Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Why wouldn’t Degas—if he had been the driver—conceal the car any better?” Stumper said.

  “Why indeed?”

  Manny returned to the embankment with Stumper close behind. Manny bent and played the light down at a sharp angle. Boot prints shone where the driver had climbed out of the car and scrambled up the steep bank. Manny sat in the dirt and eased himself down, grabbing onto a tree root to slow his descent. By the time he’d gotten to where the car sat, Stumper had jumped down and helped him stand. He stood apart from the car.

  “How long do you figure this has been here?” Stumper asked.

  Manny squatted and ran his hand over the tire marks, but wasn’t sure how to age the tracks. The car rested in axle-deep mud, and the only thing Manny knew was the tracks were fresh: half a day at the most, an hour at the least. “Only thing I can say is that if Itchy were killed in the Cadillac, it hadn’t happened where it is now.” He motioned up the bank. “Not even Degas could have carried Itchy’s body up the steep and slippery embankment.”

  Manny inched his way down far enough to illuminate the inside. “Open the door.”

  Manny waited, but Stumper stood with his back to the bank eying the car.

  “Come here and open the door so I can look inside at a different angle.”

  Stumper’s wide eyes reflected moonlight as he stared at the car.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Didn’t you hear that?”

  Manny stood and cocked his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Sounded like an owl.”

  “I said I didn’t hear anything. Why?”

  Stumper shook his head. “Itchy’s ira’xaxe remains close.”

  Manny turned off the light and walked to Stumper. “Explain.”

  “Itchy’s soul is close by. Can you not feel it?”

  Manny felt the hair rise along his neck and the backs of his hands. He had heard nothing. But if Stumper felt Itchy’s soul remained near the car, Manny knew no amount of prodding would convince Stumper otherwise. Besides, with Manny’s experiences with wanagi, he believed Stumper.

  “Okay,” Manny said. “Just sit there and catch your breath while I check the car out.”

  Manny opened the door and propped a broken cottonwood branch in the doorjamb to hold it open while he shone the light inside. Blood and brain matter had been blown straight into the passenger side dash. Blood spatter showed Itchy’s outline where he had been slumped back in the front seat when the killer shot him in the back of his head.

  “What you make of this?” Stumper yelled.

  Manny turned to where Stumper knelt halfway up the creek bank. His flashlight illuminated a boot print laid over a cigarette butt stuck in the mud. Even before he picked it up, Manny smelled the odor of smoke. Finally, one advantage of being an ex-smoker: knowing if a butt is fresh.

  Manny stood, looking about. “This is recent. Last hour, perhaps. Someone wanted this car found.”

  “Why?”

  “Knowing that I’d respond,” Manny said immediately, his hand going to his belt: He’d left his gun and holster in his duffel in Stumper’s cruiser.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Manny caught light reflected in the barn window thirty yards away. He dove for Stumper, his shoulder hitting him and knocking him to the ground just as two quick shots kicked up mud where they’d stood a moment before. They rolled down the bank and hit the side of the Cadillac. Stumper half crouched, his sidearm already in his hand, and he looked at Manny with a wild-eyed, questioning stare.

  “I left mine in your Tahoe.”

  “Lot of help you’ll be.” Stumper started up the bank, but Manny grabbed the back of his belt and pulled him back down. “He’s just waiting for us to poke our heads up.”

  “What the hell you want us to do, stay here and hope someone heard the shots? Wait until the shooter gets a bead on our asses? It’s a long way from anyone. We got to move.”

  “Of course we do, but we move smart.” Manny peeked over the bank and studied the terrain, the muddy creek bed, the steep bank that would provide them cover, analyzing the best way to get to the shooter. Just like Lakota back in the day would have done. “We’ll split up. You go along the creek bed to the east, I’ll stay below the rim and make my way west, closer to the barn.”

  “You think the gun fairy’s going to pay you a visit—you’re not even armed?”

