Death on the Greasy Grass

PRAISE FOR

D
EATH
W
HERE THE
B
AD
R
OCKS
L
IVE

“An exciting and quirky mystery that seamlessly shifts between past and present, offering a number of finely delineated characters and a strong sense of life on the reservations and the beauties of a hostile land.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Manny Tanno is not your typical hero. He's a horrible driver, doesn't like to rush into a gunfight, suffers from diabetes, isn't the stud in the barn he used to be, and doesn't have all the answers. I can't tell you how refreshing this is. He's an imperfectly perfect hero . . .
Death Where the Bad Rocks Live
isn't simply about murder but about reconnecting with the past, with ourselves, and protecting what is ours. Perfectly paced, intricately woven, and fascinating are just three phrases that come to mind for the second book in the Spirit Road Mystery series. Truly worth reading.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“The investigation is engaging and the locale symbolically fascinating.”

—
Genre Go Round Reviews

D
EATH
A
LONG
THE
S
PIRIT
R
OAD

“A mystery novel that grabs you by the lapels and refuses to let go . . . This is storytelling at its best and C. M. Wendelboe is a new author to watch.”

—Margaret Coel,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Perfect Suspect

“The pacing of the novel . . . is distinctly native, something I haven't read since the departure of the old master, Tony Hillerman.”

—Craig Johnson,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Hell Is Empty

Berkley Prime Crime titles by C. M. Wendelboe

DEATH ALONG THE SPIRIT ROAD

DEATH WHERE THE BAD ROCKS LIVE

DEATH ON THE GREASY GRASS

DEATH ON THE GREASY GRASS

C. M. WENDELBOE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2013 by Curt Wendelboe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-1-101-59915-0

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wendelboe, C. M.

Death on the greasy grass / C.M. Wendelboe.—Berkley prime crime trade paperback ed.

pages cm.

ISBN 978-0-425-26325-9

1. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Officials and employees—Fiction. 2. Indian reservations—South Dakota—Fiction. 3. Dakota Indians—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3623.E53D43 2013

813'.6—dc23

2013007213

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / June 2013

Cover illustration by Richard Tuschman.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my editor, Tom Colgan, and agent, Bill Contardi, for their continued patience; Craig and Judy Johnson for always being there with answers to my oddball questions; the staff at Little Big Horn College at Crow Agency for their generosity in allowing me research time and materials; Crow Agency police officer Neil White Hip and Oglala Sioux Tribal police officer Derek Puckett for their local insights; Montana State DCI Agent Klostermeier, Kevin Klostermeier, who likes his lattes stirred, not shaken; Campbell County (Wyoming) coroner Ton Eekhoff for happily confirming my worst fears; Steve Hamilton for his killer logo; Doris Rogers for her constant encouragement; my wife, Heather, whose proverbial red pen and tech support made it possible to write another mystery; and all the readers who keep returning for more guidance along the
Wanagi Tacanku,
the Spirit Road.

The Crow country is a good country. The Great Spirit has put it exactly in the right place: while you are in it you fare well; whenever you go out of it, whichever way you travel you fare worse.

Arapooash
(Sore Belly),

Apsa'alooke Chief, c.1830

C
HAPTER
1

JUNE 25, PRESENT

Sun-bleached wood creaked under Willie With Horn's weight as he made his way up past others who were sitting in the stands waiting for the Real Bird Little Big Horn Reenactment to begin. He took the steps two at a time, balancing an iced soda in each hand, careful not to spill any on other spectators. He dropped beside Manny Tanno in the top row and handed him a Pepsi.

Manny pressed the cold cup against his forehead. He was sweating but not nearly as badly as Willie was in the broiling afternoon heat. He took a bandanna out of his back pocket and dried the sweatband of his Stetson before placing it on an empty space beside him.

“You should have listened to me and dressed for the weather.” Manny sipped lightly, careful not to drip any on the camera dangling from the strap around his neck. “Don't see me sweating my nuts off, do you?”

Willie laughed.

“What?”

“Don't see me sitting around looking like some damned tourist.”

“We can't be tourists: We're Indians.”

“No? Just look at you.” Willie exaggerated looking Manny up and down.

“What?”

“An FBI agent should have some dignity. Especially one as mature as you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“For a man your age, you look silly. Just silly. And half the people here must think so, too, the way they're gawking at you.”

A ten-year-old boy in the row below had turned in his seat and stared slack-jawed at Manny. An elderly couple several feet over and a row down gave Manny the once-over, as did another couple huddled together on the other side of Willie. Their heads snapped around when Manny caught them gawking. “I don't see a thing wrong with how I look.”

Willie shook his head. “For starters, no one else in Garryowen, Montana, would be wearing a damned Hawaiian shirt. For another thing, your scrawny legs jutting out of those baggy shorts make you look like you're riding a chicken. And it wouldn't hurt to lose that Kodak relic hanging around your neck.”

