buttons with trembling hands, punching in the police dispatcher at Crow Agency.

  He sat with his back against the wall and patted his pocket. What he wouldn’t give for an old, calming friend and a Zippo lighter right about now as he waited for the cavalry. He laughed to himself: an Indian waiting for the cavalry. That was a new one. He hated to admit it, but at times like these, Clara was right: He lived for the rush that police work brought, treasured times such as these that brought him a heartbeat away from buying the farm.

  Sirens approached, growing louder, cutting off as they reached the auction barn. Manny left the rifle on the floor as he stood and opened the door, careful to keep his hands high. It would be a damned shame to survive an attack only to be smoked by a policeman who didn’t recognize him.

  Matthew Moccasin Top stood from behind his car door and turned off his spotlight. “What happened, Agent Tanno?” The BIA officer holstered his gun and walked toward him. “Dispatch said you reported a shoot-out here.”

  “I did, but the shooter fled.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Couldn’t see. But there ought to be a few slugs buried in the walls hereabouts. And I think I hit him.”

  “Or her?”

  Manny hadn’t thought of that possibility before. “Or her. Let’s see your flashlight.”

  Moccasin Top grabbed his Streamlight from his belt and handed it to Manny. Large droplets of blood tapering to witch’s tails showed the direction the shooter had run.

  “How bad do you figure he’s hit?”

  “Not bad enough,” Manny answered. “See anyone while you were driving up?”

  Moccasin Top shook his head. “A few cars on the interstate, but nothing from when I turned off to here. What we do now?”

  Manny started rolling up his sleeves as he walked toward the trunk of the police cruiser, where he knew Moccasin Top would keep an evidence kit. “Get your grubbies on. We got a crime scene to process.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Manny set his cooler with sodas, sandwich, and salad on the seat beside him as Stumper closed the door and leaned in the open window. He wiped perhaps the only clean spot on his Jeep with his shirtsleeve. “Hope this comes back in one piece.”

  “What makes you think it won’t?”

  Stumper had balked when Manny asked to use his Jeep, insisting he needed to use it to get places around the Star Dancer Ranch that his Oldsmobile just couldn’t go. He had broken Stumper’s will when he suggested Chief Deer Slayer could assign him the tedious and always boring chore of surveillance for Manny. “Besides, you got my car to use if you need it.”

  Stumper choked on his toothpick. “That old beater? The air-conditioning doesn’t work.”

  “And your Jeep does?”

  Stumper looked away.

  “You’re free to conduct the surveillance yourself.”

  Stumper fidgeted with his flayed toothpick sticking out the end of his pearlies. “Even looking for Little Dave is more interesting than parking in Star Dancer pasture. Especially when it’ll be a waste of time.”

  Manny buckled the seat belt, surprised it even worked. “If you’d look past Chenoa’s charm and chest, you might realize she was at Harlan’s shop yesterday for no good reason. I thought for sure she was there looking for the journal; now I’m not so sure. She may have been there looking for that blackmail note Itchy left for Cubby.”

  “Still a long shot connecting Wilson Eagle Bull with your shooter.”

  Manny grabbed his bandanna and wiped th
e sweat from the inside of his hatband and set his hat on the seat beside him. “Wilson’s arm wasn’t bandaged yesterday.”

  Stumper flicked the toothpick and fished into his pocket for a fresh one. “I told you when I talked with Chenoa yesterday Wilson met me at the door. I asked him how he got his arm cut, and he said on the edge of a metal table at Sam’s memorial.”

  “And you believe everything people tell you? Did you actually get a look at the arm? Talk to the ER folks?”

  “He never went to the ER.”

  “How you know?”

  “He said he hadn’t. Said it wasn’t bad enough. Besides, he had a campaign function he had to get to.” Stumper smiled. “But I did get him to commit to a DNA sample to see if it matches with the blood you found on Harlan’s floor where the shooter ran away.”

  “And when does he plan to give this sample?”

  “As soon as he returns from that fund-raiser in Rapid City.” Stumper grabbed his can of Copenhagen and stuffed his lip full. “Look, Wilson’s about as guilty of bad intentions as Chenoa . . .”

