By James Gilbert
Standing Soldier wanted ice badly. His body
was on fire and his mouth dirt dry.
Consciousness had come slowly to him and when
it had, he dearly wished it hadn’t. Actually,
he had been conscious for three hours fighting
the panic. Resisting the urge to look, and see
the truth. He didn’t look then, knowing what
would be there. Wreckage. A strong man
reduced to a dependent pathetic mess. And that
was unthinkable for Standing Soldier. Just
unthinkable.
For Standing Soldier was (or had been) a very
strong man. A cop. An Oglala Sioux Indian.
How he was a shattered man. All claims to
being a proud Sioux, much less a cop, were in
the past. His dry tongue sought out moisture
in the furrows of his mouth. They wouldn’t let
him drink, not even a piece of ice. Standing
Soldier focused one gazed out at himself,
again. It was as if two people were lying in
the hospital bed. One thinking and looking,
the other a stranger, badly mutilated and
hurting. He saw the tubes running from every
opening in his body but his ears. Bottles
suspended from his upper body. Liquid
cruising through thin plastic tubes. Gauges,
numbers flicking with quick, intermittent
gleams. All into the stranger lying in the
bed. He accepted his situation as a very bad
one. It was the way he has been raised by both
father and grandfather. To accept, accept the
world as it was. Accept your place, who you
were, what you were. He had accepted, not
fighting the white world like so many of his
brothers. As with his acceptance he also
became a protector to his people. A “dog
soldier,” the old Sioux term that signified the
Indian police officer.
Organized in
the late 1880s, the Indian police originated as
a scruffy band of warriors who policed the
Sioux reservation at Pine Ridge, South Dakota.
They were historically dominated by the
reservation superintendent and federal
government, but were not an independent group
supervised by the tribal council.
Like his
grandfather before him, Standing Soldier
proudly waited until the correct age before
joining the Bureau of Indian Police. The
memory of his first duty day in June of ’72
still glowed before him. He had picked up his
uniform from the reservation tailor and driven
home for judgment. His pride, the serious
acceptance of the heavy responsibility that
went with the blue uniform, clung to him like
the dust the shadowed the reservation year
round. The silent nod of acceptance and
repressed smile of joy from his wife, the
shriek of laughter from his small daughter; it
meant much. But his father’s acceptance meant
more. He patiently waited outside the old
man’s room. The old one was sleeping, a
mid-day relief from the rigors of being in
one’s eighties. So he waited, and when he
heard his father coming from his room he rose.
One Who Sees stopped and stared at his son. He
saw Standing Soldier’s pride and knew it was
good. “Wa ste chea,” the old man softly
whispered, the Lakota words for pride. “I see
your grandfather in you. I am allowed much
happiness today.” Standing Soldier embraced
the old man gently.
Yes, it was a
wonderful memory, to have been filed for old
age. To have been carefully reviewed in
private, after a 30-year police career.
Standing Soldier thought of the memory now,
nine year later, and his instincts told him
that old age was not to be. He was dying. The
five massive intestinal wounds from the shotgun
had not killed him a week ago, but they were
slowly accomplishing their purpose now. He
closed his eyes. And he remembered.
Policing
on the Ridge, as the Sioux reservation was
locally known, was no routine task. A cop,
particularly an Indian, walked a wire-thin line
among a people who had a fierce pride but lied
in gut-wrenching poverty. It was a combination
of the worst of Harlem and the best of rural
America. Alcoholism, child abuse, countless
assaults, and a host of other problems were
daily occurrences throughout the
4,000-square-mile reservation. But you also
found strong family ties, pride in a people,
and lasting concern for one’s neighbor. It was
all mixed together in a swirling
government-controlled prairie in the middle of
nowhere. Into this, Standing Soldier threw
himself with dedication. No near-sighted
idealist (for he was full-blooded and had lived
among the Sioux all his life), yet far from a
militant, he truly walked the line. Whites on
one side, red on the other, and blue in the
middle.
He was
patrolling in the old Checker squad car. It
was eternally dusty, had crooked aerials, and
was dented like it had been through a meteor
shower. But it always got the job done.
Bordeaux was in the back seat, behind the
rested prisoner cage, drunk as a skunk.
Descendant of the early French trappers who had
settled in the area, Bordeaux was a regular.
