We would likely never know it or see it; instead, the force of ignition and instantaneous explosion would carry the three of us through the hallway, through the doors and staircase, and throw us out onto the lawn like pulverized, flame-broiled meat.
But I had faith in Herbert His Good Horse, the man who had brought so much laughter and good will to his fellow man. “Considering what it is you’re thinking of doing, I have to tell you that I don’t see much romance in death. We’ve seen too much of it.” I sighed and continued, figuring that if I was going to die, I was at least going to have my say. “I’ve been in these situations before and can tell you that there’s nothing romantic about it, nothing heroic-dead is just dead.” I slowly pulled a single hand from my pocket and held it out to him, steady there between us, palm up. “What is it that Jimi Hendrix says about love?”
He kept his eyes on me but didn’t move, the words on the lighter pouring out of him like music. “When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
His thumb relaxed on the wheel of the lighter. “Hey, a Native American, First Nations Indigenous Person, and a white guy walk into a multicultural drinking establishment…” He studied me with a broad smile. “You don’t like that one? Neither do I. Okay, try this one-two Indians walk out of a bar…”
I waited for the punch line with my hand still extended.
His smile faded. “Hey… it could happen.”
Epilogue
I stood there in my stiff dress clothes and tried not to scratch as I watched the traditional Cheyenne wedding ceremonial procession approach, replete with mounted retinue and my white-buckskin-clad daughter.
As father of the bride, I had been offered a traditional outfit of my own but was having enough trouble with my tuxedo jacket and tie. I stuffed a forefinger into the collar of my dress shirt and pulled it a little looser, trying not to feel like the butler to the Northern Cheyenne tribe.
After a moment, I shifted back to twirling my wife’s engagement ring on my little finger and felt a sharp jab from an elbow. “Stop fidgeting.”
I spoke to her in a low voice. “I can’t help it; I think the last time I wore this was at the Wyoming Sheriff’s Association Ball when I first got elected.”
“I thought sheriffs didn’t have balls?”
“Ha, ha.” I looked down at my undersheriff and sister of the groom. She’d elected to come over to the bride’s side because she liked us better. “I figured we’d lost you to Nebraska.”
“Fuck that.”
The formal procession drew near, and Cady was radiant.
“She looks great.”
I smiled. “Yep, she does.”
“It’s nice that she’s not showing.”
I gave Victoria Moretti a look.
“I’m just sayin’.” Her eye wandered. “Even my two-headed brother looks good.”
I studied Michael, who was about to become my son-in-law. He looked a little dazed and confused, kind of the way that other guy did what seemed like a century ago. Granted, Martha and I hadn’t had the pomp and circumstance; we’d had only that justice of the peace from Miles City and his wife playing the accordion, but it had been enough to galvanize our lives together.
Michael looked like he might run, but there were the three other Moretti brothers to chase him down, and the old man, Chief of Detectives North, who would likely just put a bullet in his leg and then charge the municipality of Philadelphia for his ammunition.
Lena Moretti was lovely, as usual, in a knee-length off-white dress; she was doing her best to look cool and unflappable as her high heels sank into the rich earth of Crazy Head Springs.
We had a motley bunch seated on our side of the aisle-my dispatcher, Ruby, with Dog; my old boss, Lucian; and a contingency of deputies-Saizarbitoria with Marie and Antonio, the Ferg and his wife, and Frymire, Double-Tough having volunteered to man the desk back at the office. Dorothy, who had made the wedding cake from one of Alphonse’s old-world recipes, was seated next to Lucian, as were most of the field office of the FBI, including Agent in Charge Cliff Cly, and even a couple of Philadelphia Police Department detectives of our own, Katz and Gowder. Mary Barsad was there with Juana and Benjamin, and Omar and Lana and Bill and, of course, Doc Bloomfield.
The Cheyenne chief sat in his wheelchair with Melissa behind him and smiled over the pageantry of the approaching bride. His right-hand man, the Cheyenne Nation, stood a little closer to us on the ceremonial bed of white sage. I repeated to myself, over and over- E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse.
“Are you chanting to yourself?”
I hadn’t realized I was mumbling. “I’m trying to remember how to say my line.”
She shook her head and spoke from the side of her mouth. “Look, nobody’s going to be paying any attention to you. All right?”
I nodded.
She changed the subject, probably hoping to divert my attention. “So, KRZZ is looking for a new morning drive guy?”
I watched as the black horse carrying my daughter crossed the clearing as the other maidens, including Dena Many Camps, followed on their own mounts in single file. “I guess so. It turned out the first child that Audrey miscarried was Clarence’s, but when he was in Iraq he got hurt.”
Vic leaned in. “So the one that went over the cliff with his mother?”
“Adrian.”
“Adrian belonged to Herbert His Good Horse?”
“Yep. Audrey was leaving the Rez with Clarence and taking Adrian with her. I guess it was more than Herbert could stand; Adrian is the last living heir to the His Good Horse name.”
“What about the nephew in the wheelchair?”
“Karl’s name was different, Red Fox, and that’s why it didn’t ring any bells on the medication listing I got from Lolo Long’s mother at Health Services-at least at first.”
“And the bracelet belonged to Karl?”
“Yep, it belonged to his great-grandfather, who fought in France during WWI; then Herbert used it to put Karl’s medication on when he lost his legs in the car crash. After a while, Karl was doing so well that Herbert started wearing the bracelet as a reminder. Audrey must’ve pulled it off of him when they were struggling.”
“So, he was the one who tried to run over you on 212?”
“Yep.”
“And Herbert made the tape from recordings at the Tribal Offices?”
“Yep, and just filled in the parts he needed Clarence to say by manipulating his own voice. He’d been worried about what Audrey was going to do and had been taping her for months.”
“And used the Old Indian Trick of blaming it on the FBI?”
I shifted my weight. “Herbert was a source for the BIA and dropped the tape on them anonymously. The FBI would’ve figured it out with a little more analysis, but everybody was in a hurry to jail Artie.”
“Well, they must not have taken it too badly since they’re in attendance.” She glanced at the collected law-enforcement and then over their heads where a small contingency of tribal security, two officers to be exact, stood watch. “Is that her?”
I rested my eyes on the tall woman with the broad shoulders, her hair loose for once, spreading down her back like a luxurious, blue-black shawl. I noticed she’d traded in the S amp;W for a Sig-Sauer P229. 40, complete with stylish rosewood grips. After a second, the jasper eyes turned and looked back at us, and I could’ve sworn she’d overheard our conversation from almost fifty feet away. The nearest eyebrow was arched, and her full lips were smiling.
My undersheriff turned her head to look at me. “I don’t like her.”