So far, no ’71 GMC either.
The further we went up the hill, the older the cars and trucks got, and we finally parked somewhere around 1939. It was hot, but there was a trickle of smoke whispering from the tiny cabin lodged into the hillside just like there was when I had visited the winter before last.
That time, I had remained in Henry’s truck as he’d asked the old woman about her son, but this time I was there officially. I hoisted myself out of the Yukon and looked at the place, especially the windows, since Artie was known to be in possession of ballistic oddities like FAL. 308s, MAC-10s, and even an M-50-I knew because I’d been through his closet or the dental hygienist’s at least. “Hold up.”
Lolo Long, who was already winding her way toward the cabin, looked back and immediately placed a hand on her colossal sidearm.
I pointed up-the smoke was actually coming more from the back-so I took the route around the corner of the house toward the hillside. Chief Long followed as I carefully picked my way around a rotting roll of mustard-yellow carpeting and the wire remnant of a bedspring. “Do you know his mother?”
Once again, her tone was defensive. “No.”
I studied the nearest window and could see the rags stuffed around the casing, as much for insulation against the heat as the cold. “Just for the record, I don’t expect you to know everybody on the Rez.”
“Thanks.”
“Now, do you mind if I do the talking?”
She gestured an after-you-my-dear-Alphonse and brought up the rear.
There was quite an operation going on out back, where an elderly woman was scooping preburned charcoal with a number two shovel and spreading it evenly in a pit lined with heavy stones and tinfoil. Tipped to the side was a rack made from sheep wire and rebar, which held a good-sized doe elk that had been butterflied and then stretched onto the contraption.
She froze when she saw me but then rose and rested her chin on the back of her gnarled hands, her cataract-impaired eyes staying right with mine.
“Mrs. Small Song?”
She didn’t answer, but the milky eyes clicked to my right like the buttons on a rattlesnake’s tail as she took in Chief Long’s uniform.
I walked closer and pointed toward the complicated arrangement. “Open-pit elk cooking; I haven’t seen that in quite a while. My mother used to do it.” I extended a hand. “My name is-”
“I know your name, lawman.” She turned her head and shot a prodigious stream of tobacco onto one of the forty-pound rocks, where it sizzled. The old woman then glanced past as Long joined me, but then her eyes clicked back the way they had before. “Looking for my son?”
I conceded the fact. “Say, does he still have that ’71 GMC?”
She kept her gaze on me, and I was just as glad the cataracts were there to guard me against what was most certainly the evil eye. “You wanna buy a truck, lawman?”
I smiled. “Never can tell.”
She took her time before answering and poked at the coals with the wood-handled shovel, its point worn down so that it looked indented. “Got plenty out front.”
“I need one that runs.” I looked through the window as if Artie might be inside. “Is he around?”
“No.”
I nodded and kneeled down by the rocks to stick a finger into her gallon water jug of marinade, pausing to look up at her. “May I?” She nodded with a curt jutting of her chin. It tasted pretty wonderful. “Pineapple?”
“Commodity juice; all they had this month.”
I ran my tongue around my mouth as I looked at the door, propped open with a kitchen chair, and the windows, which were curtained with all different calicos. I looked back at the elk’s body, where I could see where the death shot had pierced one side and then continued on through the other, taking a lot of meat with it. I went ahead talking about the marinade. “Sage, garlic…”
She interrupted, impatient with my novice tongue. “Cider vinegar and beer-lots of beer.”
I stood and looked down at all four-foot-ten of her, wrapped in a shawl and dressed in a full-length, layered skirt despite the 90-degree weather and the fire. She looked as if she should’ve been beside a sheep wagon telling fortunes and finding pentagrams in people’s hands. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”
She cocked her head, regarding me. “You are the lawman from the Ahsanta mountains.”
“I am.”
“They say you’re a good man, Ahsanta.” She shifted her weight. “You know I had three sons?”
“No, ma’am.”
“One was killed in the Vietnam. My second son, the one you hunt, never showed no interest in the white man’s army-he’s the smart one. My grandson, Nate, the one that works at the talking box, the boy of my son up in Deer Lodge.”
I smiled. “The radio station?”
“Yes. He was going to fight in this war they have now; I don’t know which one.” She shifted the handle in her hands and rested it beside her face. “I told him no, that he couldn’t join the white man’s army, that they would only get him killed.” She studied me. “You in the white man’s army, Ahsanta?”
“I was.”
She nodded, mostly to herself. “Only the white man survives the white man’s army.”
I glanced at Lolo. “Chief Long here was in the white man’s army.”
“ Se-senovoto ema’etao’o.”
I saw Long stiffen, but she said nothing, and it was possible she was learning.
“Why you hunt my boy?”
I figured I’d just level with her. “Last night, he tried to run me over with his truck.”
She stared at me through the clouds in her eyes, then her jaw dropped and she began breathing a convulsive laugh that pulsed her tiny back like a bicycle pump. “Maybe he doesn’t like you, Ahsanta.”
I shrugged. “Maybe, but I’ve never really met him, so I can’t imagine what it is he’s got against me.”
“He doesn’t like the ones make him sleep inside.” She continued to study me, but she was making up her mind about something. Finally, she spoke. “Was here last night.”
“Your son?”
“Who we talking about?”
She had a point. “What time?”
“Night time.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
She adjusted something in her mouth, and I thought she was going to spit again, but instead, she swallowed. “Don’t own a clock.”
I slipped a hand over my mouth to pull down the corners and keep myself from smiling. “Did he stay the night?”
“Nope, can’t sleep inside no more. Told you-you people did that to him.”
I glanced back at the holes in the deer and could see where someone had slit the butts and shoulders and removed the membrane from the rib cage. It was a professional job-Artie most certainly had been there last night. “Mrs. Small Song, I’m not here to arrest your son for anything; I’d just like to talk to him.”
She motioned with the shovel handle, rocking it toward Chief Long. “What does Se-senovoto ema’etao’o want?”
I glanced over my shoulder as if I’d just remembered the young woman who was peering into the scrub pine and juniper bushes on the ridge above us. “She just wants to talk to Artie, too.”
She nodded her head but continued watching the coals, glowing red around the edges, and it was impossible to tell what she might’ve been thinking. For a moment, I thought she’d forgotten we were still there, but then she spat on the rocks again. “I tell him you was here, whenever he come back.”
“We’d appreciate that, Mrs. Small Song.” I turned and started toward the corner of the house with Lolo in tow.
We were halfway down the path when she grabbed my arm and tried to yank me around. I kept walking, but when we got to the level, she stepped in front of me. “That’s it?”
“Keep your voice down and get in the truck.”
She looked a little startled and then followed me to the Yukon, where we opened the doors and slid in. “He’s there?”
“I don’t know, and that’s the part I don’t like.” I gestured toward the ignition switch. “He’s been there, and he’s going to be there again, and I’m thinking it would be nice if we weren’t quite so conspicuous on the next visit.”