  “I will be when I grab my Glock from your truck.” Manny peeked over the bank again, and a bullet kicked up mud and dirt a foot to his right. He dropped back down, rubbing a piece of tree leaf from one eye. “You give me twenty yards and start lobbing rounds. That’ll give me time to put the sneak on whoever’s in that shed.”

  “You? Put the sneak on someone?”

  Manny drew his legs under him. “Just like we Lakota did when we won against you Crow.”

  “Seems like it was the other way around.”

  “Whatever. Just lob a few rounds without exposing yourself. That’ll give me time to work around to the back of the barn. Then get on your cell and call for backup.”

  Stumper shook his head, but did as Manny instructed. Manny duckwalked twenty yards before crawling up the bank and grabbing tree limbs drooping toward the creek. He pulled himself up the bank just as Stumper fired two quick rounds. One that hit the barn with a solid whump, and the shooter answered with four quick shots that kicked up mud where Stumper had crouched only seconds before.

  Manny made it to the Tahoe and kept the cruiser between him and the barn as he leaned inside the open window and grabbed his handgun. He knelt, waiting for the shooter to fire again, for the telltale muzzle flash to tell him where the shooter was. But it didn’t come, and Manny imagined their attacker waiting until Stumper shot again.

  Manny dropped behind the Tahoe and low crawled until he reached a stand of cottonwood, his palms bleeding from rocks and cactus, and he picked a barb out of his palm with his teeth. He breathed heavily as the huge cottonwood tree—alive since the Old Time—shielded him from the barn. He silently thanked Wakan Tanka for the protection the Cottonwood Oyate afforded.

  Manny chanced a look around the tree. Clouds moving in and out of moonlight cast odd shadows over the barn, eerie movement reflected off the few remaining windows. Manny prayed a final time to Wakan Tanka to give him courage to sprint across the open field to the barn. He gathered his legs under him, breathed deeply, and darted out of the safety of the cottonwood. He zigzagged across the field, stumbling on downed branches, tripping, catching himself as he dropped beneath the window where the shooter had last fired.

  Manny strained to detect where the shooter was in relation to the window, to the door that Manny would have to rush through. How the hell stupid is this? If he were training a new agent, he would have washed him out for doing something as dumb as running across an open field, just praying the shooter wouldn’t get a bead on him. Why had he done something any rookie would not have done; the answer came to him immediately: I might have already cost Willie his life. I don’t intend losing Stumper as well.

  Moonlight faded in and out and Manny waited for clouds to momentarily obscure the light. He sprang around the corner, gun muzzle leading the way, searching for a target. Moonlight reflected off chicken-crap-covered walls, off stalls that once housed working draft horses, off a loft with only faint tendrils of hay hanging over the edge. But no shooter.

  A flashlight shone into his eyes, destroying his night vision. Manny’s hand shot to his face, shielding his eyes, and he strained to make out the gun barrel inches from his face. “I saw that quarterback shuffle across that field,” Stumper said, lowering his gun. “That was one dumb move.”

  Manny blinked to restore his vision. “Can’t argue there.” He grabbed Stumper’s flashlight and shone it around the barn. “Looks like our shooter didn’t want to play after all.”

&nbs
p; “You mean Degas?”

  Manny shrugged. He had felt all along it had been Degas—the man had the most to lose, and the most to gain, if Manny failed in his investigation. Now he wasn’t so certain. “One thing’s for sure, whoever’s our shooter, he set us up like we were a couple rookies.”

  Manny played the lights onto the dirt floor, where a half-dozen butts lay snubbed out beside the window where the shooter had stood waiting in ambush. Manny grabbed a twig and circled them for photographing and collection later.

  Sirens neared, and Manny leaned back against a wall. His legs buckled and he slumped, thinking of the dash across the open field, of how the outcome might have been different if the shooter had stuck around to play. Manny put his head between his legs, feeling his heart rate slow, the veins in his neck throbbing a little less violently.

  Stumper nodded to two cruisers turning onto the field. “Just be thankful it’s not late or we wouldn’t have been able to round up any backup.” He walked out into the field and talked briefly with two BIA policemen exiting their cars. The officers nodded and started working their way in a tight perimeter looking for the shooter. Stumper joined Manny back inside the barn. “What you find?”

