Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Willie gasped, wincing in pain, shallow breaths coming in spurts. “He wanted to toy with me. Like a wildcat with a field mouse. A big, mean cat. I talked to him. Tried to distract him. Thought if I got him to talking I could pull my own gun.”

  Manny wrote, aware Willie’s words were coming at more effort.

  “I got him to talk. Asked him why he switched that ammo that killed Harlan. Why he killed Sampson Star Dancer. He got madder ’n hell. Shouted. Demanded to know who else knew about them. I told him you did. And that you kept the tape with you all the time.”

  Even with Willie staring down the barrel of a gun, he kept his wits. “So he’d come hunting me up?”

  “Sorry,” Willie gasped. “But I knew he’d have to come after you. And when he did, you’d get him. Sorry.”

  Manny patted Willie’s arm. “You did good. He will come after me. And when he does, I’ll be ready. What happened then?”

  “That’s when I saw my chance. I sprang for him. Just as the gun went off, I landed a right cross on his chin. We went down in a heap.”

  Manny wrote, imagining Degas would be sporting a swollen jaw, or worse, broken, given Willie’s strength. At least up until he came to call ICU his last home.

  “I landed on my back. Tried to get up,” Willie gasped, and Manny wiped spittle from his chin. “But it was like I was paralyzed. Couldn’t move. But at least Degas’s jaw was at an odd angle. I knew I done damage. He had a hard time talking. But he got up. Asked again what you knew about Harlan and Sam.”

  “And you said?”

  “‘Stuff it in your ass.’ That’s when he pressed the gun to my chest and touched off a round.”

  Manny wrote, watching Willie out of one eye. “Where was Wilson’s other ranch hands all this time?”

  Willie shrugged, and he winced in pain. “I’m sure we were too far away from the house for them to have heard. It was just me and that son of a bitch on the road. He stood over me for the longest time. I kept my eyes closed. Finally heard him moving off. He thought I was dead. And you know the funny thing?”

  “What?”

  “I had a vision. Right there on Eagle Bull land I had a vision. I was almost sorry the cavalry arrived and carted me off.”

  Willie’s eyes fluttered and Manny was quick to keep him talking. “What was the vision?”

  Willie’s yellowed eyes focused on Manny. “You know that’s a private matter. You know I can’t tell you.”

  Manny nodded.

  “Now let me sign. While I can. You’re my witness.”

  Manny held the statement up in front of him, his fingers wrapped around the pen, his signature little more than a scribble. He dropped back onto the pillow. “That will stand up in court, won’t it?”

  “It would, but we won’t need it.” Manny tried sounding confidant, but anger replaced his deep sadness. For once, he did his best to clear his mind, to learn if Willie would live or travel south along the Milky Way. What the hell good are visions if they won’t come when you need them? “This is no dying declaration.”

  “It is.”

  “Bullshit. You got too much to live for.”

  Willie laughed, but a coughing fit overcame him and Manny held the pan for him to spit phlegm. A large piece cascaded off the side and dropped onto the floor with a dull smacking noise.

  “What do I got for me here?”

  “Doreen for one.”

  A faint smile crossed Willie’s face. “Who, if I pull out of this, will leave me.”

  Manny glanced at the window as Clara talked with Doreen just outside the door. “I’m certain when you finally make the break from this place, Doreen will be there for you.”

  Willie started coughing, his shoulders shaking violently, his IV popping out of his arm. Manny hit the call button and the charge nurse burst through the door just ahead of Doreen. The nurse started rethreading the IV tube. “He needs rest,” she ordered.

  “Of course.” Manny met Doreen’s glare for a brief moment before he turned back to Willie a last time before leaving. His coughing had stopped and he lay motionless on the pillow, eyes closed, breaths little more than shallow gasps.

  The beeping of the monitor went steady, and the nurse yelled “Code Blue.” She pushed Manny and Doreen out the door and out of the way of the Code Team rushing inside pushing a medical cart.

  Manny stared after the closed door until Clara took hold of his arm and led him toward the waiting room.

