In The Company of Wolves_Follow The Raven

by James Michael Larranaga

  Quin climbed out of the truck as Candace parked on the curb along the street. He realized Hawk was asleep, so he left him there while he loaded the old man’s bag into the truck.

  “Can I help?” Candace asked, walking up the driveway.

  “Shhh,” Quin said, motioning at Hawk.

  “He’s the friend who needs to give his approval?” she asked.

  “His name is Hawk,” he said. “Take my advice, you don’t wake an old sleeping dog.”

  “Nonsense, it’s how you do it that’s important.”

  Quin watched Candace walk up to the porch and step on it, her boots creaking the boards. Hawk opened his eyes at the woman in the cowboy hat holding out her hand. He accepted it and after she helped him up to his feet, they talked for several minutes. Quin couldn’t hear a word, but there was an outpouring of laughter from both of them before she returned with some of Hawk’s gear.

  “I got approval,” she said, handing Quin the rifles.

  “What? How?”

  “We just hit it off. I have to get a few things from my car,” she said, walking down the driveway whistling.

  “If you get in the way, I’ll put you on the first bus ride home.”

  “Bus? You wouldn’t even fly me back?”

  Hawk approached him, eyes still on Candace. “She’s beautiful. Where did you find her?”

  “She’s been following me for months. What did she say to you?”

  “She said ‘Good morning’ and I saw an angel. You know how long it’s been since I awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice?”

  “What did she say after that?”

  “She agreed to do a story about our people if I let her ride with us.”

  Hawk was always a vocal champion for the Sioux and other tribes. He had once run for city council and lost by fewer than a hundred votes. He considered it a victory.

  “Reporters are your friend until they publish their stories,” Quin warned him. “They can twist the truth.”

  “She said she brought you back your knife last night. True?”

  “True.”

  “That’s a good sign. Our journey has already begun.”

  “Hurry up, Jimmy,” Hawk said. “Let’s go!”

  Slim Jim emerged from the house, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, stumbling down from the deck. When he reached the truck, he pulled out his earbuds, rap music blasting. “Who’s she?”

  “I’m Candace,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  “She’s a reporter doing a story on us. This is my grandson, Jimmy.”

  Slim Jim turned to Quin with a look of What the hell is she doing here?

  “She’s another driver,” Quin whispered. “You’ve got a long trip ahead of you.”

  “Whatever. She takes the first shift,” Slim Jim said, climbing into the truck. Hawk followed, sitting next to his grandson on the bench seat behind Candace and Quin.

  She accelerated in reverse down the driveway, the truck’s bumper scraping the curb, and Quin smiled to himself. Hawk had been sitting on that porch for God knows how long, meditating for a sign. And the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Candace, the “angel” in a cowboy hat.

  “So we drop you off at the airport,” Candace said to Quin, “and then where?”

  “Lakota country,” Quin said.

  “Where exactly? I’ll plug the address into my phone.”

  “Hawk knows where to go,” he said. “He’ll be your GPS.”

  After an hour and a half of driving through southwestern Minnesota heading toward South Dakota, Candace realized that Hawk and his grandson were in no hurry to get to Arizona. Hawk pored over an ever-evolving bucket list of sites he wanted to see, and sites he definitely wanted to avoid, while Jimmy just listened to music, staring out the window. Mount Rushmore was a no because Hawk considered it an insult that white people—or Wasicu as Hawk called them—would etch their faces into sacred Sioux mountains. As to the Crazy Horse Memorial, he was undecided, because while some tribes wanted the memorial, Crazy Horse’s own family had never given their permission. The World’s Only Corn Palace was a yes, and when she had questioned whether the Corn Palace had been built on sacred Sioux land, Hawk’s only response was, “Who doesn’t like corn?”

  Harney Peak, the tallest point east of the Rocky Mountains, was a maybe, depending on whether Hawk could climb the trail. He thumbed through his journal, earmarking pages and newspaper clippings of South Dakota landmarks. The handwriting in the margins wasn’t Hawk’s; the script was too perfect, too feminine.

  “Whose notes are those?”

