Free Death Where the Bad Rocks Live by C. M. Wendelboe

me.”
    The runner returned from the barn with an armload of ax handles. He handed one to each of the three men gathered around Randolff and tossed the others to four hands lingering at the back of the wagon. One man tapped his hand with the ax handle. The one beside him smiled, letting the handle rest on his shoulder like a ball bat. Moses turned to sounds behindhim. Two men stepped close. One bladed himself, one leg moving back. A boxer’s stance setting himself to toss a punch. Or swing an ax handle. He spit his chew on the ground.
    Moses faced the men in front of him. The smaller of the three shuffled close as he cocked the ax handle. Bigger moved to Moses’s side.
    Shuffling in back as the men stepped within striking range.
    “Okay, boys,” Randolff said, “get it over with.”
    Clayton stepped between Moses and the men. “Don’t touch him, Dad. I got what I deserved.”
    The men stopped. One breathed a sigh and his ax handle drooped beside his leg, relief etched on his face as he rubbed a misshapen nose that had already taken one for the team sometime before.
    “It was my fault. I got liquored up on some shine someone was foolish enough to bring to the dance. I beat the hell out of two Indian boys from the Rosebud that were unlucky enough to be there, too. Moses here stepped in.”
    “Three Indians against just you?”
    “Not like that. I had the two down on the dance floor putting the boots to them when Moses pulled me off. I came after him. Big mistake. But he could have beat me worse than he did.”
    Randolff turned his attention from his son to Moses. “That so? You could have beat him worse?”
    Moses nodded. “I could not help it. He will need a little rest to nurse himself back into shape. I think the booze hurt him worse than I did.”
    Randolff turned to Clayton. “Like hell you’ll get any rest. First light, you’ll be sitting your sorry ass in a McClellan and joining the line crews mending fences.” Clayton kicked the dirt with his toe, and Randolff turned back to Moses.
    “Getting late. You eat yet?”
    “Yesterday.”
    “We’re fixing to have supper. You can join us if you wash up.”
    “I wash up pretty good.” Moses smiled. “Trust me.”

    Randolff waited until his house woman ladled stew into each bowl before telling her, “Carmel, go see what’s keeping Clay.”
    She set the stewpot on the table and disappeared upstairs without speaking. “Don’t mind her. She’s not rude; she just doesn’t talk much.”
    Randolff poured wine in a glass and handed it to Moses. He waved the wine away. “It would embarrass her.”
    “How that?” Randolff asked.
    “She is Lakota. Standing Rock. I talked with her while I washed my hands. Many Lakota are ashamed to speak English.”
    Randolff laughed. “She’s got nothing to be ashamed of. She’s Hunkpapa, claims to be a descendent of Sitting Bull. But then every Indian from Standing Rock claims that.”
    Moses held his tall crystal glass to the light.
Sacred
mni. Water bounced around the inside, reflecting light from the window behind him, making odd shapes against the whitewashed walls of the dining room. He swirled the cool liquid around in his mouth, savoring the life-quenching flavor of sacred
mni
before swallowing. “Sitting Bull had many wives. She could be related.”
    Clayton stumbled down the stairs, holding onto the railing for support, and disappeared into the kitchen. Randolff looked after his son and shook his head. “Looks like he’s suffering for squeezing that rotgut jar, but then Clay always was wild. He’s been especially restless since returning from the war.”
    “Army?”
    Randolff nodded. “He wanted to go into aviation. I got some connections in the War Department from these beefsales, and thought it’d be better for him if he flew. But his eyes weren’t good enough, so they stuffed him into an infantry uniform and sent him to the front.”
    “That where he picked up that wound in his leg?”
    Randolff put