  Manny held up his hand. “I don’t want to know how she’s done so much for the Crow. Fact is, either one of them could have been my shooter last night. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that we must be getting close if someone’s coming after me.”

  “Still no reason to suspect Wilson, just ’cause he cut himself on a table.”

  Manny turned the ignition switch off and the Jeep shuddered before it coughed once and finally died. “Wilson’s got no fund-raiser in Rapid tonight. I had one of the field agents check. I want to be here when he takes off for home.”

  Stumper kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Touch base with the ME. Nail him down on the tox report on whoever burned up in Sam’s house . . .”

  “You mean Sam?”

  “I mean whoever was in that house fire. Until we get a positive ID.”

  “So between looking for runaway husbands and investigating the newest meth delivery, you want me to call the medical examiner?”

  Manny nodded. “And find out where Itchy was staying the last days of his life.”

  Stumper forced a laugh. “Great. This is a big reservation. Where the hell do I start?”

  Manny shrugged and coaxed the Jeep to life. “Find out who Itchy was getting his shit from, and you might find out who was benevolent enough to let him crash.”

  “Did it ever occur to you we may never solve Itchy’s murder? I tell you, Itchy’s a luncher.”

  Manny shook his head. The last homicide case he had to eat was Jason Red Cloud’s. He didn’t intend to ever have another luncher.

  * * *

  Stumper’s Wagoneer had no air-conditioning. For that matter, it had only one wiper that wiped, and the second gear was shelled out so Manny had to shift from first right into third. Air passed easily through the back window—knocked out two winters ago, Stumper claimed—and Manny had to roll down his side window with a pair of vise grips. But it did have a perfectly good operating four-wheel drive system, which enabled Manny to traverse deep gullies and steep rock-covered hills along the back side of the Star Dancer property.

  He came to a gate and got out. Cows thinking Manny had brought hay walked bawling toward the Jeep, and he was quick to shut the barbwire gate behind him before they could get out. He drove around the cows, across a trickle of dirty water running through a creek bed to a pasture overlooking the Star Dancer ranch house. He jockeyed the Jeep between two high buttes, and parked sideways so he could watch Wilson’s 180 Cessna. Manny shuddered: Flying worked on his gut so he could barely sit in the seat of an aircraft. He had reasoned that it was because he had no control of the outcome of the flight. On a more primitive level, though, he was just scared to fly.

  Manny took a sip of his root beer and set it on the transmission hump before he grabbed onto the vise grips and rolled his window halfway up. He opened his duffel and grabbed his window clamp and screwed it tight to the side glass. He secured his spotting scope to it and adjusted the focus. Satisfied, he settled back and took a sip of the Hires. Fizz shot up his nose and onto his cheek and he wiped his face dry with his bandanna.

  He grabbed the salad the casino had made up for him and opened the packet of dressing. He checked the label before trickling vinaigrette over his greens. Clara would be proud as he grabbed the croutons sealed in a tiny plastic bag tough enough to resist everything except a pocketknife. Which he grabbed and cut the top. It had always amazed him that croutons came in airtight packages when they were just stale bread, anyway.

  He had just readied his salad when he caught movement a half mile down, and he dipped his head to the scope. Cubby emerged from the house and walked to the plane. He opened the outdoor storage door and slipped a bag in before turning to the chains and unhooking the cable tethering the Cessna to the earth. Why was Wilson leaving Crow Agency so soon? He’d just flown in for the memorial service, and said he needed to attend a fund-raiser in Rapid City. But there was no fund-raiser.

  Wilson emerged from the house and Manny trained the scope on him. Chenoa appeared alongside Wilson, standing apart, looking after Cubby. “Did you have a lover’s spat with Chenoa?” Manny said aloud. “She’s not giving you a good-bye kiss. Or did you and Cubby get into an argument when Cubby found out?” Cubby was no fool: He would have figured out their affair long ago.

