Death on the Greasy Grass (6 page)

“We're not sure the collection has caused any trouble. We are just covering our bases.”

Beauchamp chuckled again. “Like your baseball. You wish to swat a home run.”

“Hit a home run,” Manny corrected. “Tell me about the journal you donated.”

“Ah,” he said after a long pause. “I sent the journal along with other artifacts
sur un coup de tête
. On a whim.”

“How is it that Blaise came to own a journal belonging to Levi Star Dancer?”

“Ah, I regret I cannot say. I have never read the journal. It is in English. I speak your language, but do not read it so well. My son Emile who fell in love with all the things Indian, and especially with Crow culture, has read it so many times he can recite it from memory. As a young boy, he and his friends would play with the collection. Emile always insisted on being the Indian.”

That's a first: a White man wanting to be an Indian.
“Can I speak with Emile about the journal?”

Beauchamp laughed. “Emile became tired of everything Indian as he grew. No, Emile discovered that women are so much more interesting than a musty hundred-years-old book someone scribbled in.
Volages.
Children are so . . . fickle
these days. Emile is away.”

Manny felt his headache spreading across his forehead. “When will he return?”

“Whenever the snow melts,” Beauchamp laughed. “He and his lady friend found mountain climbing. He may be back tomorrow. He may be back next week. I will have him call you, Agent Tanno.”

“
Merci
, Monsieur Beauchamp.”

Manny had begun disconnecting when Beauchamp stopped him. “One thing, Agent Tanno. Emile once said that the journal holds the Star Dancer clan in a bad light. And an Indian by the name of Eagle Bull more so.”

“In what way?”

“I do not know, my friend. But I will have Emile call you immediately when he returns.”

Manny closed his phone and fished into his suitcase for his bottle of aspirin.
Great, the journal might have been a motive for killing Harlan.
“Or it may be nothing more than a musty, hundred-year-old book,” he said aloud, hoping he was right.

C
HAPTER
7

JULY 1876

PRYOR MOUNTAINS, MONTANA TERRITORY

Levi Star Dancer sat cross-legged on the floor of the tipi, thick buffalo hair tickling his bare legs. But Levi found no humor in the tickling, and he focused on slowing his breathing. He grabbed one shaking hand with the other and hid it under the blanket spread across his lap, for this was a moment most solemn.

His eyes wandered around the tipi, to the smoke from the fire in the center rising and escaping through the smoke hole. His eyes fell on possible pouches hanging inside the lodge containing everyday things: cooking items and hunting and fleshing items. He forced his mind to focus, to concentrate on the light blue pony beads making up the background on the bags with seed beads forming a red diamond hourglass on the supple elk-hide pouches. Eyes roaming anywhere but on Pretty Paw sitting beside her father across from Levi.

He chanced a sideways glance at Broken Rib, sitting with legs drawn under him at the
acoria
, the place of honor at the rear of the lodge. Wolf tails sewn to the heels of his moccasins fluttered as the old man repositioned his legs, working out a cramp, the tails a reminder that Broken Rib struck coup on an enemy. Many times.

Broken Rib packed his pipe and brought a flaming twig from the fire and touched the tobacco. Sweet aroma filled the small space. The old man drew in the smoke, oblivious to Levi and his daughter, watching the smoke rise, a contented purring coming from him like the purring of the
iishb'iia,
the mountain lion.

Levi fought the urge to begin the conversation, unsure if his shaking voice would give Broken Rib the impression that Levi feared him. So he sat looking straight ahead as the old warrior finished his smoke and emptied the ashes in a small bowl to be offered to the four winds later. He carefully and reverently separated the bowl and stem and slid them into a deerskin pipe bag bearing the same geodetic designs as the possible bags. He turned and placed the pipe bag beside him.

Broken Rib turned to Levi and finally broke the silence. “Pretty Paw believes you are here to ask my only daughter in marriage.”

Levi nodded and cleared his throat as he remembered what he had rehearsed. “She will be my first,” he blurted.

The old man's eyebrows rose. “She may be your first, but she will also be your only wife, the way the world changes. If I allow the marriage.”

Levi waited quietly for Broken Rib to continue. “What happened at the Greasy Grass two moons ago was a great victory for the Lakota and Cheyenne.” He spit into the fire as if in disgust. “But it will be a victory as hollow as horns of a buffalo on a hungry anthill. The horse soldiers will return. In even greater numbers to avenge the soldier leader with the sun-bleached hair. And they will ask you to scout for them once again.”

