Winter Counts(47)

The bitterest pill was the realization that I couldn’t go after Rick. Storming in and shooting Rick Crow and the gang now would remove any incentive for the feds to make a deal with Nathan. Rick Crow would have to wait. For now.

The lawyer had said we needed to sign the agreement to assist the feds right away, so there wasn’t much time to think things over. I had to talk to Nathan immediately and see how he felt about the offer. He was old enough to weigh in on this decision. But he was also a scared kid, and he’d rely upon my guidance. I had to figure out what I was going to tell him. But I knew who I had to see first.

I PULLED INTO the medicine man’s camp. Jerome lived outside of town in a small house surrounded by brown, weedy fields and a few defiant trees. He was alone on his porch, drinking some coffee.

“You want a cup?” he asked.

“Sure. Where is everyone?” There were usually numerous nieces, nephews, and grandchildren running around the place.

“Don’t know. Kids are probably in town playing with their friends. Rocky’s at his mom’s house. They invited me over for some wohanpi, but I thought I’d stay here.”

I sat down with him on a battered plastic chair. We were quiet for a long time, drinking java and listening to the wind. After a while, I held out a cigarette as a tobacco offering. He took it and lit up, then looked into the sky.

“Thunder Beings off in the distance. Think the spirits might water the grass tonight.”

“Looks like it. Better shut the windows,” I said, then paused a moment. “Wanted to ask you something.” He was quiet, so I went on. “There’s some talk about heroin dealers from Denver coming here. Selling some new kind of dope, dangerous stuff. One hit can kill you.”

He took a drink of his coffee. “Bad news. Got enough problems with the kids killing themselves, don’t need no one else doing it for them.”

“They say these guys are from Mexico, might be working with a gang from Denver. They gave Nathan some drugs for free, he nearly died.”

“He still over at the kiddie jail?”

I should have known Jerome would be aware of Nathan’s arrest. The moccasin telegraph. Everybody knew each other’s business and had to pass it on to the next person, and no one ever forgot shit. So now Nathan would be branded as a drug dealer. The past sticks to you on the rez.

“Yeah, he’s still there. Cops say they found pills in his locker at school. Lots of them. Could be looking at ten years in prison. Not juvie, federal prison. They’ll eat him up in there.”

“Aayy.” He shook his head.

“Like to hear your thoughts, but need you to keep this under your hat,” I said.

A nod.

I told him about the deal they’d offered Nathan. Jerome listened silently, then nodded when I finished. I lit up a cigarette, gave him one, and continued.

“It’s a tough call,” I said. “Don’t like Nathan being involved with the feds. Not to mention, word might get out that Nathan was a snitch. Remember Anna Mae?” Rumors had swirled around the rez for decades that Anna Mae Aquash was murdered for being an FBI informant.

“Yeah,” Jerome said, “no one likes rats. But that Annie thing, it was a long time ago.”

“Sure, but the kids today are even worse about being a snitch or a bait, whatever they call it. ‘Snitches get stitches,’ that’s what they say. You know, somebody’s gotta stop those drugs coming here. But if the gang finds out he snitched, they’ll kill him. Or maybe somebody else will. Where’s the justice in that?”

Jerome was quiet for a minute while he looked off into the distance.

“I don’t know much about justice. But I think the white man has a different idea about it. A lot of our young men are in prison for crimes they didn’t do—maybe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the people come to you for justice, right? When the police won’t do anything about some winyan who got beat up, you’re the one they call. For justice.”

He poured another cup of coffee and continued. “I see a lot of Indian wannabes come here, they think we worship the earth, they want to sing our songs and do our dances. But Wolakota means not only honoring the land but protecting the people, too. The hippies and the wasicu longhairs who come here, they don’t get that part, that our people are sacred too, not just the land and the water.”

He stopped for a second and looked out into the woods. “I think Indian justice means putting the oyate first, healing the community. That’s what my father told me, anyway. He was Ikce Wicasa, a man of the people, someone who looked after the oyate. He told me, Jerome, always remember the Lakota values, especially waohola, respect for yourself and respect for the community. You got to act with respect for others—no, maybe he said reverence, I’m not sure if that’s the right English word.”

He tossed the remains of his coffee into the weeds.

“These drug dealers, they’re shitting in their own nest. Don’t be a magpie, my father told me, the magpie is the only bird that fouls its own nest. Tell Nathan about Wolakota. Tell him it means living the Lakota way. Think about this, and you’ll know what to do.”

THE NEXT MORNING, I told Marie about the deal the feds had offered. She listened quietly but didn’t offer an opinion. “I’m going to go dig up some wild turnips after breakfast, want to come along?” she said. “Get some fresh air.”