  But Cubby returned to the house and disappeared inside. He reemerged within moments with a suitcase and followed Wilson across the pasture to the airplane. Cubby started to open the door, but Wilson took his case and set it inside the plane, before turning back to him. Words between them went unheard, and Manny could only speculate what they talked about. But even as darkness camouflaged the plane and the two men below, their conversation appeared amiable, with nothing to indicate hateful words passing between them.

  Manny took his last bite of salad and washed it down with root beer as his eye strained into the spotting scope. Cubby smiled and slapped Wilson on the shoulder before turning back to the house: not exactly the image of the jealous husband. Or the grieving brother. Stumper had given Cubby the death notice, explaining how Itchy had been found shot in the back of the head and dumped under a bridge. Stumper said Cubby had taken it well, showing no surprise, even shrugging as he thanked Stumper for the message. Had Cubby already known his brother was dead?

  “That son of a bitch is colder ’n hell,” Stumper had said. “He didn’t tear up even a little bit when I told him.”

  “Some men handle grief differently.” Manny had found himself defending Cubby. Or was he teaching Stumper about investigations, teaching him about people, like he did with Willie? “Some men just don’t cry with such news.” Will I cry if Willie doesn’t pull through? Manny had been close to death his entire law enforcement career, yet he had been so distant, telling himself the murders he investigated were just a job, denying the corpses had ever lived, with family and with people that cared for them. He forced himself to work that way. For in the end, so many times he was the only one that spoke for the victims.

  He had been close to a loved one’s death only a few times. He had cried at Unc’s funeral, a grown man with shaking shoulders, and loud sobs that no one else paid any attention to at graveside. Would he handle Willie’s death like Cubby handled Itchy’s? Or would he break down in blubbering sobs? He shook his head to clear it. Me and Willie will go on that Yellowstone trip. Willie will pull through. I won’t have it otherwise.

  Movement in the fading light caught Manny’s attention and he bent to the scope. Wilson walked around his plane, checking aileron movement, rudder extension, doing his pre-flight inspection before folding himself behind the wheel of the Cessna. The motor coughed out black smoke for a moment until the prop started revving. Dust kicked back as the plane started a slow roll into the wind. Stumper had been right: This was a waste of time.r />
  He looked through the scope a final time, intending to unscrew the window mount when movement through the plane’s side window caught his eye. He adjusted the focus while he tracked the Cessna with the spotting scope. Wilson half turned in the seat, his arm resting on the seat back, his lips moving, the plane picking up speed. He talked with someone in the backseat. Someone that had hidden there while Wilson was still in the house with Chenoa and Cubby, hidden back there before Manny took up position.

  Manny scrambled to start Stumper’s Jeep, to get into a position where he could look down into the cockpit. He fumbled for the ignition key and it stuck. Manny jiggled it and it finally started, coughed, and spewed blue smoke, but Manny ran out of time: Wilson had started his takeoff roll.

  Manny broke the window mount as he jerked the spotting scope free and trained it on the aircraft. Just before it disappeared from Manny’s view, he was sure someone’s head popped up from the backseat.

  CHAPTER 33

  With the Jeep’s back window out and the passenger side window fallen down into the door, it was typical Indian air-conditioning. Manny turned onto the gravel road from the Star Dancer pasture, the Jeep kicking up dust, blowing through the windows the more he picked up speed. His eyes gritted, and he spit dust from his teeth. He wished he had brought water to clear his eyes instead of root beer, and he ran his sleeve across his eyes to clear his vision.

  When he was sure he was far enough from the ranch no one would spot him, he pulled the light switch: The beater had two headlights, even if the dimmer was inoperable. An approaching truck flicked its headlights on high, then back to dim.

  “Sorry, buddy, all’s I got is high beam.” The driver laid on the horn as he passed, and Manny was sure a finger was jutting outside as the truck went by.

  Manny dropped over the first hill away from the ranch, and he relaxed, sitting back and fumbling in the cooler for another Hires. He popped the top just as diesel smoke reached inside a heartbeat before a truck slammed into back of the Wagoneer. Root beer spilled onto his hand, instantly sticky as Manny fought the wheel.