A yellow dog came out from behind a rock and barked at the truck as Frankie pulled up. Rachel opened her door but stopped as the dog bared his teeth at her.
“Finder.” Adam Standing Bear spoke the word softly, but the dog hurried back to his side where it stood at the ready.
Rachel got out of the truck, her gaze on Adam. He was tall, handsome in a weathered way. He wore jeans, cowboy boots that had seen a few miles, and a plaid shirt. Though his clothes were ordinary, his eyes were striking. He took her measure slowly, not caring that she knew exactly what he was doing.
“Adam!” Frankie jumped to the ground and threw her arms around him. “It’s good to see you.” She hugged him tightly again. “And Finder, too.” The dog sat at her feet, waiting for another word. Frankie didn’t disappoint. She knelt and ruffled the dog’s ears, whispering something that sent Finder into a barking, jumping frenzy.
Frankie signaled Rachel over. “Adam, this is Deputy Rachel Redmond. And this is Adam Standing Bear.”
Rachel took his hand in a firm grip. She could feel the calluses on his palm, and she noticed his fingers were long, artistic, the nails worn but clean. A wound cut across his entire palm, as if a rope or wire had been pulled through the flesh. The image of the wire in the woods where Mullet Bellows had disappeared flitted through her mind.
“This is a beautiful place,” she said, walking to the edge of the butte. Below her five horses wheeled and ran. So many of the mustangs had been killed, were still being killed by those who viewed their existence as a threat.
“I wouldn’t use the word beautiful,” Adam said. “Savage describes it better.”
Frankie put her arm around his waist and walked him toward Rachel. “Savage can also be beautiful, can’t it?”
Adam looked at Rachel, then into the distance, following the horses. “Only if you don’t intend to tame it. Like those horses. They’re magnificent in the wild, running and living free. They could be tamed, but in the process, that savage thing is lost.”
Talk of losing the wilderness was a perfect opening, and Rachel took it. “That’s what I came to talk to you about, Mr. Standing Bear. We have two bodies, a foot and a missing man.”
“I know.” Adam signaled them to the place he’d been sitting. Rachel approached and saw a notebook filled with writing. Before she could read anything, he closed it. “I take notes on the natural life here. I’m documenting it before it all changes.”
“And the road will change all of this?”
Adam looked her dead in the eye. “Yes, it will. Asphalt always brings big changes to the wilderness. Erosion, pollution, tourists, commerce, all of the things that make capitalism the form of government for the profiteer.”
“Are you a socialist, Mr. Standing Bear?”
Rachel was unprepared for the power of his smile. “No, Deputy Redmond, I’m not a socialist. I think anarchist might be more apt. A non–practicing anarchist, in the mode of Thoreau or Emerson.”
Rachel was at a loss. She’d heard of both writers, but her high school days hadn’t been focused on American literature. At the time, she’d been specializing in partying.
“Adam, you’re baiting Rachel, and she doesn’t like it, nor do I.” Frankie took his arm. “We came to hear about the Skin Dancer. If you keep acting like a jerk, Rachel and I will leave.”
Adam’s dark gaze held Rachel’s. “My apologies. I thought I was answering your question. But have a seat. Frankie has this idea that I’m the tribal shaman and historian. It isn’t true, but I do enjoy the old stories.”
Rachel settled into the lotus position in a small circle with Frankie and Adam. The sun heated her shoulders through the fabric of her uniform. In a bit, it would be uncomfortable, but at the moment it felt good.
“The Sioux believe that the buffalo are a gift to us. During a time of starvation, the Great Spirit sent them to feed us. Because of that, we honor the buffalo. In Sioux tradition, we honor all living things that die to provide for us. When an animal is sacrificed, we dance and sing to honor its spirit, and to assist it in passing into the next life.”
Rachel nodded. She’d learned the very basics of Sioux belief when she first came to Criss County, but that was about the extent of her knowledge.
Adam gazed past her into the distance before he spoke. “There was a warrior named Running Elk, a talented young Oglala with the gift of speed and accuracy with his bow and arrows. He never went hunting without bringing food back to his people. It was said that the Great Spirit led him to the game and then gave him magic to affect the kill.”
