little green men had deposited the eight boxes of Hot Pockets in his freezer, I was going to agree. “I feel sorry for him when he drives all the way up the driveway.” I nodded as he continued. “We have good talks; he is from Kentucky.” I nodded some more.
It was a little single-level ranch house that must have been built in the fifties, and the only things that kept me from thinking I was on one of those family sitcoms from the period was the amount of Indian art and craft that decorated it and the concrete ramps that led up to the doors of the spotless house. Lonnie Little Bird was on a campaign to get his daughter back from that gaggle of aunts in closer to town. This campaign meant Lonnie didn’t drink, Lonnie didn’t smoke, and Lonnie didn’t use the Lord’s name in vain, at least when any of the aunts were in earshot. There was Barq’s root beer in the refrigerator beside the pickled pig’s feet, and that’s what we were drinking. I finished off the end of my two sandwiches. “When did Artie sell that rifle, Lonnie?”
“Mm, hmm. About a year ago. He sold that gun to that Buffalo Bill Museum over in Cody. Yes. It was winter, and he needed the money.” He took a swig of his root beer and studied the Formica for a moment. “Not everybody has a nice house like mine…” His eyes glanced furtively at Henry. I got the feeling Lonnie liked secrets. A moment passed. “Sheriff?”
“Yep, Lonnie.”
“Do you think that Artie did this thing to this boy?”
I picked up the root beer can and looked at it; as near as I could figure it had been about twenty years since I had tasted the stuff. “Well, I’m just checking everything out, everything and everybody.”
He smiled. “Mm, hmm. Am I being checked out also?”
I looked at the little spark behind the glasses and wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that without any legs he was kind of low on our list of suspects. “Just following up on all the leads, Lonnie.”
He continued to smile but looked over to Henry and said a few short words in Cheyenne. Henry glanced at me, then back to his cousin, and then got up and walked out, turning the corner at the hallway. My eyes returned to Lonnie with a question, but he only sat there looking back through glasses so thick you could see little rainbows at the edges. After a moment or two I heard Henry returning down the hallway, his boots padding softly on the wall- to-wall carpeting. When he turned the corner again, he was carrying an old leather rifle scabbard with the straps you attach to a saddle hanging down, unbuckled. Due to my recent course of study, I recognized the Sharps butt plate that stuck out the end. When he got to the counter, he handed the weapon to me. I looked up at Lonnie, who gestured for me to take out the buffalo gun.
I carefully slid the rifle from its wool-lined sheath and rested the butt on my knee, and it was the most beautiful gun I had ever seen. It wasn’t in as good shape as Omar’s, there were scratches along the stock and the part of the foregrip that was wood, but each scar had been lovingly poulticed with oil and polished to a gleaming sheen. The metal had not been so lucky. Someone had taken steel wool to it at some point, and the ruddy sepia tone of its original color only showed in small creases; the rest was ghostly silver. There was a simple cross of brass tacks in the stock, the pattern a great deal like the one on the side of Red Road Contracting’s truck, and ten distinct notches along the top ridge of the stock. The foregrip had three red-wool trading-cloth wraps ornamented with quillwork and with smaller feathers than I had seen on the scabbard of Omar’s gun or, lately, in plastic bags. I touched the feathers and looked at Henry. “Owl.” Messenger from the world of the dead indeed.
I turned the rifle around and looked at the magnificent pattern beaded underneath. Lonnie looked at me through the magnifying glasses. “Mm, hmm. The pattern is called Dead Man’s Body. Yes, it is so.”
8
On the afternoon of June 25, 1876, as the heat waves rolled from the buffalo grass, giving the impression of a breeze that did not exist, Colonel George Armstrong Custer and five companies of the Seventh Cavalry rode into the valley of the Little Big Horn. Also that afternoon, Davey Force, a pitcher for the Philadelphia Athletics, went six for six against Chicago, who scored four runs in the ninth to pull out a 14 to 13 victory. Custer was not so lucky.
The report of the Secretary of War states that the five companies had 405 Springfield carbines caliber. 45, along with their single action 396 Colt revolvers caliber. 45. What the Seventh Cavalry contingency did not carry were any Sharps. When the fight began, only about half the Indians had guns, and they were a varied sort: muzzleloaders, Spencer carbines, old-fashioned Henry rifles, and an unspecified number of Sharps. The army didn’t stand much of a chance, trapped on that beautiful hillside, with no reinforcements coming. I thought about how those gentle slopes smelled and sounded on a glorious summer day, about how they might have smelled and sounded that June day in 1876. I also thought about the pumpkin that had exploded from a very long distance in Omar’s back pasture.
When Little Wolf led a straggling band of thirty-three Northern Cheyenne warriors into surrender two and a half years later on March 25, 1879, they handed in twenty assorted rifles and carbines, of which the majority were Sharps, numbering nine. I held in my hands the tenth. “So, your great-great-grandfather didn’t surrender his?”
He continued to look out the windshield as he drove. “I guess he did not completely trust the white man. Go figure.”
I looked down at the rifle, the butt resting on the toe of my boot; I didn’t want the truck to touch it. “Do these ten little notches along the ridge here mean what I think they mean?”
“Another potato digger bites the dust.” He slowed as a mule deer darted across the road a couple of hundred yards ahead and, sure as anything, another followed. “No, it stands for the tenth rifle. It was so they could tell them apart.” He saw me looking at all the beads, feathers, and silver tacks. “All that was put on later.”
The Cheyenne got their weapons by trading or capture; I didn’t ask how they got this lot of ten. “Okay, so your great great grandfather surrenders in 1879 but hides this ol’ boy out on the range?”
“Wrapped up in two inches of bear grease.”
“When did they get out?”
“As near as I can tell, we never have.”
I raised an eyebrow. “When did the soldiers let him go?”
“About six months later; winter was coming on, and they did not want to have to feed them.”
“He went back and got it six months later?”
“Yes.” He smiled to himself. “We were tough, in the day.”
I looked at the gun again. “Any idea when it was last shot?”
The smile played out thinly on his lips. “Friday of last week?”
“Very funny. How come your cousin has it?”
“It is in the family; that is all that matters. No one in the family has personal ownership, but I doubt anybody would argue if I claimed it.”
I thought of the T-bird. “Like Lola?”
“Like Lola.” He smiled to himself some more. “Anyway, it is haunted.”
As it grew darker, the soft Wyoming sky drifted into night. I pulled out my watch to see what time it was: 5:30. I still had time to go home and take a shower and get the truck off of me. I was looking forward to being with Vonnie, with somebody who didn’t have any connection with the case.
When we picked up the wine at the Pony, he left the truck running. Dena Many Camps came out to talk with me while Henry rummaged through the wine coolers. She tended bar for Henry when he wasn’t there, was one of Henry’s proteges in billiards, and was a good friend of Cady’s, although she was about four years older. You would be hard pressed to find a better-looking woman. She walked with a wicked grace, like a panther with a pool cue. “What’re you doing, Trouble?” She always called me Trouble, even though I’m sure she had caused more than I ever would.
“Well, if it isn’t what makes the Badlands look good.” She wrote poetry and had been offered a scholarship to Dartmouth but had decided to pursue billiards instead. She probably made more money at pool, but I wondered if she ever regretted not going to college. “What’re you up to other than luring men to their financial doom a quarter at a time?”
She rested her arms on the scaly sill of the truck, fingers drumming lightly on her exposed elbows. “I like torturing them slowly. Anyway, a girl’s gotta make a living, and I can’t do it on what this guy pays me.” She pulled her lips back into a broad smile, just to show me there was no malice. “There’s a pool tournament down in Vegas,