  Manny shone the light at a boot print imbedded in bird poop. He placed his own boot next to it. “Size nine or thereabouts.”

  “Pretty small for a man as big as Degas,” Stumper said. “Any ideas?”

  “Think.”

  “I am, but I’m coming up blank.”

  “Chenoa comes to mind.”

  Stumper laughed. “And she could keep us pinned down?”

  “How many ranch women you know could outshoot their men?”

  Stumper nodded. “I see your point. Still, she’d have to have a hell of a motive to call in that car just to ambush us.”

  Manny wanted to tell Stumper what the journal contained, that Chenoa’s future would be in jeopardy if the contents of the journal were made public. A made-for-TV motive for murder.

  “But Chenoa doesn’t smoke.” Stumper nodded to the butts. “And it looks like the shooter waited quite a while for us to arrive.”

  “We’re running out of suspects,” Manny said. “If we don’t come up with another winner, we’ll have to award Chenoa the suspect prize.”

  “Cubby,” Stumper blurted out. “He’s got pretty small feet for a fat guy. And he smokes.”

  Manny thought back to Cubby running him off the road. If Manny had been slower to drive the Jeep through the fence, Cubby would have gotten a notch on the fender of his truck. “You might have something there. We better pay Cubby a visit, then.”

  “Sure, first thing in the morning.”

  “Now.”

  “Now?” Stumper checked his watch. “It’s ten thirty.”

  “Then if Cubby’s our shooter, we’ll just catch him coming home.”

  “But this time of night is ridiculous.”

  “You’re the one that suggested Cubby.” Manny smiled. “You afraid of tribal politics?”

  “Damn you.” Stumper turned to an officer shining his light down the bank for the wrecker driver. “Have it taken to the impound yard,” he called to the officer. “We’ll process it tomorrow. And cast these boot prints in the barn.” He tore pages from his notebook and handed it to a younger officer who had just walked into the shed. “And make sure you’re at the PD at 0700—I got Della Night Tail and Big Dave coming in to make a statement about meth activity they claim to know about.”

  Stumper started for his cruiser. “Damn you,” he called over his shoulder, and Manny ran to catch up for the ride to the Star Dancer ranch.

  CHAPTER 35

  Manny’s cell phone buzzed just as he turned off Interstate 90 toward Lodge Grass and the Star Dancer Ranch. He checked the number: Philbilly’s phone. “Pull over so I don’t lose the signal.”

  Reuben’s voice sounded faraway and faint, but then Reuben always sounded faint and faraway, soft, and a little hard to understand. Manny pressed his phone tight to his ear. “Wilson was here, and gone. That quick. I drove Philbilly’s outfit to the Pine Ridge airport—you know how embarrassing it is to drive a bread truck at forty miles an hour, chasing Wilson Eagle Bull’s plane?” Philbilly had bought an old Wonder Bread truck at auction and repainted it. As with all Phil’s schemes, his latest one of selling Indian tacos on the side of the road wasn’t panning out.

  “But did you see who his passenger was?”

  “I missed it,” Reuben said. “After he didn’t land at the airport, I drove to his west place first, and just got there as he was taking off in his pasture again. His foreman caught me in Wilson’s driveway and damned near ran me off the road as I was leaving.”

  “Harvey?”

  “Call him Harvey Broken Nose now. The SOB must have thought I was Philbilly driving onto Eagle Bull property, ’cause he blocked the road. When his fat ass came lumbering up with that toothy grin and tire billy slapping his hand, he expected the driver to lie down and bleed.” Reuben laughed. “That lasted just long enough for me to climb out of the bread truck and educate him.”

  “Did Harvey know who Wilson’s passenger was?”

  Reuben chuckled again. “You mean Harvey Missing Teeth? He claimed Wilson had no passenger tonight or any night.”

  Manny closed his eyes, and prayed Harvey didn’t file an assault charge on Reuben. “He didn’t know or wouldn’t say?”

  “All Harvey knows is that Wilson radioed him when his plane was a half hour out. He and Pete and RePete positioned their pickup lights so Wilson could land. Like they’d done a hundred times before, according to Harvey Split Lip.”

  “Who was with Wilson?” Stumper asked.

  Manny held up his hand for silence. “You think Harvey told you the truth?”

  “I do.” Reuben laughed again. “After a few whacks, me and Harvey bonded, in that special way a coyote bonds with a prairie chicken a moment before the coup de grace. Harvey said if Wilson had a passenger, he would have had to hustle to get away. It only took Harvey a few minutes to walk to the plane and grab Wilson’s baggage.”

  “Keep your ear to the ground. Someone got out of Wilson’s plane. The ranch house is close enough his passenger could have made it there.”

  “Or the bunkhouse. I’ll see what I can find out. You know,” Reuben said, “this cell phone technology is pretty cool. I might even get one myself.”

  Manny hated to ask: “You got Philbilly’s cell, and you still have his bread truck?”

  “I do,” Reuben answered. “It’s not much, but Phil was glad to let me keep it for as long as I needed it. He didn’t even argue with me, and I got the impression he was a little intimidated.”

  “You think? You don’t have him tied up in back of your house or anything?”

  “Of course not,” Reuben chuckled. “I’m civilized. I woke up Crazy George, and said that Phil wanted to stay there for the night. Or until I was done with his truck.”

  Manny shook his head. “Great, staying with a man that dresses in skirts, and has a junkyard horse that’ll eat Phil alive. Next thing you know he’ll be hightailing it off the rez.”

  “Now, wouldn’t that be a shame,” Reuben said, and disconnected.

  Manny pocketed his cell and told Stumper what Reuben had said. “Any ideas who Wilson might have given a ride to?”

  “If that’s what Wilson did.”

  “Why else would he have set down in his pasture just long enough for him to let his passenger off? I know what I saw. Someone was climbing into the front seat after he lifted off.”

  Stumper turned onto the long drive leading to the Star Dancer ranch house. “We’ll start by seeing who’s missing at the Star Dancer place.”

  As they topped the hill overlooking the ranch house, Stumper started turning around on the road.

  “What you doing?”

  “Go
ing back to town.” He nodded to the house invisible in the darkness at the end of the drive. “Looks dark to me. I told you they’d be sleeping. We can come back tomorrow.”

  Manny squinted. “I see light between the curtains. Drive down there, and we’ll bang on the door until someone answers.”

  “What if Jamie Hawk comes crashing out. I’d hate to tangle with that big bastard . . .”

  “I got faith in you to keep him busy while I interview whoever’s inside.” He chin-pointed to the house. “Someone tried killing us tonight and I want to see who’s playing, and eliminate who’s not. Now drive down there.”

  Manny recalled Jamie looking through him, no emotion showing, and he was with Stumper on one thing: He didn’t want to tangle with that big bastard.

  * * *

  But that big bastard’s voice surprised Manny as he banged the door knocker. “You guys lost?” Jamie stood in the shadows at the end of the porch, ass-whipping muscles bulging under a white T-shirt. “We’re all sleeping.”

  “You’re not.”

  He took a step closer. “I was until you drove in here and woke me up.”

  “We’re here to see Chenoa.”

  Jamie stepped toward them, and Manny was surprised how easily he drew his gun and pointed it between Jamie Hawk’s legs. “I’m not much of a shot, but I’m good enough to hit your big ass from here. Someone shot at us tonight, and I’m in no mood for you to interfere with an official investigation. Take another step closer and you’ll be the morgue’s newest resident, or you’ll be someone’s girlfriend in a federal slammer.”

  Jamie saw the gun for the first time, his eyes widening, stepping back.

  “I thought you’d recognize official. Where’s Chenoa?”

  “She’s not here.”

  Manny tapped the door with his hand. “I got a sneaking suspicion she is. Now, run along, and I’ll tell her you did your best to keep us away.”