“Good question. I guess this means we can keep our shingle out.”
“Yep, business is good.” I turned the feather in my hand. “All right, bearing this in mind, we’re looking at a murder.”
“Yeah.” She looked resigned.
“But we’re going to have to go back and check the feather thing with Cody’s family, friends, and such.”
“Let me guess who’s gonna have to do that.”
“I can stick the Ferg on it. His fishing career is about to get cramped.” I held the feather up between us. “This immediately points to Indian involvement.” I looked at the feather some more. “Well, on the surface of it.”
“And a fake eagle feather?”
I shrugged. “Fake Indians?”
“I’m getting confused. Running with the supposition that this is real Indian mojo…”
“Doesn’t make sense. I don’t know everything about Indian medicine, but I don’t think they tolerate this fake stuff. Not when it’s this big.”
“What is the significance of the feather?”
“Not a clue, but I know this guy…” I punched up automatic dial number two, and Henry’s number at the Pony began ringing. “How was Cheyenne?”
She took another sip of her coffee. “The wind blows, along with everything else.” Nobody answered. He was probably waiting at my house to make me run. “Nobody?”
“Otherwise engaged. I’ll get him later.” I handed the feather over to her.
“Fuck.”
“Yep. Looks like we’re gonna have to go talk to some Indians.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep.”
“What’s in the bag?”
I reached over and opened the flap of the canvas bag and tossed her a cartridge. It was as long as her index finger and about as big around. Her eyes shot to mine and then returned to the shell.
“Fuck.”
“Yep.”
I put Vic on tracking down all the Sharps buffalo rifles registered in Wyoming under curio and antique registration. It wasn’t required, but maybe they would be registered for insurance purposes. Then she was going to check all the gun shops in the area and call up the replica companies that might have sold such a weapon or ammo. I thought we might have a better shot at the ammunition but that was balanced out by the possibility that the shells were loaded by the shooter. That meant tracking down reloading dies and paraphernalia for big calibers. It was going to be a lot of work, but she smiled when I gave her the slug shot from Omar’s gun to have compared with the original. The smile faded when I told her she was going to have to go out with him for a quick spiral search of the site this afternoon. “How’s Myra these days?”
“Last word from her was that Paris, half of Omar’s money, and none of him was suiting her just fine.”
She took her empty coffee cup and started for her office. “I wish Glen was rich.”
I thought about Vic being rich. She already had the fuck-you attitude; fuck-you money might be too much. I trailed after her and asked Ruby if she’d heard anything from Ferg. “Nothing; they must still be biting.”
“I’m gonna have to drive down to the Espers.”
She paused to look at me. “Not really. I think Ferg was fishing down on the north fork of Crazy Woman; as soon as he gets on the highway he’ll get the message and head over there. It’s on the way.”
“Any Post-its?”
“Vic got them all.”
I stood there. “Any pencils need sharpening?”
“Why don’t you go talk to Ernie Brown, Man About Town? He’s called here about six times since yesterday.” She went back to her keyboard and began typing. “Maybe he’s afraid of being scooped.” I gave her a hard look as I shambled out of the office with my tail between my legs. “Should I call and tell him the great man is on his way over, seeing as how you have nothing else to do?”
I didn’t slam the door; it would have been undignified. It was still gorgeous outside, so I decided to walk over to the Durant Courant ’s office, a block down and over. That would show them.
Omar and I had had a brief conversation on the more practical aspects of what I had still hoped wasn’t a murder case. Who could do it? What were the logistics of shooting an almost. 50 caliber rifle more than five hundred yards? Omar had his own theories. “I can narrow it down to almost a dozen men who could make a shot like that on a consistent basis.”
“In county?”
“In county.” He stroked his goatee and pulled on the long hairs at the end. “Me, you, Roger Russell from down on Powder, Mike Rubin, Carroll Cooper, Dwight Johnston in Durant, Phil La Vante, Stanley Fogel, Artie Small Song out on the Rez, your pal Henry Standing Bear and…” He shrugged.
“Let’s go with the ‘and’ first?”
“A sleeper. Somebody who does this stuff, is very good at it, and who nobody knows about.”
“Let’s move on to you.”
He looked back at the pumpkin without smiling. “I’d either be a liar or a fool to tell you anything different. I’ve got the talent and the weapon, just no motive.”
“You mind if I check the ballistics on your rifle?”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
“Me.”
“Yep.”
“Roger Russell’s a shooter?”
“Yes, he is. You know that turkey shoot they have out Tipperary Road, near the Wallows?” I nodded. “He won that three years in a row.”
The last time I’d seen Roger Russell was at the Red Pony the evening of the shooting. I’d have to ask Henry if he was a regular. “Mike Rubin?”
“Best gunsmith in the state; he could do it.”
“Carroll Cooper?”
“Same as Roger, one of those reenactment crazies. Does a lot with the Little Big Horn people.”
“Dwight Johnston?”
“Drinks, but he used to be a damn good shot. He was on the NRA National Shooting Team back in the late seventies.”
“Phil La Vante is seventy-two years old.”
“That old Basquo can still shoot.”
“Stanley Fogel? The dentist?”
“He’s a shooter.”
“Artie Small Song?”
“I don’t know a lot about those guys out on the Rez, but him and Henry immediately come to mind. I like Artie, and I’ve used him to guide for me. He’s good, and the dollar dogs love Indians.”
I set my jaw. “Henry?”
“I knew that was one you didn’t want to hear, but he could most definitely do it. Jesus, Walt, the son of a bitch used to jump behind enemy lines in Laos, air extract NVA officers for interrogation. You ever stop to think how many he didn’t bring back?”
It had crossed my mind about the NVAs. “Out of this list, how many do you figure are capable of killing a man?”
He didn’t pause for a second. “Half.”
“Are we in that half?”
He looked at me. “One of us is.”
I turned the corner at the bridge, resisted the temptation of an early lunch at the Bee, and crossed the street down the hill to the little red brick building that had served the Courant since before the turn of the last century.
