Johnny Hunter

by Richard L. DuMont

  Johnny thought about the question for a minute. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing whiskey is involved. He probably got so drunk he fell down and went to sleep. Then he froze to death last night.”

  Johnny looked at Richard, who had tears in his eyes. “Sorry, Richard.”

  “It’s okay. It just reminded me of my dad. He died from alcohol poisoning when I was four. I don’t really remember him much.”

  “I wonder who he was,” Bobbie said, bringing the attention back to the body.

  “My guess is a guy they called Moody. He slept in the church sometimes, and he was drunk every time I saw him. Father Shannon used to give him food for doing some work around the school and church. Mostly just cleanup work.”

  “I know who you mean,” Richard said. “He asked me and mom for money some Sundays. Poor as we are, she always gave him what little change she had.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Bobbie asked.

  “We can’t leave him here, now that we think we know who it is. I say we put him in the wagon and take him to the BIA. I don’t want his body to be out here in the cold any longer,” Richard said.

  “But we could get in trouble with the BIA if we move the body,” Bobbie retorted. “They might get mad at us for messing with a body.”

  “I don’t care,” Richard said. “I’ll dig him out alone if you don’t want to help. What do you think, Johnny?”

  “I don’t want to leave him here either. Like I said, animals might start chewing on his arm. C’mon, Bobbie, it will be like an adventure in a book.”

  Bobbie smiled. “Well, it is kind of exciting—like we’re on a big adventure. Okay, let’s dig him up.”

  Using their gloved hands, the three Cheyenne boys began digging through the soft snow. In a few minutes, the top half of the body was visible. The dead man wore faded jeans, cowboy boots, and the plaid shirt Johnny had seen earlier. He wore a tattered scarf, and around his head was an old beaded headband. His right hand gripped an empty whiskey bottle.

  They stopped to rest, their breath hanging in the air like little clouds. Beads of perspiration formed on their foreheads.

  “Is it Moody?” Johnny asked.

  “It’s kind of hard to tell. His face is all black and his mouth is frozen open, but I’m pretty sure it’s him. That’s how he always dressed. I never saw him with a coat on. It might be all he had to wear.” Richard tried to close Moody’s mouth but it was immobile. “I think it’s him for sure.”

  He stood up. “I’ll go get the wagon.”

  “Wait,” Johnny said. “Look at him lying there in the snow. What does that remind you of? Think about our history classes.”

  The two boys walked around the body a few times, trying to see what Johnny saw. “I don’t know,” Bobbie said. “He looks like a dead Indian.”

  “What about the massacre at Wounded Knee?” Johnny asked. “He looks like the picture of the Lakota, Big Foot, frozen in place. His one arm sticks up, and if he had that scarf on his head, it would look exactly like Wounded Knee.”

  “You’re right,” Richard said. “I didn’t see it until you pointed it out.” Bobbie nodded his head in agreement.

  “It’s too bad we don’t have a camera. It makes me feel sad, not just for Moody but for everyone who died at Wounded Knee”

  They stood silently for a couple of minutes, not sure what to do next. Finally Richard spoke: “I’m still in favor of not leaving him here any longer and taking him to the BIA.”

  “Me too,” Johnny said. “Go get the wagon.”

  Richard walked to the hay wagon, climbed up the wheel, and sat on the wooden seat. He tugged on the reins to turn Maggie around, and they quickly reached the body, where he climbed down.

  “I hope we don’t break off an arm or leg when we pick him up. Let’s be careful,” Johnny said. He put his hands under Moody’s head while Richard and Bobbie lifted his body.

  “Even frozen, he doesn’t weigh much,” Bobbie said.

  They walked slowly through the snow, like pallbearers at a funeral. When they reached the wagon Johnny climbed in the back, still holding Moody’s head. Gently, they slid the body onto the wagon bed. Richard pulled an old horse blanket from under the seat and covered the stiff body.

  “I’ll ride back here,” Johnny said, “to make sure he doesn’t fall out.” He climbed down from the wagon, grabbed Thunder’s reins, and tied the horse to the back of the wagon. He then sat down in the back. “We can get the truck tube and sled on the way back from the BIA.”

