Randy turned to his sister. “Is the tray still up on his nightstand?” She nodded and disappeared. “And get the stuff from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

Her voice carried back to us, just as the teenager’s had. “All of them?”

“Haáahe, we got nothing to hide.” He lowered his voice and turned back to look at us. “He got a bottle of some generic Viagra. I don’t know if he ever took the stuff, but the bottle’s up there—embarrassed my sister. I guess she doesn’t know how she got here, or Taylor, for that matter.”

“Randy, I have to ask about the possibility of an autopsy.”

His handsome face stiffened. “No.”

“It might give us some definitive answers on the—”

“My father was religious, almost as bad as my uncle—he’s a Traditional and you know what that is.”

“I do, and I know they don’t like to disturb the body in any way, but . . .”

“Well then, you shouldn’t even ask me.” He looked in his empty cup. “I worked in a hospital as an intern in the science lab while I was at Montana State, and I know what they do to a body in an autopsy, and I wouldn’t have that done to my worst enemy.” He glanced at the corrals, and the building where we’d seen his uncle. “Anyway, Enic would never allow for it—never.”

I let the dust settle on that one. “You know I can override you on this.”

“Only if you suspect something.” He studied me. “Do you?”

“Not yet, but I may.”

“Henry Standing Bear is a friend of yours, right?”

“Yep.”

“You get him to come talk with us, and we’ll consider it.”

“Deal.” I reached down and put my empty cup on the porch railing. “Speaking of deals, do you know about the one your father had with the Cheyenne Conservancy?”

“Yeah, I know about it. I think he was just feeling guilty about making it off the Rez and being a success. He carried big medicine for the tribe and, as I said, was getting more and more traditional as he got older. He was getting so stiff, he probably would’ve ended up standing in front of a cigar store.” He glanced around, his eyes lingering on the clouds building up on the mountains as if trying to push them east.

Vic, figuring it was time to change the subject again and easier for her than me, asked, “What’s the story on your sister?”

His eyes released me with ease and turned to her. “How do you mean?”

“Has she been here her whole life?”

“Pretty much; she took to religion along with Enic. That and looking after Taylor.” He glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice, and became confidential. “She didn’t have a good experience in school, just too shy. Nothing drastic; it’s just that she likes it here on the ranch and doesn’t like everywhere else.” He took a breath and settled, looking at the hills where the wind blew the short grass like waves. “She gets worked up about stuff, so they prescribed her these pills which seem to keep her on an even keel.” He imitated toking a joint. “That, and a little rocking the ganja.”

“So she just stays here, on the ranch?”

“Pretty much.” He smiled. “I make her go with me into town once in a while to take Taylor to work or pick him up, just so she sees that there are other people in the world.” He looked over and caught us glancing at each other. “It’s not what you’re thinking; she’s not psychologically aberrant. She’s just nervous and shy, really shy.”

The conversation was cut short by Eva’s return; she carried a plastic tray piled with pill containers and a plastic IGA bag. “Would you like me to put these in a sack for you, or do you want to look at them now?”

I shook my head. “The sack is fine—I wouldn’t know what I was looking at, anyway.”

She dumped them in the bag and handed them to me. “His stomach pills aren’t there, so I think he must’ve had those with him?”

“He did.” I got up and straightened my back. “Can I ask a favor, Eva?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a look at your liquor cabinet?”

She said nothing but glanced back at her brother, who shook his head at us. “No liquor on the place. I mean, there are a few beers in the refrigerator . . .”

“But no hard alcohol?”

“No, why?”

“Your father had a flask on him when he died.” They looked at each other, neither of them really seeming all that surprised. “Was he drinking again?”

Randy sighed. “He and Enic both had a problem . . . Well, we thought they had had a problem. My uncle drank himself into a hole—that’s why he’s here—and then he became a Traditional.” He turned to his sister. “Do you know where Dad hid it?”

She put her hand to her mouth. “No. No . . .”

“It was rye whiskey, at least that’s what was in the flask, and if my expert is to be trusted, it was the good stuff.” I waited. “Do you think he might’ve had some stashed around here?”

Randy stared at the planks on the porch floor. “That’s how Taylor got the black eye . . . He’s the one who snuck it in for the old man, but he wouldn’t tell me where.”

“It’s possible that there’s something wrong with what’s in that bottle, so we’ll need to test it against what was in the flask—besides, if it’s bad, you’re going to want to get rid of it.”

“Wait.” Eva stood and disappeared into the house again, after a few moments returning with Taylor the Truant under an arm. “The sheriff has something he’d like to ask you.”

The young man stood there not looking at me.

“Hey, you helped me find the ranch—you mind helping me find something else?” That piqued his interest, and he looked up at me, all of a sudden a carbon copy of his grandfather. “I’m looking for a bottle of whiskey.”

He stared at me.

“A bottle your grandfather might’ve had hidden around the house somewhere?”

He continued to stare at me.

His mother nudged his shoulder. “I told the sheriff you could find anything; do you know where a bottle like that might be?”

He swallowed and looked at his feet, all of a sudden seeming to be five. “I promised Grandpa I wouldn’t tell.”

I leaned in a little. “Well, you see, there might be something wrong with what’s in that bottle. We need to take it to the lab so that they can find out what might’ve happened to your grandfather.”

There was a long pause as thunder rumbled from the west. “I don’t know where it is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Randy started to reach over, but I shook my head at him. “That’s okay.”

Figuring he was released, Taylor turned and walked away, the slap of the screen door his final, teenage response—it was almost as loud as the thunder.

Randy turned and looked at us. “How ’bout I go in there and kick his skinny ass like a rented mule?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He shook his head. “I’ll look, Sheriff.” He glanced up at his sister, who rested a hand on his shoulder. “Or Eva will; one way or the other, we’ll come up with it.” He studied her. “You ever see Dad with a flask?”

“He had that antique one. You know, it was silver, old-timey with a leather beaded cover?”

I nodded. “That’s the one.” I looked back at Randy. “Do you mind if we take a look at his study?”

He rose and started toward the door. “No, come on in.”

He opened the screen, and we followed Randy into an entryway, where he turned to the right into what had been, I was sure, Danny Lone Elk’s inner sanctum. Two large windows looked to the south, with a massive, hand-laid fireplace in the corner. There was a substantive rolltop desk between the windows along with an oak library chair. There were fossilized bones and tribal memorabilia everywhere, from dance fans and ceremonial pipes to war shields and feathered lances, but overshadowing all the relics was a huge horned shell from what must have been the largest snapping turtle ever seen in the territory. The carapace was painted and decorated with feathers and beads unlike anything I’d ever seen, and much too large to have ever been used as anything other than a stationary objet d’art.