Death Where the Bad Rocks Live (8 page)

Manny explained Micah Crowder searching Gunnar’s room and finding Badlands maps and trail guides, and how he’d gone there looking for Gunnar, but had been unsuccessful. “It’s doubtful, but his folks could still be alive. Might be a place to start, looking them up.”

Janet laughed. “Maybe Mr. Holy Man here might be able to look them up—they died in a boating accident the year after Gunnar disappeared.”

“One day, you’ll see the importance of harmony with the spirits, with keeping the circle unbroken,” Willie said.

As if to punctuate his argument, they reached the top of Skyline Drive, and an eerie orange glow cast by the sun threw long, erratic shadows across the houses. Manny felt Janet shudder through the seat, and she leaned farther over closer to Willie. “Maybe Clara’s not awake.”

“Fat chance. She’s probably waiting for me with whip in hand.”

“Why’d you move in with her in the first place?” Janet’s arms brushed Willie’s neck, leaning even farther over to peer at Clara’s house as they pulled into the driveway. Sometime between retrieving her notebook and now, another shirt button had opened up, and Manny averted his eyes. He’d see enough of that tonight. “Guess I just fell in love with her.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

She rolled her eyes. “There must have been some overriding reason you love her.”

Manny had often thought of that, of the feelings he’d experienced that first day at the Red Cloud Development Corporation when acting CEO Clara Downing greeted him. She’d treated him with honesty and dignity from the start, and
Manny didn’t have to pretend he was someone else with her. “I just do.”

“Then you should welcome her romance, her stamina.” She nudged Willie, who sat straight ahead so as not to stare at Janet’s shirt.

“At this stage of my life, I welcome BENGAY and Tylenol more than anything else. See her?”

Willie winked at Manny. “She’s waiting for you with that whip and chair. Go get ’em tiger.”

“Thanks for the support.”

Manny started for the door when he noticed the headlights reflecting off the eyes of a calico cat hunkered down in front of the garage door, ears laid back, tail flicking side-to-side. Manny bent down with his hand out when Willie stuck his head out the window. “I’d leave him alone. He doesn’t look like he wants to be bothered.”

Manny shook his head. “Poor homeless kitty, I think he’s hurt. But don’t worry—I’ve always had a way with critters. Haven’t you heard, we Indians talk with animals.”

“Then you’d better listen to this one and stay away.”

Manny ignored Willie and squatted in front of the cat while he held out his hand for the animal to sniff. It hissed and the hair stood on the back of its bony spine. “He looks injured.”

“Then let’s call animal control.”

Manny waved the offer away and extended his hand again. The cat retreated until it had the garage door at its back. Manny offered his hand once more, and the cat came alive. Or came psycho. It leapt on Manny’s pant leg and started clawing its way higher. Manny howled, grabbing the cat by the back of the neck as Clara burst through the front door, headlights shining through her flimsy teddy.

“What’s going on?” She looked at Manny battling the cat, prying the claws sunk into his leg.

“Open the garage door.”

Clara punched the combination on the outside key pad just as Manny pried the cat off his leg. Blood soaked through his trousers and he held the hissing, clawing, crazy cat at arm’s length, but it turned its head and sank its teeth into the web of Manny’s hand. He gritted his teeth and grabbed an old comforter off a garage shelf and threw it over the cat. The moment it released its grip to breathe, Manny dropped the cat and ran for the door, hitting the closure button on the way out with the cat struggling to get free of the blanket.

Manny bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavy. Clara grabbed his hand and held it to the light. “I think we ought to get you to the ER. What do you think, Willie?”

Willie stood with his back to Clara, hand covering his mouth.

“Willie?”

Willie’s hand came away and he bent over laughing.

Clara stood apart, hands on her hips. “I don’t see this as funny.”

Willie nodded and coughed, under control. “It is if you’d have seen Mister ‘We Lakota Talk with Animals’ there as he tried prying that thing off his hand.”

“We’ll, I still don’t think it’s funny. I think Manny ought to go to the ER.”

“For a cat scratch?” Manny had wrapped his bandanna around his hand and rubbed his trouser leg that the cat had shredded.

“I guess Clara’s right.” Willie and Janet stood beside Clara as if ganging up on him. “Cat bites can be pretty infectious.”

Manny pulled his trouser leg up and turned to the garage light. “I’ll clean it up with some peroxide. Douse it with Neosporin. It’ll be all right.”

They waited until Willie and Janet backed out of the driveway before starting into the house. “You sure you’re going to be all right?”

Manny jerked his thumb toward the Dodge backing out. “Sure, but I’m not so sure about Willie.” Janet had moved to the front seat and scooted herself as close to Willie as the seat organizer between them would allow.
Maybe she’s got a whip of her own reserved for Willie.

JULY 5, 1920

The wagon wheel fell into a hard, dried mud rut, and Clayton Charles yelled in pain. Moses glanced over his shoulder at Clayton clawing at the sides of the wagon to sit up. Moses whispered to the team and the horses pulled the wagon out of the hole.

“Damn it, stop this thing! Can’t you see I’m hurt.”

Moses tickled the reins and the wagon rocked to a stop. He set the brake and stepped off the seat, the wagon rising several inches, the springs groaning in relief. He reached under the seat and came away with a deerskin water bladder.

“Where the hell am I?”

Moses ignored him and sipped the water

“Hey, I’m thirsty as hell, too.”

Moses handed Clayton the bladder.

“Where the hell
am
I? And who the hell are you?”

