Death on the Greasy Grass (21 page)

“Of course.” Manny met Doreen's glare for a brief moment before he turned back to Willie a last time before leaving. His coughing had stopped and he lay motionless on the pillow, eyes closed, breaths little more than shallow gasps.

The beeping of the monitor went steady, and the nurse yelled “Code Blue.” She pushed Manny and Doreen out the door and out of the way of the Code Team rushing inside pushing a medical cart.

Manny stared after the closed door until Clara took hold of his arm and led him toward the waiting room.

* * *

“If—and this is a big if,” Clara said, “if Willie pulls through this, Doreen is resigned to stick with her man.”

Manny dried his face and neck with his snotty bandanna. He stuck it in his overnight bag and grabbed a fresh one. The Code Team had kick-started Willie's heart that stopped just now. They were uncertain if they could do it again. “Doreen will stay with him even if Willie remains with the tribal police? Why didn't she tell Willie that while he could understand her?”

Clara shrugged and sipped her tea. “She's not any happier with his choice of profession than I am with yours, but at least she realizes that Willie can't get police work out of his blood.”

“So she didn't suggest he take a job as a funeral director?”

Clara laughed and scooted closer to Manny on the couch. “No. But I convinced her when Willie pulls through this to sit down and talk every night with him. Like we should be doing.”

“About what?”

She elbowed him and massaged her ring finger. “About the wedding. Or did you forget so soon?”

Manny forced a smile. He had found scarce little to smile about lately. He zipped his overnight bag shut. “How can I forget that?”

He kissed Clara as he started out the door for the airport, making a mental note to have Lumpy call regional hospitals for anyone matching Degas's description coming in with a broken jaw. And for Lumpy to hunt up Cubby Iron Cloud if he's still on Pine Ridge.

C
HAPTER
27

Even before the charter plane's prop stopped washing hot air over the Beechcraft, Stumper LaPierre was running across the Billings Airport tarmac. He held his cowboy hat on as he grabbed Manny's bag with his other hand. “In answer to your question, we found Cubby. But he's not under arrest.”

Stumper had called Manny while the plane was still in the air to tell him he'd located Cubby and was bringing him in for another interview. “But you know where we can put the grab on him?”

Stumper nodded. “He came into the police department on his own. He's waiting for your bright smile.”

“Is he still going to be there when we arrive?”

Stumper shrugged. “Let's hope so.”

On the drive to Crow Agency, Manny filled Stumper in about the shooting and about Willie's condition. “Willie said he landed a right flush on Degas's jaw. As strong as Willie was . . .” Manny caught himself. “As strong as he is, we put a BOLO out at hospitals for someone coming in looking like a range bull had just kicked the shit out of him.”

“What's the odds that Degas will learn that Willie's still alive? What if he makes an appearance to Rapid City Regional to finish what he started?”

“I thought of that, too. Lumpy's making arrangements for round-the-clock protection, in case Degas comes visiting.”

“Thought he wouldn't help?”

Manny wanted to say something sarcastic about Lumpy. But all he had was gratitude for him making arrangements to protect Willie. “He got volunteers to stand watch at Willie's door. On the sly. If the tribal council found out Lumpy disobeyed orders, it'd be Katy bar the door.”

“I hear you there,” Stumper said as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. “You got Wilson Eagle Bull there, I got Chenoa Iron Cloud making things miserable here at Crow Agency.”

“And tell me you've found Itchy.”

Stumper shook his head. He steered with his elbows as he stuffed his lip with Copenhagen. “Not yet.”

“You know how important he may be?” Manny snapped. “Itchy's bound to know something about Degas, hanging around with Sam and Harlan like he did.”

Stumper threw up his hands. “Give me a damned break. Della Night Tail's been on my ass about Dave ‘teepee-creeping' again. She pitched a bitch to Chief Deer Slayer, and I had to put another meth search warrant on the back burner while I looked for him.” Stumper glared at Manny. “I'm doing the best I can.”

Many sat back in the seat and rubbed his eyes, convinced Stumper was doing all he could with the time he had. “I apologize. I know you're doing what you can to find Itchy.”

