“Three dollars.” The young woman yawned.
“Three dollars?” Oliver said in mock surprise.
“Okay, two fifty,” the woman said, without a pause or interest.
He gave her three dollars. “I’m looking for Billy White Feather.”
“Why?”
“He left me a note about a horse.”
“No. I mean why are you looking here?”
“I think he lives here. On the reservation, I mean.”
“Indians live on the reservation.”
Oliver tore open his muffin and pinched off a bite, looked outside at the snow that was falling again. “Do you know Billy White Feather?”
“I do.”
“But he’s not an Indian?”
She nodded.
“His name is White Feather?”
“That’s something you’re going to have to talk to him about. He ain’t no Arapaho and he ain’t no Shoshone and he ain’t no Crow and he ain’t no Cheyenne. That’s what I know.”
“So, he might be Sioux.”
“Ain’t no Sioux or Blackfoot or Gros Ventre or Paiute neither.”
“Okay.”
“He’s a tall, skinny white boy with blue eyes and a blond ponytail and he come up here a couple of years ago and started hanging around, acting like he was a full-blood or something.”
Oliver sipped his coffee.
“He liked on Indian girls and dated a bunch of them. Bought them all doughnuts till they got fat and then ran out on them. Now he’s in town liking on Mexican girls. That’s what I hear.”
“His note said there are some twin foals up at the ranch,” Oliver said. “Heard anything about that?”
“I heard. It’s big news. Twins. That means good luck.”
“So, what’s White Feather have to do with the horses?”
“I ain’t got no idea. I don’t care. Long as he don’t come in here I got no problem with Billy whatever-his-name-is.”
Oliver looked at her.
“Because it sure ain’t no White Feather.”
Oliver nodded. “Well, thanks for talking to me.”
“Good luck.”
The door opened and in with a shock of frigid air came Hiram Shakespeare. He was a big man with a soft voice that didn’t quite fit him.
“Hiram,” Oliver said.
“Hiya,” Hiram said. “What are you doing up this way, brown man?”
“I came to see the twins.”
“Word travels fast. Twins. Something, that. How’d you find out?”
“I got a note from somebody named Billy White Feather.”
“You know him?”
“Never met him.”
“Stay away from him, though. He’s bad medicine.”
“I’m gathering that.” Oliver looked at his cup. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee if you take me up to see the foals.”
“You drive.”
“You bet,” Oliver said.
“I hate driving in snow,” Hiram said. “Can’t see shit in the snow. Course, I can’t see shit in the bright sunshine.”
Hiram grabbed his extralarge tub of coffee and Oliver paid for it. They walked out into the wet falling snow and climbed into Oliver’s truck. Tuck moved to the middle and sat, his head level with the humans.
Hiram rubbed the dog’s head. “He’s looking good.”
“For an old guy,” Oliver said.
“I wish somebody would say that about me.”
“I’m saying.”
Hiram looked through the back window into the bed of the truck. Oliver had thrown a bunch of cinder blocks in the back to keep the truck from fishtailing on ice. Hiram nodded, “That’s good, them blocks.” He then started to fiddle with the radio. He settled on a country station.
“You like that crap?” Oliver asked.
“It’s country music,” Hiram said. “Indians are country people.” He sang along with the song. “So, how do you know Billy White Feather?”
“I don’t know him. Never heard of him until today when I got the note saying to contact him about buying the foals. When were they born?”
“Last night. It’s George Big Elk’s mare.”
“So, they don’t belong to Billy White Feather.”
Hiram laughed loudly. “Billy White Feather?”
“His note said that if I was interested in buying the foals, I should contact Billy White Feather.”
“More like Billy White Man. He doesn’t own the shirt he’s wearing. If he’s wearing a shirt.”
“George’s, eh? Did George know she was having twins?”
Hiram shook his head. “The mare looked plenty big, but not crazy big, you know? Nobody up here was going to pay for a scan. Nobody does that. You know how much them scans cost?”
Oliver nodded. He turned his defroster on high and used his glove to wipe the windshield. “You must breathe a lot or something.”
“Indians breathe a third more than white people. A quarter more than black people.”
“Why is that?”
“This is FBI air.”
“FBI?”
Hiram laughed. “Full-blooded Indian.”
“I wonder why that guy put that note on my door?”
“Bad medicine. I wonder how he knew about the foals. I heard tell that Danny Moss and Wilson O’Neil run him off the reservation a few weeks ago. Beat him up pretty good.”
“I wonder if I’ve seen the guy without knowing who he was,” Oliver said.
“You’d remember him, all right. He’s a big guy with red hair and a big mustache.”
Oliver took the turn onto a dirt road that had not been plowed. “Think we’ll be okay on this road?” he asked.
Hiram shrugged. “Long as the tribe hasn’t plowed it yet. Those guys come by and make everything impassable.”
“County does the same thing. They can take a messy run and turn it into impassable in a few hours.”
“Cut it twice and it’s still too short. Probably go to the same classes.”
“Have you seen the foals yet?”
Hiram shook his head. “I hear tell they’re damn near the same size and pretty strong.”
“That’s unusual.”
“I heard that. I haven’t seen them. They say the mare’s good, too. Vet came up and couldn’t believe it.”
“Who’s the vet?”
“Sam Innis.”
Oliver nodded.
The snow let up a bit.
Hiram was looking out the window at the Owl Creek hills. “My father wouldn’t set foot in these mountains,” he said. “Scared him. Said there were witches out here.” Then he laughed.
“What’s funny?” Oliver asked.
“That priest over at Saint whatever-it’s-called asked me the other day if I believed in god. I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Why the hell not?’ Then I told him the question is, does he believe in me? He didn’t like that. I don’t think he liked me saying hell in church.”
“What were you doing in the church?”
“I go in there for that communion wine. It’s the only booze I get. My wife won’t let me have beer or nothing.”
“Mine, either.”
“You’re married? Who would marry you?”
“She’s crazy,” Oliver said.
Oliver pulled the truck into the yard of the ranch. There were several people standing outside the barn corral. The snow had stopped falling and the sun was even breaking through in the west. They got out and walked over to the huddle of men standing near the gate. Tuck stayed close to Oliver.
The foals, spindly-legged clichés, were standing next to their mother, a fat-rumped, well-blanketed Appaloosa. The two colts were identical, buckskin in color, with matching blazes. Like the sire, Oliver was told. Who could tell yet whether they would thrive, but they were standing.
“What was the birth like?” Oliver asked.