In the warm afternoon sun that colored the world around them in reddish earth tones, Rachel found that she was leaning forward, listening intently as Adam spoke. His voice had a mesmerizing quality. He was an excellent story teller, as Frankie had promised.
“As sometimes happens with the young when they’re very talented, Running Elk became vain and arrogant about his abilities. He refused to participate in the ceremonies honoring the sacrificed game. He told the other members of his tribe that he honored only his own skill. No animal could escape him once he decided to kill it.”
Frankie touched Adam’s knee. “You should explain that in the Sioux tradition, such prideful conduct is generally punished by the gods.”
Adam nodded. “The Sioux believe in the order of the earth, Deputy Redmond. In balance. When the balance is unsettled, it must be put back right.”
Rachel nodded. “Our justice system is about balance. The scales of justice. The guilty are punished.”
Adam looked at Frankie before he spoke. “Except that man is the judge in your system. With the Sioux, it is the Great Spirit, the cycle of life.”
Frankie leaned back. “I’m sorry I interrupted, Adam. Please tell the rest.”
Rachel had already begun to draw interesting parallels between the part of the legend she’d heard and what was happening in Criss County.
“Running Elk became so arrogant and prideful that he refused to sit at council with the elders. Each day he proved his skill by killing something new, until the bodies of the dead animals began to rot, the hides unused, the meat uneaten. Running Elk’s father, the chief, ordered him to stop killing. He told his son that the waste was shameful, and that his actions would bring sorrow down upon the Sioux. But Running Elk cared only for the adoration of the young warriors who lived to hear the adventures of his last kill.”
Hank, Mullet, Burl and the plastic surgeon were all men who had no regard for the animals they killed. Rachel could almost taste the connection she sought. Adam Standing Bear held her riveted.
“Running Elk’s last great hunt involved the most scared of all animals to the Sioux. He’d bragged that he could kill twelve buffalo on foot, without the help of a horse or another warrior.”
Adam’s attention shifted toward the distant mountains, which had changed to a golden dun in the afternoon light. Rachel thought it was almost as if he watched the story play out against the sky.
“When Running Elk’s father, Spotted Eagle, rode to the grasslands and saw the dead buffalo there with the buzzards feasting on the meat that no one had harvested, he knew what his son had done. He knew the Great Spirit could no longer avoid punishing Running Elk, no matter how much Spotted Eagle prayed.
“He turned his horse back to the camp and rode home singing a song of mourning for the young warrior, because he knew his son was as good as dead.”
“Did Running Elk die?” Rachel asked the question before she could stop herself. She hadn’t meant to interrupt.
“His punishment was more severe. As he stood among the dead buffalo, taking stock of the death he’d delivered and his prowess as a hunter, he felt a terrible burning sensation all over his body. To his horror, the skin on his arms began to fall away. The rays of the sun were horribly painful, and he ran in circles screaming as the skin from his legs and back and stomach sloughed off, revealing raw muscle and nerve.”
Adam brushed a strand of dark hair from his face. “Running Elk hurriedly skinned one of the buffalo and used the hide to shelter from the sun, which was cooking him alive. He waited for night, until he could slip away from the plains and into the forests of the Black Hills where the dark shade of the trees protected him. To this day, he lingers there, waiting to find another skin, a human skin, to replace the one the Great Spirit took from him.”
In the stillness left by the absence of Adam’s voice, Rachel tried to ignore the chill bumps that had formed on her arms despite the sun’s heat.
“Remember this morning when we found the mannequin?” Frankie asked. “I had the creepiest sense that someone was watching us.”
Adam picked up his notebook. “My grandfather would say that the road going through the hills has stirred up the ancient and angry spirits of the dead.”
“And what would you say?” Rachel asked. It was a mighty convenient answer.
“I wouldn’t say anything.” Adam rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “I enjoy the old legends. I collect them and tell them to keep them alive. Most of our history is oral, Deputy.”
“Do you believe in the Skin Dancer?” She rose and stepped to face him.
“What does it matter what I believe?”
She ignored his question as he’d ignored hers. “How many people know that story?”
Frankie answered. “Just about every kid who ever went to school in Criss or Custer or Pennington Counties. I was surprised you hadn’t heard of it before, Rachel. It used to be a tradition in public schools for an older member of the Sioux to come and tell stories.” She glanced at Adam. “Is that still done?”
