“The disc jockey?”
“The bit he does for KRZZ is a second income. His Honorable Herbert His Good Horse is Audrey’s boss; nothing goes on at tribal HQ without his knowing about it.”
I raised a fist. “Stay calm, have courage-”
She smirked. “And wait for signs.”
The trees were all stunted on the highlands of the Cheyenne Reservation. After the Baby Dean fire swept across the ridges and carried sixty thousand acres of Ponderosa pine with it, the remains were sold at salvage, including the three trailer-loads of logs Henry Standing Bear brought down to my place that had built my house.
Her voice interrupted my wandering thoughts. “What I’m trying to figure out is why he didn’t respond when you and the Bear yelled?”
I found it interesting that she’d just mentioned Henry in such a personal way but decided not to remark. “He says he was drunk, woke up, and they were gone. There are more than a couple of scenarios-maybe he was passed out and didn’t hear us, another is that they did as he suspected and left.”
“How do you explain both she and Adrian falling off the cliff then?”
“They came back after Clarence drove home, or somebody brought them back.”
She shook her head. “Did you see any other tracks?”
“No, but just because I didn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
She didn’t answer.
I leaned back in the seat, determined to enjoy the ride. “Do you mind telling me who we’re going to see?”
“Fella by the name of Small Song.”
“Artie Small Song?”
She nodded. “Yeah, you know him?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He’s got the only ’71 red GMC registered on the Rez. Closest thing I could find to your Chevy.” She studied me. “How do you know him?” She watched as I pulled the Colt from my back, dropping the clip and reinserting it back in the grip. “You’re not going to shoot yourself, are you?”
I had to smile. “If it’s the only way out of this chickenshit outfit.” I holstered the Colt. “Are we going to the mother’s place or the dental hygienist he’s been shacking up with?”
She flicked some jasper shards at me. “And might I ask how it is that you are so intimate with Artie Small Song’s personal life?”
“We liked him for the Little Bird case.”
She concentrated on the road, for which I was thankful. “The only address I’ve got is the mother out on Otter Creek Road. Did you read his file?”
“I didn’t have time; why?”
I twisted my wife’s engagement ring on my little finger. “He’s what my undersheriff, Vic, would call a bad motor scooter.”
Lolo glanced at my finger. “Priors?”
I let go of the ring and draped my hand out the window. “Beaucoup, and he has a tendency to be well- armed-really, really well-armed.”
She smiled as she accelerated, slapping a hand on her overloaded holster. “Maybe you’ll be glad I’ve got this. 44 after all.”
I looked out at the burnt husks of dead trees, like black veins in the crystal-blue sky. “I doubt it.”
5
I’d been to Artie’s mother’s house before-it was up one of the fingerling canyons that ran down to Otter Creek-and it reminded me a little of the departed Geo Stewart’s junkyard back in Durant. The rusted vehicles trailed all the way down to the main road toward the more populated areas of the unincorporated Rabbit Town. I don’t know why Rabbit Town is called Rabbit Town other than there might’ve been rabbits there at one time, but I hadn’t seen any so far today.
So far, no ’71 GMC either.
The further we went up the hill, the older the cars and trucks got, and we finally parked somewhere around 1939. It was hot, but there was a trickle of smoke whispering from the tiny cabin lodged into the hillside just like there was when I had visited the winter before last.
That time, I had remained in Henry’s truck as he’d asked the old woman about her son, but this time I was there officially. I hoisted myself out of the Yukon and looked at the place, especially the windows, since Artie was known to be in possession of ballistic oddities like FAL. 308s, MAC-10s, and even an M-50-I knew because I’d been through his closet or the dental hygienist’s at least. “Hold up.”
Lolo Long, who was already winding her way toward the cabin, looked back and immediately placed a hand on her colossal sidearm.
I pointed up-the smoke was actually coming more from the back-so I took the route around the corner of the house toward the hillside. Chief Long followed as I carefully picked my way around a rotting roll of mustard-yellow carpeting and the wire remnant of a bedspring. “Do you know his mother?”
Once again, her tone was defensive. “No.”
I studied the nearest window and could see the rags stuffed around the casing, as much for insulation against the heat as the cold. “Just for the record, I don’t expect you to know everybody on the Rez.”
“Thanks.”
“Now, do you mind if I do the talking?”
She gestured an after-you-my-dear-Alphonse and brought up the rear.
There was quite an operation going on out back, where an elderly woman was scooping preburned charcoal with a number two shovel and spreading it evenly in a pit lined with heavy stones and tinfoil. Tipped to the side was a rack made from sheep wire and rebar, which held a good-sized doe elk that had been butterflied and then stretched onto the contraption.
She froze when she saw me but then rose and rested her chin on the back of her gnarled hands, her cataract-impaired eyes staying right with mine.
“Mrs. Small Song?”
She didn’t answer, but the milky eyes clicked to my right like the buttons on a rattlesnake’s tail as she took in Chief Long’s uniform.
I walked closer and pointed toward the complicated arrangement. “Open-pit elk cooking; I haven’t seen that in quite a while. My mother used to do it.” I extended a hand. “My name is-”
“I know your name, lawman.” She turned her head and shot a prodigious stream of tobacco onto one of the forty-pound rocks, where it sizzled. The old woman then glanced past as Long joined me, but then her eyes clicked back the way they had before. “Looking for my son?”
I conceded the fact. “Say, does he still have that ’71 GMC?”
She kept her gaze on me, and I was just as glad the cataracts were there to guard me against what was most certainly the evil eye. “You wanna buy a truck, lawman?”
I smiled. “Never can tell.”
She took her time before answering and poked at the coals with the wood-handled shovel, its point worn down so that it looked indented. “Got plenty out front.”
“I need one that runs.” I looked through the window as if Artie might be inside. “Is he around?”
“No.”
I nodded and kneeled down by the rocks to stick a finger into her gallon water jug of marinade, pausing to look up at her. “May I?” She nodded with a curt jutting of her chin. It tasted pretty wonderful. “Pineapple?”
“Commodity juice; all they had this month.”
I ran my tongue around my mouth as I looked at the door, propped open with a kitchen chair, and the