  Bobbie and Richard climbed up on the wagon’s seat and Richard gently shook the reins. Maggie pulled them back onto the snow-covered road, and they slowly headed to the Northern Cheyenne Bureau of Indian Affairs office.

  An hour later, they rode into Lame Deer and the parking lot of the BIA offices. It had been slow going on the unplowed roads and they were all freezing.

  The wagon came to a stop in front of the office door. Bobbie and Richard jumped down and ran toward the building. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get inside and warm up,” Richard said. “I’m about frozen to death.”

  “You guys go ahead. I’ll stay here with Moody.” He wrapped his arms around himself.

  In a few minutes, the door opened and BIA police officer Joe Eagleclaw walked quickly to the wagon, followed by the two boys. He stood just under six feet tall, and wore a long, black pony tail that hung out of his police hat. Stocky but muscular, he filled out the dark blue police uniform. “Hey Johnny,” he said. “Jump out of there and let me get a good look at the body.”

  “We think it’s a guy called Moody,” Johnny said. “He had a whiskey bottle frozen in his hand. It fell out on the way here.” He stomped his feet on the ground for warmth when he got off the wagon.

  Officer Eagleclaw climbed onto the wagon bed and knelt down next to the body. He lifted the horse blanket and slid it to the side. “Yep, that’s Moody Johnson, all right. He’s been an overnight guest many times in our jail cell. He had a bad problem with whiskey. We often picked him up drunk and let him sleep it off in one of our cells.” He looked closely at the body. “No signs of violence that I can see. We’ll get an autopsy and that will tell us how he died.

  “Where’d you find him?”

  “At the bottom of Dead Man’s Hill. We were sled riding.”

  “I used to sled ride myself there when I was a kid.” He turned to face Johnny.

  “Okay, for now, go into my office and get warm while I take some pictures. I’ll be in shortly, and I’ll call the coroner to come get the body. Then you can tell me everything that happened and why you didn’t leave the body where you found it.” He smiled at the three boys.

  “Can I have one of the pictures after this is all done? He reminds me of Big Foot the way he’s frozen there.”

  Joe Eagleclaw looked at Johnny, shaking his head. “Who’s Big Foot? I don’t know any Cheyenne or Crow with that name and I know most everyone on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation.”

  “He’s not a Cheyenne,” Johnny answered. “Big Foot was a Lakota and he was killed at Wounded Knee a long time ago. If you look up the battle of Wounded Knee, the picture of Big Foot is in the history books and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I will,” Joe answered. “I think it’s great that you know so much about our Native American history. Now, get inside and warm up. Your friends are already in there. I’ll be done here in a few minutes.”

  Johnny walked into the BIA building and then into the police department’s office. The aroma of coffee greeted him as he entered the room. He was disappointed when he saw the empty coffee carafe. The other boys sat in the warm office, drinking the last of the coffee from the police officer’s coffee maker. “You didn’t save me any coffee?”

  Bobbie jumped up out of his chair. “Sorry,” he said as he finished his coffee. “C’mon, we’ll make some more. It brews a pot of coffee in a couple of minutes.”

  “Good, “Johnny said, “I could sure use some hot coffee.” He looked at the strange c
offee maker. “What is this thing? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s a Mr. Coffee,” Bobbie said. “I’ve seen it on television. My mom wants one.”

  “Then come help me. How’s it work?”

  “You put the coffee in a filter in here and pour water in the top. It does the rest.” He moved his hands around the white coffee maker to show Johnny how it was done.

  “That sounds pretty easy. See if you can find a can of coffee Richard, and I’ll get some fresh water.”

  Richard found an open can of Folgers in a cabinet and new filters, too. He put a clean filter in the maker and then poured in some ground coffee. “Think that’s enough?”

  “I think so,” Bobbie said. “What do you think, Johnny?”

  Johnny returned from the hall with a pot of fresh water. He looked into the filter. “Just about perfect, I’d say.” He poured in the water and flicked on the switch. In a minute, the water started boiling and began to drip into the filter. Soon, hot brown liquid flowed into the carafe, filling the room with the aroma of coffee.

