I stepped over his legs and rolled him to one side, brushing away his hat and grabbing his shirtfront, pulling his face up close to mine. “If you ever harm a prisoner in my jail again…” But he wasn’t listening, he was out. I held his head there for a moment and then gently laid it down on the concrete. I felt sick. It was from the adrenaline, or at least I blamed it on that. It always hit me afterwards. I would have to walk it off. I became aware of some movement behind me as I stood and stepped away and continued up the steps and into my office. Whoever it was that had walked up had evidently decided that whatever they had to do with me wasn’t that important.
The door to the office was open when I got there. Ruby held the knob with her other hand over her heart, her eyes wider than I had ever seen them. “Oh, my Lord…”
I breezed past her into the reception area and almost collided with Lucian. He teetered back and nearly fell as I caught him and stood him upright. I figured a good offense was the best defense. “You got something to say?”
His face broke into a broad grin. “Damn, what a lick!”
I left him there and continued down the hallway, through the door, and into the jail’s holding cells. I slammed the door back, stormed through the open cubicle, and sat myself on one of the bunks, my back thumping against the wall as I clutched my shaking hands together and set my jaw. I concentrated on my hands, willing them to stop; it took a while. My breathing was returning to normal, and the flushed feeling was starting to fade. I licked my lips and exhaled, trying to push the rest of the adrenaline through my flooded blood stream. I hated it, I hated seeing it, I hated hearing about it, and I hated doing it. I brought my head up to find a terrified Bryan Keller looking at me from the other bunk. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was crouched in the corner with his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around them; only his eyes were visible over the kneecaps.
We listened as the commotion from the reception area carried down the hallway and bounced off the masonry walls. I had no idea you could hear everything so well from the cells. The front door was closed, but there was a scooting of chairs and a murmuring of voices. You could hear Lucian’s voice above the others, “Bring ’im on in here, Ladies Wear…” More murmuring and voices, “How you like them apples, you little son of a bitch? You try and get up, and I’ll kick your ass so far…” It trailed off with the roaring in my ears. It was like being underwater and, for a few moments, I floated there, letting the sinking feeling in the middle of my shoulders wash over me. I was tired.
A while later, Henry peered around the divider. His hair hung down, and his face looked at me sideways.
I took off my hat and placed it on the bunk beside me, running my hands over my face. “What?” It would appear that not all the adrenaline was gone.
“Nothing.”
I sat there for a moment. “He all right?”
He stepped around the divider and ducked his head to look through the bars. “He will never play the violin with his nose again, if that is what you mean.”
“Better call the EMTs.”
“He is already gone; Ruby has taken him to the hospital. It seemed to be the best thing, since his uncle would not stop kicking him.”
I waited. “You think I overreacted?”
He shook his head in mock earnest. “Oh, no. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to someone parking in your spot.” He wandered over to the doorway of the cell. “How about we have breakfast?” He glanced down at Bryan. “How about you?” To my relief, Bryan declined, and we slipped out the back way. “Interesting office management skills, kind of a ‘violence is not the answer so I’m going to beat the shit out of you’ philosophy.”
I was looking at the sky; still nothing, but I could feel the coming storm. My eyes continued up the South Pass to the snow above the tree line; I was looking for George Esper.
“Kind of like Indian foreplay.”
He had to be up there, somewhere.
“What do ten Indian women with black eyes have in common?”
The fishing flies were the key and, if Ferg could connect the very specific lures to very specific areas, we might have a chance.
“They just won’t listen.”
If George knew about the weather, would he come down? Would he go looking for his brother?
“How was your date last night?”
The more time went by without finding him, the more likely it was that he was dead. I would have to deputize one of Ferg’s buddies and send him out to sit at the Esper place to see if anybody was going to show up.
“You did not let her touch the wine, did you?”
And what the hell was going on in Longmont? I could have driven down there and looked for them myself by now. At least Bryan was safe, but I needed to talk with his father. There was something there, maybe.
“By the way, I got word on Artie Small Song.”
I stopped. “What?”
“I thought that might get your attention.” He was smiling and shaking his head. “I got a call from his mother, and she thought that we might want to know that Artie has been in Yellowstone County Jail, up in Billings, since Saturday.”
That narrowed the field. “Charge?”
“Carrying an unregistered concealed weapon without a permit.”
I nodded to Dorothy when we threaded our way through the three or four locals sitting at the counter, and we took seats on the end stools toward the back. They had looked up, and I didn’t smile. “So, what’re you doing following me around?”
“I thought you would be interested in Artie, and I have information about the feather.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Something has happened?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your manner is curt and slightly agitated.”
“Jacob Esper is dead.” I watched him very carefully, but there was no visible response.
“That answers some of your questions.”
“You don’t seem very upset.”
“I am not. Should I be?”
I looked at him for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” Dorothy brought over some coffee and a couple of menus.
She was looking at my winter gear, and she smiled. “The game’s afoot?”
I tossed the menu back to her. “The usual.” She raised an eyebrow and looked at Henry.
“I will have what he is having.”
The other eyebrow rose. “He doesn’t know what he’s having.”
“I will have it anyway.”
She looked at the both of us, shrugged, and headed back to the grill.
“Tell me about the feather.”
He sat back up straight, took a sip of his coffee, and made me wait, finally turning back and looking me in the eye. “Wanda Real Wolf. She used to head up the Cheyenne Artist’s Co-Op.”
“The one that went out of business?”
“Yes. It is much easier to get Indians to work together than artists.”
“They’re her feathers?”
“Feathers, plural?” I set my jaw and nodded, and he looked at me for a while. “Interesting. You have it with you?” I took the feather from my jacket and handed it to him. He turned the plastic bag over in the light from the windows and studied the contents. “It too could be Wanda’s.”
“I don’t suppose Wanda keeps detailed records of her feather sales?”
He sat it down between us and took another sip of his coffee. “Worse than that, she does not sell them separately, only on objects she and her immediate family make.”
“Like?”
“Dream catchers, flutes, pipes, dance headdresses, items like that.”
“I don’t suppose she has a limited clientele?”
“High-end tourist shops, all over the country.”
“Great. So these things could be pulled off anything?”
“Yes. I asked her if there was any way of finding the location or age of the pieces, but she said no.”
I started to take another sip of my coffee, but the smell informed me that I had had enough. “Any way to tell what pieces the feathers could have come off of?”
“She said that small pinholes at the base of the quill probably meant that they came off dream catchers or pipes, nontraditional usage.” He caught me looking at the feather between us. “Both have such holes. I am afraid that does not narrow the field much.”