Death Etched in Stone

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Willie crabbed the plane, and it turned southwest, the Riverton Regional Airport looming ahead. “I can fly all right. I just can’t navigate to save my soul,” he said, tapping the Virgin Mary bouncing on the dash.

  Willie nosed the plane up. “Riverton’s got a landing pattern entry of a thousand feet minimum,” he explained, reaching for the handheld radio. Riverton is a non-tower airport, which further reduced Manny’s confidence, so Willie radioed his traffic pattern call to whomever was out there to listen. He slapped Manny’s leg. “Just sit back and enjoy the best landing you’ve ever had.”

  Willie kicked the rudder, and the Cessna straightened out as he lined it up with the center stripe on the runway. “You know, a landing is just a controlled stall.”

  Manny held his breath.

  “The aircraft just loses lift. It basically falls out of the sky.”

  Manny clung to the side of the door.

  “With any luck, the plane is right over the runway when it happens,” Willie laughed nervously.

  The runway lights blew by faster than Manny wanted. The landing gear contacted the runway at a sharp angle. The plane caromed off the runway and bounced in the crosswind. It came down and bounced again before hitting hard and settling down. Willie eased off the throttle, and taxied the plane along the designated corridor. “See,” he nudged Manny. “Nothing to it.”

  “I think I’ll walk home. At least I know I can find my way.”

  “I can, too,” Willie assured him. “Just hit Interstate 90 and follow it east.”

  Chapter 9

  Special Agent Carlos Mendoza stood at the door shaking his thick head of wavy, black hair. “Your TTY didn’t tell me that you were flying in on a wing and a prayer. Or a whole lot of prayers.” He nodded to Willie’s Cessna. “What salvage yard did you rescue that from?”

  Willie stepped closer toward Carlos, but Manny moved between them. “It’s Willie’s first plane.”

  “And probably his last,” Carlos laughed, careful to stay out of Willie’s reach. “Your ride’s thisaway.”

  Manny slung his overnight bag over his shoulder as they followed Carlos to the airport parking lot.

  “Is this guy always looking to get his nose broke?” Willie whispered.

  “He’s all right.” Manny said, slinging his briefcase over his shoulder, too. “We worked a string of bank robbery cases in Chicago some years ago. He’s just a smart ass.”

  “He might not have an ass left if he keeps ragging on Clementine.”

  Manny stopped and craned his neck up at Willie. “Isn’t Crazy George’s junkyard horse named Clementine?”

  Willie waited until Carlos was out of earshot. “George’s Clementine died, and he wanted a Sending Away ceremony for her. I was the closest thing to a wicasa wakan . . .”

  “Reuben’s a sacred man.”

  Willie shook his head. “Reuben said he performed ceremonies only for two-leggeds. I’m not a holy man yet, but I was the closest thing Crazy George had.”

  “And naming your plane after his horse helped how?”

  Willie’s mouth turned down. “When George started bawling at the ceremony, I told him Clementine would forever be memorialized in my Cessna.”

  Manny laughed.

  “What?”

  “By the looks of that heap,” Manny turned and looked over his shoulder toward the nondescript hangar where it was parked, “forever might just be next week.”

  Carlos led them through the far side of the parking lot to a government Taurus with a dented fender and a broken side window. He tossed Manny the keys. “Don’t look so glum. It’s the best the Lander agency could come up with.” He nudged Manny. “Matches that jewel you flew in on. Besides,” he grinned, “the boss knows your driving history.” Carlos tapped Willie on the shoulder. “Whatever prayer you said to get that high wing of yours here, Big ’Un, say another one if you’re riding with Manny.”

  “Just tell me who my contact on Wind River is,” Manny said, tossing his bag in the back seat.

  Carlos fished a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Manny. “Sergeant Tom Walker. Been with the BIA longer than we’ve been alive. Good man. Good driver, too, except he’s a grumpy old bastard. He’s been ordered to ferry you around the rez, though he won’t like it.” He looked up at Willie. “And good luck.”

  Carlos whistled to himself as he left them to the Taurus.

