He rattled the ice in his, the mahogany eyes scanning his room as the sound of the wind stiffened, and he looked out the sliding doors. He sat like that looking like a line drawing in a Louis L’Amour novel—page 208, Twentieth-Century Lawman, Lucian Connally. “Let’s see, we only had five altercations worthy of mention when I was sheriff and four of ’em involved you.”
“Yep.”
He’d always had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen, even in comparison with the Basques, or the Crow or Cheyenne, for that matter. The old sheriff dug into his vest pocket for his pipe and beaded tobacco pouch, which had been a gift from the Northern Cheyenne tribal elders. He looked at Henry for confirmation. “Still, I’d say his tenure as sheriff has been a lot harder on him than mine was.”
The Cheyenne Nation smiled but said nothing.
I thought about my impromptu physical examination earlier this morning as a gust blew the pines outside so that they looked like they were raising their skirts and then pushed on the glass with a groan. More snow later, for sure.
I thought about Hatch, New Mexico; about a little adobe house I’d constructed in my mind with chilies hanging in the window and the lilt of Spanish voices drifting through the warm breeze. A place where there were no electric outlets on the parking meters to plug the engine block heater of your vehicle into, and where Gore-Tex and fleece were foreign words.
Lucian stuffed the bowl of the pipe full of Medicine Tail Coulee Blend tobacco, returned the pouch to his vest, and produced his old Zippo lighter. “You gonna move to New Mexico?”
I looked up at him, a little surprised. “Why do you say that?”
He lit his pipe, took a few puffs, surveyed the board, my next move, and spoke to Henry. “’S what he threatens all of us with, every winter.”
The Cheyenne Nation nodded. “Yes, it is true.”
The thick, double-paned glass flexed with the wind again, and it felt good to be inside with their company.
“So, what’s really on yer mind, other than the change in the seasons?”
I lifted my tumbler and took a sip of the caramel liquid, allowing the medicinal burn to heal as much of me as it could from the inside. I paused, giving a moment of trepidation to the naming of my anxieties. “Bullet fever.”
He continued to study the board, then moved a rook of his own and nodded. “The Basquo?” I nodded back. “How bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
He let out with a long, slow exhale sounding like a locomotive stopping at a station. “You gonna keep him working?”
“For another two weeks—he gave notice today.”
Henry looked up.
Lucian glanced at the Cheyenne Nation and then back at me. “Well, hell. What’s he wanting to do?”
I hooked a knight out to greet his rook. “Go back to Rawlins; corrections.”
The old sheriff grunted, then set the pawn in sacrifice to my knight, his bishop reclining on the baseline.
Henry breathed a laugh. “You want to run off to New Mexico, and he wants to run off to prison. It seems to me you are getting the better deal.”
I turned and studied Lucian. “Where’d you want to run off to when those Basque bootleggers shot you?”
“To the county hospital to see if the sons-a-bitches could save my leg—and you can see how that turned out.”
We all took sips of our respective bourbons, but Henry was the first to speak. “Sometimes things happen and places get sounded for us; things get touched that perhaps should never be touched.”
This time Lucian pointed the pipe stem at me, something he did so often that I sometimes wondered if his finger had a safety. “Now I’m a big one for thinking—but I think you can give a man too much time to think. The Basquo’s a thinker, and if you give him enough time he’ll think himself out of his job.” He glanced at Henry. “Whatta you think, Ladies Wear?”
The Bear lifted Dog’s head and stood, downing his bourbon in one swallow. “I think it is time to go to jail.”
“Yep.”
He’d always had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen, even in comparison with the Basques, or the Crow or Cheyenne, for that matter. The old sheriff dug into his vest pocket for his pipe and beaded tobacco pouch, which had been a gift from the Northern Cheyenne tribal elders. He looked at Henry for confirmation. “Still, I’d say his tenure as sheriff has been a lot harder on him than mine was.”
The Cheyenne Nation smiled but said nothing.
I thought about my impromptu physical examination earlier this morning as a gust blew the pines outside so that they looked like they were raising their skirts and then pushed on the glass with a groan. More snow later, for sure.
I thought about Hatch, New Mexico; about a little adobe house I’d constructed in my mind with chilies hanging in the window and the lilt of Spanish voices drifting through the warm breeze. A place where there were no electric outlets on the parking meters to plug the engine block heater of your vehicle into, and where Gore-Tex and fleece were foreign words.
Lucian stuffed the bowl of the pipe full of Medicine Tail Coulee Blend tobacco, returned the pouch to his vest, and produced his old Zippo lighter. “You gonna move to New Mexico?”
I looked up at him, a little surprised. “Why do you say that?”
He lit his pipe, took a few puffs, surveyed the board, my next move, and spoke to Henry. “’S what he threatens all of us with, every winter.”
The Cheyenne Nation nodded. “Yes, it is true.”
The thick, double-paned glass flexed with the wind again, and it felt good to be inside with their company.
“So, what’s really on yer mind, other than the change in the seasons?”
I lifted my tumbler and took a sip of the caramel liquid, allowing the medicinal burn to heal as much of me as it could from the inside. I paused, giving a moment of trepidation to the naming of my anxieties. “Bullet fever.”
He continued to study the board, then moved a rook of his own and nodded. “The Basquo?” I nodded back. “How bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
He let out with a long, slow exhale sounding like a locomotive stopping at a station. “You gonna keep him working?”
“For another two weeks—he gave notice today.”
Henry looked up.
Lucian glanced at the Cheyenne Nation and then back at me. “Well, hell. What’s he wanting to do?”
I hooked a knight out to greet his rook. “Go back to Rawlins; corrections.”
The old sheriff grunted, then set the pawn in sacrifice to my knight, his bishop reclining on the baseline.
Henry breathed a laugh. “You want to run off to New Mexico, and he wants to run off to prison. It seems to me you are getting the better deal.”
I turned and studied Lucian. “Where’d you want to run off to when those Basque bootleggers shot you?”
“To the county hospital to see if the sons-a-bitches could save my leg—and you can see how that turned out.”
We all took sips of our respective bourbons, but Henry was the first to speak. “Sometimes things happen and places get sounded for us; things get touched that perhaps should never be touched.”
This time Lucian pointed the pipe stem at me, something he did so often that I sometimes wondered if his finger had a safety. “Now I’m a big one for thinking—but I think you can give a man too much time to think. The Basquo’s a thinker, and if you give him enough time he’ll think himself out of his job.” He glanced at Henry. “Whatta you think, Ladies Wear?”
The Bear lifted Dog’s head and stood, downing his bourbon in one swallow. “I think it is time to go to jail.”
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