A fat man named Oscar threw his cigarette butt into the snow. “I knew it was happening at about nine last night. I called Innis and he drove up, got here about ten. Then it went real fast. Vet pulled the first one out, but it wasn’t easy. Her head and hoof were showing. He said a bunch of stuff, talking-to-himself stuff. You know how he is. He reached his hands in there to untwist her leg and I heard him say, ‘What the fuck.’ I never heard Innis swear before. He said he couldn’t believe it, but he felt another head. I couldn’t believe it, either.”
A couple of the men whistled even though they’d heard the story.
“Vet said there was another one and there he stands. He gave them some shots and left a couple of hours ago.”
Oscar looked at Oliver. “What are you doing here?”
“I got a note about these guys.”
“Sam Innis was here all night,” Oscar said.
“The note was from Billy White Feather.”
The men grew quiet.
“How do you know him?” one of the men asked.
“Never met him,” Oliver said.
“Why is he leaving you notes?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s an asshole,” Oscar said. “He owes Mary Willow two hundred dollars.”
“For what?” Hiram asked.
“Something about a horse trailer. She paid him to rewire it, but I guess he skipped with the money. Asshole.”
“So, nobody suspected twins,” Oliver said.
“Naw,” Oscar said.
George Big Elk, a Northern Cheyenne man, came out of the house and moved to the rail. He greeted Oliver. “News travels fast,” he said.
“Around here,” Oliver said.
“Looks like they’re okay.”
“They’re beautiful. Has she thrown before?”
“Twice. Lost the first one. Almost lost her, too. It was a mess. I thought she was all torn up inside, but then she had a foal the next year.”
Oliver looked at the mare. She was tall for an App, with great conformation. “The sire as pretty as she is?”
“You bet,” George said. “Handsome. He’s handsome.”
“Billy White Feather offered to sell them to ol’ Ollie,” Hiram said.
“I wish that wasichu would come around here,” George said.
The men laughed.
“Well, I can now say I’ve seen the twins,” Oliver said. “I will see you men later. Hiram, do you need a ride back down to Ethete?”
“I’m all right. But if you want to come back later, I’ll have some buffalo triplets to sell to you.”
“Come on, Tuck.”
It was snowing again when Oliver arrived home to find Lauren rearranging the furniture in the living room. The rug was rolled up and shoved to one side. She had put towels under the feet of the sofa so that she could slide it across the floor.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said.
“I won’t complain if you help me.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“No.”
“Well, okay then.” He helped her move the sofa across the room and turn it. He stood away with her and looked at it. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Nope. Back where it was.”
They pushed it back.
“So, where’d you run off to this morning?”
“Went to see twin foals up on the rez.”
“That’s cool.”
“It was pretty cool. Big App mare, identical babies, mother and children doing well. A real beautiful scene.”
“Somebody’s going to die,” she said.
“You got that right.”
“Why are you such a pessimist?” she asked.
“Hey, I didn’t say it, you did.”
“I only said it because I knew you were thinking it.”
“Seriously, though, I hope those babies make it. They looked strong.”
“So, who called you?” She followed him into the kitchen.
Oliver grabbed a couple of mugs and poured coffee from the pot that was sitting out. “Got a note. Tacked to the back door when I came in from feeding. It was from Billy White Feather.”
“Who the hell is Billy White Feather?”
“Some white boy with an Indian fetish, from what I gather. I’d never heard of him.”
“So, why’d he leave you a note?”
“Beats me. It’s pretty weird.”
“While you’re in town I want you to pick up a package waiting at the post office.” Lauren sipped her coffee.
“Who said I’m going into town? I just got back. I’ve got work to do around here.”
“Please? It’s snowing. I hate driving in the snow.”
“Everybody hates driving in the snow,” he said.
“Pretty please?”
“I love it when you beg. I’m leaving Tuck here.” He looked at the dog. “Be a watchdog. Watch.”
“Hey, he’s old.”
“He’s still employed.” He gave the dog’s head a rub.
The new post office was right beside the old post office. Oliver wondered if a post office needed an address. The only part of the old one that was still used was its parking lot. It wasn’t that the new lot was ever crowded, but the lines of the spaces had been painted so close together that no one could fit a truck into one. Oliver walked inside and handed the slip to the clerk, a large woman with large hair named Pam.
“You don’t look like a Lauren,” Pam said, looking at the paper.
“Haircut.”
He watched as she waded through the piles of boxes into the back. He looked at the bulletin board beside him and wondered when they’d quit putting wanted posters on the wall. Someone was missing a tabby cat. There were some shepherd-mix puppies free to a good home. And there was a sheet with tear-off numbers offering guitar lessons from one Billy White Feather. Oliver tore off one of the tabs.
Pam came back with the box. “Here it is, Lauren.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Just sign right here.”
“Pam, have you come across a Billy White Feather?”
“Jerk.”
“You’ve met him.”
“No. He came in here and caused a ruckus a while back while I was out to lunch. Drunk.”
“You know his address?”
“Yeah, Ethete.”
“Ethete? But he’s a white guy.”
“You get kicked by a horse? His name is White Feather.”
“Folks up at Ethete say he’s a white guy.”
“Well, maybe he ain’t Arapaho, but he’s an Indian. Got a jet-black braid down to his narrow ass.”
“Then you’ve seen him.”
“I wish I would see him. After what he said to that Dwight girl.”
“Duncan Dwight’s daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?” Oliver asked.
“I can’t repeat it. But Duncan Dwight will shoot him if he sees him. And I wouldn’t blame him.”
Oliver picked up the package. “Thanks, Pam.”
“You have a nice day now. Barn journey, as the French say.”
Behind the wheel of his truck, Oliver called the guitar-lesson number on his mobile phone. A recording informed him that the line was not in service. Of course, he thought. He put the phone away and stared ahead through his windshield at the old post office. He was near laughing at himself, taken as he was by what seemed to be a mystery. The irony was double-sided, as, on one hand, he really had no interest in Billy White Feather, whether Indian or white, and, on the other, he recognized that pursuing an answer here was the same as falling for whatever con game this Billy White Feather was running around playing. But why had this guy left him a note? Why had he been at his place?
Oliver felt uneasy and so he called Lauren.
“You get my package?”
“Yep.” He didn’t want to alarm her, but he had to ask. “Has anybody come by today?”
“No. Why?”
“Just asking. Keep an eye out.”
“Ollie?”
“I’ll be home directly.”