way. The spiderweb wrinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes to his unreceding hairline and the trim landing strip of platinum white hair. He lacked the aesthetic of the judge; everything on him was square, even his flattop haircut, which I’m sure hadn’t changed since Roosevelt had been in office. His eyes were the darkest brown I had ever seen, the black of the pupils seemed to blend into the mahogany surrounding them. I’m sure they were swallowing the darkness outside and in. Lucian didn’t have any children of his own, and the responsibility of carrying the line into perpetuity rested solely with Turk. He was not completely satisfied with this turn of events, and the set of his jaw made that fact clear. “You wanna drink?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, after reminding me all these times, I didn’t bring anything.”
He scratched the slight stubble on his jaw with fingernails that had been cut down to the cuticles. “Well, thank Christ I don’t depend on you for much.” He pointed to the corner cupboard. “There’s a bottle of bourbon behind the star quilt on the bottom shelf.”
I got up and retrieved the bottle, Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, nothing but the finest at the Durant Home of Assisted Living. I brought the three-quarters of a bottle over. “You got any glasses?”
“What, you too good to drink out ’a the bottle?” I handed it to him and watched as he took a slug and then with a great deal of animation wiped off the mouth of the bottle with a flannel shirtsleeve I was sure hadn’t been changed in a week.
“Thanks.” I didn’t like bourbon, as a general rule, but I sure liked this. I couldn’t even describe the number of smooth buttery tastes in my mouth, but I felt like I should chew. The fire in my throat felt cleansing, like part of a scorched-earth policy.
“Jules in custody at the time?”
“Yep.”
“Gonna press charges?” I took another sip and handed the bottle back to him, unwiped.
“Mighty damn liberal with my bourbon, for a man that didn’t bring me a thing to drink this week.” I sat, and he returned to looking out the glass doors. I wondered at the vitality of the man. Aristotle said that some minds are not vases to be filled, but fires to be lit. Excluding the bourbon, Lucian had been lit for a long time, and the flying tiger’s eyes still burned very bright. “If I had two good legs, I’d go out and kick that little son of a bitch’s ass myself.” The finger pointed at me this time. “You gonna handle this yourself?”
“I suppose so.”
He settled farther back in his chair. It was starting to sound like a contract hit. He sniffed, worked his jaw a little, and took another slug. “What you want from me?”
“Formal absolution.”
He took another slug and handed the bottle back. “Damn, that stuff’s addicting. Better have another pull and put it back in there where it came from.” He burped. “Fore we get drunk as a couple ’a hooty-owls. Bastards around here’ll steal anything that ain’t nailed down… What?”
“Sheriff stuff.”
“More?”
He watched me look out the glass doors for a change. “I don’t know how much of this you want to hear about…”
“Oh, hell, I got important crafts to make out ’a tongue depressors tomorrow morning. I’m not sure if I wanna cloud my mind with a murder case.”
I turned around. “What makes you think it’s a murder case?”
“What makes you think it’s not?” I stood there looking at him. “Sit down, you’re puttin’ a crick in my neck.” I did as ordered. “Don’t look so surprised, I read the damn newspaper.”
“It could be a hunting accident, Lucian.”
He crossed his arms, concentrating. “Bullshit. Near as I can figure, there’s an awful lot of folks out there that would just as soon see that kid dead, one of ’em just decided to take the law into his own hands.” I told him about the ballistics. “Goddamn, was there anything left of the little bastard?”
“Extremities.”
“Where’d it hit him?”
“Center shot.”
“Front or back?”
“Back.”
“Not much of the front left, I suppose?”
“Nope.”
“Lead?”
“Yep. It’s pretty scattered, but everything seems to support the theory that it’s a big caliber breechloader.”
“Sharps.”
“Well, there are others…”
“Sharps.” He rested his chin in the palm of his hand, the stubby fingers wrapped around his jaw like a knuckleball. The gnarled old fingers looked like they could crack walnuts. Lucian’s grip was legendary and, if you were ever unfortunate enough to have him lay hands on you, you suddenly paid very close attention. It was fun to watch the mechanisms start up, to see Lucian’s eyes flying over Absaroka County, sweeping down from the mountains, through the gulleys, over the foothills, and into every attic, cedar chest, closet, and gun case in a hundred square miles. He added five more names to the list, none of which were Indians. I told him about the feather. “Shit. Anything else?”
“Nope.” He chewed on the inside of his mouth but, other than that, he was still. After a while, I asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinkin’ about gettin’ that bottle ’a bourbon back out.” I carefully put the little kingdoms back into their storage place in the compartment within the board. I figured we were done with chess for the night. “You still runnin’ with that Indian buddy of yours, Ladies Wear?”
“Standing Bear.”
“Yeah, him.” Lucian did things to Indian names that were nothing short of criminal. He called the Big Crows the Big Blows, and the Red Arrows were Dead Sparrows. The list was endless and, no matter how many times you corrected him, he would just smile a little smile and keep on talking. Even with all this, the Indians loved him. They respected him for his toughness and his sense of fair play. On the bridge where I had recuperated yesterday, Lucian had waged a campaign against public intoxication when he stopped his overturned bathtub of a Nash and demanded the bottle from which two middle-aged braves were drinking. They took one last sip and then tossed the container into Piney Creek. “What bottle?”
Lucian unstrapped his wooden leg at the bank, took off his hat, jumped into the creek, and a minute later came up. “This goddamned bottle.” They helped him with his leg and his hat and then cheerfully jumped in the back of the squad car for the ride into town. The Cheyenne elders were careful when they spoke his name, Nedon Nes Stigo, He Who Sheds His Leg.
Lucian knew who Henry was, and he knew his name. “He can probably help you figure out who did the feather and where on the Rez it came from. Gawd, all my contacts out there are dried up dead and traveling on the wings of the wind. But you gotta start with that girl’s family.”
“Henry is her family.”
He shook his head. “How’s Ladies Wear tied into the Thunderbirds?”
“Little Birds. Melissa’s father is Henry’s cousin.”
“So, the daughter’d be his second cousin.”
“Yep, but with the age discrepancy they just call her his niece.”
“Her father the one that lost his legs, Lonnie?”
“Diabetes.”
“Damn, that’s rough.” I looked at the one-legged man before me. “The mother was a drunk, and the kid turning out feebleminded the way she did…” The hand went back to his face, and the air that came from his lungs rattled like a snake. “Well, go talk to ol’ Ladies Wear.”
“You don’t think he’s a suspect?”
His eyes quickly looked like the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. “Do you?”
“No.”