“Moses Ten Bears.”

Clayton drank long and started to tip the water bladder over his head when Moses snatched it away.

“Water is scarce in the Badlands this time of year. We will need some for the rest of the trip.”

Clayton started to argue and winced in pain. He gingerly dabbed at his head, his fingertips stained with dried blood. “What happened to me?”

“Me.”

“What?”

Moses’s laugh shook his great bulk. “I did not think that you would remember last night.”

“Last night? Last night I was at the Fourth of July Dance in Imlay and having a damned good time, but that doesn’t explain this.” He probed his head and jerked his hand away. “Damn this hurts. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone stomped the dog shit out of me.”

Moses took a last short pull from the water bladder and stashed it back under the wagon seat. “You remember picking a fight with two Lakota boys at that dance?”

“No.”

“About half your size?”

“No.”

“And putting the boots to them after you knocked them to the dance floor?”

“No, damn it, I don’t remember anything past that first jar of moonshine.” Clayton stood and teetered on rubbery legs, then fell back onto the wagon tongue and held his head with both hands. “You didn’t answer me—who the hell
are
you?”

“I am the one that stopped you from killing those two Indian boys. I pulled you off them.”

He pointed to his head, careful not to touch where it hurt. “That still doesn’t explain this.”

Moses smiled. “Sure it does.” He leaned against the wagon and pulled a red stone pipe from his pocket. He began filling
the bowl from a Bull Durham pouch he’d grabbed from the pocket of his patched brown muslin shirt. “When I pulled you off them, you came after me.”

Clayton groaned and his hands came away from his head. He looked up at Moses. “You telling me I was drunk enough to want to fight someone your size?”

Moses nodded and lit his pipe, watching smoke rings float higher until they were as nebulous as the sparse afternoon clouds. He sat on the wagon beside Clayton, the springs creaking under the weight of both men, and one horse looked over its shoulder and nickered in protest. “You gave me no choice, what with you being so drunk and the crowd egging you on. They wanted to see those boys take a beating—or worse. A cowboy warned me to stay out of it, said that you were a mean drunk and would be more than a handful, you being as big as you are.”

Clayton looked up at Moses seated beside him. “I take it I wasn’t quite the handful they thought I’d be?” Clayton probed his face. Dried mud caked with blood crusted his cheeks and scalp. “I think I lost a couple teeth.”

Moses reached into his shirt pocket and handed Clayton a pair of pearlies. “Like I said, I could not allow you to kill those boys. When I pulled you off them, you sucker punched me.” He rubbed an eye that would be closed and blackened by tonight.

“And that was all she wrote?”

Moses smiled. “That was all she wrote. I will hand it to you—you did not give up easily. But when it was all over, no one came to help you—they just let you lie there while they went back to the party. I had to carry you away and patch you up. No one else would.”

“You did this? You some kind of doctor? Never knew there was a Sioux sawbones around here. You one of those medicine men my dad talks about?”

Moses tamped his pipe on the heel of his moccasins and
pocketed it. “My mother was a
waphiya winyan,
a medicine woman, and she taught me some of the ways of the Old Ones. But I am not a medicine man. People say I am
wicasa wakan.
A sacred man.”

“You’re my age—you aren’t old enough to be a holy man.”

“Suit yourself, but I do know a little of Indian healing. Now do not pick at that poultice or you will infect those wounds.”

Clayton jerked his hand away. “You said we were in the Badlands?”

“Northern part of the reservation. About five miles from your father’s ranch. Be there by sundown.”

“You know my father?”

Moses shook his head. “Never met him, but everyone knows about Randolff Charles.”

Moses stood from the wagon, and Clayton grabbed his arm. “I know you said you’re Moses Ten Bears. But what were we doing at the dance together?”

“It was not like we were there as a couple.” He grinned as he grabbed the bladder and poured water into his massive hand for the horses. They slurped the water up and Moses refilled his hand. “I hired out to the McMaster Ranch west of Conata. Been there since planting time, and the dance was the first relief I had for months.”

“And I spoiled it.” He stood and doubled over in pain.

Moses shrugged. “Your ribs are bruised. I tried not to hurt you more than necessary, but things happen in a fight.”

Clayton grabbed on to the side of the wagon. “Can I ride up there with you?” he gasped. “I don’t know how much more of your hospitality in the back of this wagon I can stand.”

The road smoothed as they neared the Charles Ranch. Wagon ruts and gouges made by those new rubber-tired machines
had been bladed over, with fresh pea gravel having been laid down to soak up water and allow passage over the slippery gumbo underneath. Clayton reached under the seat for the water bladder and took a long pull before handing it to Moses. “My father is going to be furious that I got into another fight. You’re not going to tell him about the dance?”

Moses spit dust that had blown into his mouth and gritted his teeth. When he grinned, those teeth were as white as any sun-bleached cow or buffalo bones on the prairie. “I am not going to tell him anything.”

Clayton sighed. “Thanks.”

“You will tell him.”

“What?”

“You will tell him how close you came to killing those two boys at that dance, and why I had to beat you.”

“I am not.”

“Of course you are.”

“My father will have a fit. He hates it when I drink. What makes you think I would cut my own throat?”

“You will,” Moses laughed. “Trust me. Eventually, someone at that dance will mention to one of your father’s hands, who will embellish it by the time he tells your father. You will want him to hear it straight from you. Besides”—Moses tapped Clayton’s cheek, and he drew back—“he will know you did not come by this from dancing with some pretty lady.”