  “Guess your reputation preceded us both.” Willie grabbed for the keys, but Manny snatched them away.

  “You know I always drive.” Manny smiled. “After what you just put me through, you can sit back and enjoy the ride. Like I did.”

  They drove south out of Riverton, and turned west on 17 Mile Road toward the tiny town of Ethete on the Wind River Reservation. Manny fumbled in his briefcase for a CD. The tires of the government Taurus caught the edge of the pavement, and the steering wheel spun in Manny’s hands. He jerked the car back onto the road, gravel kicking into the wheel wells.

  “Let me drive,” Willie insisted.

  Manny slowed the car. And his breathing. “How did you like it?”

  “I didn’t.” Willie cinched his seat belt tighter. “Why don’t you just let me drive.”

  Manny shook his head.

  “Well, at least let me get whatever you were after.”

  “Okay. Grab the Beatles CD.”

  Willie put Manny’s briefcase on his lap, and found the disc. He popped it into the player and “Yesterday” came through the speakers. “I wish it was.”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday,” Willie answered. “And I wouldn’t be here taking my life in my hands riding with you.”

  Now it was Manny’s turn to laugh. “And we were safer flying in your duct tape-and-baling-wire death trap?”

  “I just had it annualed last month.” Willie insisted. “It’s safe.”

  “With Wilson Eagle Bull flying, maybe.”

  Willie started to object when Manny turned the volume up and concentrated on driving. And on the terrain. They drove past sagebrush-covered hills and sandy peaks not unlike the Pine Ridge landscape. Far off to their right, barely visible above the tops of a barren ridge, an oil pump jack slowly pecked its way down, then back up, like a drunken bird as it sucked sour crude from the ground. A half mile farther west, another pump jack pecked its monotonous duty as it lent solidarity to the first one. Manny reached over and turned the CD off. “What did you study in college about these oil fields on the Wind River?”

  Willie adjusted the belt biting into his shoulder. “As I recall, the oil boom’s about dried up. When the price of sweet crude dropped six or eight years ago, it was no longer as profitable. Only a few sour crude wells are still pumping now. Methane’s the big thing nowadays. Fracking’s up and coming.”

  “I heard there’s even problems with that,” Manny said. “The folks living in Pavillion claim the nearby fracking has contaminated the water table.” He nodded to the north, as if the nod could reach the tiny town of Pavillion thirty miles away.

  “That’s the claim. They say you can put a match to water right out of the tap.” Willie took his can of Copenhagen from his pocket and stuffed his lip. He handed it to Manny, who nearly grabbed it when Willie took it back. “I know what you’d do with it.”

  “Darn straight. I’d toss it out the window.” Manny reached across the seat. “Here, let’s see it—”

  “Look out!” Willie yelled.

  Manny’s head snapped back to the front of the car barely in time to slam on the brakes just as a buck antelope darted across the road. The Taurus hit the animal as it skidded to a stop. As Manny unlatched his seat belt, the antelope regained its footing and ran off. Manny breathed deeply, until his heart had slowed sufficiently for him to climb out of the car. He joined Willie at the hood, eyeing the damage. Or lack of it.


  Willie kicked at a clump of hair and green antelope crap embedded in the plastic bumper, but no major damage to the car. He nodded to the antelope disappearing over a hill. “Deer and antelope are a lot tougher than a person.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Manny tapped Willie’s chest where the slugs had nearly taken his life two months before.

  “Well, you’ll kill me before any shooter does. Now let me drive.”

  Manny said nothing, for he had no argument for Willie’s logic: he was a better driver than Manny.

  With Willie at the wheel, they started back toward Ethete to meet their BIA liaison officer. Manny turned the stereo up, but Willie turned it back down. “We don’t belong here.”

  “Here, as in this life? Sounds like something a sacred man would say.”

  Willie shook his head. “Not like that. I mean here. Why are we here on Wind River? There’s nothing to suggest Johnny Apple died here.” Willie rolled the window down and spit out the window. Tobacco juice trailed off and landed someplace on the trunk lid. Manny chuckled. At least that smart ass Carlos Mendoza would have Copenhagen juice to clean off when they returned the car.

