Prologue

July 1904
Cheyenne, Wyoming

The old man opened the heavy front door of the Historical Society with great effort. Inside, the air pressure created by oscillating electric fans throughout the long hallways pulled the door handle from his hand as he entered and the door slammed shut with a thunderous clap, rattling its thick plate glass core.

Angled sunlight pooled brightly on the creaking hardwood floor, dimming the large entry foyer’s distant corners and walls. He shuffled forward, leaning on his cane as his eyes adjusted to the uneven light. The humid air carried a musty attic odor of trunks and old clothing.

The old man paused to remove his frayed straw hat. The skin of his face and neck was deeply tanned, the color of walnuts, loose and wattled at the throat and gullied throughout like a rain-pounded hillside. Above his bushy eyebrows his square, pale forehead gave way to close-cropped silver hair, thinned to wisps on the crown of his head, revealing a pale scalp, faintly traversed by blue veins.

He wiped his brow with a bandana. Thick fingers and the forward slope of his shoulders suggested a life shaped by hard work – his work shirt, faded jeans and bowed legs said cowhand, but his worn brogans cast him as a laborer, perhaps a gandy dancer. A silver watch chain curved from his belt to his right pants pocket.

He shuffled across the empty foyer to a display case and pulled wire-rimmed spectacles from his shirt pocket to examine the objects in an exhibit, tilting his head to focus the lenses as well as age and the light would allow. The case held a collection of Indian artifacts. Next to each a neatly handwritten card proclaimed the item, tribe, year collected, and location. Donors were mostly local ranchers and former soldiers.

The old man squinted. One piece, a beaded medicine pouch, held his attention. The small buckskin sack was identified as belonging to the Hidatsa tribe. It was the color of an old saddle, smudged and sweat-stained. A long sinew drawstring wove through the open end and looped to be worn around the neck.

It was the type carried by many Plains tribes, designed to hold objects vested with a warrior’s personal power – a stone, a feather, roots, herbs – objects from which the owner might draw the ability to overcome hardship, endure suffering and gain advantage over his enemies. The physical manifestation of his spiritual thew, he would wear it all the days of his life.

The old man bent to examine the pouch. It was decorated with dyed porcupine quills, faded blue, yellow and red, surrounding a circle of blue glass trade beads. He could see some of the beads and quills were missing and the pouch was empty. The contents lay next to it, each identified by small, curling slips of paper pinned to the shelf. Uhh, he muttered.

The museum’s young curator approached. He was tall and thin-shouldered, clad in a wrinkled linen suit and bow tie, which he straightened with narrow fingers as he cleared his throat.

Sir, excuse me, he said. We are preparing to close for the day. Perhaps you’d care to come back tomorrow. We have quite a good collection of Indian artifacts.

The old man looked up. The curator’s horn-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose, emphasizing his bookish appearance. Perspiration sparkled against the pale skin of the young man’s forehead and upper lip.

Uhhh?

Perhaps you’d care to come back tomorrow, sir. We’re closing for the day.

The old man returned his attention to the display case. He tapped the glass with his cane.

How’d ye come by this medsin bag?

Pardon me?

He tapped the glass again.
This one. Where’d ye git it?

The Hidatsa pouch?

Ain’t Hidatsee.

Pardon me?

Medsin bag. Ain’t Hidatsee. Looks like it, but it ain’t.

The curator looked at the pouch, then at the old man, then the pouch again.
Well, uh…

The old man interrupted him.
The girl fashioned this bag favored Hidatsee beadwork. But she belonged to the Sioux.

I’m sorry sir. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow. We could discuss the bag.

The old man hooked the cane over his arm. He leaned toward the display case and placed his knotty right hand on the glass next to the bag, as if to touch it.

Been a long while since I seen it.

You knew the woman who made the pouch?

Girl. She was a girl.

And you say she was a member of the Sioux tribe?

Never said so. Said she belonged to the Sioux.

The old man turned away from the case and began to make his way to the door. The curator accompanied him across the lobby and opened the front door. Heat blasted through the opening as the old man stepped into the sunlight and put on his hat. The curator shaded his eyes against the glare.

He said, And do you know the Indian who owned the pouch?

The old man stopped, hooked the cane over his arm, pulled a hand-rolled cigarette and box of matches from his shirt. Years of habit cupped his hands against any breeze as he lit the cigarette, and he squinted hard while he drew a long pull and the smoke exploded from his mouth and nostrils. Casually the old man picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue. He turned his head and pointed north.

Forty mile thataway. I kilt him.

He looked back at the curator, tossed the match and walked away.