Stumper looked sideways at Manny and smiled. “That an official apology?”

“Don't push your luck,” Manny answered. “It's the only one you're going to get today.” Thinking of Willie's condition lying in ICU had clouded Manny's rational thinking, a cloud he didn't need right now if he wanted to find Willie's shooter.

They pulled into the justice building at Crow Agency. Cubby's shiny bright red Lincoln truck waited in front. Stumper led Manny past the dispatch and into the interview room. He put up the I
NTERVIEW IN
P
ROGRESS
sign outside both doors and shut them.

Cubby sat with his ostrich boots propped up on the table, Stetson pushed back on his head, cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Manny eyed the smoke. “Put it out, please.”

Cubby smiled. “I talk better with a smoke.”

“It's just that I quit last year and would love to start again. Better to get rid of the temptation.”

Cubby eyed him suspiciously, but he came up with no argument for Manny. He took a last drag and dropped it into a Pepsi can. “Stumper tells me you want to find out my relation with Carson Degas?”

Manny nodded and grabbed his pocket notebook as if he intended referring to nonexistent notes. It had been three hours since Stumper called and said he'd located Cubby, three hours that he'd had to anticipate questions and formulate lies. Manny had had the three hours flight time to rehearse what he intended asking Cubby. A draw. “Where do you know Degas from?”

“The ranch, of course. He's one hell of a horse wrangler. Knows horseflesh better than anyone I've worked with.” When Manny said nothing, Cubby continued. “We swap stud service. He brings his studs up here, or we ship to Pine Ridge.”

“And what do you swap?”

“You've never worked a ranch, have you?”

“I have.” Growing up, he had hired out to ranches skirting the Badlands, haying, branding, everything else a laborer does on a working cattle ranch. “But I'm not intimate with stud service.”

Cubby chuckled. “Then you got to take some Viagra or something.” When Manny and Stumper failed to laugh, Cubby continued. “We've got four champion Black White-Faced bulls that the Eagle Bull Ranch uses in stud, and he has registered Appaloosa and paint stallions we use. Makes for a handy swap.”

“So you spend a good deal of time with Degas?”

Cubby paused, sensing a trap yet not sure how Manny would spring it. “I do, but it's strictly business.”

“Shooting a policeman business?”

Cubby shook his head. “I heard about that two nights ago. Damned shame.”

“Who'd you hear about the shooting from? Degas?”

Cubby paused, one foot tapping the floor, eyes darting to the door. “I didn't see Carson two nights ago. I stayed at Wilson's that night. First I knew a cop had been ventilated down the road is when Harvey came into the bunkhouse and told me. Damned shame he's going to die.”

“He's not.” Manny hoped he sounded convincing, as he wasn't certain himself if Willie would pull through. “The tribal policeman—Officer With Horn—is recovering fine.”

Cubby sat silent for long moments, looking at the floor. He rubbed his palms against his jeans and started to grab a smoke from his pocket when he put the pack back. “He's going to pull through? That's great.”

Manny nodded. “He recalls a fight with Degas, and Degas shooting him.”

“A shame,” Cubby repeated, avoiding looking at either Manny or Stumper.

“And he remembers you riding with Degas an hour before he was shot.”

Cubby looked to Stumper.

“Maybe you went back to the bunkhouse when Degas turned around on the road,” Manny pressed. “Maybe you convinced the other ranch hands to stay away from where you knew Degas intended stopping Willie.”

Cubby stood, knocking his chair over as he started for the door. “I'm outta here. Last thing I need is to be accused of helping someone shoot a cop.”

Cubby started for the door, but Stumper moved to block it. Cubby glared at him, spittle flying out of his mouth, fists clenching. “Get outta my way if you want to keep your job!”

Manny stood. “Sit back down.”

Cubby started around Stumper. Although Cubby had him by fifty pounds, the smaller man grabbed Cubby's shirtfront and spun him around. He shoved him into a chair and stood over him.

“I'll make a call to the tribal chairwoman and you can kiss your job good-bye, little man.”

