The spectrometry laboratory of the museum was located underground in the subbasement of the main storage building. The spectrometer used to date samples of any type of raw material, such as organic items from archaeological sites, was no larger than an ordinary kitchen-variety toaster oven. It had the ability to determine the age of carbonaceous matter up to some sixty thousand years old. This was done by radiometrically measuring the amount of naturally occurring carbon-14, an isotope that forms in dormant states, such as decomposing human or animal bodies.
The instrument reports the age of the tested material in radiocarbon years known as BP, or before present time. Present time has been established as the year 1950.
“This should be an easy one for our spectro,” Nelson said when he and Naomi entered the lab. “Just from the look of these bones, they don’t appear to be more than a couple of hundred years old, if that.”
“I think you’re right,” Naomi agreed. “They look well preserved. Maybe they’ve been in an air-tight container of some kind.”
“Some of the old-timers, the ones they called ancients, kept relics of their ancestors in Mason jars that were distributed by the Indian agencies to teach them the canning process for foods.”
When the spectrometer results appeared on the instrument’s screen and a tape printout began to generate, Nelson and Naomi saw that their speculations had been close to accurate. The BP reading was 73.
Back in Martin White’s office, the curator studied the result thoughtfully. A BP reading of 73 dated the relics to the year 1877.
“That certainly lends some credence to the matter,” he said, glancing down at an open copy of The Encyclopedia of North American Indian Tribes. “Crazy Horse was killed in 1877.”
Martin rose and paced around the large, well-furnished, richly decorated office, an office that Nelson Clay had once thought would someday be his. As was the curator’s habit when deep in thought, he gently pulled at his lower lip. Finally reaching a decision, he returned to his chair.
“We have no alternative but to pursue this matter further. I want you two to pay a visit to this Nelli Mae Feathers in Cedar Butte.”
Leaving the museum at eight the next morning, this time taking Naomi’s yellow Corvette, Nelson and Naomi cruised at seventy miles an hour east on Interstate 90 for fifty miles, then had to slow down considerably when they turned south on narrow, curvy State Route 73, which took them to eastbound State Route 44 into Cedar Butte. It was barely a wide spot in the road, with a weather-worn sign that announced CEDAR BUTTE TOWNSHIP — POPULATION 48.
The address they had was a small white frame house. No one answered the door. A neighbor across the road told them that Nelli Mae was not at home during the day; she worked in the Visitors Center at the Buffalo Gap National Grasslands, a Department of the Interior nature reserve. Nelson and Naomi had passed it on their way to Cedar Butte. Resignedly, they turned around and drove back.
At the Buffalo Gap Visitors Center, they found Nelli Mae Feathers to be a pleasant woman appearing to be in her late thirties, a very light-skinned Native American, clearly a ’breed, dark hair trimmed short, dressed in the neat gray uniform of the National Park Service.
“We’re here in response to your letter to the Great Plains North American Indian Museum,” Nelson said, introducing himself and Naomi.
“Oh,” Nelli said in surprise, “I didn’t expect a personal visit.”
On the pretext of a guided tour around the visitors center complex, they were able to have a conversation.
“Are the bones I sent you my three-times great-grandfather’s?” she asked eagerly.
“We know that they are old enough to have belonged to someone of that period,” Nelson said. “We don’t know whose bones they are.”
Naomi asked, “What makes you think that Crazy Horse is an ancestor of yours?”
“My late grandmother, who raised me on the Pine Ridge res, told me he was.”
“Who was your grandmother?” Nelson asked.
“Her name was Shawl-in-the-Sky, as I told you in my letter. As I also told you, she was the granddaughter of She-Is-Not-Afraid, who was the daughter of Crazy Horse.”
“But She-Is-Not-Afraid died of cholera when she was only two or three years old,” Nelson pointed out. “She could not have borne children.”
“The child who died was the first She-Is-Not-Afraid. She was the daughter of Crazy Horse’s second wife, Black Shawl. But when Black Shawl became ill, Crazy Horse took a third wife to care for her. A child was later born to that wife, and she was named after Crazy Horse’s dead first child. It was that second child that my grandmother knew as her grandmother.”
Nelson and Naomi exchanged reflective looks.
“Where did you get the relics — the bones — that you sent us?” Naomi asked.
“I dug them up. From the grave where Crazy Horse is buried.”
Now the expressions on Nelson’s and Naomi’s faces morphed from reflective to astonished.
“You know where Crazy Horse is buried?” asked Naomi.
“Yes. It is a secret place near the Cheyenne River.”
“Will you show us the place?” Nelson asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Why?” Nelli asked, tilting her head inquisitively.
“For the sake of history,” Naomi said quickly. “No one has ever known where Crazy Horse was buried. He was a great warrior, a great leader of his tribe. People deserve to know where he is buried so that they can pay tribute to him, honor him.”
Nelli shook her head. “My grandmother, Shawl-in-the-Sky, never told anyone. Only me. She said Crazy Horse’s mother, Blanket Woman, wanted him buried in a secret place where the white people could not desecrate his grave.”
“We would protect him from that sort of thing,” Nelson emphasized. “We would put him in an environmentally safe display where his remains would be preserved forever, to be seen by generations of people in the future. And,” he added, “if those remains truly are those of Crazy Horse, the museum would pay you a substantial amount of money for them, since you are his living heir.”
“I don’t know,” Nelli shook her head hesitantly. “I wish my grandmother was here. She was wise and would tell me the right thing to do.”
Naomi put a gentle hand on Nelli’s arm. “Come to our museum,” she encouraged. “Meet my uncle, who is in charge there. You will see how carefully things are preserved there, how we honor those who are gone. Perhaps that will help you to decide.”
Nelli Mae Feathers thought about the invitation, her expression pensive, for a long, heavy moment, before finally saying, “All right. I will come and see for myself how you would honor my three-times great-grandfather.”
Martin White did not take their report graciously.
“What did you say she was: an ordinary visitor guide for the National Park Service? Hardly anyone qualified to judge my museum.”
“She isn’t coming to judge it, Uncle Martin,” Naomi said placatingly. “She just wants to see for herself that it would be a proper resting place for her ancestor.”
“If he is in fact that ancestor,” Martin demurred. “That has yet to be determined. What is your opinion on all this, Nelson?”
“I’m not sure yet. She seems sincere. Her story could be true. If so, our locating the remains of Crazy Horse would certainly bolster the museum’s prestige.”
Martin drew back in his chair. “I wasn’t aware that our prestige needed any bolstering,” he rebuffed icily. “At any rate, we are obligated to find out one way or the other. I want you,” he pointed a finger at Nelson, “to conduct a complete genealogical study of Crazy Horse to see if you can find any evidence of a second daughter born and given the same name as the child who died from cholera. And you, my dear,” this to Naomi, “I want you to go to the U.S. Army Records Archives in St. Louis and search all military records having to do with the Oglala Sioux tribe from, oh, let’s say eighteen seventy-five to eighteen eighty-five. I’m sure you’ll find Crazy Horse’s name mentioned prominently in scores of reports, particularly since Custer’s egomaniacal blunder at the Little Big Horn occurred in 1876. Meanwhile, I am going to consult with Dr. Benton Foster at the Smithsonian. Foster and I vied for the position he now holds at the Institution; he was selected over me, and is now considered the world’s foremost expert on Native American history, a title I seriously suspect he gave himself.” Martin stood and rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now then, the museum’s annual board of directors meeting is fast approaching. If there is anything credible about the information we have, I want to know before that meeting. So, let’s go to it!”