Free Death on the Greasy Grass by C. M. Wendelboe

headache spreading across his forehead. “When will he return?”
    â€œWhenever the snow melts,” Beauchamp laughed. “He and his lady friend found mountain climbing. He may be back tomorrow. He may be back next week. I will have him call you, Agent Tanno.”
    â€œ
Merci
, Monsieur Beauchamp.”
    Manny had begun disconnecting when Beauchamp stopped him. “One thing, Agent Tanno. Emile once said that the journal holds the Star Dancer clan in a bad light. And an Indian by the name of Eagle Bull more so.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œI do not know, my friend. But I will have Emile call you immediately when he returns.”
    Manny closed his phone and fished into his suitcase for his bottle of aspirin.
Great, the journal might have been a motive for killing Harlan.
“Or it may be nothing more than a musty, hundred-year-old book,” he said aloud, hoping he was right.

C HAPTER 7

    JULY 1876
    PRYOR MOUNTAINS, MONTANA TERRITORY
    Levi Star Dancer sat cross-legged on the floor of the tipi, thick buffalo hair tickling his bare legs. But Levi found no humor in the tickling, and he focused on slowing his breathing. He grabbed one shaking hand with the other and hid it under the blanket spread across his lap, for this was a moment most solemn.
    His eyes wandered around the tipi, to the smoke from the fire in the center rising and escaping through the smoke hole. His eyes fell on possible pouches hanging inside the lodge containing everyday things: cooking items and hunting and fleshing items. He forced his mind to focus, to concentrate on the light blue pony beads making up the background on the bags with seed beads forming a red diamond hourglass on the supple elk-hide pouches. Eyes roaming anywhere but on Pretty Paw sitting beside her father across from Levi.
    He chanced a sideways glance at Broken Rib, sitting with legs drawn under him at the
acoria
, the place of honor at the rear of the lodge. Wolf tails sewn to the heels of his moccasins fluttered as the old man repositioned his legs, working out a cramp, the tails a reminder that Broken Rib struck coup on an enemy. Many times.
    Broken Rib packed his pipe and brought a flaming twig from the fire and touched the tobacco. Sweet aroma filled the small space. The old man drew in the smoke, oblivious to Levi and his daughter, watching the smoke rise, a contented purring coming from him like the purring of the
iishb’iia,
the mountain lion.
    Levi fought the urge to begin the conversation, unsure if his shaking voice would give Broken Rib the impression that Levi feared him. So he sat looking straight ahead as the old warrior finished his smoke and emptied the ashes in a small bowl to be offered to the four winds later. He carefully and reverently separated the bowl and stem and slid them into a deerskin pipe bag bearing the same geodetic designs as the possible bags. He turned and placed the pipe bag beside him.
    Broken Rib turned to Levi and finally broke the silence. “Pretty Paw believes you are here to ask my only daughter in marriage.”
    Levi nodded and cleared his throat as he remembered what he had rehearsed. “She will be my first,” he blurted.
    The old man’s eyebrows rose. “She may be your first, but she will also be your only wife, the way the world changes. If I allow the marriage.”
    Levi waited quietly for Broken Rib to continue. “What happened at the Greasy Grass two moons ago was a great victory for the Lakota and Cheyenne.” He spit into the fire as if in disgust. “But it will be a victory as hollow as horns of a buffalo on a hungry anthill. The horse soldiers will return. In even greater numbers to avenge the soldier leader with the sun-bleached hair. And they will ask you to scout for them once again.”
    Levi straightened. “I want to raise a family.” Finally, he had gathered courage enough to tell the man seated across from him. “My scouting days are over. I