Half French, half Sioux, he needed constant
tending. Standing Soldier stumbled across him
in the middle of the road, lying half in and
half out of his pitted Dodge. He was laughing
and talking to himself with the glee only a
chronic drunk can generate. This was a twice
monthly occurrence, almost always necessitating
a trip to the village of Porcupine to drop him
off with his wife and seven surviving
children. This day, however, Standing Soldier
would not reach Porcupine. For this day truly
began the end of his life.
Standing
Soldier could sense the trouble in her voice.
Valerie, the dispatcher, was normally very
cool, almost nonchalant on the radio. But it
was there, the hesitation, emphasis; it meant
trouble.
“IB-6, unknown
trouble, North Ridge Grocery. Unknown
reporting party was just there, said the place
just wasn’t right, and hung up.”
“10-4, Val,
heading for it now.” That was the gist of it,
short and sweet. But it turned very bitter.
He parked the
Checker along the windowless side of the
isolated grocery, which catered to the sparse
Indian population that ranched and farmed the
north ridge area. There were no alarming
sounds, but he could hear soft conversations as
he walked lightly up the wooden stairs.
Standing Soldier was no fool; he looked in
first. A young white male and female were
talking with Neil cloud, the owner. Neil
looked pale was al, just a little pale.
Standing
Soldier walked in through the open door and
instinct took over, for it was then that his
brain caught his feet. “The hands, always look
for the hands; it’s the hands that hurt.” His
grandfather’s words of advice echoed through
his mind. He couldn’t see the male’s hands;
the girl was standing in front of him. “How
you doing today, Neil?” Something was wrong;
no doubt about it. Neil looked toward the boy
as if to ask permission to speak. Standing
Soldier focused on the boy, locking in on the
features first; white male, 5 feet, 10 inches,
16 to 18, thin, bad complexion, short blond
hair, eyes cold and dilated. But what really
disturbed Standing Soldier was how he smiled
and slowly pushed the girl aside. And showed
his hands.
The images
evaporated as the hospital door opened and
slammed against the empty bed next to Standing
Soldier’s. It was Wayne Westkamp and Heath,
faces set for the worst. Westkamp was
assistant chief of the bureau of Indian Police;
Heath, the FBI special agent from Rapid City.
“Don’t talk, Sam, we just came to see you, fill
you in as best we can,” said Westkamp.
Standing Soldier slowly nodded; he hated the
nickname Sam. Westkamp was White, and, like
most whites on the department, felt
uncomfortable calling him Standing Soldier.
“He’s still out there, Sam, the girl too, but
it shouldn’t be much longer,” said Heath.
Heath spoke slowly, with a clipped ‘I’m better
than you’ back-East accent. He was tall and
well-tailored, the perfect example of the new
FBI. A young, open-minded guy, he worked a
case until it squeaked. Heath came from the
Boston office to the wilds of South Dakota and
northwest Nebraska as one of the resident
agents. He loved the Blue skies, the rough
weather, and the lack of crap in the office.
He swore many times to Standing Soldier that if
they ever tried to transfer him back East, he’d
quit on the spot.
“Neil’s dead,
he was DOA from the start,” Heath continued.
“They must have hit him right after they
finished with you, Sam.” Standing Soldier
watched heath carefully, for they had worked
many previous cases, growing close during the
years. They had daughters about the same age,
believed in similar principles, and were
“$14,000 apart in income. Heath’s eyes
wandered down the tangled mess of Standing
Soldier’s body until they fixed on his lower
abdomen. Standing Soldier saw the moistness
well up, and saw Heath fight for control.
“We’ve got roadblocks everywhere, questioning
everybody. So far Bordeaux’s our best bet. He
heard and saw it all from your car. Sobered
real fast at the shots and peeked out the back
window as they stole Neil’s car. He’s plenty
scared though, knows they’d have cut him in two
if they had seen him.” Heath didn’t know what
else to say and fell silent.
