Winter Counts(86)

She nodded, and I wondered if she’d come to blame me for all of this. I wondered if she’d ever see me again, or if I’d always be only a living reminder of the pain she’d suffered, and of the pain her father had wrought. The pain of our people. Perhaps I’d have to become a ghost myself, unseen but forever haunting her.

But now I had to save Nathan. I picked up the Glock and stuffed it in my pocket.





29


There was only one building in Porcupine that could’ve ever been a slaughterhouse. Most houses in town were prefab shacks, with satellite TV dishes screwed onto the frames and kids’ toys scattered across the yards. But north of town I spotted a large building that looked like an old military structure, with foreboding gray walls, rusty ladders hanging on the sides, and giant circular ports with fans built into the walls. The exterior was unmarked except for some patches of bright pink graffiti that read KUKA and ZINTKALA NUNI in a cloudlike script. Though it looked deserted, a faint light was shining in one of the windows.

I kept the Glock in my hand—it was fully loaded, hadn’t fired a single bullet—and put the Smith & Wesson in my back pocket. The front door was open, so I walked in, taking care to be as quiet as possible. I could barely make out faint voices coming from somewhere inside. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight so that I could see and step carefully around the piles of trash and old lumber on the floor.

The interior light was brighter on one side, and I followed the voices and the light down a central hallway, then I came to a stairway. I could tell they were downstairs, but I didn’t have a clue about the layout of the area down there. The stairs themselves were wooden, rotted and rickety.

I walked down them as if barefoot, desperate to not make any creaking or scraping noises. Finally I got to the bottom, but stayed in the stairwell, listening. I could hear the men talking in the room around the corner. Their voices reverberated and echoed, so I knew it was a large space. They sounded cheerful, though they were speaking Spanish and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

I didn’t hear Nathan’s voice.

I waited for the right moment to peer into the room. There was a sudden burst of conversation, and I crouched down so I’d stay out of their sightlines.

They’d put out some camping lanterns for lighting, which gave the space an eerie look. Even in the dim light, I could tell that this large, open room was the place where the cattle had been killed. There were big troughs, cables with hooks attached to the ceiling, and several concrete columns and pillars in the center, dotted with what looked like blood.

Nathan was tied up in a chair in the middle of the room, his shirt off and his head slumped down. His medicine bag was on the floor next to him. His hands were roped behind his back, and they’d also bound his torso to the chair. His legs weren’t tied up, and they hadn’t bothered to gag him. In the hazy light, it looked like he was sleeping. It tore my heart to see him like this.

I spotted the kidnappers off to the side. There were three of them, Loco and two others. Despite the bad light, I recognized the lightning-bolt scar on Loco’s face. Rick had said one of the other guys was called Manuel, not that it mattered. They were sitting on a bench and smoking cigarettes. I didn’t see any guns in their hands, but I knew their weapons had to be nearby. I scanned the room to see how heavily they might be armed.

Other objects were scattered on the floor around the lanterns—a hacksaw, some lumber, and a large butane torch, the kind used by jewelers or metalworkers. I also noticed a weird-looking device, a long yellow rod with a handle and a pointed tip. I realized I’d seen one of these years ago, at a ranch on the rez. It was a cattle prod, but the rancher had called it a hotshot.

A cattle prod.

There was a strange odor in the air, a smell like burned popcorn. I tried to get a better look at Nathan without exposing myself. My view wasn’t perfect, but it looked like his face was swollen, and I saw some welts on his chest and arms. Burn marks. From the cattle prod? The torch? Or both?

The men quit talking, and the first guy stood up and threw his cigarette down. Then Loco and the other one joined him and walked across the room to Nathan. Loco said something to the men, then picked up and lit the butane torch, the flame burning a blue as bright as the sky on a beautiful summer day. He moved closer to Nathan, who stirred and started moving his head, muttering words I couldn’t make out. Then Loco squatted down to adjust the torch, and the flame expanded, creating a longer, ominous flame that extended a foot or so, its base a white-hot supernova flickering near Nathan.

Oh, hell no.

Columbus and the Spanish conquistadors had burned Indians alive in their quest to subdue the continent, and I’d make damn sure these motherfuckers wouldn’t do it to my nephew.

There was no time to make a plan. I leaped out from behind the wall with the Glock in my hand. The three men heard me and turned away from Nathan. I aimed the gun at Loco’s chest and fired, but he was moving and the shot went wide, the sound booming in the cavernous room. He jumped behind Nathan, dropping the torch, and I took aim at the second man to his right, who was fumbling for his gun. I shot him straight in the chest, the casing flying off behind me, and he dropped down beside an old wooden table.

Where was the third asshole? I’d lost sight of him in the chaos and swiveled my head to see what he was doing.

A shot rang out, the bullet whizzing near my head and cratering into the wall behind me. I ducked behind a large concrete pillar for cover. In the dim light, I couldn’t see where the third gunman was hiding.