He shook his head. “No one is really interested anymore. Not the public school children or even those on the reservation.”
“The thing that troubles me is the whole matter of the decapitation.” Frankie put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I hope I’m not talking out of turn.”
“It’s public record.” Rachel nodded at Adam. “Both Welford and Trussell were decapitated. The heads were removed from the scene and so far, we haven’t recovered them. With Burl, we just don’t know. We’ve only found his foot. And there’s no trace of Mullet Bellows. He’s vanished.”
Adam wrote something in his notebook, and Rachel wondered if perhaps he’d lied to her about what he was recording. When he looked up at her, his eyes were narrowed in thought. “I’ve gone over the many versions of the legend of the Skin Dancer that I know. None of them involve taking the head of the victim.”
Rachel watched Adam closely. “I have the sense that the heads are trophies. Like hunters take the animal heads. That’s what’s so confusing here. The murders are a little of this and a little of that, a blend of different things. As if the killer were creating his own version of reality.”
“You think we’re going to see those guys mounted in someone’s living room?” Frankie asked.
Rachel ignored the question. “Mr. Standing Bear, do you think someone took the legend of the Skin Dancer and tried to use it to stage Hank Welford’s murder?”
“Call me Adam, please, and the answer to your question is, I don’t know.”
“There was a bamboo pole left at the site. A single owl feather had been used to decorate it. Sound familiar?”
Adam shook his head. “The owl is an important animal to the Sioux, but it plays no part in the story of the Skin Dancer.”
“At the crime scene, it looked as if a ceremonial ritual had been performed, a dance around the bodies.” Rachel could clearly see the pattern of the dance steps. “The dancer or dancers used the boots belonging to the victims. Whoever is doing this knows a lot about physical evidence.”
“For the Sioux, the dance can have many meanings. Perhaps in this case, the killer is celebrating victory. He has conquered his enemy, rendered him dead in a most brutal way. The feathers could be a symbol of victory or a warning.” Adam shrugged.
“Maybe it was just someone who had a score to settle with these particular men,” Frankie said as she stood up. “I hate to end this, but I’ve got things to do before dark.”
“If you keep lying down with dogs, Frankie, you’re going to end up with fleas.” Adam spoke quietly, but his eyes held another message.
“Thanks for the tip.” She stood on her toes and kissed Adam’s cheek lightly. “Come to one of my dinners. This road is going to happen, whether you want it to or not. You might as well get the best bargain you can while there are still points to be negotiated.”
He nodded but turned away. He walked to the edge of the butte, the yellow dog instantly at his side.
Rachel followed him. “Adam, there was a silver, ornamental toe clip for a boot pinned to Hank Welford’s chest with a porcupine quill. Does that mean anything to you?”
“It’s hard to say without seeing this ornament.”
She couldn’t tell if he was dodging the question or not. “Is there someone who can verify your whereabouts last night?”
“Do I need an alibi?”
“Maybe.” She watched him. “Do you have one?”
“I live alone, Deputy. I can show you the book I was reading, but there’s no one to confirm that except Finder. He knows my every move.”
“That may not be good enough.”
Adam pointed into the distance. A cloud of dust began to settle and reveal the horses she’d seen earlier. They’d covered a good bit of ground and were still moving.
“This weekend I need to move the herd to the south. Would you like to join me?”
Rachel hesitated. She had the sense that Adam Standing Bear had told her only what he wished her to know and his invitation came out of the blue. “Men are dying, and I have no idea what to do to stop it.”
“Meet me at the base of the butte Saturday at two. I’ll have a horse for you. And maybe some answers.”
“I never learned to ride.” Rachel cast a look at Frankie, who stood at the truck, watching them with interest.
“My horse will teach you. Be here at two.”
“At two.” Rachel agreed before she joined Frankie at the truck.
“And don’t even try to tell me that was business,” Frankie whispered as she opened the truck door and got in. When the door was shut, she continued. “Adam is a great guy, Rachel, but he’s opposed to the road. Don’t forget that.”
“Meaning?”
“People who get involved in causes can justify some crazy behavior.”