Levi straightened. “I want to raise a family.” Finally, he had gathered courage enough to tell the man seated across from him. “My scouting days are over. I want . . .”

Broken Rib raised his hand. “These things you want—they will have to wait. You will have to scout for the soldiers looking for our enemies when they ask.”

Levi felt the rage build, bolstering his courage to confront the old man. “So you are saying you will not allow the marriage until I am done with the soldiers?”

Broken Rib shook his head as he grabbed a lodge pole and stood, arching his back. “I do not think she can wait that long.” He turned and faced her. “How long, my daughter?”

Pretty Paw rubbed her belly. “The child grows faster than I wish. Soon, I will not be able to conceal the baby even with skirts big enough for you.”

Levi bit his lip, breathing to keep his temper controlled. This was Broken Rib's lodge, and Levi would remain silent until spoken to.

The old man arched his back, popping noises coming from worn joints older than Levi had any hope of attaining, and he looked away. By Crow standards, Broken Rib lacked attractiveness because of his size. Towering over every warrior in the camp, people considered him too tall to be handsome. Yet, his very stature drew people to him, asking his advice, seeking out his wisdom. After a long pause, he looked down at Levi still sitting on the buffalo robe. “How many ponies will you give for my daughter?”

“Father!” Pretty Paw grabbed onto the lodge pole and struggled to stand. Both men watched her, neither wishing to insult her by helping her. Her belly protruded and she leaned back to ease the pressure. She faced her father, her face flushed, her jaw tightening, reminding Levi why he loved her so. “This is not about ponies.”

Her father began speaking, but she interrupted him. “No one else would marry me if they knew.” She rubbed her belly. “This baby is not even Levi's. You know that. Yet he would be a father to another man's child.”

Broken Rib backed away from his daughter. “This I know is the truth. The trapper—Beauchamp—is without relatives. I should never have let him share my lodge.”

Levi nodded; in some small measure it pleased the old man to insult the Frenchman in the worst way a Crow warrior could.
Beauchamp is without relatives, for certain. And without honor for leaving his responsibility of fatherhood behind. If I were close enough to lay my hands at the man's throat . . .

“But he did share your lodge.” Pretty Paw's voice rose, her hands cradling her belly. “But to ask Star Dancer for ponies . . .”

Broken Rib raised his hand and she quieted. “Now it is time I talk over you, my daughter.” He took her hand and eased her back down onto the buffalo robes covering the tipi floor. “I may be poor by Crow thinking, but there are those that say I am rich in wisdom. I believe First Maker gave me such wisdom for times such as these.” He hunched over and sat cross-legged beside Pretty Paw and stretched his feet to the fire, rubbing his toes.

“Tell me, my daughter, what would people think if they knew Beauchamp was the father of the baby growing inside you?”

“They would shun me. You know that. And they would shun the baby whenever he or she comes. But this man”—she nodded to Levi—“wishes to be with me.”

Broken Rib smiled for the first time. “In the words of the White men, Levi wishes to make an honest woman of you.”

Pretty Paw looked down.

“People can be cruel in times like this.” Broken Rib's braids danced on his chest. “And the baby would have no one.” He nodded to Levi. “He is of the Whistling Water clan, but babies could not—by our custom—ever belong if they are born out of marriage.”

Tears formed at the corners of Pretty Paw's brown eyes. Levi started to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and tell her all would be right. But he resisted and sat immobile, listening. “What am I to do Father? You don't want Levi to walk beside me, and I cannot live in peace among our people with a fatherless baby . . .”

Broken Rib touched Pretty Paw's leg and she stopped. “Here is the future: Levi will give me four ponies for your hand, one for each of the four sacred directions that will carry you and my grandbaby through life.”

Pretty Paw's face flushed. “Ponies again? Is that all . . .”

“If I allowed Star Dancer to marry you without giving the customary ponies as a gift, people will wonder. They will question. They will ask, ‘How is it that Star Dancer receives Pretty Paw's hand and her father demands nothing?' People will add up the days. They will figure out that the baby comes to us when trapper Beauchamp shared my lodge. By Star Dancer giving me ponies, people will believe the child is his.” He turned to Levi. “Do you accept my decision?”

Levi dropped his head. “I have but one war pony and one hunting pony. I do not have four others to give.”

Broken Rib smiled as he reached around and took the pipe bag from the tipi wall. “I have four ponies that you can give me.”

“Give you horses you already own?”

