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Du Pré went out and he opened the door of the cruiser for her and she got in and he drove to her place.

Madelaine led him inside. She made him a hot strong toddy with lemon and sugar and whiskey and he drank it down all at once. She cooked some mild sausage’ and rice. He ate. He had two more toddies.

He went off and stood in the shower for an hour, the steaming water sluicing over him.

Never wash this off, he thought.

What am I ashamed of?

He got angry. The water turned cooler. Du Pré shut off the valves and he got out and toweled himself and he went to Madelaine’s room. There were clean clothes on the bed. He got dressed and he went out to the kitchen. The back door was open. He went out and found Madelaine sitting at the picnic table under the little bower covered with hop vines. She had a pitcher of pale brown liquid and ice with her.

She was rolling Du Pré some cigarettes.

Du Pré went and he sat down beside her.

He lit a smoke.

“OK,” said Madelaine “Now you are mad at yourself some, kill that guy.”

“What guy?” said Du Pré, angrily.

“I only say this once,” said Madelaine. “I never talk about that guy you killed again. You going to kill the other one, too. Thank you, they killing people’s babies, have, long time.”

Du Pré poured himself a drink. He drank. His mouth tasted all right again.

“You are a good man, Du Pré. You maybe have to do bad things because of bad men, these cops, they never catch these guys, you know. They have not, how long, twenty years?”

Du Pré lit another cigarette.

“You are a real gentle man, Du Pré,” said Madelaine. “You don’t like this at all. If you did, I would not love you. I would not. Men who like it are not right, you know.”

Du Pré sipped his drink.

“But you do what you have to,” said Madelaine. “I am proud of you and I don’t talk, this, again.”

Du Pré nodded.

“You going to be a long time, getting over,” said Madelaine. “Don’t get over all of it, ever. Life, it is not nice. Sometimes.”

Du Pré looked at her.

“Now,” said Madelaine, “that Blackfeet Harvey he is pissed, he is coming here. I not say anything, you don’t, that is all.”

“So you get some rest now. I fix you a good supper.”

Du Pré nodded.

He went in to sleep.

He lay there a long time before he drifted off.

H
ARVEY AND
P
IDGEON SAT
on one side of the table and Du Pré sat on the other. They had legal tablets in front of them and tape recorders. They were wearing Bureau drag.

Du Pré was in faded denim and he had a sack of Bull Durham and some papers and his shepherd’s lighter.

“No smoking,” said Harvey.

“Kiss my ass,” said Du Pré.

“This isn’t funny, guys,” said Pidgeon.

“It’s not a formal interrogation,” said Harvey.

“No shit,” said Pidgeon.

“You piss me off, Du Pré,” said Harvey.

“You guys want me to leave so you can just lock antlers and have a good old time pawing the fucking earth I will,” said Pidgeon.

“Humor me,” said Harvey.

“Kiss my ass,” said Pidgeon.

“Look, Pidgeon,” said Harvey, “I need to do this. Our leading suspect ends up dead in fucking Fargo, North Dakota, with small slugs in his head. Looks like a standard biker hit. But nobody was mad at him. Our snitches don’t have a clue. Old Larry had nothing but friends, all of whom thought he was weird. You ever deal with this fucker across the table before?”

“Perfect gentleman,” said Pidgeon.

“Du Pré,” said Harvey, “you will answer my questions.”

“No,” said Du Pré.

“I oughta demand you take another lie detector test,” said Harvey.

“Kiss my ass,” said Du Pré.

“Look, Harvey,” said Pidgeon, “we got things like rules, you know, the old indictment, the arrest, the eyewitness, the evidence, all that shit. You get something, we could do this, but you got nothing and we all know it. If fucking Du Pré waxed the cocksucker he did a nice clean job. What? You just want to come out here, shoot some grouse or something?”

“I am your superior,” snarled Harvey.

“Be still my pattering itty-bitty heart,” said Pidgeon. “You want to rag on Gabriel you go right ahead, you want to fire me just try it. I’ll have you up on harassment charges, your hand on my ass and all.”

“I have never put my hand on your ass,” said Harvey.

“I got some bad news for you,” said Pidgeon. “Jury takes one look at my ass and they just will not believe any guy could help himself. Little perjury on my part, Harvey, it’s a tough world out there. Now, we are all just mammals tryin’ to make it in a hostile universe but, really, you want to get on Du Pré’s ass maybe you just oughta go out, the parking lot and duke it out. I will take these here tape recorders, but the good news is I am destroying these tapes.” She sniffed both of them in her attaché case, after taking the cassettes out and putting them in her bra. She rebuttoned her white silk blouse. High.

