The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(30)

She reached up and gripped my arm as we approached the promontory that stretched out past the guardrail. “Will there be incense?” Her voice carried a false enthusiasm. “You said there would be incense.”

I sighed. “There’s always incense, cedar, or sage. You want to put money on it?”

“I’ll bet you a dollar.”

I laughed and hugged her in a little. “I bet you will.”

? ? ?

“Nenéé-’ ne-nihiióó.” Kimama raised her arms and looked out over the roiling water of the Wind River, raising her face to the gentle snowflakes and crying out in a strange rhythm that was at once startling and melodic. “Tei’yoonóh’-o’ hootn-I’-iiióó-i’.”

There wasn’t much room out on the point where she’d decided to have the ceremony because of the small fire, so the rest of us were relegated to watching her from behind. Sam Little Soldier was the closest, along with Henry, who stood holding the ubiquitous pottery bowl, the sweet-grass bundles, and the juniper or big cedar, a third in a duel with ghosts.

“Noh heetéetoo-no.”

The Bear had discussed the ceremony with me, explaining that it wasn’t an exorcism but more of a plea that the spirit should find peace in this world and finally be allowed to proceed to the next. “Noncombative” was the way the Cheyenne Nation had described it. He had laughed at this point and posited the thought that trying to get the spirits of the departed to do what we wanted was a low-sum game in that they had lost everything, and what in the world did we have to offer in exchange?

“Ci’céésé nenéé-né-nihiioo.”

I’d repeated the quote from Kimama about the dead wanting only what the living wanted—understanding. He’d made a face and asked if all I really wanted in life was to be understood, and I’d told him that a comfortable pair of boots was nice.

“Niicííhoh-o nonohkú-nihiit-ówoo.”

“I’m glad there’s incense.”

I glanced down at Rosey and was happy to see that some of her old energy had returned. “I’m glad the AIRFA was passed, or we would all have been arrested.”

Leaning into me, she whispered. “The what?”

“American Indian Religious Freedom Act—it was established to allow the Native peoples the right to preserve their religious and cultural practices. It allows them access to sacred sites and the freedom to worship through ceremony with possession of objects considered sacred.”

“Hihcébe niiéi’-noh’eeséihi-n biikóó.”

“Ancient history.”

“1978.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Talk about an infringement on your religious freedoms, huh?”

“Cih-tokoohob-éi’ee.”

Rosey focused on the woman presiding over the ceremony. “She looks familiar to me.”

“You stop her?”

She took a moment. “I don’t think so, but maybe that’s it.”

“Cih-’ówouunon-in.”

“Kimama had some interesting things to say this afternoon; evidently, she was with Bobby Womack the evening he was killed.”

Rosey turned to look at me. “Really?”

“She was having an affair with him.”

“Bobby wasn’t married.”

“No, but she was.”

“Cese’éihii técénéniihenéihii niihii-een.”

“She would drive up into the canyon at night to spend time with him in some crappy station wagon she drove.” I noticed a peculiar look on Rosey’s face. “Those were her words. Something wrong?”

Her brow twisted. She saw me studying her and laughed lightly. “It’s nothing. I’m just getting sentimental about my mother lately. “My father died a number of years ago, but my mother’s health is starting to fail.”

“Nookóox noh neixóó! Cih-eeh’étii-’!”

“She nearby?”

“Not really. She’s in Cheyenne—she’s in a home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice place, but I don’t get enough opportunities to get there and visit her the way I should. I’d move her, but she’s been there for seven years and I don’t want to upset her by taking her to a new place.”

“Heeyoocéi’oo-’ hoowuóów.”

“It’s difficult.”

“Yeah.”

We watched as Henry passed the bowl, the sweet-grass braids, and the big cedar to Kimama, and she lowered the offerings into the small fire, catching the ends and allowing them to burn before twisting them partially out in the pottery. She held the bowl in her left hand, scooping the wisps of smoke like captured spirits and rolling them over her head and arms; then she switched the bowl to her other hand and repeated the procedure. “Beneesooo-’ hiine’etiit, henihihc-owooyeiti-eenee.”

I stepped a little away from the others, and my eyes played to the right. I half turned toward the road in order to look back at the opening of the northernmost tunnel. Shadow had engulfed the wall of granite that scooped out and faced north, but I could still make out the utter darkness of the tunnel itself.