Westkamp had
watched Standing Soldier while Heath spoke. He
didn’t like what he saw. His best Indian
officer – no, his best officer – chopped up
like he’d been gored by three bulls. He’d
catch the hyped-up bastard who did it and
squeeze his neck until his brains spewed out
his ears. He reached out and placed his hand
on Standing Soldier’s arm, trying to find a
spot free of the tubes and feeding lines. The
futility of his anger drained it of force as
quickly as it welled up. “I can’t catch
anyone, not anyone,” he thought. “Two years to
retirement and I just want to make it in one
piece.” The often-vicious life of the
reservation cop had left its mark on Wayne
Westkamp. Knife scars, cigarette burns, and
even two arrow wounds were evidence of his 12
years on patrol. Looking at Standing Soldier
made him feel lucky, and want out.
Heath felt
awkward during the brief silence, which seemed
like hours. He didn’t want to see his friend
like this, a guy who’d been so big that he
cracked the wind like a semi as he walked. And
the smell in the room was making him feel
ashamed for wanting to leave. “Maybe we’ll
have some photos tomorrow, Sam. Washington is
hustling on this one.” Bureau headquarters was
indeed hustling because of the sensitivity of
the case, which happened on the same
reservation that had produced the Wounded Knee
confrontation of 1973, and the connected death
of two FBI agents. Although Heath doubted any
connection, deep grudges still smoldered
between the Indian police and American Indian
Movement radicals, more than enough to provoke
a revenge killing.
“You know
he’s not going to make it,” Westkamp said.
They rode in the nondescript government auto,
Heath driving. Westkamp slumped in the seat
beside him. Westkamp was flushed, his heart
still racing after the hospital visit.
“He’s not
going to make it, and we’ve no real leads,”
Heath said softly almost to himself.
“But you said
Bordeaux saw them! Saw them come out, get into
Cloud’s . . .” Westkamp trailed off when he
saw the sick look on the agent’s face.
“He was drunk
off the scale, Wayne! Took one quick look and
nose-dived under the seats. Christ, we even
took him to our hypnotist three days ago. He
couldn’t tell us anything, nothing to add to
the little Sam gave us. Every time the
hypnotist would take him back to the grocery,
he’d act like he was drunk again!”
They turned
from each other and watched the pines rush by,
not really seeing them at all.
Standing
Soldier waited until they left, sensed
rather than saw the realization in their eyes,
and wept. It made the pain throughout his
chest much worse to cry, so he stopped. His
emotions had alarmed the nurse monitoring the
machines at the nurses’ station. She arrived
to medicate him. Standing Soldier now closed
his eyes when anyone from the hospital staff
came into the room. Doctors, nurses,
attendants, the custodians, an endless army of
prying eyes. As soon as he heard the
hydraulic hiss of the door opening, he’d lock
his eyes tightly shut. The shame of it. He
could not bear the shame of total dependency
upon others. Being gawked at like a freak.
Not after being the one who had been admired –
providing, supporting and helping – not when
the shotgun had taken away his ability to eat,
walk and love. It was over. The hands had
done it.
As the young
man with the bad complexion pushed the girl
from him, he raised the shotgun from behind his
leg. Standing Soldier had hunted prairie game
since age nine, and knew shotguns. This one
looked like a mean snake. He took it all in
during the seconds in which it happened. The
memory flashed before him in distinct
segments. Just like watching slides with the
family at Heath’s place. Images projecting on
his brain, out of control, clicking through.
Push girl, gun up, rack it, fire! With no time
to draw, Standing Soldier was in the act of
diving behind cloud’s glass counter, filled
with turquoise, when half of the shotgun’s
pattern caught him in the gut. No real pain at
first, jut the force of it spinning him towards
and out the door. He lay on the steps looking
up into the cloudless June sky, and heard poor
Neil cloud plead for his life. The shotgun
ended Neil’s protests abruptly. The gripping
pain started, radiating back through his spine
as he closed his eyes. He felt them rush by
and drive off. One of them stepped on his
outstretched arm as they fled. Just one word,
the boy to the girl, “Move!”
Standing
solder’s wife slowly rose from her kitchen
chair and looked through the door at One Who
Sees. The old man sat in his son’s study, his
bony frame settled in a chair like a sack of
sticks, a red bandanna wrapped around his neck,
which was no thicker than a fence post. He
sat, staring inward, lost in thought. With the
death of his wife five years past, his move to
his son’s home had been quickly accomplished.
There had been no guilt, no resentment over the
intrusion; that was the white world. The
Indian world exemplified the extended family
concept. Relatives, friends, even casual
acquaintances lived with one another and
shared.