  Manny patted his pocket for his beloved pack of Camels that hadn’t been there for a few years. Now all that occupied his pockets was Juicy Fruit gum. He opened a pack and popped a piece into his mouth, thinking. Willie was right: there was nothing to connect Johnny Apple’s death to Wind River. But Johnny sure didn’t drown in Oglala Lake.

  “If we find out Johnny’s whereabouts prior to coming onto Pine Ridge, we’ll be a step closer to figuring out who might have killed him.”

  “If he was actually murdered.”

  “I didn’t say murdered.” Manny half turned in the seat and faced Willie. “Someone might have killed Johnny accidentally and panicked. Dumped his body in Oglala Lake. We’ll know more after we meet with his daughter.”

  They slowed as they entered the town of Ethete, and for once Manny was glad Carlos had given him a beater government car: no one gave the faded gray Taurus a second look as Willie pulled into a Loaf ’N Jug next to a Wind River Police Department SUV. Even before Willie stopped the car, an officer nearly Reuben’s size and bulk opened the Expedition door and used it to haul himself out. He tipped his cowboy hat back on his head of salt and pepper hair, heavy on the salt. He stood to his full height, eyeing them by the fender of his cruiser.

  Manny got out and approached the officer. “You Tom Walker?”

  The officer glared down at Manny and tapped his watch. “You’re late.”

  “We had a little accident.”

  “An accident, like you crapped your pants or something?” Walker asked.

  Manny felt like arguing, but it would have been like arguing with Chief Horn. Although the Chief had him by about ten years, Walker already exuded the same sour demeanor that a lifetime dealing with society’s dregs can give a person. “’Cause if you had that kind of accident, we got facilities here,” Walker nodded to a blue outhouse in back of the convenience store.

  “We hit an antelope,” Willie said, stepping up beside Manny. “We were lucky. It darted out and we clipped it.”

  “We got a lot of suicidal antelope in these parts,” Walker said dryly. He turned to Manny and jerked his thumb at Willie. “Must be nice, the FBI issuing drivers these days.”

  “He’s not my driver . . . ” Manny said, but Walker had already turned to his cruiser. “If you want to talk with Johnny Apple’s daughter, the train leaves now. The sooner I wet nurse you two, the sooner I get back to my own cases.”

  Manny climbed in the back seat, and Willie folded himself in the passenger seat up front. Together, there wasn’t enough room to slip a playing card between them and all the police gear as Walker headed the Expedition west out of Ethete. They drove three miles in silence, when Manny leaned over the seat. “Did you know Johnny Apple?”

  Walker shot a look in the rear-view mirror. “Of course I did. I’ve been a cop here on the rez longer than your driver’s been alive.”

  Willie’s face reddened. “I’m not his driver.”

  Manny leaned further over the seat, separating them. “Was he a fisherman?”

  “Humph.” Walker turned off the pavement onto a gravel road little more than a two-track. “That’d take ambition. I’d say the closest thing he got to a fish was at the Friday fish fry at the Legion in Lander.”

  Willie produced his can of snuff and pinched a lip full. He started brushing the excess on his leg when Walker rolled the window down. “Knock it off outside, kid. I got to clean my own outfits.”

  Willie stuck his hands out the window and brushed them together. “The Teletype said Johnny ranched hereabouts?”

  “Johnny wasn’t much of a rancher.”

  Manny leaned over the seat. “So he was no rancher?”

  Walker shook his head. “I didn’t say he was ‘no’ rancher.” I said he wasn’t much of a rancher. If it weren’t for Della, the place would have gone belly up years ago.”

  “Who’s Della?” Willie asked.

  “Kenton Charging Bear’s sister. When Kenton died, he allowed her to stay on the place in a small cottage next to the main ranch house. Where,” Walker smirked, “that lazy ranch hand Johnny ‘rotten’ Apple was allowed to stay.”

  Walker stopped in the road and climbed out. “Dust control,” he called over his shoulder. He walked to the back of the SUV and began unzipping. Willie shrugged and climbed out, joining Walker. Manny, feeling lonely in the back, did what any man of the West would do in like circumstances: he got out and used the Wyoming roadside as a urinal.