  * * *

  “If—and this is a big if,” Clara said, “if Willie pulls through this, Doreen is resigned to stick with her man.”

  Manny dried his face and neck with his snotty bandanna. He stuck it in his overnight bag and grabbed a fresh one. The Code Team had kick-started Willie’s heart that stopped just now. They were uncertain if they could do it again. “Doreen will stay with him even if Willie remains with the tribal police? Why didn’t she tell Willie that while he could understand her?”

  Clara shrugged and sipped her tea. “She’s not any happier with his choice of profession than I am with yours, but at least she realizes that Willie can’t get police work out of his blood.”

  “So she didn’t suggest he take a job as a funeral director?”

  Clara laughed and scooted closer to Manny on the couch. “No. But I convinced her when Willie pulls through this to sit down and talk every night with him. Like we should be doing.”

  “About what?”

  She elbowed him and massaged her ring finger. “About the wedding. Or did you forget so soon?”

  Manny forced a smile. He had found scarce little to smile about lately. He zipped his overnight bag shut. “How can I forget that?”

  He kissed Clara as he started out the door for the airport, making a mental note to have Lumpy call regional hospitals for anyone matching Degas’s description coming in with a broken jaw. And for Lumpy to hunt up Cubby Iron Cloud if he’s still on Pine Ridge.

  CHAPTER 27

  Even before the charter plane’s prop stopped washing hot air over the Beechcraft, Stumper LaPierre was running across the Billings Airport tarmac. He held his cowboy hat on as he grabbed Manny’s bag with his other hand. “In answer to your question, we found Cubby. But he’s not under arrest.”

  Stumper had called Manny while the plane was still in the air to tell him he’d located Cubby and was bringing him in for another interview. “But you know where we can put the grab on him?”

  Stumper nodded. “He came into the police department on his own. He’s waiting for your bright smile.”

  “Is he still going to be there when we arrive?”

  Stumper shrugged. “Let’s hope so.”

  On the drive to Crow Agency, Manny filled Stumper in about the shooting and about Willie’s condition. “Willie said he landed a right flush on Degas’s jaw. As strong as Willie was . . .” Manny caught himself. “As strong as he is, we put a BOLO out at hospitals for someone coming in looking like a range bull had just kicked the shit out of him.”

  “What’s the odds that Degas will learn that Willie’s still alive? What if he makes an appearance to Rapid City Regional to finish what he started?”

  “I thought of that, too. Lumpy’s making arrangements for round-the-clock protection, in case Degas comes visiting.”

  “Thought he wouldn’t help?”

  Manny wanted to say something sarcastic about Lumpy. But all he had was gratitude for him making arrangements to protect Willie. “He got volunteers to stand watch at Willie’s door. On the sly. If the tribal council found out Lumpy disobeyed orders, it’d be Katy bar the door.”

  “I hear you there,” Stumper said as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. “You got Wilson Eagle Bull there, I got Chenoa Iron Cloud making things miserable here at Crow Agency.”

  “And tell me you’ve found Itchy.”

  Stumper shook his head.
He steered with his elbows as he stuffed his lip with Copenhagen. “Not yet.”

  “You know how important he may be?” Manny snapped. “Itchy’s bound to know something about Degas, hanging around with Sam and Harlan like he did.”

  Stumper threw up his hands. “Give me a damned break. Della Night Tail’s been on my ass about Dave ‘teepee-creeping’ again. She pitched a bitch to Chief Deer Slayer, and I had to put another meth search warrant on the back burner while I looked for him.” Stumper glared at Manny. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  Many sat back in the seat and rubbed his eyes, convinced Stumper was doing all he could with the time he had. “I apologize. I know you’re doing what you can to find Itchy.”

  Stumper looked sideways at Manny and smiled. “That an official apology?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” Manny answered. “It’s the only one you’re going to get today.” Thinking of Willie’s condition lying in ICU had clouded Manny’s rational thinking, a cloud he didn’t need right now if he wanted to find Willie’s shooter.