  They all smiled at their success. In a few minutes, they were all drinking the best coffee they had ever had.

  Johnny took his mug of coffee and sat in the policeman’s chair. He sipped at the hot liquid and sank deeper into the chair. He felt the warmth slowly return to his body. “Much better,” he said. “It does taste pretty good.”

  “Do you think we’re in big trouble?” Richard asked. “Joe didn’t seem too mad at us for moving the body.”

  “I guess we’ll soon find out.”

  The office door opened and Officer Eagleclaw walked into the room. He smiled at the boys drinking his coffee. He found a mug, blew out the dust, and filled it, once again emptying the carafe. “That’s good coffee,” he said. “Who figured out how to use my new Mr. Coffee?”

  “We all did,” Richard said.

  “Well, make another pot while I call the coroner.” He shooed Johnny out of his chair and sat down, sinking into the brown leather. By the time the police officer hung up the black phone, a new batch of coffee started dripping into the carafe. He refilled his mug and sat down. “The coroner will be here in fifteen minutes or so.

  “Now, tell me everything that happened this morning.” He took a small pad out of his uniform pocket and made notes as the boys relayed the events that took place on Dead Man’s Hill.

  When they finished a somewhat disjointed description of the morning on the hill, Eagleclaw again smiled at them. He took his time reading his notes and put down the pad.

  “Okay, boys. You painted a pretty good picture. You did most everything right but I do have a few questions. Number one is of course, why did you move the body? It would have been much better to leave it where you found it.”

  They looked at each other until Richard tapped Johnny on his shoulder. “You tell him, Johnny.”

  Johnny nervously cleared his throat before he spoke. “Well, Richard and me worried that a coyote or bear or something would start eating his arm. And, if there was a bunch of coyotes, they might drag Moody off into the trees and he might never be found.

  “Besides, even though he was dead, it seemed cruel to leave him out there frozen in the snow.”

  The policeman picked up his pad and made a few more notes. “Those are good reasons,” he said. “But, if Moody had been murdered, you boys would be guilty of destroying a crime scene. It would have been better to leave him there and one of you come get me or have your mom call me.

  “But, I’m sure Moody just froze to death and the autopsy will show that’s the case.” Once again he smiled at them. “So, I don’t think you boys are in big trouble. I think after the judge rules on the death, he just might want to remind you that leaving a potential crime scene alone is the right thing to do. As long as it’s an accidental death, we won’t have to get the Feds involved.”

  Their attention was diverted to the window as the coroner arrived in his old, black hearse. It had a red light on the top that was mostly used for funerals. Eagleclaw went out and talked to the coroner. After a few minutes they slid Moody’s body onto a stretcher and carried it to the hearse, where they slid it in the back and shut the doors. After further discussion between the two men, the coroner drove away, heading toward the morgue.

  The police officer returned to the office and put on his hooded winter coat. “Okay, boys, let’s drive out to Dead Man’s Hill and you can show me exactly where you found Moody. I need to take some pictures at the scene. You can take your horses around back where we keep ours and give them some hay.”

  After moving the two horses and tying them up, they dropped hay in front of them and raced around the building toward the black and white patrol car. Eagleclaw sat inside the big Ford sedan, talking on the radio.

  “Shotgun,” Bobbie hollered as he opened the front door of the car.

  Eagleclaw held his arm to block him. “In the back, Bobbie. Nobody rides in the front seat except another cop. Get in the back. There’s plenty of room for the three of you.”

  The boys crammed onto the rear seat, and after some pushing and shoving, settled in for the ride. “Just another part of our adventure,” Johnny said. “Now we get to ride in a police car. What a day!” All three were grinning as the cruiser headed back on the road to Dead Man’s Hill.

  “Officer Eagleclaw, can you turn on the siren and lights?”

  The police officer smiled and shook his head.