Dorothy walked
to the old man and lightly touched the back of
his deeply wrinkled neck. He was elsewhere.
She glanced around at Standing Soldier’s
world. Photographs of him proudly standing in
his uniform, trunk of a chest puffed out.
Eighteen handgun trophies resting against a
wall choked with plaques. Her eyes came to
rest on a bronzed nightstick given to Standing
Soldier by the local 4-H Club. The kids had
given it to him for taking them to the state
fair when one of the bulls made the finals.
Her throat tightened. She suppressed a scream
starting in her chest.
Dorothy
glanced back to the old man, staring out the
window now, mourning, at a place where only the
Wicasa Waken, those who follow the holy like,
knew intimately. Standing Soldier’s father
entered the Sioux holy life when he was 14. A
quiet introverted youth, much different from
his boisterous peace office father, he fully
embraced the sacred Sioux medicine Life after
his dream. The Sioux are called to the Life by
being a descendant of a medicine man, or
thorough a dream which guides them to the
Life. The dream had come in the fall. Though
he never revealed the substance of the dream,
the following morning he presented himself
before his father and announced his vision
quest. One Who Sees’ father, who had resembled
Standing Soldier in size and exuberant nature,
looked down at the youth and knew. Words were
not needed between the two. The boy always had
the ability to know one’s inner feelings, to
see what was not there, yet there. One Who
Sees ascended into the hills, seeking total
isolation. He fasted for four days – the
vision quest. When he returned to the
reservation village, all could tell by his
face. He had become one of the holy ones, a
healer to the ill, interpreter of troubled
dreams and visions, guardian providing
countless services. In a sense, a mystic cop.
At an early
age it became evident that Standing Soldier
would not go the holy way, but the way of his
grandfather. But One Who Sees’ influence had
left its subtle touch upon him. He too
possessed the intuition and sensitivity, the
acceptance of all things, natural and
supernatural.
Dorothy knelt
at the old man’s side and lightly rested her
head in his lap. One Who Sees rubbed her
temple with his fingertips and softly chanted
Standing Soldier’s name.
Heath had
come into the hospital room quietly today.
He waited patiently while the nurses sponged
Standing Soldier. They chatted incessantly
oblivious to the man they rinsed, acting as
though they were the second crew at the car
wash. They left, still going o about a night
supervisor. Standing Soldier had lain
rock-still throughout, the rhythmic flare of
his nostrils the only indication that he
lives.
Westkamp no
longer came to visit. He was drinking heavily
now, gaining weight, going to fat, missing work
frequently. When Heath went to his mobile
home, concerned that Wayne was going over the
edge, Westkamp wouldn’t allow him to speak of
Standing Soldier. Wayne was through. He
couldn’t handle his administrative duties, and
produced an endless stream of excuses when
called upon to venture out into the field.
It has been
three weeks since the shooting. Standing
Soldier had dropped from his admission weight
of 196 to 130, and was visibly sinking into
himself each day. The doctors told Heath that
he had totally lost the will to live and was
literally forcing his own life from his body.
Heath dutifully reported the progress of the
investigation to Standing Soldier each day
now. He never received a response or
acknowledgement from his friend, whose eyes
seemed eternally locked against the horror
surrounding him. “The two latents from Cloud’s
car haven’t been made yet. But we’re checking
all regional and local sources; police
department, sheriff’s offices, licensing
agencies – you know, the usual. He’s a local,
Sam. I’m sure of it. We think the girl split
on him shortly after the shooting. Counterman
at the bus station in Rapid gave a possible.
Denver office is on it full time.” Heath spoke
with false animation in his voice. He was
trying to carry the conversation for two,
knowing Standing Soldier was listening. “It
was probably drug-related, don’t you think? It
smells like that sort of thing.” Heath halted,
the echo of the words seeming much too loud and
forced. He slowly exhaled and looked down at
Standing Soldier. Heath’s wife said he’d aged
five years in three weeks. “Nice of her to
point that out, real sweet,” he thought. But
it was true. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”
Heath bolder
the room; he took in a deep breath in the hall
and immediately felt ashamed. In his haste to
leave the room he nearly collided with the
wimpy custodian dragging a huge bucket of
disinfectant through the hall. “Oh Christ, let
me the hell out of here,” he thought and headed
for the exit in near panic.