  “My wife, Lily. This was our homemade travel log.”

  “You two made this trip together?”

  “Many times,” Hawk said, nodding. “Lily was born in South Dakota, an Oglala Sioux. We’d stop at places on our trips back and forth.”

  “How old is that?”

  He fanned through the book and said, “1979.”

  “That’s one old travel diary.”

  “I’m an old man,” he responded, smiling with stained teeth.

  “I could download an app for my phone and get the latest information. I’m sure there are new attractions to see.”

  Hawk shook his head. “What’s wrong with old things? Those who don’t know their history—”

  “Are doomed to repeat it,” she said.

  “Yeah, something like that,” he said, still paging through his log.

  Puffs of white and gray cotton clouds drifted overhead, casting shadows onto the paved ribbon of Interstate 90. Candace watched Hawk in the driver’s seat, his eyes locked on the road as he drove, barely going sixty. Trucks hauling campers and boats passed in blasts of wind, rattling the truck. Soon the sun would set and she was concerned he would slow down even more when the sun shone in his eyes.

  “You want me or Jimmy to drive?” she asked from the back seat, nudging Jimmy, who road shotgun.

  “Nope.”

  “At least wear sunglasses,” Jimmy said.

  “Why? I’m sun gazing,” Hawk joked. “Staring into the sun for knowledge.”

  “You’ll burn your eyes and kill us all,” Jimmy said.

  “Hand me some shades,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Jimmy dug through the glove box, through zip ties and bungee cords, where he found a pair of sunglasses that he slid onto Hawk’s face.

  “Once the sun sets, we’d better pull over and rest for the night,” Candace suggested.

  “We’ll go to The Corn Palace first, then we’ll stop in Chamberlain. I’ve got a friend there. You ever been to The Corn Palace?” Hawk asked.

  “Too many times,” Jimmy said.

  “No,” she said. “This is my first time in South Dakota.”

  “It’s the next exit,” Hawk said.

  Mitchell, South Dakota, is the home of “The World’s Only Corn Palace,” a Moorish revival building of spires, flags, and inlaid crop art murals along the side of the building. Each year the corn art is replaced with new murals with a new theme, but Candace couldn’t figure out why Hawk cared about this tourist trap. “What’s so special about this place?”

  “Hawk always stops here for corn,” Jimmy said.

  He parked the truck, handing Jimmy the keys. “You don’t like it? Lily and I always stopped here,” he said, stepping out of the truck and slamming the door.

  He was halfway across the lot when Candace and Jimmy caught up to him as they passed some trinket shops. “Explain, Hawk,” Candace said.

  “The palace closes in fifteen minutes. Hurry up.”

  They crossed the street, passing tourists, and walked along the building, where she examined the corn murals of pioneers and Native Americans, a mosaic display of the Dakotas’ history. Candace shot photos with her phone, the air carrying a buttery flavor of corn, and Hawk picked up his shuffling pace as they stepped inside the palace. It was nothing more than a gymnasium with wood floors and basketball hoops raised high to the ceiling. Below them were aisles of s
ouvenirs, books, and crafts. Tourists lined up at the cash registers with Dakota souvenirs that were probably made in China.

  “This is on your list of places we had to see?” she questioned.

  “Tourist trash,” Jimmy whispered to her.

  “Oh, that’s all crap. I’m here for the caramel corn.” Hawk led them down a hallway to a kiosk selling bags of popcorn. He bought a bag and immediately tore it open.

  “We could’ve bought this at any convenience store,” Jimmy said.

  “Try it,” Hawk said, holding the bag in front of Candace. “Ladies first.”

  She popped a few kernels into her mouth, the caramel and salt melting on her tongue. “Yum!”

  Jimmy took a handful. “Yeah, that’s good.”

  “C’mon, I want to show you something,” Hawk said, leading them out of The Corn Palace and into the warm twilight air in the parking lot. “A few years ago, the Department of Homeland Security gave money to the Corn Palace.”

  “Why?” Candace asked.

  He pointed up at the building. “They installed those.”

  She saw small cameras mounted on streetlights. “What terrorist would bother attacking this building?”

