Winter Counts by David Heska
Dedication
Dedicated to the Sicangu Lakota people, and to my sons, David (Tatanka Ohitika) and Sasha (Tatanka Ta Oyate)
Epigraph
It is not necessary for eagles to be crows.
—Tatanka Iyotake/Sitting Bull
1
I leaned back in the seat of my old Ford Pinto, listening to the sounds coming from the Depot, the reservation’s only tavern. There was a stream of Indians and white ranchers going inside. I knew Guv Yellowhawk was there with his buddies, pounding beers and drinking shots. Guv taught gym at the local school—football, basketball, soccer. But, word was, he sometimes got a little too involved with his students, both boys and girls. I was going to let him get good and drunk, then the real party would start. I had brass knuckles and a baseball bat stowed in my trunk, but those wouldn’t be necessary. Guv was a fat-ass piece of shit, with a frybread gut as big as a buffalo’s ass.
I’d been hired to beat the hell out of Guv by the father of a little girl at the school. Guv had sneaked up on the girl in the bathroom, held her down, and raped her. The girl’s parents had confronted the school’s principal, but Guv came from one of the most powerful families on the rez, and the school refused to take any action. The principal had even threatened a lawsuit against the parents for making a false accusation. The tribal police couldn’t do anything. The feds prosecuted all felony crimes on the rez, and they didn’t mess with any crime short of murder. Now the little girl was too scared to go back to her class, and he was free to molest other kids.
I’d waived my fee for this job. Usually I charged a hundred bucks for each tooth I knocked out and each bone I broke, but I decided to kick Guv’s ass for free. I’d hated him for years—even as a teenager, he was a mean asshole who’d terrorized other kids, especially iyeskas like me. Of course, Guv had always been accompanied by his gang; I couldn’t remember him ever fighting solo. But tonight was his time.
The Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” drifted through the door of the bar to the parking lot, leaving little melodic ripples like ghosts in my head. I lit a cigarette and waited for Guv. He’d come out, sooner or later.
An hour later, I spotted him walking out of the bar. He was singing an off-key tune and stumbling. I slipped out of the Pinto and crouched behind his shiny new pickup. He’d parked at the far end of the lot so that no one would ding his expensive ride. That suited me just fine—I could enact some Indian justice away from any of Guv’s drinking buddies.
I moved out from the shadows. He wore faded jeans and a T-shirt with a Fighting Sioux mascot. His eyes were foggy and he stank of beer. I could see the birthmark on his forehead that looked like a little tomahawk.
“Hey, Guv.”
“The fuck?” He squinted into the darkness, unable to pinpoint who was speaking to him.
“It’s Virgil.”
“Who?”
“Virgil Wounded Horse.”
“Oh. Are you drinking, or what? The bar just closed.”
“Yeah, I know. I was waiting for you.”
“What for?”
“Grace Little Thunder.”
Guv’s face darkened. “Ain’t seen her.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“I take care of the wakanheja. Show ’em how to be Lakota. Sometimes the parents don’t appreciate it.”
“The way of the world, huh?” I moved between Guv and the truck.
“I teach the kids, help their families. Sometimes they want more than I can give.”
“Saint Guv.”
“Just a guy.”
“A guy who likes to cornhole the boys and finger the girls.”
“You know how kids are, they want attention. They make shit up, people make a fuss over them.”
“The other kids making shit up too? I heard about you and little Joey Dupree.”
Guv tried to move past me. “I don’t need this bullshit. I ain’t seen you out there, helping the oyate. From what I hear, you don’t do nothing. You got shit to say, take it up with Principal Smith. I’m getting outta here.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Look, asshole, Grace Little Thunder’s family is nothing but trash. Her mom’s a drunk, and her dad ain’t worked in ten years.”
“That girl is only nine years old.”
“Eat shit. What business is it of yours—”
I landed a hard body shot to Guv’s midsection. The punch would have knocked most men over, but his massive stomach absorbed most of the blow.
“Iyeska motherfucker!” Guv snarled, and lunged at me.
I saw the move coming, sidestepped it, and smashed him in the jaw.
Guv shook his head like a wet dog. How the fuck was he still standing up? I thought about grabbing the baseball bat, then felt a blinding pain in my side. A blow to the kidney, then another, this one worse than the first. Waves of electricity. Neural impulses. Gotta stay up, don’t go down, or it’s finished. Reeling, dizzy, I tried to puzzle out a strategy, but my mind was like an iceberg, slowly bobbing in the waters.
“You half-breed bastard!” he roared.
I felt Guv’s spittle on my face, and then I was on the ground. Shit. He kicked me in the back, over and over, each blow a jackhammer. I tried to maneuver through the cloud in my brain. Guv panted, out of breath, running out of gas. Grab his feet, I thought.