It has
come to One Who Sees during the very early
morning. The memory of the vision was still
very fresh, its colors still vivid, meaning
puzzling. He worked it over in his mind,
knowing instinctively that it related to his
son. An evil one . . . in the form of the
ferret. He had been awake when it occurred,
thinking of Standing Soldier, a boy of 12,
weeping at his grandfather’s funeral. Refusing
to let go of the old one’s body. There had
been great love between the two. The colors
had then filled the corner of the room,
undulating and twisting, forming into shape.
As a holy one he had experienced visions many
times, naturally and peyote-induced. He saw
the swirling colors shape into the animal,
which appeared twice its natural size. Tones
of green and yellow blended and circled around
the image, creating a whirlwind of form. A
ferret, with slick shiny hair and cruel eyes,
raised itself on hind legs and looked directly
into One Who Sees’ eyes. The old man
swallowed, remembering how the chill had
settled into him. The swirling colors had then
turned deep red behind the animal. He closed
his eyes, breathing rapidly, the final part of
the vision terrifying him even now. The ferret
smiled a chilling predatory leer, revealing two
rows of blood-stained razor teeth. It began to
shuffle towards him. Clamped between the teeth
was a large scrape of blue material secured to
a single gold button. The animal began to
hiss, repeatedly.
The old man
rose from the bed to gain control of his
thought. The memory released a flood of
perspiration, chilling him. The ferret had
moved oddly towards him, as if dragging
something with a hidden paw. It advanced to
within several feet, hissing louder as it drew
nearer. It stopped just inches from his face
and finally vanished in an upward vortex of
wind and color.
The vision was
a warning. It could not be denied. The cloth
was a uniform, a blue uniform, a police
uniform. . . Standing Soldier’s uniform. One
Who Sees dressed, quickly.
The night
nurse was talking softly as she made the
bed with him in it. Belinda was one of Rapid
city General’s best. Grossly overweight and
spilling with compassion, she had fought
illness with a vengeance for 31 years, She was
four times a grandmother, and just wanted to
burst into tears every time she saw him.
“You’ve got to do better, honey, you’ve just
got to.” Multiple infections, abscesses,
draining all over, Lord in heaven why? She’d
seen cadavers in nursing school that looked
healthier than Standing Soldier. She gave him
a week, not a day longer. She’d known Sam
casually, before. A crack of a grin crossed
her face as recalled the image of him
patrolling past her place in that toilet of a
patrol car. Oh my, look at him, will you just
look. He couldn’t be more than 95 pounds.
“There now, don’t you feel a whole lot better,
Hon?” The bed made, she snapped off the
television, which she habitually turned on as
she tidied up a patient. A singing Muppet band
faded from the screen.
Standing
Soldier opened his eyes as the door hissed
shut. The darkened room settled around him.
The feeling was still there. It had crept upon
him during the early morning hours. At first
it was a non-specific, uneasy feeling,
developing into a sense of alert, and finally
danger. The cop in him knew the felling well.
The same feeling you got at a mean family fight
call. Man and a woman, at each other with
knives, pots, whatever. Walking in and seeing
them both turn towards you, venom in their
eyes. Unity now in the mutual hate of the new
target. Danger. Don’t relax. It could end up
bad. Real bad. The instinct had always been
strong, had only failed him once, really. At
Cloud’s North Ridge Grocery. The feeling
returned stronger now. Someone, or thing, was
coming for him, he just knew it. The alarm
buzzer on his bedside pump sounded, startling
him. The suspended bottle of liquid nutrients
that fed him through the subclavian artery was
now empty. The bottles had to be changed every
five hours. He closed his eyes as the nurse’s
footsteps neared.
Heath dug
at the back of his neck. It ached like sin
on a holiday. His office light was one of the
few that burned in the federal building. He
was surrounded by piled of fingerprints cards
that were so high they would have hidden him
from anyone who tried to locate the body behind
the desk. Working his only lead, he drove
himself at the cards. He had been at it for
seven hours since the others had left. He was
driven like a maniac. The tiny ridges were
running together badly now, and the fluorescent
lights were burning his eyes crimson. Heath
had been an FBI fingerprint clerk, attending
college at night, finally making special after
eight years. He knew prints. And he knew the
two latents before him were the only hope.