  They pulled into the justice building at Crow Agency. Cubby’s shiny bright red Lincoln truck waited in front. Stumper led Manny past the dispatch and into the interview room. He put up the INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS sign outside both doors and shut them.

  Cubby sat with his ostrich boots propped up on the table, Stetson pushed back on his head, cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Manny eyed the smoke. “Put it out, please.”

  Cubby smiled. “I talk better with a smoke.”

  “It’s just that I quit last year and would love to start again. Better to get rid of the temptation.”

  Cubby eyed him suspiciously, but he came up with no argument for Manny. He took a last drag and dropped it into a Pepsi can. “Stumper tells me you want to find out my relation with Carson Degas?”

  Manny nodded and grabbed his pocket notebook as if he intended referring to nonexistent notes. It had been three hours since Stumper called and said he’d located Cubby, three hours that he’d had to anticipate questions and formulate lies. Manny had had the three hours flight time to rehearse what he intended asking Cubby. A draw. “Where do you know Degas from?”

  “The ranch, of course. He’s one hell of a horse wrangler. Knows horseflesh better than anyone I’ve worked with.” When Manny said nothing, Cubby continued. “We swap stud service. He brings his studs up here, or we ship to Pine Ridge.”

  “And what do you swap?”

  “You’ve never worked a ranch, have you?”

  “I have.” Growing up, he had hired out to ranches skirting the Badlands, haying, branding, everything else a laborer does on a working cattle ranch. “But I’m not intimate with stud service.”

  Cubby chuckled. “Then you got to take some Viagra or something.” When Manny and Stumper failed to laugh, Cubby continued. “We’ve got four champion Black White-Faced bulls that the Eagle Bull Ranch uses in stud, and he has registered Appaloosa and paint stallions we use. Makes for a handy swap.”

  “So you spend a good deal of time with Degas?”

  Cubby paused, sensing a trap yet not sure how Manny would spring it. “I do, but it’s strictly business.”

  “Shooting a policeman business?”

  Cubby shook his head. “I heard about that two nights ago. Damned shame.”

  “Who’d you hear about the shooting from? Degas?”

  Cubby paused, one foot tapping the floor, eyes darting to the door. “I didn’t see Carson two nights ago. I stayed at Wilson’s that night. First I knew a cop had been ventilated down the road is when Harvey came into the bunkhouse and told me. Damned shame he’s going to die.”

  “He’s not.” Manny hoped he sounded convincing, as he wasn’t certain himself if Willie would pull through. “The tribal policeman—Officer With Horn—is recovering fine.”

  Cubby sat silent for long moments, looking at the floor. He rubbed his palms against his jeans and started to grab a smoke from his pocket when he put the pack back. “He’s going to pull through? That’s great.”

  Manny nodded. “He recalls a fight with Degas, and Degas shooting him.”

  “A shame,” Cubby repeated, avoiding looking at either Manny or Stumper.

  “And he remembers you riding with Degas an hour before he was shot.”

  Cubby looked to Stumper.

  “Maybe you went back to the bunkhouse when Degas turned around on the road,” Manny pressed. “Maybe you convinced the other ranch hands to stay away from where you knew Degas intended stopping Willie.”

  Cubby stood, knocking his chair over as he started for the door. “I’m outta here. Last thing I need is to be accused of helping someone shoot a cop.”

  Cubby started for the door, but Stumper moved to block it. Cubby glared at him, spittle flying out of his mouth, fists clenching. “Get outta my way if you want to keep your job!”

  Manny stood. “Sit back down.”

  Cubby started around Stumper. Although Cubby had him by fifty pounds, the smaller man grabbed Cubby’s shirtfront and spun him around. He shoved him into a chair and stood over him.

  “I’ll make a call to the tribal chairwoman and you can kiss your job good-bye, little man.”

  Stumper smiled down at him. “My job is the only thing that prevents me from stomping your fat ass. Now, you get me fired, and I got no reason for restraint. No reason not to wait for you some dark night when you least expect it.”

