“Ever get tired of it?”
“Every day, but then I look at my bank account and get over it.” He started on his dinner, and I let him eat for a while before I disturbed him with another question. I knew why he owned the bar, why he had gravitated to it. A sense of community. In a way, it was why we both did what we did. It was a way of looking after things, making sure everything was all right. “How is your fish?”
I guess that meant he was ready to talk. “Great, thanks.”
“Hey, they were your fish.”
“Jim Ferguson’s, to be exact.” He was like that, always making an attempt to put everyone at ease. “Roger Russell come out to the bar a lot?”
He thought about it. “No.”
“That time the other night, the only time he’s been in?”
“Yes.” His head rolled to one side, and he leaned back a little to keep his hair out of his food.
“He’s on Omar’s short list of shooters.”
He continued eating. “Who else is on the list?”
I told him, and his face carried nothing. “Comment?”
He grunted. “I am not sayin’ nothin’, shamus, till I talk to my mouthpiece.” We talked about the list for a while, his assumptions riding alongside mine. He didn’t spend enough time in town to make any real connections to the group. The only one he was interested in, for obvious reasons, was Artie Small Song. “He has worked for Omar.”
“Yep, Omar said.”
I watched the air fill his lungs and admired the way the weight of his chest didn’t force it out. I would never be built like Henry, capable of fight or flee. I was stuck with fight, but maybe I could be a little better at it. I could still feel the dull ache in my legs, and somewhere, down deep, I could feel a slight twinge at my stomach where most people had abdominal muscles. I readjusted my weight on the stool, and his eyes came up. “Artie was in the bar the day Cody Pritchard was shot.”
Shit. “At the same time, before, after?”
He nodded his head ever so slightly. “Before.”
“How much before?”
“About an hour before, left when Cody came in.”
I sat my fork and knife down, as I rapidly lost my appetite. “You see which way he went?”
“No.”
We sat for a few moments more. “I need you to tell me what you’re thinking.” He got up and walked over to the window with his hands on his hips and looked out at the wind picking up and at his car with the top down. “You want me to help you put the top up on the T-bird?”
He didn’t turn, and his voice sounded far away. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I waited for what seemed like a very long time. “You must understand that this puts me in a very uncomfortable position.”
“How about I just call Billings or Hardin?”
“How about you just put your questions in a bottle and float them up the Powder River? Same result.” I waited some more, watching him breathe.
“I’m perfectly willing to be turned down.”
“Yes, you are, and that is one of many reasons I would do it.”
“Think he’ll be cooperative?”
“No. Not if he has any suspicions.” I didn’t like using Henry like this, but I convinced myself it was for a greater good. I was sure that the same thought was going through the back of the head at which I was looking.
“Know him very well?”
“Well enough.”
I changed the subject in my usual subtle fashion. “Know of any Sharps out on the Rez?”
There was no pause. “Lonnie Little Bird has one.”
“What?”
He half turned and smiled. “Lonnie has one.”
I leaned back on my stool and crossed my arms. “You know, for a relatively rare firearm, the damn things are popping up all over the place.”
His hands gravitated forward and into his pockets. “It was given to him by my great uncle, many years ago.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“From his father, who got it from a white man.”
“Dead white man?”
“Eventually.” He was still looking at me from the side of his face.
“. 45–70?”
“Yes.” He looked back out the window, and I turned back to the counter. He could see me plain as day in the reflection of the glass. I was getting tired of looking at people’s reflections, and I was damn sure I was tired of them looking at me. “You are going to have to talk to Melissa Little Bird’s family. I will go with you.”
“I’ve got something else to show you.” I picked up the envelope from DCI, tossing it to his side of the counter. He turned and looked at me. “Yet another reason I have to go onto the reservation.” He came back and sat down, opened the cardboard envelope, and pulled out the cellophane-wrapped feather. His eyes narrowed a little, but that was all.
“Turkey.”
“How the hell could you tell that so fast?”
He laughed and looked down the length of the feather like the sight on a gun. “Bend.” He held it up straight between us. “Turkey feathers have a wicked bend to them, this one has been straightened, over-bent, then flipped over, and bent again.”
“How?”
“Household iron, light bulb, or steam, but steam is more difficult.”
“Why bother?”
“Eagle feathers are straight.” I thought about the feathers on Omar’s rifle scabbard; they were straight. “There’s also a deeper ridge on the spline. Can I open the plastic?”
“Sure, there are no fingerprints.”
He smiled again. “You are not going to use this against me later, are you?”
“Nah, I was going to get your prints off the beer bottle.”
He opened the cellophane by loosening the Scotch tape at one side. He was one of those guys who saved Christmas wrapping. He held the feather by the stem and ran his fingers up the side, the delicate quills tracing the movement between his index finger and thumb. He was looking at something, but I didn’t know what it was. “Some artisans use Minwax to get the right color. It is a much richer tint than the turkey’s. Mahogany furniture stain, with a sponge. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?”
“Cody Pritchard.”
His eyes stayed with mine. “On the body?”
“Yep, we thought it was just a leftover from one of the local critters, but…”
“Yes.” He reconsidered the feather. “Yes…”
“He didn’t have anything like this on him at the bar, did he?”
“No.” He turned the feather in his fingers, much like I had all day. “This is a good one. There are only a few individuals who could have made this.”
I nodded. “Can you get me a list?”
“I can check them myself.” He sighed and sat the feather down between us.
“You think someone is counting coup?”
He shrugged. “I am not sure if you understand the spirit of the thing. When we used to fight battles against other tribes and the army, no deed was more honored than counting coup. It means to touch an armed enemy who is still in full possession of his powers. The touch is not a blow and only serves to show the enemy your prowess-an