Harvey broke a pencil in half.

“I don’t think he’s gettin’ enough at home,” said Pidgeon. “As a psychologist, I can tell you the world runs on pussy or the lack of it.”

“Pidgeon,” said Harvey, “enough. You’re a bad little girl. Act your fucking age.”

“Studies have shown,” said Pidgeon, “that they show things. This is a perfect example of what it is. Now, what have we really got …?”

“This bastard Simpson,” said Harvey.

“Oh, yes,” said Pidgeon. “Now, we’re talkin’. I like Simpson. He is a fave. I give him the big 10. Wish I had some evidence, though.”

“Oh, that,” said Harvey.

“Yeah,” said Pidgeon. “I mean, I just can’t see a judge, no matter how stupid, giving us a warrant. Can’t see a grand jury of all them good citizens listening to us say, Simpson’s a fave, the murdering bastard of all time. We all think so. Don’t have a single shred of evidence, though, you’ll have to take our hunches.”

“However,” said Harvey, “I would like Du Pré to know that if, say, the fave Simpson should be hit by lightning, I cannot help myself. I will wonder if Du Pré was sitting there next to the switch.”

“Oh, ’tis true,” said Pidgeon. “We got spy satellites hovering overhead and they take nifty photos. Get a snapshot of old Du Pré punching the fave Simpson’s ticket, we will have to fry our friend here. We got little microphones in Simpson’s jockstrap. We got undercover agents cleverly disguised as spare tires in that van of his. We got him locked.”

Du Pré rolled a smoke.

“Pidgeon,” said Harvey, “you really ought to be nicer. It’s a good thing to be nice. I am nice, too. I am nicely trying to explain to this fucking prairie nigger across the table here that I am worried that I will have to arrest him and send him to Walla Walla.”

“Prairie nigger?” said Pidgeon. “I think that means Indian? My Cherokee blood cries out for justice. Shame on you. We got a Blackfeet, a Creek Cherokee White Negro, a Cree Chippewa Frog. All in this room, right here. Du Pré, Harvey’s gone round the bend. His cake fell. His elevator is stuck between floors. His bread ain’t baked. His deck is short of jacks. Racial slurs. Tsk tsk.”

Harvey reached over and he got Du Pré’s tobacco and papers and he rolled a smoke.

“Me, too,” said Pidgeon. She took Harvey’s.

“So,” said Harvey, “I ever tell you about Du Pré and his machine gun?”

“No,” said Pidgeon. “You have seen this machine gun?”

“No,” said Harvey. “I heard it once.”

“Harvey,” said Pidgeon, “if you didn’t
see
the fucking machine gun, or pick up brass can be matched to it, or slugs, all you did was hear it, maybe all you heard was regrettable flatulence.”

“Look,” said Du Pré, “I am wanting to maybe go back down to the bar and maybe play some pool or something.”

“Hooray,” said Pidgeon.

“Think we’re ready for prime time?” said Harvey.

Du Pré grinned.

“Of course we are, Harvey,” said Pidgeon, “but first, let us tell the good Mr. Du Pré that Simpson is indeed about to be arrested, by God, and real soon.”

Du Pré sat up.

“So we’d just as soon he didn’t fuck us up,” said Harvey.

“It would be nice,” said Pidgeon.

“You got something?” said Du Pré.

“That,” said Harvey, “we can’t talk about.”

“Nope,” said Pidgeon. “We can’t, at all.”

“How good it is?” said Du Pré.

“Fair,” said Harvey.

“So, hands off,” said Pidgeon. “I mean it.”

Du Pré shrugged.

“Really,” said Harvey.

Du Pré stood up.

“I got shoot some pool,” he said. “Keeps my eye in.”

“Bully idea,” said Pidgeon.

“Cheeseburger,” said Harvey.

They left the trailer behind Susan Klein’s Toussaint Bar and they went in the back door. The day was chilly enough so that Susan had lit a small fire in the woodstove. Pidgeon tossed the cassettes in on the red coals.

Du Pré got a drink and he went over to the pool table and he put two quarters in the slots and dropped the balls out of the belly. He racked and set them and he took the cueball and went to the other end and he set the ball and broke the rack smoothly. Two balls went in.

Harvey was talking to Susan Klein.