Stumper smiled down at him. “My job is the only thing that prevents me from stomping your fat ass. Now, you get me fired, and I got no reason for restraint. No reason not to wait for you some dark night when you least expect it.”

Manny leaned over the conference table. “And if I add accessory to attempted homicide, Cubby, you'll be looking over your shoulder every time you go to the prison shower room.”

Cubby's lips quivered, and his foot tapped incessantly. He looked first to Manny, then to Stumper, rubbing his hands together. “I told you guys all I know about the shooting. I didn't know he'd shot your officer.”

“But you were with him that morning. At about the time of the shooting.”

Cubby nodded. “I jumped in when he said he was driving into Pine Ridge to mail a package, but he forgot it. He turned and dropped me off at the bunkhouse while he grabbed the package. He was gone by the time I was done.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Four beers.”

“How long's that?”

Cubby shrugged. “As long as it took me to knock back four cold ones from the cooler he always keeps in the bunkhouse. When he came back, we took off for Gordon and some serious drinking.”

Stumper nodded. “You must have heard gunshots? Willie was shot”—he turned to Manny—“a half mile from there?”

Manny nodded.

Cubby shook his head. “Wilson's bunkhouse has been standing for a hundred years. It's built like a fortress. I wouldn't have heard the shots if it had been outside the front door.”

“Why Gordon?” Manny asked.

Cubby shrugged. “Closest place to drink.”

“But if you had beer in the cooler, why go to Gordon?”

Cubby looked away.

“Why!” Manny said, pulling up a chair and sitting nearly on top of Cubby. “I'll find out with a few phone calls. Now, why Gordon, or do we hook you up as an accessory?”

Cubby slumped in his chair. “When he came back, his jaw looked like hell, all swollen. He could barely talk. Said after he came back from the post office he was leading a mare into another pasture before we lit out, and she kicked him in the jaw. Looked like it was broke, so I drove him to the ER in Gordon.”

Stumper came off the wall and leaned over, close to Cubby. “Didn't that seem odd—driving to Nebraska when Pine Ridge and Hot Springs hospitals are closer?”

Cubby shrugged. “All I know is he needed a little TLC from the ER in Gordon, and a little CLC from the bar afterward.”

C
HAPTER
28

Manny herded the Oldsmobile down the long driveway behind a stream of cars on their way to Sampson's memorial service. He wished he had gotten the air conditioner fixed, and rolled the window up against the dust settling inside the car. He swiped at the sweat running down his forehead stinging his eyes, obscuring his vision as he parked beside a line of other cars and walked toward the ranch house. Chenoa stood bent over tables as she arranged buckets of food for the mourners. Jamie Hawk walked behind her easily carrying two twenty-gallon water bottles in each hand. He glared at Manny as he set the bottles on the table. He bent and whispered to Chenoa. She nodded, and the big man disappeared into the house. She stood and smoothed her dress as she waited for Manny to approach.

“Your brother must have had a lot of friends.” Manny jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the cars lining both sides of the driveway, at elders painfully and slowly climbing out of cars, at kids bounding ahead of their parents, all here to send Sampson Star Dancer off. They milled around the porch, waiting for direction, when Wilson Eagle Bull emerged from the house. His gaze fell on Manny for a brief moment before turning to the crowd, his arms crossed, looking down as if he were going to give a campaign speech. Beaded lizard hair ties held his salt-and-pepper hair that lay on his chest. A bone choker of red and white and black dyed porcupine quills circled his thick neck and set off his starched pleated pearl shirt. He turned to the crowd and led them around back of the house to the Star Dancer family cemetery like a Pied Piper of the dead.

“You here for the funeral?” Chenoa was dressed more for a Montana Tourism shoot than her brother's funeral. Beaded geometric designs adorned her muslin dress, and her multicolored flared top was open to reveal more cleavage than a mourner should be allowed. Manny looked away as she bent over the table arranging food bowls. A shallow breath of wind caught her cologne and drifted past Manny. He swallowed, fighting urges that, as he approached middle age, still ran strong. Feelings earmarked for Clara.

“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 here 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.”