  “There’s tight security at Mount Rushmore, too,” Hawk said. “Let me show you something.”

  They crossed the street and entered a gift shop where an elderly woman was folding t-shirts. Hawk ignored her and lifted a shirt up to his chest. It was an old photo of four Indian warriors holding rifles. The headline said: “Homeland Security, Fighting Terrorism Since 1492.”

  “I get that one,” Jimmy said, amused.

  “This t-shirt became popular after 9/11,” Hawk told her. “The guy who invented it? He’s Navajo, like Quin.”

  “Quin isn’t Dakota?”

  “Does he look Dakota?” Hawk said.

  “You think all Indians look alike?” Jimmy pestered.

  “I don’t know,” she said, embarrassed. “I assumed Quin was from the same tribe.”

  “You want one, Candace?” Hawk asked, holding the shirt.

  “Ah, no thanks,” she said, shaking her head because the t-shirt’s message had an obvious bite to it: “Now you know how it feels to be attacked.”

  Chamberlain, a small community on the east bank of the Missouri River, was an area Hawk called Makhathipi, a Lakota word for “dirt house.” He kept breathing down Candace’s neck from the back seat as he gave directions. Jimmy slowed the truck in the dark, the glow from his phone filling the cab. “I lost my GPS signal,” he complained.

  “Me too,” Candace said, looking at the small homes with boats and campers in the driveways.

  “Joe’s house is up on the left, slow down,” Hawk said. “That one on the corner.”

  Jimmy turned left and parked on the street in front of a white house with a porch light swarmed by moths. “Looks quiet.”

  “You sure Joe is still awake?” she asked.

  “Let me talk to him. Wait here,” Hawk said.

  He stepped out of the truck and walked up the driveway alongside a Cadillac Escalade, climbing the steps of the porch and knocking on the door. He swatted at a moth as the door opened and a pudgy man with silver hair like Hawk’s answered and let him in. She watched them talking in the doorway as Hawk occasionally pointed back at the truck.

  “Who’s Joe?” she asked Jimmy.

  “Family friend.”

  “I’m curious, how do you know Quin?”

  “Are you interviewing me now?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Quin is a friend of my Aunt Helene.”

  “How come she didn’t come along?”

  “She’s in prison.”

  “Oh…”

  Jimmy laughed at her. “You’ll probably say that a lot on this trip.”

  Hawk stepped off the porch and along the driveway back to the truck. “Joe’s gonna give us some groceries. Grab the cooler so we can restock on ice.”

  Jimmy got out of the truck and opened the topper to retrieve the cooler while Hawk opened the passenger door for one of the t-shirts and said, “I told Joe you’re writing a book about Sioux Indians. Don’t mention you’re a reporter.”

  “How come?” she asked, stepping onto the driveway with them.

  “Joe lived in Minneapolis with me in the 1970s. We were both into AIM.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The American Indian Movement. We marched on Washington. You know, Martin Luther King, Jr. kind of stuff. Joe’s mellowed, but he’s suspicious of new people he meets, especially people like you.”

  Hawk led them onto the porch and opened the door as they stepped inside the small house with the cooler. Joe squinted at her, his belly rising with each breath. She nodded with respect and stepped inside when he motioned them to the kitchen.

  “Set it on the floor in there, Jimmy,” Joe said.

  Walking past him into the narrow doorway between the living room and kitchen, Jimmy set the cooler on the linoleum floor.

  “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Joe said to her.

  “Hi, I’m Candace,” she said, shaking his calloused hand.

  “Writing a book about Oglala?”

  “Well, researching at this point.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Arizona,” Jimmy said. “Quin’s home.”

  “Navajo country?” Joe said. “Where’s Quin?”

  “He flew, thanks to the FBI,” Jimmy said, and Candace noticed Hawk giving his grandson an angry stare.

  “FBI? Shit, don’t tell me he’s a fed,” Joe said.

  “No, it’s not like that,” Hawk said.

  “The hell it’s not.”

  “He’s a bounty. We’re joining him on a hunt.”

  “You just proved my point, Hawk,” Joe said.