  “Johnny must have made some living off the ranch?” Manny said, moving upwind of the other two.

  Walker looked at Manny and grinned. Manny turned away. “Della did the hard work, managing about forty head on the average. Johnny liked to get spruced up, hit the Legion in Lander or one of the bars in Riverton while Della was stuck on the place.”

  “You said on the phone Della wasn’t married,” Manny said. “Was she ever?”

  Walker jiggled a few times and zipped up. “No, she was never married, though she was a looker once upon a time. Could have had anyone hereabouts. Once upon a time. But you could say she was married to the ranch. Kenton Charging Bear’s wife Winona died when her boys were little pot lickers, and Della moved in to raise her brother’s kids. She has worked her tail off at the place ever since, especially after Kenton had a heart attack six years ago and keeled over.”

  “So Della inherited the ranch when her brother died?”

  Walker shrugged. “I doubt it. If she had, she would have given Johnny Apple the bum’s rush a long time ago.”

  Willie grabbed his Copenhagen can again, but he put it back when Walker scowled at him. “Della and Johnny have a relationship, living next to each other like that?”

  Walker laughed and started down the dirt road. “Yeah, the same relationship Ali and Frazier had.”

  They drove another mile before turning off onto another two-track. The only thing different from the last one was that two mailboxes had developed a stiff starboard lean from fighting the constant wind assaulting them from the Wind River and Owl Mountain ranges. The steering wheel jerked in Walker’s hand as he fought to keep the SUV from dropping into one of the frozen, deep ruts that made up the trail.

  They popped over a sage and cactus covered hill, and Walker stopped. He pointed to the closer of two houses in the valley. A smaller house sat apart from the main ranch house with a beaten, weed-covered path connecting the two places. “Johnny lived in the big house. Earlier, I told his daughter we’d be coming.”

  “Did she live there with Johnny?”

  “Brandi? Naw. That was Kenton’s house when he was alive. Johnny lived in the spare room out back until Kenton passed. Then he moved into the main rooms. She’s just there now gathering his belongings.” />
  Willie pointed to another house a quarter mile away across an adjacent field. “And who lives there?”

  “Henry Stalks the Enemy. But we’ll visit with Brandi first.”

  They coasted down the hill, the big SUV slowly weaving between grazing Black White Face cows. Walker waited while two doe mule deer bounded across the road before he pulled beside a BMW, luxury leaking from every curve. Wind flipped a piece of sagebrush caught under a front axle, and a chicken saw fit to roost on the hood.

  They followed Walker past the car to a covered porch missing the screens. Before he could knock on the door, a woman Manny’s height opened the door. “Come in, Sergeant Walker.”

  Manny tried averting his eyes, yet he was drawn to the way Brandi Apple seemed to glide through the house, her long blonde hair swaying in tune with her hips held prisoner by tight Wranglers. Silver-tipped cowboy boots clicked on the bare wooden floor.

  She led them through a kitchen looking as if it hadn’t been touched since the 1950s, with a chrome-legged Formica table and Naugahyde chairs arranged around it. She motioned them into a living room. A paisley couch with one cushion covered in burlap sat in front of an obsolete television console longer than the couch. Rabbit ears perked at an odd angle from either side of a round, plastic base.

  Willie bent close to Manny. “I didn’t know anyone still used rabbit ears.”

  Manny shrugged. “I guess no one does, now that Johnny’s dead.”

  Brandi disappeared into another room, and cupboards opening and closing competed with cups rattling.

  Willie pointed to a rope encased in a frame hanging beside an oversize rodeo buckle, the inscription lost to thick dust covering it. “Johnny’s?”

  Walker shook his head and taped the frame with his finger. “Kenton’s. The man was a hell of rodeoer back in his day. This is his championship rope he used when he earned All-Around Cowboy back in the sixties. He won the buckle the same year.”

  Brandi returned to the room carrying a tray that she set on a rough-hewn log coffee table. She nodded to cookies in a converted fish bowl. “It’s all Dad had in the house.”