“She nearby?”
“Not really. She’s in Cheyenne—she’s in a home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice place, but I don’t get enough opportunities to get there and visit her the way I should. I’d move her, but she’s been there for seven years and I don’t want to upset her by taking her to a new place.”
“Heeyoocéi’oo-’ hoowuóów.”
“It’s difficult.”
“Yeah.”
We watched as Henry passed the bowl, the sweet-grass braids, and the big cedar to Kimama, and she lowered the offerings into the small fire, catching the ends and allowing them to burn before twisting them partially out in the pottery. She held the bowl in her left hand, scooping the wisps of smoke like captured spirits and rolling them over her head and arms; then she switched the bowl to her other hand and repeated the procedure. “Beneesooo-’ hiine’etiit, henihihc-owooyeiti-eenee.”
I stepped a little away from the others, and my eyes played to the right. I half turned toward the road in order to look back at the opening of the northernmost tunnel. Shadow had engulfed the wall of granite that scooped out and faced north, but I could still make out the utter darkness of the tunnel itself.
It was like an opening to another place, and I guess I half expected to see the ghostly apparition of Bobby Womack looking back at me from the abyss. I didn’t see him, and if Kimama and her magic words that floated up to meet the flurries had their way, I never would.
I was a little sad, because as people go, Bobby Womack had never done anyone real harm—his spirit had warned of disaster but had never caused it. If the stories of the canyon were true, he’d helped people all these years and never harmed a soul. If there was a kernel of possibility in all this, where was it I would be spending eternity? Guarding the denizens of Absaroka County—a ghost sheriff?
“Heetih-nohkú-ni’-cebísee-t heet-íeti-’.”
They were wrapping up the ceremony, and I pulled out my pocket watch to check the time—it was eleven o’clock. Rosey and I strolled back toward the parked vehicles and stopped at her cruiser as the group at large approached. Henry and Sam assisted Kimama as she stepped over the guardrail but then released her as she dismissed the two of them with a wave of both hands.
Rosey was leaning in the open door of her vehicle, I’m sure aware of the time.
Kimama moved toward Sam’s car but stopped a little away from it to berate me. “You talked too much during the ceremony, Bucket.”
I was unaware that she could hear me but apologetic just the same. “Sorry.”
“You should have respect.”
“I do, and I’m sorry.” I gestured toward Rosey. “We just had a few things we needed to discuss.”
She glanced at the trooper and then back to me. “Next time, do not do it while I am working.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She started to walk past Rosey but took a moment to reach out and grip her arm. “And you, Hookuuhulu’, you should know better.” She looked straight at her for another moment and then continued on as Rosey watched after her.
She looked back at me with a quizzical expression mixed with shock. “What did she just call me?”
“It sounded like Hookuuhulu’?”
“Little mouse.” We both turned to see Sam Little Soldier stepping up beside us with Henry. “Hookuuhulu,’ it is Arapaho for ‘Little Mouse,’ an endearment that everyone uses for children and grandchildren.”
Rosey swallowed and shook her head, looking back at the woman as she climbed in Sam’s ancient Toyopet Crown. “My mother, she said there was a nanny who used to call me ‘Little Mouse.’”
“Maybe she was Arapaho.” Sam Little Soldier passed us and continued toward the vintage Toyota, probably afraid the medicine woman would hot-wire it. “But in case you haven’t noticed, Kimama has a nickname for everyone.”
“I noticed.” I moved up beside Rosey as the Bear joined us. “Speaking of, where’s Joey these days?”
“He’s not a big one for ceremonies.”
I pointed toward Kimama. “I don’t suppose she’s got a nickname herself?”
He opened the driver’s-side door and spoke, just before wedging inside to escape the falling snow, “Nope, just ‘Kimama.’”
As he started the rattletrap of a car and shuddered his way past us in a loop toward the road with his window down, I yelled, “And what does that mean?”
He turned his head toward the sha-woman as she stuffed things into her oversized purse and then stuck his big head out the window one last time to shout at us as they drove by leaving melted tracks in the gravel. “It’s Shoshone—it means Butterfly.”
11
“So, Kimama was Butterfly, your nanny.”
“I . . . I guess so.”
“Are you okay?”
She leaned against her car and crossed her arms, the snow collecting on her slicker and then quickly melting. “Yeah, just a little shaken, I guess.” She was silent for a while. “It was like hearing a voice from your past, you know?”