Excerpt of Death on the Greasy Grass by C.M. Wendelboe

Many followed Lumpy into a great room lined with Navajo rugs and Hopi pottery displayed on oak stands. An Arapaho cradleboard hung next to Kiowa moccasins, both beaded on every inch of the deer hide. But it was the long glass display case, suspended at eye level and running the length of one wall, that caught Manny's interest. He stopped at one end of the case, his heart skipping a beat he was certain. Since the Red Cloud homicide, where he had to rely on Willie and others for insight into Indian artifacts, Manny had begun studying his heritage. He had taken two online courses in Indian artifacts from the University of Wyoming, and one on relics at Rapid City Community College. He had begun appreciating his roots. And he appreciated Wilson's display.

Manny stood in front of a beaded pouch, the light blue background a contrast with red and yellow hourglass patterns on the flap and pouch front. Sinew stitching had faded through the years, and the elk skin was cracked. The pouch may have hung from a hunter's saddle as he dressed a deer he had killed, his bloody hands brushing the side of the leather, a fleshing knife displayed beside it.

An assortment of belts hung next to the pouch, lazy stitched, others decorated with dyed porcupine quills, authentic all and old. Manny felt compelled to reach out and touch the glass as he closed his eyes. An Oglala wife had sat cross–legged around a tipi fire one wintery night, belt resting in her lap, porcupine quills soaking in her mouth until they were pliable enough to flatten and sew onto the deerskin.

The image of the hunter that had killed the deer the belt was made of loomed large. Manny opened his eyes, rubbing them, but the image persisted. The hunter stalked a two–point buck, rifle at the ready, brass tacks embedded in the stock reflecting the sun bouncing off the snow he crept on.

Manny forced himself to turn from the glass, shaking his head, clearing his mind of the scene. He had been witness to another scene from the past, and he'd talk with Reuben about it later.

He started walking away from the case when two scalp locks, grisly, long, wrinkled, and dried, fluttered inside the glass case. Manny struggled to turn away, but the need to know the scalps' story grew too strong. He turned, staring at them, his hand poised inches from the glass. Had the scalps actually fluttered? Had they called to him, or was that just another imagination like the woman sewing her hunter–husband's belt?

Manny's pulse quickened. Images flashed in his mind. The urge to run as strong as the need to stay. But his feet remained solidly planted in front of the case like cornstalks anchored into black soil. He reached out his hand, drew it away, dropped it onto the glass. A shock rose up his arm, through his body, the scalp locks talking to him.

Manny shuddered as a Crow warrior faced a charge by two Lakota overlooking the Battle of the Little Big Horn. The two warriors shot the Crow, one dropping off his pony and running to the corpse, knife in hand. The other Lakota, still seated on his horse, raised his rifle. Manny tried to scream a warning, his throat closed to any sounds, spitting the taste of black powder from his mouth as a cloud settled over the scene. When a breeze moved the powder cloud away, the Crow warrior lay on his back beside the lifeless Lakota his companion had shot, accusing eyes fixed on his killer.

Manny swayed, his knees buckling, weakening, and he leaned against the display case.

"That glass might break!"

Manny shook his head, the image gone, his balance returning.

Wilson hooked his arm through Manny's and steadied him. "Hate to have you fall through and cut yourself up. You okay?"

Manny looked back to the scalps lock sitting silent and immobile behind the glass. "Blood sugar spike. Damned diabetes."