A metal gate screeched and the corridor outside his cell was flooded with light. Lame Elk blinked at the knife thrust of light that penetrated his skull. At least now he could see where he was. Staggering to his feet, he filled the plastic cup on the dirty sink with cold water and drank. He was on his third cupful when he heard footsteps approaching The deputy, Tyler Erickson, was staring at him through the bars of the cell door.
“You are one sorry son of a bitch, Lame Brain,” said Erickson, inserting a key in the lock and swinging the door open.
The Indian tried to force a smile but his lips were too bruised and swollen. The deputy, a tall, wiry man, stood with his thumb hooked in his belt, the hand resting next to the butt of his revolver.
“How the hell can you stand your own stink? I told the sheriff we should have left you lying out there in the snow, but you know how good-hearted he is.”
“I don’t remember anything,” Lame Elk said. He had difficulty recognizing his own voice. “What happened to my face?”
Erickson snorted and shook his head in disgust. “Russ says if you try to come into his bar again he’ll send you to the happy hunting ground. You owe him for a busted stool and a smashed mirror. Here’s the bill. He says you should put the money in this envelope and mail it to him by the first of the month or he’s going to press charges.”
“Did he do this to my face?”
“You got into a fight with three guys. Not from around here. Russ called us but by the time we got there they were gone. You were lying in the street. Twenty below zero and you were just lying there.”
“You should have left me there.”
“If it was up to me, I would’ve. Let’s go. I have your jacket and stuff in the office. You can go back to the rez and sleep it off. This jail ain’t a motel.”
Lame Elk, unsteady on his feet, shambled after the deputy down the brightly lit corridor. His large bulk filled the doorway as he followed Erickson into the office. The deputy picked up a form from the desk and pointed to the items lying next to it. “One wallet containing six dollars. A pocketknife. One sheepskin coat. Sign here.”
The Indian leaned over the desk and rested his wrist on the paper to control the trembling of his hand. At that moment the front door of the office opened and a ruddy-faced man entered, his Stetson pushed low on his head. The burst of frigid air that accompanied him into the room blew the paper from the desk as Lame Elk turned to face him.
Ignoring the two men in the room, the man took off his coat and hat and hung them on a rack in the corner. He smoothed back his thinning gray hair and rubbed his hands briskly together.
“Mighty cold,” he said, acknowledging the deputy for the first time.
“He’s ready to go.” Erickson gestured toward the Indian.
“Hello, sheriff,” Lame Elk mumbled, unwilling to meet the man’s gaze. Instead, he stared at the star pinned on the guy’s shirt.
The sheriff squeezed behind his desk and sat down heavily in a swivel chair. The deputy had picked up the signed form off the floor and placed it in front of the sheriff, who ignored it.
Lame Elk took his belongings from the desk and awkwardly put on his jacket. The sheriff regarded him thoughtfully. Whenever he saw Lame Elk, he thought of the Indian’s father, Bear Hunter. The same broad shoulders and barrel chest. Long black hair and piercing eyes. The difference was that Bear Hunter had been a chief of the Northern Cheyenne, a man who commanded respect, not a drunken saloon Indian. It was the memory of Bear Hunter, a man he considered a friend until his death, that tempered his disgust when he looked at Lame Elk.
“Wait,” he called out as Lame Elk reached the door. The Indian hesitated, turning to face the sheriff. The deputy, busying himself at the file cabinet, also paused and swung his head around.
The sheriff pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Tyler Erickson, disgusted by the stink of puke and alcohol fumes in the office, grimaced and turned back to his files. Lecturing these Indians was, he knew, a waste of time, but he wasn’t about to tell the sheriff that. If Moran hadn’t learned that in his twenty-two years as sheriff, he hadn’t learned anything.
Lame Elk sat down but refused to meet the man’s eyes. The sheriff rummaged through his desk drawer before pulling out a small object from the very back.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
The Indian stared at the deer hide pouch. “A medicine bundle?”
“A medicine bundle,” Sheriff Moran agreed. “I thought you’d like to have it. It belonged to your father.”
Lame Elk looked directly at the sheriff. “How come you have it?”
“Bear Hunter gave it to me before he died. He told me to keep it for you until the time came when you needed it most. I think that time has come.”
Erickson, his back to the two men, scowled. What the hell had gotten into Moran?
The sheriff held the pouch out to Lame Elk. For several moments the Indian sat immobile, then reached for it. He was unable to control the trembling of his hand. Staring at the beaded borders of the medicine bundle, he thought not of Bear Hunter, but of his mother, Star Woman. He remembered the winter she had sewn those beads on the pouch. It had been a time of brutal cold and heavy snows. Game was scarce and supplies were not getting through to the reservation. Many people died that winter, including his brother and sister. His mother, too, was sick with consumption. The dark spots on the deer hide of the bundle were, he knew, flecks of blood that had escaped from between her fingers when she covered her mouth while coughing. He scraped at them with his thumbnail, but they were now part of the hide, just as his mother’s gaunt face was part of his memory.
“Your father will need this,” she had told him. Perhaps she was right. Bear Hunter had survived and become a chief. He, Lame Elk, had survived too, although he often wished he hadn’t. Star Woman, the mother he loved, had died before she could see another winter.
“There’s a man you should see today before you go back to the reservation,” Sheriff Moran said.
Lame Elk blinked. He had forgotten he was still in the sheriff’s office.
“His name is Johnson. Hugh Johnson. He’s got an office above the hardware store. He wants to meet you.”
“Why?”
The sheriff shrugged. “I’ll let him tell you. I told him you’d stop by this morning.”
Leaving the warmth of the office, Lame Elk shivered as the first blast of icy wind hit him. He thrust his hands into his sheepskin jacket pockets and, leaning into the wind, walked down Ashland’s main street. Unconsciously, he fingered the medicine bundle, still held in his right hand.
On this frigid Saturday morning in January, the town seemed deserted. A pickup truck stacked with bales of hay drove slowly down the street, exhaust vapors billowing behind it. The snow crunched beneath Lame Elk’s boots as he headed for the café, the lettering of its sign blurred by the wind-induced tears that obscured his vision.
At first, the waitress ignored him. Two white men seated at the counter gave Lame Elk a dirty look when he sat down near them. They picked up their plates and coffees and headed to a booth.
“Can I get some coffee, please?” Lame Elk said to the frizzy-haired woman busying herself to his left, arranging pie slices on a turntable at the counter.
She glanced at him with disgust. “You got money?”
Lame Elk pulled out his wallet and extracted the six dollars it contained. He held the bills up in the air so she could see them. The waitress set a cup in front of him, hard enough so that coffee overflowed the rim and ran onto the counter. Lame Elk sopped it up with a napkin. He stretched his arm out for the sugar container and picked out a handful of packets. Meticulously, he emptied six of them into his cup and stirred the now thick brew. He closed his eyes and sipped the coffee. He nodded contentedly to himself when the bad taste in his mouth finally disappeared.