Elimination sets from Cloud, his family,
friends, even the ten year old who had washed
his car, had been taken. No, the two latents
were the suspect’s. He was sure of it.
Operating on
his hunch that the suspect was local, he’d
badly neglected his other 16 active cases,
gathering up fingerprint cards by the van
load. He focused on any local source where a
young male would have been fingerprinted.
Washington had already computer-checked
thousands of possibilities – arrest cards from
the area already on file. But there were
hundreds of cards taken for lowly misdemeanors,
people picked up for investigation and never
charged, and the like, which never made it out
of the police department. And there were the
non-criminal cards, from jobs that printed as a
condition of employment. He had them all.
With a sign,
bordering a defeat, heath clutched a card,
pressing the metal magnifying ridge counter to
his eye. The touch of it against the now
reddened tissue made him grimace.
All who
were needed were there. The elders of the
reservation, the 12 aged Wicasa Waken, with a
combined age of nearly one thousand years. One
Who Sees had summoned them in the pre-dawn
hours to his son’s home. He quickly explained
in Lakota the vision, his interpretations, and
what had to be done. The 12 nodded after the
explanation, all knowing One Who Sees’ wisdom
and clarity of purpose. “The evil one will
come to Standing Soldier. I ask your help in
the Yuwipi.”
The ceremony
of the Yuwipi, the ancient Sioux ritual of
communication with the dead, was rarely
enacted. The Sioux greatly feared the dead and
attempted communication through a medicine man
only in the most extreme situations. But the
old man had senses the power of the vision, and
knew only the highest powers could succeed
against such an evil. The memory of the ferret
was so fresh that he was certain he heard the
hiss still.
All fasted and
meditated during the day. Shortly before
sunset they shuffled into Standing Soldier’s
study, the plaques reflecting their movements.
They divided into four groups. One Who Sees
stood facing them in the center of the room.
The number four holds tremendous significance
for the Sioux, representing the four directions
of the earth. Its presence in some form is
essential to the success of any ceremony. One
Who Sees began to chant, the others following
in song and drum. After many songs to the dead
and the Great Spirit, One Who Sees was bound
securely, as dictated by the rites of ancient
proceeding. The star blanket was thrown across
his shoulders. Beneath the knotted ropes ad
blanket he held a faded tintype image, and wore
the heavy woolen overcoat – the coat of his
father, thick and blue, with five stout gold
buttons. As the room fell into total darkness,
chants rising in sound and tempo, he hummed the
ancient songs while fingering the raised
letters of the buttons. The letters were still
sharp on the raised surface, I and P. Indian
Police.
The ceremony
lasted four hours. All who were present agreed
later that such power was rarely witnessed.
Following the ceremony the exhausted men
removed the blanket from One Who Sees and saw
the power. The ropes were untied, the ancient
proof of communication. The old man was
clearly spent, his body bathed in
perspiration. He has traveled far, and at the
end of his journey, spoken his request.
Standing
Soldier was in agony. The synthetic
morphine derivatives brought only surface
relief. The pain had fixed itself in an area
directly above his solar plexus, spilling down
into his abdomen. The infection was running
through his body, corrupting, unchecked. Even
his teeth had abscessed. The feeling of
imminent danger was so strong now that his eyes
constantly swept the room in search of the
hidden enemy. The door opened. His eyes
clamped shut and slowly opened. Standing
Soldier immediately sensed his father, and
looked toward him. The old man walked to him
gently placing his tanned hand against the
burning forehead. Standing Soldier nearly
died at that moment, the relief of the touch
was so powerful against the waves of pain
rushing against him.
He spoke, or
rasped rather, in a voice not heard for weeks.
“Do you sense the danger, father?” Something
comes for me, soon. The pain, so bad. End
it.” The old man felt a sorrow unsurpassed in
his eight decades of life. “The circle
completes soon, Standing Soldier. I have
brought these things for the danger; they must
be kept close.” He placed the patinaed tintype
into his son’s hand, noting how tightly the
bones and veins raised from the skin. Removing
the carefully folded overcoat from his arm, One
Who Sees placed it on the single chair in the
room. He folded it in a natural manner,
buttons carefully aligned. The effort of
speaking has exhausted Standing Soldier so that
he lapsed into fitful sleep. The old man moved
to the window that faced the city park.
