“How about I just call Billings or Hardin?”
“How about you just put your questions in a bottle and float them up the Powder River? Same result.” I waited some more, watching him breathe.
“I’m perfectly willing to be turned down.”
“Yes, you are, and that is one of many reasons I would do it.”
“Think he’ll be cooperative?”
“No. Not if he has any suspicions.” I didn’t like using Henry like this, but I convinced myself it was for a greater good. I was sure that the same thought was going through the back of the head at which I was looking.
“Know him very well?”
“Well enough.”
I changed the subject in my usual subtle fashion. “Know of any Sharps out on the Rez?”
There was no pause. “Lonnie Little Bird has one.”
“What?”
He half turned and smiled. “Lonnie has one.”
I leaned back on my stool and crossed my arms. “You know, for a relatively rare firearm, the damn things are popping up all over the place.”
His hands gravitated forward and into his pockets. “It was given to him by my great uncle, many years ago.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“From his father, who got it from a white man.”
“Dead white man?”
“Eventually.” He was still looking at me from the side of his face.
“. 45–70?”
“Yes.” He looked back out the window, and I turned back to the counter. He could see me plain as day in the reflection of the glass. I was getting tired of looking at people’s reflections, and I was damn sure I was tired of them looking at me. “You are going to have to talk to Melissa Little Bird’s family. I will go with you.”
“I’ve got something else to show you.” I picked up the envelope from DCI, tossing it to his side of the counter. He turned and looked at me. “Yet another reason I have to go onto the reservation.” He came back and sat down, opened the cardboard envelope, and pulled out the cellophane-wrapped feather. His eyes narrowed a little, but that was all.
“Turkey.”
“How the hell could you tell that so fast?”
He laughed and looked down the length of the feather like the sight on a gun. “Bend.” He held it up straight between us. “Turkey feathers have a wicked bend to them, this one has been straightened, over-bent, then flipped over, and bent again.”
“How?”
“Household iron, light bulb, or steam, but steam is more difficult.”
“Why bother?”
“Eagle feathers are straight.” I thought about the feathers on Omar’s rifle scabbard; they were straight. “There’s also a deeper ridge on the spline. Can I open the plastic?”
“Sure, there are no fingerprints.”
He smiled again. “You are not going to use this against me later, are you?”
“Nah, I was going to get your prints off the beer bottle.”
He opened the cellophane by loosening the Scotch tape at one side. He was one of those guys who saved Christmas wrapping. He held the feather by the stem and ran his fingers up the side, the delicate quills tracing the movement between his index finger and thumb. He was looking at something, but I didn’t know what it was. “Some artisans use Minwax to get the right color. It is a much richer tint than the turkey’s. Mahogany furniture stain, with a sponge. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?”
“Cody Pritchard.”
His eyes stayed with mine. “On the body?”
“Yep, we thought it was just a leftover from one of the local critters, but…”
“Yes.” He reconsidered the feather. “Yes…”
“He didn’t have anything like this on him at the bar, did he?”
“No.” He turned the feather in his fingers, much like I had all day. “This is a good one. There are only a few individuals who could have made this.”
I nodded. “Can you get me a list?”
“I can check them myself.” He sighed and sat the feather down between us.
“You think someone is counting coup?”
He shrugged. “I am not sure if you understand the spirit of the thing. When we used to fight battles against other tribes and the army, no deed was more honored than counting coup. It means to touch an armed enemy who is still in full possession of his powers. The touch is not a blow and only serves to show the enemy your prowess-an act considered greater than any other, a display of absolute courage, conveying a sense of playfulness.”
“Well, that lets this out.” I watched him. He studied the feather again, his eyes running the length, back and forth. “For many reasons, this does not make sense.”
I took the last swig of my beer and sat the bottle aside. “Like?”
“It is the owl feathers that are the sign of death, the messengers from the other world. The eagle feather is a sign of life, attached to all the activities of the living: making rain, planting and harvesting crops, success in fishing, protecting homes, and curing illness. The feather is considered the breath of life, processing the power and spirit of the bird of which it was once a living part.”
I sometimes forgot about how spiritual Henry was. I had been raised as a Methodist where the highest sacrament was the bake sale. “The eagle is big medicine. It symbolizes life, boldness, freedom, and the unity of all. In the Nations, the eagle feather must be blessed. The eagle feather must be pure, so that the recipient does not catch the evil that might be in the unblessed feather. A medicine man must bless the feather, and then it can be passed on to someone else.”
It didn’t seem like we were getting anywhere. “That doesn’t make sense in our particular situation.”
He took the plates away and sat them in the sink, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “That is not a real eagle feather.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“I am not sure. It could be an Indian sending mixed signals, or..?”
“Or what?”
“A white attempting to make it look like an Indian.” I thought of that. “Or back to square one; not all Indians would be able to tell the difference between this feather and a real one.” He shrugged.
“You’re a lot of help.”
“This is going to be tougher than the wine. It means we have to go ask some questions.” He looked around at the makings of dinner. “Do you want me to clean up?”
“I think I can handle it. You’re leaving?”
“I have an early morning tomorrow.”
A slow but steady panic was starting to set in, and the pain in my legs began to grow. “We’re not going running again, are we?”
He didn’t say anything, just turned and walked out the door.
I went over to the window and watched him start up the Thunderbird and carefully back it around my truck. The two taillights bobbed and weaved down the gravel driveway and faded into the night like red turbines. It still looked nice out, so I took the remainder of his beer onto the new porch and leaned against one of the supporting timbers. They were rough-cuts, and the splinters felt like fur being brushed the wrong way. I lifted up the bottle and took a swig. It was almost full, and I smiled. Small gifts.
I looked up at all the little pinpricks in the heavens and thought about Vic’s handwriting, the tiny holes in the paper. I thought about my daughter for a while and Vonnie, but then my mind settled on Melissa Little Bird. I was going to have to see Melissa again. I hadn’t really had any interaction with the young woman since the trial, only seeing her once at the reenactment at Little Big Horn and that was more than a year ago.
She had been sitting in her aunt Arbutus’s car and was waiting to leave one of the roped-off grass parking lots that caught the overflow of the yearly event. It was the end of June, and the waves of heat and the reflection of the afternoon sun made it hard to see, but I saw her. I had raised my head and laughed at something Henry had said, trudging along in the late-afternoon sun, thinking about the individuals who had died there, wondering if their ghosts hovered near. They must have because, when we came up over the rise, my eyes came to rest on Melissa Little Bird, and everything happened in slow motion.