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

his wineglass down and leaned closer. “You don’t miss much. He’s still got shrapnel from an artillery shell that gives him trouble now and again.”
    “And he drinks to forget.”
    “That and fighting when the effects of the drink kick in. You ever serve?”
    “No.”
    “You’re about Clay’s age. How is it that you never went?”
    “I am not fee patented. I do not own land. Like many Indians, I am not even a citizen of this country. They told me this at the Induction Center right before they sent me home. Besides”—Moses smiled—“the induction officer said they did not have uniforms my size.”
    Carmel backed through the door carrying a tray. She set fresh bread and butter in a crystal dish in the middle of the table.
    “Where the hell’s Clay?”
    Carmel spoke to Moses in Lakota before disappearing back into the kitchen. “She is putting fresh tape on his ribs.”
    “You must have given him a real thrashing.” Randolff laughed. “But it looks like he might have gotten a lucky shot in.”
    Moses rubbed his eye that was swelling, making it harder to see out of that side as he eyed the butter bowl. Clayton pushed it closer and handed him a butter knife. “Help yourself.”
    Moses sliced through crust, the aroma of fresh pumpernickel drifting past his nose. The butter slid off the bread and pooled on the tiny plate as Moses took his first nibble, then a full bite. He closed his eyes, savoring the brown bread, the fennel seedscrunching, sliding down his throat greased by the melted butter. “What was Clayton like before the war?” he asked after he’d swallowed the first piece. “What did he enjoy doing?”
    Randolff cut his own slice of bread. “He used to live to hunt, back when there was actually game hereabouts. That’s another thing he drinks to forget, his mother.”
    Moses remained respectful of Randolff’s silence until he was ready to continue.
    “Sylvia and Clay were out scouting for a trophy mule deer they’d spotted the day before. Sylvia’s horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and threw her. Broke her neck. Once in a half-moon Clay talks of going out and finding that mulie, though he’s never gone hunting again.”
    “That fence detail—how bad do you want to teach him a lesson?”
    Randolff dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “He needs to be taught a man can’t just beat two helpless boys, Indian or no. No offense.”
    Moses waved it away. “Does he need healing more than he needs to be taught that lesson?”
    “What you getting at?”
    “Hunting. Game is plentiful on the reservation, if one knows where to look. If you can spare him for four or five days, I’ll find that trophy mulie for him.”
    “What about your job? I thought you were ranching for Sal McMaster.”
    The corners of Moses’s mouth drooped and he looked away. “After the fight with Clayton last night, McMaster’s foreman fired me.”
    “But why?”
    “He said he did not want Randolff Charles as an enemy once you found out one of his hands beat Clayton.”
    “Sorry to hear that.”
    Moses shrugged. “It is all right. We Indians are used to it.”
    “You want your job back, I’ll talk to Sal.”
    Moses shook his head.
    “Then why don’t you come work for me?”
    Moses took a respectful time before declining the offer. “I need to get back to the reservation anyway. People need my help, but I thank you for the offer.”
I have to get back to the Stronghold. Dance in the sun. Get pierced. Sacrifice for
Wakan Tanka.
If I could explain this to all
wasicu,
perhaps they wouldn’t be so fearful of the Sun Dance. And perhaps they would make it legal to dance in the sun as did our ancestors.
    “If you change your mind…”
    “And you? Will you change your mind about letting Clayton go for a few days?”
    Randolff closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he grinned wide. “It might be good for Clay to get away and hunt again. And thank you.” He stood and thrust his hand out.