Pidgeon was squinting down a cue. She nodded finally and she put five dollars on the side of the table and looked at Du Pré.

Du Pré nodded and he matched her bet.

Pidgeon nodded and ran all the stripes into pockets without pause and then she picked one for the eight ball and sank it.

She picked up the two fives.

Du Pré nodded.

She put them back down.

Du Pré nodded.

She broke and nothing went in.

Du Pré ran six and then he fluffed a bank shot.

Pidgeon mercilessly cleared the table.

When the bet topped two hundred and Du Pré still hadn’t come close to winning, Pidgeon grinned and nodded again.

There were ten or so people standing around looking on now. Making side bets. Harvey had money but not one taker on his player. Pidgeon, of course.

“How about five hundred?” said Pidgeon.

Du Pré nodded.

Du Pré chalked his cue tip and he smiled and then he bent down and ran the table.

He picked up the thousand dollars.

Pidgeon nodded.

She kissed him on the cheek.

“It was him,” she whispered. “We found all sorts of stuff in the van.”

H
E’S HEADED SOUTH,” SAID
the voice. Du Pré hung the telephone up.

That Simpson, back home to Texas again.

Like hell.

Bart sipped his tea. He was wearing irrigation boots and overalls with black grease stripes on them. He’d been working on Popsicle, his giant diesel shovel.

“Thanks,” said Du Pré to Bart.

Bart shrugged and he turned and he looked out the window at the Wolf Mountains.

Du Pré went outside and he got into his cruiser and he drove over to the gas tanks and he filled his car up. He checked the oil and the coolant.

He looked at the hose Simpson had put in his cruiser, it seemed a long damn time ago.

Du Pré picked up the little magic telephone. He dialed.

Rolly answered.

“That load you wanted,” said Du Pré. “you be five miles maybe west of where we talk, I call you when it is ready.”

Rolly broke the connection without another word.

“This be over soon,” Du Pré murmured. His head ached a little and he felt his joints move with little stitches of pain. The day was damp.

I got the arthritis, too, Du Pré thought, don’t seem so very long ago that I was a young guy, didn’t have so much pains.

Du Pré totted up his broken bones, his bad sprains, the gunshot wound to the stomach. Just a surface wound, but the gun had been touching his shirt and pieces of the shirt and little blue flecks of powder and denim were stuck in his skin forever by the blast.

Cows, they kick me a lot, horses throw me, then, they get concerned, come back, stand on me while I am unconscious. Hope that I am all right.

I am grandfather. A bunch of times.

Little Gabriel Dumont, poor Louis Riel’s general, him, his wife, they have no children. Gabriel, him very sad about that, but he take all the Métis for his, he take care of them. After the priests betray poor Louis and the English hang him, Gabriel come down here. He never speak to them priests again. He is buried, unmarked grave, down on the Musselshell.

Me, I want an unmarked grave, thought Du Pré.

That Du Pré, he is buried out there, we don’t know. That Du Pré, he did what he had to.

Du Pré got in his old cruiser and he drove over to Benetsee’s shack. There was a thin tendril of blue-gray smoke coming out of the rusty stovepipe and the front door of the cabin was open.

Du Pré got out and he went up the rickety steps to the little porch. There was firewood piled on both sides. The path to the door was thick with wood chips and the early yellow leaves from the cottonwoods near the creek.

Got that first frost, Du Pré thought.

Winter.

Young-Man-Who-Has-No-Name was sitting at the table, writing a letter. He wrote swiftly and gracefully. Du Pré could see, even upside down, that his script was lovely.

“Good morning,” said the young man.

“Uh,” said Du Pré. “You hear from that Benetsee?”

“Yes,” said the young man. “He said to tell you you do very well. He is proud of you.”

Du Pré nodded. Hearing that felt very good.

“That all?” said Du Pré.

The young man nodded. He went back to his letter.

Du Pré left. He drove over to the little highway that skirted the west end of the Wolfs and he headed up the road to the north. Many of the trees and the weeds in the roadside ditches had begun to turn color. The aspens were bright orange, always the first trees to turn. Flocks of common blackbirds whirled in the sky, hundreds at a time, gathering for the move south.

Them hummingbirds, they are already gone, Du Pré thought.

We don’t got much of anything but winter up here.

It was getting on to dusk. Du Pré pulled off beside the road and he opened his cooler and he took out some sandwiches and a plastic container of potato salad. He ate and he drank cold tea.