The old man nodded and slipped the pipe from the bag. He held the stem and carefully inserted the bowl of red stone. “I will hobble four of my finest ponies in the deep earth gash”—he pursed his lips and pointed to the west—“where you led your horse soldiers to the Cheyenne.”

“What their maps called Weather Vane Canyon.” Levi and White Crow had found a small group of Cheyenne lodges in the canyon, leading the soldiers down a narrow ledge path, single file. They surprised the enemy, who put up a fierce rear guard defense while their woman and children and old men escaped. In the end, only one Cheyenne warrior lay bleeding on the canyon floor. But that had been all right with Levi: He had no wish that the soldiers kill their women and children, even if they had invaded Crow country.

“I will hobble four horses,” Broken Rib continued as he opened his tobacco pouch and began tamping the bowl of his pipe. “Tomorrow you go there. Lead the ponies to the village with great fanfare. Everyone will believe they are yours.”

“The ponies will be recognized. People will know they belong to you.”

The old warrior nodded and reached to the fire for a smoldering twig. “All the better. They will say, ‘Star Dancer is a great warrior to steal ponies from such a fierce fighter as Broken Rib.' They will forever respect you, and your courage. As for me, of course I will refuse at first, denying you the privilege of marrying Pretty Paw. But eventually I will accept the ponies, and people will believe I fear Star Dancer.”

Levi's mouth drooped.

“What is it?”

“I have no desire that you—a warrior that has been such an influence on our people—be thought afraid of another man.”

Broken Rib lit the pipe, the sweet aroma filling the tipi before escaping upward. “To ensure my daughter will have a good future with a good man? It is of little consequence. It is worth what people say.”

Levi marveled at the old man's wisdom.
Brilliant.
Four ponies for the hand of a daughter of a respected elder of the tribe was fair. And no one dared challenge Broken Rib's judgment.

* * *

Pretty Paw walked a step behind Levi as they left the lodge of Broken Rib, careful in the darkness lit only by
Baappaaihk'e.
The Evening Star, bright tonight, giving them just enough light to make their way to the edge of the pond. Levi rubbed moss from the top of a rock glistening from what the White men called fool's gold. He took Pretty Paw's hand and eased her onto the rock. Although she was not far along, pain showed in her face, and Levi knew it was the cloth beneath her dress, pulled tight to conceal her condition to the other lodges, that caused her such discomfort. Levi sat opposite her on a partially submerged log and skipped a rock across the green water. It skipped once and sank. Levi never was good with throwing the rocks.

He took his journal from his shoulder pouch and fished around until he found the stub of pencil and began sharpening it with his knife.

“What do you write about every day in that White man's book?”

Levi licked the tip of the pencil and paused. “Today I write about the happiest day of my life. Today I write how a grizzled old warrior softened and gave his blessing to marry his most beautiful daughter.”

Pretty Paw nodded to the journal. “But you always write in it. Surely every day you do not write about such happy things.”

Levi frowned. “I write about life. Things that I can look backward on when I am old and forgetful. I write to help me to remember such things.”

“And the bad times? Do you wish to remember those as well?”

Levi licked the stub again. “I write about those times, too, so that those coming after us know our troubles. Know what hardships we have seen.”
And so someone—anyone—can one day know how Eagle Bull murdered White Crow and the other Lakota.
Levi wanted to talk to Pretty Paw about his obsession with Eagle Bull, but he looked away and closed his eyes. Eagle Bull had shot him in battle, when he was younger, wounding Levi so he would always have the running sickness in his gut. The same wound that would prevent him from ever having a child of his own. Levi had forgiven Eagle Bull, for the two men had faced one another in battle and Levi had lost. But that was before he killed White Crow, killing Levi's friend he had loved since a little boy growing up. That had elevated Eagle Bull into something that warranted Levi's obsession.

Levi dried his eyes and turned back to Pretty Paw. “I could teach you the White man's words.” He changed the subject.

She chuckled and held her belly. “Do not make me laugh. It hurts.” She leaned back on the rock and dangled her feet in the pond. “I do not have time to sit and learn the soldier words as you did. I have to practice cooking, beading, fleshing out the skin if I am to be a good wife to my future husband.”

“You will be a fine wife.” He patted her foot. “Besides, what else did I have to do over campfires, when soldiers passed liquor, while others blew that piece of metal in their mouths. Making music. And dancing.”

Pretty Paw's eyebrows rose so far they appeared to touch in the middle of her forehead. “Dance? Like us?”