Free Coyote Wind by Peter Bowen Page A

the jug.
    The old man took a long pull of the gassy cheap wine. He belched and handed the jug back to Du Pré. A whiff of the wine hit Du Pré’s nose, his mouth ran water, he felt like throwing up.
    I am drinking too much whiskey these days, Du Pré thought, I know better but when I drink a lot of it I don’t grind my teeth in my sleep so much.
    “Have some wine, good morning for it,” said Benetsee. He looked far away, up to the Wolf Mountains. Little sharp face, Du Pré thought of the shrew’s skull in the coyote scat. In his pocket.
    Du Pré choked down some. Jesus, like drinking bubble gum.
    “Whew,” said Du Pré “you much man, drink that.”
    “Poor man drink that,” said Benetsee. He looked at his fingernails, rimmed in black, clawed old hands, the veins and tendons seen easily through the transparent skin.
    “So what you want to know?” said Benetsee. “I don’t know too much. Coyote knows a lot, but me, not too much.”
    Du Pré felt the warm bloom of the wine in his stomach. A nice warm peaceful feeling, he sat down next to the old man, put his elbows on his knees, rolled a cigarette. Gave it to him, rolled another for himself, lit both.
    “Brings me wine, brings me tobacco,” said Benetsee. “Hard to find a respectful young man these days.”
    “The Headless Man,” said Du Pré, “how did his head get up in the mountains, in a place a goat wouldn’t have, next to a wrecked plane fell down so long ago they think maybe it just flew to heaven.”
    Benetsee reached for the jug. Glug glug glug.
    “Well,” said Benetsee, “somebody very angry, of course. So you kill someone, you put the head and hands with some other bones, let the magpies and coyotes and skunks stir them. So maybe no one will know, what happened.”
    “I got that,” said Du Pré.
    “How long your parents been dead now, Gabriel,” said Benetsee. “A bad day, that one.”
    Very bad day. Papa drunk and Mama deaf, car stall on a railroad crossing, didn’t find a piece of either of them big enough to call Mama, Papa. Closed coffins at the funeral, coffins very light to carry, too.
    Good people. Du Pré had loved them both. Killed while Du Pré was in basic training, Fort Ord. Du Pré, eighteen, only child. His mother always shamed she couldn’t have more babies, like a good Métis woman.
    “You know,” said Benetsee, “most times there is a killing, there is a pretty woman in it somewhere, you know?”
    Du Pré thought. His mama? Jesus, no, the two of them loved each other, make a pass at either, whoever, they wouldn’t even notice.
    “What the hell you mean?” said Du Pré.
    But the old man had picked up the pipestone again.
    Scritch scritch.

CHAPTER 22
    “I TELL YOU, M ADELAINE , I like to strangle that old bastard,” said Du Pré. Diddle me out of that wine, leave me more confused than a newspaper.
    “Well,” said Madelaine, “you men get crazy, kill each other over us, you know. But you right, I don’t see where he’s pointing.”
    Early morning, her kids were stirring, time to get ready for school.
    Du Pré rolled on his side, held her sweet warmth close.
    “Got to cook them breakfast, see about their clothes,” said Madelaine. “Old Benetsee, he talk to me, maybe?”
    “Don’t know.”
    Madelaine nuzzled his neck.
    “Long time ago,” said Madelaine. “Who around then? That old priest, Father Leblanc?”
    Du Pré remembered. Father Leblanc had retired long ago, moved back up north to Canada, the fathers had a rest home there.
    Red River.
    Madelaine got up, Du Pré slept till the door banged to for the last time. He heard the grind of the school bus going off. Madelaine had four kids, they left Du Pré alone, he left them alone. But the oldest boy was needing a man to learn from.
    I don’t know what to do for my daughters, thought I at least would not have to not understand a son, too. Jesus, she got three more of them. Life, it get you every time.
    Du Pré dressed, walked to the kitchen, carrying