Manny sipped his soda. “I don't care what people think. I'm on vacation.”

“Don't get me started on that again.” Willie's face turned a darker shade. “I can think of a dozen other places we could have gone on vacation. We could have driven through Yellowstone. Or hiked up to the Medicine Wheel like I always wanted. Maybe gone rafting Sharpnose or Washakie Falls in the Wind River. But no, you had to drag me up here to Crow Agency.”

The boy a row down sat backward staring at Manny. Manny scowled back at him, and he turned back and retreated to the safety of his mother's ample arms. “But this is history.”

“I can read about history. What I can't read about is what's it like to have a grizzly nipping at my butt in Yellowstone.”

“Just be grateful we can be here,” Manny said. “Wasn't too many generations ago we wouldn't be welcome on Crow land, let alone see Lakota involved in the reenactment.”

As if to punctuate Manny's speech, men dressed in cavalry uniforms, sitting astride equally uniform brown horses, trotted onto that patch of ground between the bleachers and the river where the action was to play out. A gelding toward the front thrust snapping jaws at a mare beside him, the rider jerking the reins, the horse rearing for a momentary protest before settling down.

The announcer emerged from behind the bleachers, tapping the PA mic as he walked. The boy in front of Manny clapped his hands over his ears against the feedback, then the noise was gone, replaced by the soft voice of the MC. He waved his hat toward the far end of the field. A dapper cavalry officer, sitting tall wearing a gray fringed jacket, rode parallel to the bleachers, leading thirty cavalry officers past the spectators. The MC introduced Steve Alexander in the role of Custer. Manny joined the crowd clapping and Willie elbowed him. “You're supposed to root for the Indians.”

“I'm on vacation. I'll root for whoever I want.”

Alexander, the announcer continued, had been playing Colonel Custer at the Real Bird reenactment for twelve years, and the crowd clapped again. Alexander took off his hat and bowed for the crowd, his long, blowing blond hair slapping his horse's face. He put his hat back on and led the troopers off the field.

“Where's us Indians?” Willie asked.

Manny jerked his thumb behind them, and turned in his seat. On a field behind the bleachers, Indians in various costumes assembled. Some wore only loincloths barely covering muscular legs, while others wore full leggings adorned with geometric designs and beaded bottoms. Red and yellow and blue face paint contrasted with the dark skin of the Indians.

Where the cavalry horses were uniformly plain, the Indians' horses showed off their own unique prairie palette of colors that matched the style of their riders. Black and yellow lightning bolts were hand painted in descending strikes along the flank of one horse, yellow and red dappled another's neck, black paint circled another's eyes, blue streaks on yet another's rump faded to white all the way to the tail tied tight with red and yellow dyed leather.

“The cavalry used .45-55s back then.”

A voice behind the bleachers boomed over the announcer. A cavalry reenactor stood in front of a trooper's half-tent in back of the bleachers, cradling a Springfield rifle in his arms. The gun's muzzle carelessly covered a half dozen people gathered in front of the man. Yellow ribbon sticking out of the rifle's action added color to the man's talk. The soldier, wearing sergeant stripes on his muslin sleeves and leather suspenders tight over a bulging stomach, twirled a long white handlebar mustache. “Yeah, fifty-five grains of black powder in these babies could shoot an Indian from his horse at five hundred yards. In the hands of the right man.”

“And if you were that man . . .” A teen in short shorts winked and let her comment dangle.

The sergeant looked around, took a nip from a hip flask, and quickly hid it. “If it were me, those Indians wouldn't have made it as close as Custer let them.” His eyes locked on Manny's and he quickly turned away. Even dressed in his disguise of Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, Manny looked Lakota. “That's why I'm supposed to shoot one of the chiefs first.”

“Which chief?” a man nibbling on a corn dog asked. He wiped mustard with the back of his hand onto his trousers, to match the dried mustard dotting the front of his B
ILLINGS OR
B
UST
T-shirt. “Looks to me like there's more chiefs than there are Indians.”

The sergeant began laughing, but stopped abruptly as he glanced up at Manny. “Why, the same chief as every year: the one with the yellow face paint, riding a gray pony with blue lightning bolts on its neck. Soon as I shoot, he feigns being hit and slumps in the saddle. That's the cue for the other Indians to come riding down on us, toward the river.”

The sergeant leaned his rifle against a tent pole and excused himself. “Got to see a man about a horse,” he told his impromptu audience as he began unbuttoning his suspenders while he made his way to a blue Porta-Potty. “Just sit in the bleachers and enjoy the show,” he called over his shoulder.

Manny turned back to Willie. “Last call before the show starts. Sure you don't need to go to the crapper?”

“Quite sure.”

“Hate to have you miss any of it 'cause you had to run to the big-hole potty.”

