Death Along the Spirit Road by C. M. Wendelboe

there?”
    “Who knows with these wicasa wakan .”
    Manny turned in the seat. “Reuben claims to be a holy man now?”
    “Not claims. He is. Like a lot of convicts in stir, he found religion behind bars. He’s been studying with Ben Horsecreek up by Cuny Table, and most folks hereabouts consider Reuben to be a sacred man now.”
    “A holy man,” Manny breathed. “I would never have believed it.” How does an AIM enforcer who murders and goes to prison suddenly become a sacred man people look to for spiritual guidance?
    Dust settled around the squad car as Willie stopped in front of Reuben’s house. “You sure you want me to come along?”
    Manny nodded. “I may need a witness. Or at least someone who’ll keep me honest until I see where this goes.”
    Manny climbed out of the cruiser first, and caught in his peripheral vision Willie unsnapping his holster. Manny smiled. He was comfortable around Willie, assured the young policeman could handle most things that came his way, including ex-felons more than twice his age. Maybe it was Willie’s attitude, or his size, that caused Manny to feel safe, and he was thankful that Willie was with him.
    As they walked toward the back of the trailer, cedar smoke hung heavy in the air, pungent yet enticing enough that Manny forgot for a moment that he came to question a murder suspect. They walked around the corner of the trailer, and Manny saw his brother for the first time since Unc’s funeral sixteen years ago. Reuben sat facing a fire that crackled and snapped from cedar and pitch pine burning. He bent over as he worked on something, oblivious to the occasional ember that escaped the fire ring and landed in the dirt at his feet. This is a holy man? Reuben’s sweatpants had fallen a bit too far south, exposing his plumber’s smile. His long gray hair was tied in a ponytail that ended midback, matted with what appeared to be yesterday’s lunch.
    They didn’t sneak around the trailer, but they weren’t noisy either. Reuben called over his shoulder, “I figured you’d be paying me a visit soon.”
    Manny jumped.
    Reuben stood to his full height and faced them. He wore a dirty T-shirt that said MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS KILLED COWBOYS. Patches of white hair covered his temples. He had gained forty pounds since Manny last saw him, but he carried almost no fat. The wise old men, the nige tanka , would have said that Reuben possessed bloka . The Big Bellies would have said he projected the power of masculinity, symbolized by the buffalo to describe a man’s bravery and strength. Despite his age, his eyes remained bright and clear. And transfixed on Manny. He stepped forward. “Hau, kola . ”
    Reuben’s hand encircled Manny’s; his grip firm, though not punishing. Manny turned Reuben’s hand over, his skin soft and supple and smooth. The last time Manny shook his hand it displayed the deep, dry cuts of a mason’s palm. “You give up bricklaying?”
    “Naw, I still do some. But my kids do most of the work.” He pointed to formed wet clay shaped into a bowl glistening on a potter’s wheel. “I picked up pottery in the slammer. Keeps me sane. And my hands soft as a baby’s behind.”
    Reuben turned to Willie. “My little brother took my hand after all these years, but he’s not polite enough to introduce us. I’m Reuben Tanno.”
    “William With Horn.” Willie hesitated before he shook Reuben’s hand. Reuben smiled. “Tribal. Good. At least you’re not BIA. Or worse, some …”
    “FBI?” Manny finished.
    “You said it, little misun ,” Reuben said. “But you didn’t come over here to jaw about your cushy job. I hear you’ve been assigned to investigate Jason Red Cloud’s murder.”
    Reuben didn’t wait for an answer as he turned his back and motioned to a chair and a tree stump. Willie took the stump and Manny sat in the chair opposite Reuben. He walked barefoot, holding a small, circular knife in one hand and tanned deer hide in the other. He cut