Justice. Larry Watson
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without any note of pleading or whining that Wesley could detect.
Sheriff Cooke answered with a gesture. He swiveled around in his chair and motioned for them to come near. “I want to show you something.”
They stepped over to the wall Sheriff Cooke was facing. There, along with a Soo Line calendar and some Wanted circulars, were photographs and clippings from newspapers. The sheriff tapped one of the pictures. “Look right here at this one.”
In the yellow newspaper photograph a group of fifteen or twenty people, mostly men in suits and ties, stood or sat around a table set up outdoors for a ceremony of some sort. In the center of the group was a broad-shouldered, darkskinned, bareheaded Indian in deerskin leggings and a beaded shirt. The Indian had a bow pulled back to full draw and his nocked arrow was aimed at the sky. A few of the people in the photograph looked at the Indian but most stared at the camera.
Sheriff Cooke stood behind the boys so they could get a better look at the clipping.
The caption under the photograph read, “Sioux warrior Iron Hail became an American citizen at Fort Duncan, North Dakota. As part of the ceremony, Iron Hail released an arrow into the air and said, ‘I shoot my last arrow.’”
The sheriff tapped the photograph in the vicinity of the table. “Yours truly.” He straightened up and Wesley felt the sheriff’s hand rest on his shoulder. “And do you recognize that old warrior?”
Wesley and his friends leaned in, as though any face there could be known to them if they only stared hard enough. Every man and woman in the photograph stared impassively at the camera, their eyes as blank and dark as stones. Only because he had been told that Sheriff Cooke was in the picture could Wesley see any resemblance between the full-moon face in the picture and the man behind him.
Frank was the first to turn away from the wall. “I don’t know anybody there.”
The sheriff chuckled softly, a sound a little like footsteps creaking on snow. “Well, you might say you do. Yessir. You do.”
He tapped the photograph again. “Iron Hail is now George Tuttle. Took an American name when he became a citizen. Or they gave it to him. Whichever. Is there a date on there? This was in the Bismarck Tribune. Back in 1917. Of course they’re all citizens now, whether they want to be or not. You boys can go sit back down.”
The sheriff returned to his chair and fell into another long pause. Wesley was most uneasy during these silences. He was afraid one of them would blurt out a confession. His father had often told them how, when some people were arrested, they would simply begin talking, even admitting to crimes with which they were not going to be charged. “They can’t carry all that guilt,” his father would say, “and first chance they get they dump the whole load.”
Wesley understood. He felt that ache for release, and he had to clamp his jaw down hard. Talking was all he could do in this situation, and that was something he felt he could do tolerably well. Hadn’t he been told for years, by his mother, his teachers, his grandmother, that he was a good boy, bright, polite, and well spoken? If he simply started talking he could explain everything—with a half-truth, half-lie concoction the sheriff would surely swallow—how they had the whiskey, where they got the cigars, why Tommy had a pistol in the Buffalo Cafe, what they wanted with those girls. But his father’s words kept coming back. “If they’d keep their goddamn mouths shut, half these people would get off scot-free.”
Those girls! Oh Jesus! Beverly Tuttle. George Tuttle.
As if he were reading Wesley’s thoughts, Sheriff Cooke said, “Yessir. Mr. Tuttle. That’s the papa of the girl you knocked down over at the cafe.”
Tommy was quick to defend himself. “She, fell!”
“Bloodied her up pretty good. Chipped a tooth. Cut her lip bad. Almost bit right through it.” Sheriff Cooke shuddered a little as though the thought of Beverly Tuttle’s injury chilled him.
“How’d she get the scar?” The question sprang out of Wesley before he even knew it was near his tongue.
“She didn’t need any more problems in that area, did she?” said the sheriff. “Poor gal. As I recall, she got that in a sledding accident. Went flying down a hill headed right toward a barbed wire fence. Tried laying back so she could squeak under it and a strand caught her by the lip.” He shuddered again. “Such a pretty gal.”
Frank added quickly, as though, the door finally open, everyone could contribute an explanation or excuse. “We didn’t mean for her to get hurt.”
“She slipped,” Tommy repeated.
Sheriff Cooke leaned forward and twined his fingers as if he were going to pray. “Course you didn’t mean for her to get hurt. Pretty gal like that. I’m sure you had other ideas.”
Frank interrupted him. “We didn’t want that—”
“—and I believe you. I know where you’re from. Montana’s full of good people. But here you are now. In my jurisdiction. Waving guns around. Drinking whiskey. Bothering the gals here in town. Indian or not. What do you suppose the boys here think about you coming around after their gals? They’d like to chase you down, I bet. You’re lucky I got you here where they can’t get to you.”
Lester spoke for the first time since they had entered the jail, and his voice had a pace and sonority that Wesley hadn’t heard before. “We ain’t scared.”
“Course you’re not. No. You wouldn’t be here if you were. But I’m thinking about another matter right now. Trying to figure out what I’m going to do.”
“You could just let us go,” suggested Tommy.
Wesley stared at the floor. He wished Tommy would keep quiet.
“Could. I could.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as if he were deep in thought.
Frank was staring at Wesley, and Wesley raised his eyebrows to question what his brother wanted. Frank did not move, speak, or change his grave expression. Wesley mouthed the word, “What?” Frank looked away.
Sheriff Cooke carefully placed his palms on his desk and pushed himself up. “Tell you what. You boys go back there.” He pointed toward the jail area. “Wait on me back there. Just shut the door behind you. That’s right. Right through there.”
The door they closed behind them was thick wood, so dark it looked fire blackened, and its heavy brass latch clicked shut like the lock on a gate. Each of the three open cells had an iron bunk and an overhead light socket in a wire cage, but there were no bulbs in any of the fixtures. The only light came from a corner in the back where a floor lamp stood. With its crenellated pedestal and opaque glass shade it looked like something that belonged in a parlor.
“Shit,” Lester said. “Now what?”
Wesley’s father’s jail usually smelled of disinfectant, but this area stank of urine and mold. The cement walls had large dark spots, permanent sweat stains from seeping moisture. “Feels like we’re underground,” said Wesley.
“Why didn’t you tell him who your old man is?” Tommy asked.
“What for?” Frank replied.
“Jesus. Maybe Sheriff Cooke might let us go, that’s what for.”
“I don’t think that would cut it with Mr. Cooke.”
“You don’t think. You could tell him and see what happens.”
Lester wandered into one of the cells. “Fucking Indian bitches. What do you suppose they did? Hightail it over here first thing?”
“What would your old man do to us?” Tommy asked Wesley and Frank. “If we was in his county.”
Frank turned to his brother. “What do you think? Just shoot us and bury us, don’t you reckon?”
“Probably wouldn’t even bother with the burying.”