  ON MONDAY, JOHNNY, Richard, and Bobbie were the talk of Saint Andrew. Finding a body in the snow had the whole school buzzing with excitement. At lunch, many students gathered around their table, firing questions, hoping to hear every detail. It felt great to be the center of attention and a bit like heroes. Father Shannon finally broke up the group, telling them to finish lunch before the bell rang.

  A week flew by at school with the three boys feeling like movie stars. They were the center of attention during recess and even at basketball practice. Johnny grew weary of talking about Moody and their adventures at the BIA building. He was glad when school ended on Friday.

  He had a normal weekend at home, never mentioning the dance at Spirit Canyon. Billy Hunter didn’t seem to drink as much nowadays, and it felt peaceful, like he hoped everyday with his parents would be.

  Monday came quickly, and classes seemed to take longer than ever, with each teacher trying unsuccessfully to keep the students’ attention on the subject matter. Besides the excitement caused by the Dead Man’s Hill adventure, Johnny and the basketball team started to think more and more about that day’s game. After school, they were scheduled to play off the reservation in Custer County against a white team from Miles City. It was Johnny’s first game for the eighth grade team that would be played away from the reservation.

  When the bell rang at 2:30, Johnny stuffed his books in his locker, grabbed his team duffle bag, and joined the boys on the team rushing down the hallway. He burst through the school’s double doors into the gravel parking lot. “Come on,” Johnny shouted as he ran past Richard Amos. “Last one on the bus has to kiss Mary Buffalo Calf.”

  “I’d rather die first,” Richard answered, laughing as he quickly caught up with Johnny. They raced to the bus and banged into the opened door. Johnny tripped over the first step and Richard fell on him.

  “Look at this,” Michael Taos shouted to the other players. “Someone left a gym mat on the steps.” He dove on top of Johnny and Richard and the entire team piled on after him. Laughing and bouncing, the boys on top squeezed down on the pile of arms and legs.

  “Help!” Johnny shouted. “I can’t breathe. Get off you creeps, or somebody will pay when I get out of here.”

  “You really got us scared,” Johnny heard one of the boys say, laughing. Then he heard another voice.

  “Okay, boys, break it up.”

  Johnny recognized the voice of Coach Adam Goodheart. He breathed easier as his teammates slowly climbed off him. Richard pulled him to his feet.

  “You
okay, Johnny?”

  “Yeah, Coach, I’m fine.”

  The coach, a tall Cheyenne who stood well over 6 feet, with a straight nose and bronze skin, stood on the first step of the bus. He wore blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a tan sport coat. His lips curled in a smile. “You guys save some energy for Miles City. You’ll need it before the game is over.”

  The eight boys sheepishly walked past their coach onto the bus. Johnny and Richard sat next to each other on a seat that was cracked, the stuffing long since pulled out. The bus engine, cranking over slowly, started on the third try, and they headed north on the highway toward Miles City.

  They drove past the health clinic and the BIA office and soon were passing homes and fields, where an occasional horse or cow would be grazing on the winter grass. It was cold on the bus, and the windows steamed up from their breath. After an hour’s drive, they pulled into the paved parking lot behind Miles City Junior High, a modern school, built with red brick and tinted glass windows. The parking lot was full of late model cars and pickups. The Cheyenne boys fell silent when the bus parked next to the gym.

  Coach Goodheart, who was also the bus driver, stood in the aisle, facing his team. “You kids may hear some things you won’t like today,” he said, pausing to let his words sink in. “Just remember you’re here to play basketball and that you represent St. Andrew. Make Father McGlothlin proud of you. Now, hustle into the locker room and get dressed in a hurry. I’ll be waiting on the gym floor for you.” He pulled the handle that opened the folding doors and stepped outside.

  Johnny ran with his teammates through the parking lot and down the brightly lit stairs into the locker room. “Whew, look at this place,” Johnny said to Richard. “It makes St. Andrew look like a dump.”

  “It doesn’t even smell like a locker room,” Richard said, sniffing the air.

  The dressing room was carpeted, each locker deep and wide with hangers, and the benches were padded with foam. At the end of the benches a shower room sparkled in the light. Against a bright blue wall stood a wooden trophy case filled with gold and silver trophies and ribbons.