parking in your spot.” He wandered over to the doorway of the cell. “How about we have breakfast?” He glanced down at Bryan. “How about you?” To my relief, Bryan declined, and we slipped out the back way. “Interesting office management skills, kind of a ‘violence is not the answer so I’m going to beat the shit out of you’ philosophy.”
I was looking at the sky; still nothing, but I could feel the coming storm. My eyes continued up the South Pass to the snow above the tree line; I was looking for George Esper.
“Kind of like Indian foreplay.”
He had to be up there, somewhere.
“What do ten Indian women with black eyes have in common?”
The fishing flies were the key and, if Ferg could connect the very specific lures to very specific areas, we might have a chance.
“They just won’t listen.”
If George knew about the weather, would he come down? Would he go looking for his brother?
“How was your date last night?”
The more time went by without finding him, the more likely it was that he was dead. I would have to deputize one of Ferg’s buddies and send him out to sit at the Esper place to see if anybody was going to show up.
“You did not let her touch the wine, did you?”
And what the hell was going on in Longmont? I could have driven down there and looked for them myself by now. At least Bryan was safe, but I needed to talk with his father. There was something there, maybe.
“By the way, I got word on Artie Small Song.”
I stopped. “What?”
“I thought that might get your attention.” He was smiling and shaking his head. “I got a call from his mother, and she thought that we might want to know that Artie has been in Yellowstone County Jail, up in Billings, since Saturday.”
That narrowed the field. “Charge?”
“Carrying an unregistered concealed weapon without a permit.”
I nodded to Dorothy when we threaded our way through the three or four locals sitting at the counter, and we took seats on the end stools toward the back. They had looked up, and I didn’t smile. “So, what’re you doing following me around?”
“I thought you would be interested in Artie, and I have information about the feather.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Something has happened?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your manner is curt and slightly agitated.”
“Jacob Esper is dead.” I watched him very carefully, but there was no visible response.
“That answers some of your questions.”
“You don’t seem very upset.”
“I am not. Should I be?”
I looked at him for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” Dorothy brought over some coffee and a couple of menus.
She was looking at my winter gear, and she smiled. “The game’s afoot?”
I tossed the menu back to her. “The usual.” She raised an eyebrow and looked at Henry.
“I will have what he is having.”
The other eyebrow rose. “He doesn’t know what he’s having.”
“I will have it anyway.”
She looked at the both of us, shrugged, and headed back to the grill.
“Tell me about the feather.”
He sat back up straight, took a sip of his coffee, and made me wait, finally turning back and looking me in the eye. “Wanda Real Wolf. She used to head up the Cheyenne Artist’s Co-Op.”
“The one that went out of business?”
“Yes. It is much easier to get Indians to work together than artists.”
“They’re her feathers?”
“Feathers, plural?” I set my jaw and nodded, and he looked at me for a while. “Interesting. You have it with you?” I took the feather from my jacket and handed it to him. He turned the plastic bag over in the light from the windows and studied the contents. “It too could be Wanda’s.”
“I don’t suppose Wanda keeps detailed records of her feather sales?”
He sat it down between us and took another sip of his coffee. “Worse than that, she does not sell them separately, only on objects she and her immediate family make.”
“Like?”
“Dream catchers, flutes, pipes, dance headdresses, items like that.”
“I don’t suppose she has a limited clientele?”
“High-end tourist shops, all over the country.”
“Great. So these things could be pulled off anything?”
“Yes. I asked her if there was any way of finding the location or age of the pieces, but she said no.”
I started to take another sip of my coffee, but the smell informed me that I had had enough. “Any way to tell what pieces the feathers could have come off of?”
“She said that small pinholes at the base of the quill probably meant that they came off dream catchers or pipes, nontraditional usage.” He caught me looking at the feather between us. “Both have such holes. I am afraid that does not narrow the field much.”
“No.” I took the feather and stuffed it back in my jacket.
He waited quietly. “There is more?”
I weighed my options and decided to clear the air. “How come you were late going running yesterday?”
He sat his coffee cup down, and a mischievous glint shaded his eyes. “I was out shooting white boys.”
“I’m serious.”
He turned and looked at me, square. “I know, and it is starting to piss me off.”
Moment of truth. “Where were you?”
He turned on his stool, straightening his body and trailing a hand down to rest lightly on his leg. The smile was gone, and his eyes had flattened. “Are you going to hit me?”
My voice sounded mechanical. “I’m through hitting people today. Where were you?” It was a long pause.
“Sleeping with Dena Many Camps.”
Two steaming plates of Canadian bacon and eggs, sunny side up, with grits, were slid under our noses. I glanced over and then looked again. “That’s the usual?”
She looked at Henry. “Told you.” With this, she freshened our coffee and moved down the counter to take care of the other customers. You had to hand it to her, she could tell when her clients wanted peace, if not quiet.
I started to work on my usual, but he was still watching me, and I was starting to feel ashamed of myself. “She’s half your age.”
He laughed. “Are you going to jail me for that now?” He turned and began eating.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“It is only premarital sex if you are planning on getting married.”
I spoke out of the corner of my full mouth. “You should be even more ashamed.”
He kept eating, finally replying between bites, “You are such a prude.”
“Pervert.”
“Jealous.”
I told him about Al’s description of the shooter, and we were through it, but he remained quiet for a while. I continued with the story of the two fishing vests, the flies, and Al Monroe. He agreed with the theory that George was probably up there somewhere. He asked if I’d checked the Forest Service sign-in sheets. I told him we had. He was thinking, “Largish with long maybe dark hair?”
“Um-hmm.”
