“You will not have flashbacks.”
“I don’t want to start going to Grateful Dead concerts.”
His eyes sharpened on mine, the twinkle there a little off-putting. “You definitely will not do that.”
I nodded.
“Unless, of course, it is something you have always wanted to do.” He lowered his hand and let it drop to the sill. “It amplifies the heart.” He reached out and thumped a curled fist into the center of my chest. “And I know this vehicle; it is a good one.”
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. “Thanks.”
“There is no guarantee that you will even be offered peyote-you may simply be there to observe.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I think there’s more to this than a simple come-to-Jesus meeting.”
The shards of obsidian glinted toward the corner of the truck, to where the medicine woman had moved off a few steps and was studying the trees the way she had before. “No doubt about it.”
“Where are you going to be?”
His eyes returned to mine. “Close.”
“Good.” I stepped back. “Don’t let me go off into the forest and follow the little animals, okay?”
He nodded and ground the starter on Rezdawg, which sputtered, coughed, and sat silent, the surrounding chirp of the crickets the only sound. “She only does this when you are around.” He patted the dash and ran his fingers through the eagle feathers along with the medicine bag that hung from the truck’s rearview mirror. I recognized the ritualized gesture. “Rezdawg knows you do not trust her.”
“She’s right.”
He hit the starter again, but this time the motor caught, fumbled a little on the lobes of her cam, and then cleared her tailpipe of a little soot and ran relatively smooth. “She feels your distrust and it causes her pain. You should apologize.”
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again-I’m not apologizing to your crappy truck.”
He jammed the aged three-quarter-ton into gear and pulled the steering wheel toward the road. “Good luck with the little animals.”
I watched as the single dim taillight with a lack of brake lights bumped down the wallowed-out dirt road and disappeared over a rise. Sighing, I stuffed my hands in my jeans and turned to look at the old woman patiently waiting for me at the trailhead. “I guess it’s time to go to church?”
She held out a hand, and I wasn’t sure if it was for her or me.
I took the hand and started up the trail with her following a little behind; she was careful to walk in my footsteps. The trail was pretty well worn and she was still holding my hand, but I was amazed at how well the old girl navigated by the stars at night. The moon remained hidden, and I was just regretting having not brought a flashlight when I felt her tug at my hand.
I stopped and leaned down. “Something?”
She nodded and gestured with her left hand toward another branch of the trail I hadn’t seen.
“That way?”
She nodded.
It was about the third time she did this that I started wishing I’d brought not only a flashlight but bread crumbs. I figured if I kept the logistics in my head, I’d be able to orient myself with two lefts, a right, and a left and still have a fighting chance of discovering the road if I had to.
We got to a flattened area in a small clearing where there was a powerful glow from a large teepee with a fire inside. It was family style, painted around the edge with a brownish reflection of the individuals ringing the inside perimeter; at the apex, where the light didn’t reach, it was dark.
Mrs. Small Song’s hand tightened in mine, and she began leading the way. In keeping with tradition, the opening of the teepee was facing east in order to welcome the rising sun, and these flaps were tied open. The old woman paused at the doorway and spoke in a strong voice to the assembled within. After a moment, a collection of voices responded and, still holding my hand, she stooped at the entrance.
I followed, ducking my head through the opening, and stood, a little hunched in line with the angle of the canvas, my hat in my hands. I glanced around at the all but three smiling faces and didn’t recognize anybody. This was rare-I usually knew a percentage of folks in any Cheyenne gathering-but I guessed that these were highly religious people and it was possible that we’d never crossed each other’s paths. Some stood and approached me, but the three ancients who did not smile stayed seated.
I finally recognized one of the participants. It was the same man who’d ushered Chief Long and me into the casino, the ex-chief of the tribal police; he patted my shoulder. “Longmire, it is wonderful to have you with us this evening.” His hand touched his chest. “Albert Black Horse.”
“Yep, I remember.”
“I am to be your sponsor tonight. Is that all right with you?”
“Um, sure.”
He misread my confusion, “You would rather have someone else?”
“No, no.” Like an idiot, I patted his arm back. “I’m happy to be sponsored by you, Mr. Black Horse.”
“Albert.”
I patted some more. “Albert.”
Others smiled as I glanced toward the three very old, very solemn men, all of them seated behind the fire and in front of a slight, crescent-shaped berm that half-circled the perimeter. “I guess not everyone is happy to have me here?”
Black Horse shook his head. “No, it isn’t that they are unhappy to see you, but they have important sacred duties. The first is the Road Man; he is responsible for making sure that nothing interferes with the ceremony and that you are well taken care of-lives are in his hands, so he must take all of this very seriously.” He gestured toward the men seated next to the Road Man, one of whom held a #6 or #7 Dutch oven with a skin stretched across the top. “This is the Drum Carrier; he is the advisor to the Road Man. The other is the Cedar Man, and it is his job to keep the air purified during the ceremony.”
Someone spoke from behind me, and there was a palpable pause and a sudden silence. I turned to see who it was that had spoken and could see another man seated by the opening who was pointing toward my back and talking rather quickly in an animated fashion. I turned to look for Artie Small Song’s mother, but she had already made herself comfortable across the perimeter.
All of a sudden, there was a great deal of discussion, and this time I was pretty sure it wasn’t pleasant. Albert’s grip tightened on my arm. “Are you wearing a weapon?”
I’d forgotten about my sidearm and was now aware of the cause of the fuss. “I am.”
“You will have to take it off; it is strictly against the rules of the church.”
“What should I do with it?”
He gestured toward the opening. “You will have to leave it outside.”
I nodded, not so pleased with the idea of just leaving the Colt out there unguarded, but not wanting to be insulting by insisting that it would be dangerous if left unprotected.
Excusing myself with a strong nod to the assembly, I stepped outside, ejected the clip and piped round and placed them in my shirt pocket, and then unbuckled my belt, slipped it through the loops, wound it around the pancake holster, and carefully put the bundle in my hat. I put the lot of it a step away from the door against the canvas and then pulled a folded handkerchief from my shirt pocket and placed it over the Walt Longmire Collection. I’m not sure why I felt compelled to cover the whole thing with what looked like a shroud, but the idea of leaving the. 45 laying there in plain sight just didn’t sit well.
When I reentered, things had calmed down.
The man who had started the discussion nodded a tight-lipped response as Albert took my arm again. “He is the Fire Chief; he and the young man next to him will tend the fire all night, keeping it strong.” He gestured toward an open spot along the wall and invited me to sit beside him. I did as instructed and watched as the conversation died away. After a few moments, the Road Man spoke to the Fire Chief, who closed the flaps.
As I sat there, the features of the old men became more recognizable to me.
I knew the man with the drum; he had been a friend of my father’s-of course much younger at the time-and the reason I remembered him was that every time he saw me as a child he had given me a shiny wheat penny. James Woodenlegs.