  Manny leaned over the conference table. “And if I add accessory to attempted homicide, Cubby, you’ll be looking over your shoulder every time you go to the prison shower room.”

  Cubby’s lips quivered, and his foot tapped incessantly. He looked first to Manny, then to Stumper, rubbing his hands together. “I told you guys all I know about the shooting. I didn’t know he’d shot your officer.”

  “But you were with him that morning. At about the time of the shooting.”

  Cubby nodded. “I jumped in when he said he was driving into Pine Ridge to mail a package, but he forgot it. He turned and dropped me off at the bunkhouse while he grabbed the package. He was gone by the time I was done.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “Four beers.”

  “How long’s that?”

  Cubby shrugged. “As long as it took me to knock back four cold ones from the cooler he always keeps in the bunkhouse. When he came back, we took off for Gordon and some serious drinking.”

  Stumper nodded. “You must have heard gunshots? Willie was shot”—he turned to Manny—“a half mile from there?”

  Manny nodded.

  Cubby shook his head. “Wilson’s bunkhouse has been standing for a hundred years. It’s built like a fortress. I wouldn’t have heard the shots if it had been outside the front door.”

  “Why Gordon?” Manny asked.

  Cubby shrugged. “Closest place to drink.”

  “But if you had beer in the cooler, why go to Gordon?”

  Cubby looked away.

  “Why!” Manny said, pulling up a chair and sitting nearly on top of Cubby. “I’ll find out with a few phone calls. Now, why Gordon, or do we hook you up as an accessory?”

  Cubby slumped in his chair. “When he came back, his jaw looked like hell, all swollen. He could barely talk. Said after he came back from the post office he was leading a mare into another pasture before we lit out, and she kicked him in the jaw. Looked like it was broke, so I drove him to the ER in Gordon.”

  Stumper came off the wall and leaned over, close to Cubby. “Didn’t that seem odd—driving to Nebraska when Pine Ridge and Hot Springs hospitals are closer?”

  Cubby shrugged. “All I know is he needed a little TLC from the ER in Gordon, and a little CLC from the bar afterward.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Manny herded the Oldsmobile down the long driveway behind a stream of cars on their way to Sampson’
s memorial service. He wished he had gotten the air conditioner fixed, and rolled the window up against the dust settling inside the car. He swiped at the sweat running down his forehead stinging his eyes, obscuring his vision as he parked beside a line of other cars and walked toward the ranch house. Chenoa stood bent over tables as she arranged buckets of food for the mourners. Jamie Hawk walked behind her easily carrying two twenty-gallon water bottles in each hand. He glared at Manny as he set the bottles on the table. He bent and whispered to Chenoa. She nodded, and the big man disappeared into the house. She stood and smoothed her dress as she waited for Manny to approach.

  “Your brother must have had a lot of friends.” Manny jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the cars lining both sides of the driveway, at elders painfully and slowly climbing out of cars, at kids bounding ahead of their parents, all here to send Sampson Star Dancer off. They milled around the porch, waiting for direction, when Wilson Eagle Bull emerged from the house. His gaze fell on Manny for a brief moment before turning to the crowd, his arms crossed, looking down as if he were going to give a campaign speech. Beaded lizard hair ties held his salt-and-pepper hair that lay on his chest. A bone choker of red and white and black dyed porcupine quills circled his thick neck and set off his starched pleated pearl shirt. He turned to the crowd and led them around back of the house to the Star Dancer family cemetery like a Pied Piper of the dead.

  “You here for the funeral?” Chenoa was dressed more for a Montana Tourism shoot than her brother’s funeral. Beaded geometric designs adorned her muslin dress, and her multicolored flared top was open to reveal more cleavage than a mourner should be allowed. Manny looked away as she bent over the table arranging food bowls. A shallow breath of wind caught her cologne and drifted past Manny. He swallowed, fighting urges that, as he approached middle age, still ran strong. Feelings earmarked for Clara.