Whirling Frisbees, a brigade of joggers,
couples locked against each other. His eyes
traveled upward to the Black Hills that framed
the city. Sacred land. It was well that the
room looked to them. He moved to the foot of
the bed, arms outraised, and began the
intonation.
Standing
Soldier woke with a wrenching start. It
was quite late. Deep night. His room was as
dark as the other side of the moon. Only the
bedside machines provided muted, flickering
light. The sparse hospital room had turned
cold, colder than he could ever recall. His
heart was beating like a runaway jackhammer
trying to fly through his sternum. It was
coming. Never had he been so certain of
anything. It was close, and coming on. He
clenched his hands involuntarily, feeling the
sharp edges of the tintype. No need to look.
It has been his most valued possession, this
tin image. Minutely scrutinized countless
times by a young Indian boy. He had poured
over the picture, trying to emulate its
subject. A massive man, his round gentle face
pitted with childhood smallpox scars. The wool
uniform coat, Sharps rifle and oversized
badge. Sitting in a studio char, head frozen
against the next brace holding him still for
the exposure. His grandfather, warrior cop,
primed and full of life at 30 years of age,
1906. The remembrance, the feel of the slick
plate at his side, it somehow calmed him.
Heath was
near total exhaustion. Coat and tie off,
rolled sleeves and open vest. The cards to be
examined were down to a stack of nearly 200.
They were non-criminal mostly, from job
applicants from around the area. He had made
the latent match six cards when the knowledge
of it, the realization, hit him like a kick in
the scrotum. He spewed cards to the floor as
he whipped back to the matching card. He had
it. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and
opened the, and looked. Ten whirling black
blots named a killer. The left index and
thumb. No doubt. None! His whole body
trembled with the explosion of adrenalin.
“Now bastard . . . now,” he whispered to the
empty squad room, “You’re mine.” He reversed
the card to read the identifying information
and his eyes bulges with the shock. The
adrenalin high drained out of his body as
quickly as it came, leaving him hollow and
weak. He fought the urge to urinate. “Oh
sweet Mary, Mother of God!” Heath toppled from
his chair, heading for the door. His right
hand pressed against the holstered revolver as
he ran for the car.
The card had
named the killer. But it was the faded
employment stamp, slapped on at a lazy angle by
the bored personnel manager, that had got him
moving. It read in chilling block letters:
APPLICANT: RAPID CITY GENERAL HOSPITAL.
POSITION: NIGHT CUSTODIAN. (ACCEPTED)
It was
outside his door. The shuffling, grating
sound had advanced to his room ad stopped.
Standing Soldier waited, breathing shallowly,
rapidly. Eyes open now, he would at least see
the evil before it. .. The door opened, its
hydraulic hiss loud beyond reason. He turned
and saw the custodian, small in frame, with the
cruel dead eyes that he could never forget.
Into the room he came, dragging the
disinfectant bucket behind him. The door swung
shut with a finality that made Standing Soldier
want to vomit. He stopped at the foot of the
bed, lips forming into a smile. “Hi, prairie
nigger. Remember me?”
The custodian
was a loser, had been from his first breath of
life 19 years ago. An amoral –
animal-torturing, woman-hating bastard of a
local whore. The perfect psychopath. A bomb
of a brain waiting to flash, fuse sizzling
shorted with each miserable day. “I’m tired of
waiting for you to go, man. You’re making me
nervous, you know, not dying.” He spoke
casually, flat. Like when he had told the boys
yesterday about the sucking night supervisor
making him scrub the delivery room twice. “You
know, you really fooled me. Lying out on those
steps, blood all over you. Man couldn’t be
alive. I should have known it‘d take two shots
for a red pig. Won’t happen again.” He moved
out of the light, back in to the darkness,
setting the broom and bucket against the
corner. “Won’t be a minute now.”
There was
electricity building in the room now, heavy,
and becoming more intense each second. The
hair was standing up on the back of Standing
Soldier’s neck and hands. The custodian
emerged from the darkness, the blade of the
skinning knife catching the light from one of
the bedside pumps. “I’m going to give you a
second mouth, Standing Soldier. Right across
your throat.” And he walked toward him.