  Candace had no idea what they were sparring about but she took a chance and asked Joe, “Why are you concerned about Quin’s work with the FBI?”

  Joe turned to her and crossed his arms. “The bureau rules over tribal lands. They’re corrupt. First they lean on you, make you an informant, and then they recruit you to become one of them. Been happening for a long time.”

  “That reminds me, we brought you a gift,” Hawk said, tossing the t-shirt.

  Joe caught it and held it up, smiling with yellowed teeth. “Homeland security, God! Yeah, I already got one of these.”

  “But you’re fatter now,” Hawk said. “Bought you an extra-large.”

  Joe pulled the shirt over his already tight t-shirt. He lumbered back into the kitchen and opened the freezer door, where he pulled out a bag of ice. He tore it with his teeth, opened the cooler, and poured it on top of the bottles of water and cans of beer. “Need food?”

  “We have hamburger,” Jimmy said.

  “How about a couple of steaks for tonight?” Hawk asked, reaching into the back of the freezer before tossing a bag of frozen meat into the cooler.

  “You remember how to get to the spot?” Joe asked.

  Hawk nodded. “Yep.”

  “What spot?” Candace asked.

  “I own land along the river,” Joe said.

  “He’s been buying back pieces of the Dakotas for years,” Hawk said.

  “Where you headed in the morning?” Joe asked Hawk.

  “Badlands.”

  “Badlands, huh?” Joe said. “You stopping at Pine Ridge, Hawk?”

  He shook his head. “No, we’ve got a tight schedule.”

  Tight schedule? In Candace’s opinion, Hawk was in no hurry at all, traveling like a vagabond. And here he was, insisting he didn’t have time to visit an Indian reservation. He seemed nervous around his old friend.

  “You got family at Pine Ridge,” Joe said, pointing a finger at Hawk.

  “Lily’s family.”

  “But still, you should stop by.”

  “On the return trip. I want Candace and Jimmy to see Crazy Horse Memorial.”

  Joe set his hand on his belt buckle. “Crazy Horse? You neve
r stopped there back in the day.”

  “They should see it,” Hawk said. “The spirit of Crazy Horse is what’s important.”

  Joe shook his head as if that made no sense at all. “I took my kids there once,” he admitted. “Wasn’t much to look at.”

  Jimmy lifted the cooler and walked out of the kitchen to the front door with Joe, Candace, and Hawk following.

  “Why is Quin bringing old Hawk on a bounty hunt?” Joe asked Jimmy.

  “A chance for Hawk to go on one last hunt.”

  “Well, Hawk was always good at finding things…mostly trouble, though.” Joe closed the door.

  “What did Joe mean by that?” she asked Hawk, following them out to the truck.

  “We got into trouble back in the ‘70s,” Hawk whispered.

  “I thought you were doing Martin Luther King, Jr. stuff,” she said. “That implies non-violent protests.”

  “People die all the time in the name of peace,” Hawk said. “Like King…and Crazy Horse.”

  Candace realized this slow journey through the Dakota country was as much for her benefit as it was for Hawk’s and Jimmy’s. He wanted her to see, smell, and even taste the land they called home. He wanted her, an outsider, to understand the struggles and hardships that his people had endured.

  Their campsite was a high ridge of pine trees above where a rising moon shimmered off the flowing surface of the Missouri River. Candace picked up sticks and branches while Jimmy and Hawk prepared the evening dinner. They insisted that she rest by the fire while they unpacked the truck, which they did in silence. There was no banter, no tasteless jokes, just a man and his grandson unpacking as if they’d done it a hundred times. Occasionally one of them would hear a sound in the trees or along the river and they’d look at one another with a nod and return to their tasks.

  “You sure you don’t want help?” she asked. Hawk shook his head. She pulled out her phone and checked for texts.

  “Pssst,” Hawk said, pointing up at the night sky.

  Above her was a sea of stars piercing through the blue-black canopy of sky, the most stars she’d ever seen. It was the same feeling she got when she entered a cathedral, where she felt the presence of something greater than herself. In awe, she was suddenly aware of how small she was in this great universe.