Willie shook his head. “My bladder's quite healthy. You just want me to fight my way through all these people to get you another soda.”

Manny drew back. “I'm ashamed of you, thinking that.” He held his cool soda to his forehead. “I'm good here. But if you're going to get yourself another pop, grab me an Indian taco. Light on the hot sauce, please.”

Willie sighed and stood, excusing himself as he stepped down each flight of bleachers on his way to the taco stand.

Manny turned in his seat. The fifty or sixty mounted Indians had assembled on the field behind the bleachers, and they trotted toward the field in front, which only a few moments before had been occupied by the soldiers.

More feedback, more squealing that caused the boy in front of Manny to cover his ears again. As he had with the cavalry, the announcer introduced those who would play the Lakota. Manny recognized the names his uncle Marion had held up to a growing boy as true heroes: the Minneconjou warriors, Flying By and White Bull; the Oglala warrior, Low Dog; and the Cheyenne warriors, Wooden Leg and Two Moon. Out of respect for the memory of their greatest warrior, the MC didn't introduce Crazy Horse, for no one in this reenactment could have played him, a warrior like no other, a warrior who had never even sat for a photo.

The rest of the Indians were represented by teens, some younger boys, from Crow Agency, sitting on their horses as if they were born together. The ponies shook and their sleek muscles twitched, not from the heat or from the proximity of other animals, but from a desire for the action to begin. Like their riders. Muscles tensed as reenactors kept their horses in line with just the pressure of their knees, with a loving pat on the neck, with a special word whispered into an ear. Manny marveled at the control the boys exerted over their horses, recalling a time in his life when he'd held such power over a pony. A time when Unc showed him the old ways, which included the time-honored talent for riding bareback.

The announcer's voice abruptly fell silent, and he tapped the microphone. He motioned to a kid who was sitting beside singers with drumsticks who were poised around a drum. The boy ran out onto the field in front of the bleachers and began chasing speaker wires to find the open line.

Manny set his soda beside him and grabbed the camera from around his neck. He saw the Indians ready to ride after the cavalry, and looked around for the chief with the dubious honor of being the first to get shot to start the reenactment. Manny spotted the chief with half his face painted yellow, sitting on a gray gelding with blue lightning bolts painted on its neck. He was looking toward the bleachers, towering above smaller warriors. He was older by far than the others, and his gray was bigger than the other horses to support the man's bulk. His belly hung over his fringed trousers, and his man-boobs jiggled as he fought to control his horse. He picked at the face paint streaked with sweat.

“See, I told you: you look like a damned tourist, taking pictures like you never saw Indians before.” Willie handed Manny the Indian taco. “Satisfied?”

Manny nibbled at it. “Could have used more salsa.”

Willie began to argue when the announcer's voice once again boomed loud over the speakers. He started telling the story of Lewis and Clark as two men in buckskins walked onto the field in front of the bleachers. Two Crow Indians in full regalia, feathers flicking the wind, joined the buckskins from the opposite side of the field.

The mock meeting between the Indians and the adventurers over, the MC continued to explain to the crowd the Treaty of Fort Laramie in 1851, and how it contributed to the Great Sioux War and later the destruction of most of Custer's 7th Cavalry.

“When does the action start?”

“Shush!” Manny wiped taco meat from the corner of his mouth.

The announcer finished with treaties made, treaties broken. He stood for a moment in silence, before turning to an American flag waving beside the drummers. “Our National Anthem,” he proclaimed, and everyone in the bleachers rose, the sudden shifting weight making the old wood groan. After the National Anthem was finished, the MC spoke into the mike. “Now, the Crow Nation Anthem”—he smiled—“the good guys.”

The singers' voices began high at first then dipped low, in tune with the drum, the heartbeat of Indian Nations. The singers seated around the drum struck with precision, eagle feathers tied to drumsticks, bouncing hair falling in eyes. Their beat reminded Manny of polka music and in some deep way, he was certain that was why he liked that music so much. Thum. Thump. Thum. Thump. Manny found himself tapping the bleachers with his shoe, much as he had done that first time he heard the beat, that first time as a boy when he had fallen in love with the music.

The song over, the MC donned his Stetson. “I give you the 7th Cavalry,” he said, and stepped off the field.

“Now we'll see something.” Manny took the dustcover off the camera lens as he waited for the show to begin. Two abreast, the cavalry soldiers trotted onto the field. The sergeant with the loud mouth and empty whiskey flask rode at the front. They unsheathed rifles as they rode, took Remington and Colt pistols from holsters, waiting for the charge of their sworn enemy.

Loud whooping and hollering accompanied the Indian with the yellow face paint. He kicked his horse and rode full gallop toward the troopers. The sergeant dragged out his role, carefully taking aim at the chief, waiting until he'd ridden close before firing. Even though Manny knew the round was stage ammunition, he jumped just as he got off his own shot with his Kodak.