I held the CD in my hand and studied the broken AM radio with its cracked glass and missing buttons, the optic orange indicator frozen permanently at the bottom of the dial. “Have I told you lately just how much I hate this truck?” I sighed, and popped the CD back into its paper envelope. “What do you know about this Amish boot maker?”
“He makes really good boots.”
“Other than that.”
“He supposedly got into trouble for his tastes in women.”
“He married an Indian?”
“He did. In many ways, Levi Stoltzfus is doing his part for the integration of the high plains races.” He coaxed the truck off the rumble strip and back into the center of the lane with a movement that would’ve sent any other vehicle slashing into the opposite ditch. Rezdawg considered the movements of the steering wheel in Henry’s hands as mild suggestions. “To his credit, he just loaded up his boot shop and moved on down the Tongue River to Birney.”
“White Birney?”
“No, Red Birney; once you have gone red, you cannot get it out of your head.”
We took a meandering right onto a dirt road just before the Tongue River and followed the dusty track for a good half mile before Henry urged Rezdawg to a stop, then threw the gearshift into reverse and backed up fifty yards with the transmission sounding as if it was going to fall out onto the roadway.
The truck stumbled to a stop, and the Bear pointed at a crooked ranch gate with words chiseled into the overhead log-STOLTZFUS WORLD FAMOUS BOOTS.
I pivoted to take in the empty road and hillsides and then turned to look back at my buddy. “Hard to be world famous ’round these parts.”
“Give the people quality, and they will beat a path to your door.”
I guessed. “F. W. Woolworth.”
He shook his head.
“S. S. Kresge?”
He shook his head again at my listing of defunct five-and-dimes and spun the wheel several times to get the front tires to turn. “Actually, it was the Kinks.”
The road was deeply rutted and wound around a tall knob of rocks to our right, then straightened into a washboard that leveled off into a low-slung building that must’ve been built around the same time as the original Small Song structure back in the forties. There was a house farther up the hill and a large garden where a Native woman was picking vegetables with two small children.
Henry parked near the shop; again he turned the wheels so that if Rezdawg decided to go on an unscheduled sojourn, it wouldn’t be a long one.
There was a pinsized stream of antifreeze arcing from the radiator that I didn’t see until I walked in front of the vehicle and it sprayed on me. I jumped away and wiped the excess down my jeans and clenched a fist as if to strike the grille guard. “I really hate this truck.”
“Yes. So you have told me.”
I dropped my fist and followed Henry toward the front porch when the woman called from the edge of some tacked-together sheep fence on the hill. “Are you here about your boots?”
The two children joined her and looked at me as if they’d never seen a grown man who had pissed himself.
I tipped my hat. “No, ma’am.”
“Because if you are, they’re not ready.”
“Well, we’re not really here about boots.”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “He always sends a postcard when the boots are ready; did you get a postcard?”
“No, ma’am. We haven’t ordered any boots.”
She glanced at Henry and then back to me; it wasn’t like we’d arrived in a reputable vehicle, so I could understand her concern. “Then what do you want?”
I gestured toward the Bear. “We’d like to speak to your husband, if we could. Are you Mrs. Stoltzfus?”
She pulled a bandana from her black hair and wiped her throat. “Yes, God help me.”
“Is Levi around?”
She gave some quick instructions to the children, who looked disappointed but returned to work as their mother hiked up her skirt, climbed onto a wooden cross-step, and swung a leg over the fence. “Do we owe you money?”
“No.”
She picked her way down the hillside, topped the porch risers, and walked over to where we were, her lace-up packers clapping the rough-cut wood like a xylophone. She’d been a beauty at one time, but age and hard work had worn her down; as Lucian would have said, you can’t have ’em plow on Friday and dance on Saturday. “Doesn’t make any difference, he’s still not here.” She glanced at the Cheyenne Nation. “I know you?”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “I do not know, do you?”
“You’re Henry Standing Bear.” She planted a provocative leg forward with a Mother Earth quality, and I immediately liked her. “I’m Erma Spotted Elk; you dated my sister.”
The Bear nodded his head. “Erma, how is Dottie?”
“She’s living in Seattle; she married some doctor and we never hear from her.”
He folded his arms and leaned against one of the porch poles. “That is too bad.” He looked past her to where the two children were working but continuing to sneak glances at us. “Yours?”
“Yah. They don’t like to garden, but they like to eat.” She turned to look at me, our heads about the same height with her standing on the porch. “You a cop?”
I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. “Does it show?”
“Yah, especially with that hog-leg at the small of your back.”
Henry’s voice played around her. “Erma here has a varied past.”
She laughed. “Varied. I like that.” She dabbed at the sweat that was dripping into her eyes. “I lived down in Denver for a while, danced; got into some trouble. I developed a talent for a lot of things, including spotting cops.”
I glanced up the hill. “And now you’re Amish?”
Her head inclined a little, belaying the next statement. “Yah, I’ve seen the world out there, and you can have it. Everything is going to hell.”
“Maybe.”
She smiled and studied me. “You gonna fix it?”
I shrugged. “Doing my part.”
“Which part involves my husband?”
Henry’s voice was low, but it carried. “Clarence Last Bull.”
She froze for just that brief instant, and if you hadn’t been looking for it you might’ve missed it, but I had a couple of talents myself. She converted the freeze into a slow turn toward the Bear and then looked back to me. “You wanna buy a pair of boots?”
I looked at mine-they were a little worse for wear. “Not especially, but I’d really like to talk about Clarence Last Bull.”
“That’s too bad, ’cause I really want to sell a pair of boots.” She turned, and the wide cotton skirt twirled as she clacked through the open doorway into the shop.
“Seems like the day for the barter system.” I glanced at the Cheyenne Nation, and he nodded for me to pursue.
She was sitting in a wooden armchair and had propped her feet on another facing it. She studied me. I walked over, and she put her feet on the floor so I could sit, settling my hat over the embarrassing stain near my crotch. She motioned toward the floor, so I pulled off 50 percent of my footwear and handed it to her. Erma took my boot and examined it like a surgeon would a tumor.
“I’d like to know about Clarence Last Bull.”
She examined the boot some more. “He used to work for my husband, but that was a while back.” She ran her hand over the nap. “You like rough-outs? Because we only do regular leather.”
Surprising me, she took my foot and propped it on the edge of her chair between her legs. “Clarence was really good; an artisan. He had an ability and flair, but what he didn’t have was stick-to-itiveness; he’d show up and work a few days and then disappear. Levi finally got tired of it and told him to hit the road. I understand he joined the army and became a cook or something.” She wrapped her strong hands around my foot. “Big feet.”
I nodded. “When was the last time you saw him?”
There was that momentary pause and the flicker of eye movement that meant the truth had just flown in the doorway, inspected the place, and flown out. “Year ago.” She looked down at my captured foot and leaned forward, her breasts on either side. “Fourteen.”