He would not
yell. Won’t try to stop him. Bound to his bed
with tubes, arms thin as pencils, body full of
pus. Let him do it . . . now. Standing
Soldier closed his eyes, waiting for the pain
to end his greater pain. The room seemed now
to be almost vibrating with an energy tension
of its own. The custodian stopped, glancing
about, confused. Objects fell from the bedside
table, spinning through the air. The draped
flapped a maddening rhythm, driven by an unseen
force. Standing Soldier’s vision was blurring,
his thoughts clouding in the shock of it all.
There seemed to be a high pitch clearly audible
now, coming from the darkened corner of the
room, where the lone chair rested, blue coat
carefully folded. A burst of wind from nowhere
whipped the tintype from his hand, the image
spinning toward the chair.
The custodian
stepped backward, mouth gone dry. The movement
in the chair stopped him, rooted him to the
carpet. Standing Soldier’s heart pounded
savagely at the shock of the recognition, his
left arm aching terribly. The warrior was here
for justice. Standing Soldier accepted, and
the circle closed.
Belinda
heard the ruckus as she sat at her station
reviewing surgical prep slips for the morning.
“Now what?” At first she thought it was the
antiquated air conditioning system gone haywire
again. Down the hall, by Standing Soldier’s
room she heard swirling noises, blowing and
bumping. It was the high nasal scream, echoing
down the hall, that propelled her to her feet,
softball—sized needs crashing into her desk.
“Hold on now!” She yelled to nobody in
particular, and lumbered down the hall, one
prep slip still in hand.
Twenty steps
from Standing Soldier’s door a second scream
ran up her spine. Everyone on the floor was
awake now, frightened, calling out. She seized
the door knob, the sweat making a tight grip
difficult. It wouldn’t budge. It was as
though a sucking wind was pulling it back to
the frame with each try. She heard Heath’s
footsteps pounding up the stairs and down the
hall. Looking like a deranged escapee form the
mental floor, he shoved her aside and slammed
his body repeatedly against the door. It just
would not give. The crashing and swirling was
growing louder and more intense. “Come on,
pull with me!” he yelled above the din. With
mutual effort they succeeded in pulling the
door open a crack. Straining to hold against
the opposite pressure, he angled his head,
squinting into the room. The sight found a
lifelong place in a dark corner of his mind. A
human-shaped mass, funneling and twisting, had
the custodian off the ground. By his neck.
The door sucked closed.
They stood
listening, looking at each other, helpless.
Words were useless against the power within the
room. It ended suddenly when a heavy weight
crashed against the door form inside. The calm
stunned them into immobility. It took them
both to push the door open with the weight of
the custodian’s body wended against it. Heath
stared at the body sprawled on the floor, head
angled unnaturally, like one of his daughter’s
cast-off dolls. Belinda rushed to Standing
Soldier, thinking he had never looked so at
peace in all the time he’d been there.
One Who
Sees watched the white ceremony from the
hilltop. So many had come, most in uniform,
their badges catching the sun and flashing. He
had never witnessed a police funeral before,
and found the formality and stiffness
distasteful; it was not the Indian way.
Standing Soldier had died that night, as his
father knew he must. A massive coronary.
Family and friends had elected not to attend
the white ceremony. They waited quietly in the
shade pines for the uniformed mass to leave.
Dorothy and the other women stood away from the
men, black shawls framing their faces.
Standing Soldier would be given to the Great
Spirit in the Indian manner, wrapped in the
blue wool coat, his body placed beside his
grandfather. They would be together, as they
had always been.
The honor
guard fired the final salute. Heath and
Westkamp walked through the parking lot, the
dust rising in puffs from the loose gravel.
Police cruisers dodged them, hustling back to
the five states form which they came. They
were shadowed figured through the windshields,
subdued, grim at the loss of yet another.
Heath and Westkamp neared the government auto,
each with his own thoughts. Westkamp fumbled
for a smoke, wanting a drink badly. The agent
watched the Indians on the knoll.
“How did you
report it, Heath?”
“Just like it
happened. The suspect was killed in
self-defense by the victim. Asphyxiated, with
a resultant broken neck.”
They glanced
at each other, then away. Wayne walked around
to the driver’s side and got in. “Come on,
heath, it’s over.” Heath stood staring at the
flag-draped casket. Only when One Who sees
crossed his line of vision, leading the others,
did he leave.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR