Death on the Greasy Grass (26 page)

“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.”

“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.

C
HAPTER
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?”

“Going 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.”

Stumper looked after Jamie's disappearing form. “You wouldn't have shot him, would you?”

Manny holstered his gun, expecting Jamie to come back for round two. “He had bad intentions written all over him. Besides, you pay any attention to his feet? As big as Jamie is, he's got pretty small boots. And he wasn't just sleeping like he claimed.”

“You don't think Jamie was our shooter tonight? The guy that was holed up in the barn took off pretty fast.”

“Just 'cause he's so big,” Manny said as he rapped hard on the door, “doesn't mean he's not nimble.” He dropped the door knocker again. A voice called out, “Wait a damned minute.” And it wasn't Cubby's voice.

The door swung open, and Wilson Eagle Bull stood with his tighty-whities inching a bit south over a slight paunch, revealing what Reuben referred to as “rear cleavage.” Wilson stood with mouth agape for long moments before he sputtered, “I thought it was Jamie.”

Manny smiled and exaggerated giving Wilson the once-over. “I'm sure you did.”

“Who is it, baby?” Chenoa glided down the winding wooden staircase, her sheer negligee clinging to shapes, barely covering legs that belonged to a twenty-something rather than a woman of fifty. She didn't bother hiding taut nipples that threatened to escape the thin fabric.

It was Manny's and Stumper's turn to stand with mouths agape, and Chenoa smiled at their discomfort. She slipped her arm around Wilson's waist. “Guess the cat's out of the bag or”—she nodded to the bulge in Wilson's shorts—“it would have been if you hadn't interrupted things.” Her smile faded. “Just what do you want at this time of night?”

Wilson stuck his head out the door and looked. “Maybe they'd like to come inside in case someone else comes calling.”

“Like Cubby?” Chenoa said, stepping aside. “He's too busy doing his own thing.” She turned to Wilson. “Take them into the kitchen.”

Chenoa turned and ascended the stairs while Wilson led them into the kitchen and nodded to stools situated around a breakfast counter. When Chenoa entered a few moments later, she had wrapped herself in a terry cloth robe and she handed Wilson one. The yellow and blue star of the Star Dancer logo adorned pockets on both robes. Wilson turned away while he hid his embarrassment and tied his robe shut.

“So you got us dead to rights.” Wilson scratched his groin. “What you intend doing with it?”

“Depends on what your answers are.”

Wilson hung his head while a sly grin crossed Chenoa's face, enjoying his predicament, and Manny realized Wilson running for the South Dakota State Senate meant nothing to her. And neither did Wilson. “What do you need to know?”

“Who shot at us tonight?”

Wilson looked sideways at Chenoa. Her smile faded and she leaned closer to Manny. “Someone shot at you? Are you all right?”

Manny nodded. “We're curious as to where all the players were.”

“Players?” Chenoa sat on a stool next to Wilson, her bathrobe riding up over her thighs and revealing her legs again. She made no effort to cover them. “Players in what?”

“Murders. Sam's. Itchy's. Harlan's. They're connected by only one thing—the theft of Levi Star Dancer's journal. I'm looking at the two people who would profit the most if I failed to solve the murders. At the people who'd least want me to find that journal and return it to Harlan's estate for public auction.”

Wilson wiped his forehead with a dish towel. “I got nothing to gain by killing anyone. And neither does Chenoa.”

“No?” Manny rested his elbows on the counter and formed a tent with his fingers. “How about the renowned Eagle Bull reputation?” He turned to Chenoa. “And the Star Dancer purity?”

Manny eyed Wilson's size thirteen slippers and nodded to Chenoa's manicured, blue-painted toenails dangling from the stool. “I'd say you're about a nine?”

“No, I'm a size 36. D to be precise.”

Manny felt his face warm. “I meant your shoe size.”

Her grin widened. “I knew what you meant. Yes, I'm a size nine. Why?”

“Our shooter tonight wore about a size nine cowboy boot, with a walking heel by the looks of the impression in the barn where he—or she—waited to shoot us.”

“Lot of people wear size nine,” Wilson volunteered. “Cubby does, too. And Jamie's shoes are not much bigger.”

Chenoa scowled at Wilson and he turned red.

“That true?” Manny asked. “Cubby wear a size nine?”

“More like a nine and a half. And if your next question is could he shoot at you, he's a ranch man. He's got guns. And he knows how to use them.”

“But is he smart enough?”

“I don't understand,” she said.

Manny paused, letting them think he knew more about the shooter than he did. “Is Cubby smart enough to set us up? Drive that Caddy that Degas rented to that creek bed, knowing we'd investigate all the blood inside. And call in an anonymous tip?”

Chenoa tilted her head back and laughed. “I see your point. My husband's capable of shooting at you, but I'm not so sure if he could have arranged something as complex as that.” She stood and grabbed a teapot and began filling it with water.

Wilson stared at the floor until Manny asked him, “Who'd you fly to Pine Ridge tonight?”

Wilson's head snapped up. “What makes you think I flew back home tonight?”

“Harvey said you did.”

“Harvey? Even if he saw me, he wouldn't tell anyone. The man's got loyalty in spades.”

“He got religion tonight.”

Wilson leaned forward. “How's that?”

“He confessed to a holy man.”

Wilson threw up his hands. “All right. I flew back home, but I flew alone. I had a fund-raiser in Rapid tonight, but it was called off an hour from home. I set down only long enough to give some paperwork to Harvey and I flew back here.”

“Any particular reason you didn't stay in Pine Ridge?”

Chenoa sat beside Wilson and cradled a cup of tea in her hands. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Wouldn't you come back,” Chenoa asked, “if the sex was so good even the neighbors had a cigarette afterward?”

Manny looked away, aware that Chenoa's smile widened at his embarrassment. “Tell me what you know about the journal.”

Wilson shrugged. “I never knew until the journal surfaced that Conte Eagle Bull murdered his own friend. I'm running an honest campaign . . .”

“Based on the integrity of the Eagle Bull name?”

He nodded. “If the contents of that journal were made public, it'd give that damned Arvid Johansson more than a few mud pies to sling.”

“Did you get a chance to read it? You seem to know a great deal about it.”

“Sam,” Wilson answered. “He told me what Levi Star Dancer had recorded.”