He folded his overcoat over his arm and patted the inside breast pocket of his suit. “I’m going to the museum to deliver a warrant and was wondering if you’d like to tag along.”

“What are your intentions?”

“Just a look-see. The only fossil I’m interested in is Jen, but I thought I’d get here early and try and nip some of these shenanigans in the bud, so to speak.”

“They’ve barely gotten any of her out of the ground.”

He held up his hands. “So much the better. I’m just going to meet my guys at your office and then head over to the museum for a tour, probably with the director—what’s his name?”

“Dave Baumann.”

“With Dave, and see if any of the fossils have stickers on them that read PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT, and then make a phone call to Trost, so without any further ado he can start warming up his dulcet tones for the interviews tomorrow.”

“Interviews . . . Plural, huh?” I glanced around at the cottonwoods, flower boxes, and the idyllic environs of our small-town courthouse. “Did I fail to mention that I’m going on vacation this week?”

“Yes, you did, and as of now it would appear that you’re not.”

As we rounded the back of the courthouse, I could see a very large Indian reclined on the steps of the old Carnegie Library that served as my office; he was eyeing the two bureau people who were eating what looked to be lettuce wraps and drinking bottled water. “Uh oh . . . Looks like a standoff.”

Vic chimed in. “Wounded Knee III.”

By the time that we got there, Brandon White Buffalo, possibly the largest Indian on both the Cheyenne and Crow Reservations, had crushed his cigarette out and, standing his full seven feet two inches, pushed off from the steps to greet us. “Ha-ho, Lawman.”

I gestured toward the giant. “The real FBI.”

Vic added, “Fuckin-Big-Indian.”

I watched as Brandon pocketed the butt.

“Don’t you know those things stunt your growth?”

The operator of the White Buffalo Sinclair Station held out a hand with fingers that looked like a collection of Polish sausages, and enveloped my own. “It’s a nasty habit, but it is easy to quit; I have done it many times.”

I tried not to grimace as he applied his legendary grip. “How are you, Brandon?”

“My heart is heavy, Lawman. The Cheyenne have lost a great leader, and it’s not a time when we can spare such men.” He sparked an eye at my undersheriff. “Miss Moretti.”

She put her hand on her sidearm. “Do not try and pick me up.”

Brandon made a habit of lifting people from the ground as a greeting, but a well-placed kick had preempted the tradition with Vic a few months back.

He nodded and glanced at McGroder, who extended his hands and spoke up quickly. “I’d rather not be picked up either.”

Throwing a thumb over his shoulder, Brandon smiled and turned back to me. “The ones who don’t smoke are inside—including both the chiefs.”

As far as I knew, the Cheyenne were an autarchy, so I was interested to see who the other chief might be. “Henry with you?”

“No, the Bear isn’t a part of the party—he prefers to work outside official channels, but you know that.” The Buffalo studied me. “You are disappointed?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t seen Henry in a couple of weeks, and my granddaughter is going to be in town . . .”

“The little brother is back to seeing the divorcée up at Rocky Boy.”

I glanced around and dropped my voice. “Are we ever going to get to meet her?”

“Who knows.” The three-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound Crow/Cheyenne hybrid turned and shook hands with the special agent as he introduced himself and then shot a look at the herbivores on the bench. “Those are yours?”

McGroder nodded and studied the giant, probably making the connection between him and his uncle, the man who had saved me on the mountain. “Yeah, I made ’em leave their trench coats at home.”

“We did not call you.”

I had to smile as McGroder flexed his fingers, attempting to get the circulation back in them. “No.”

“Then why are you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Mike adjusted his sunglasses and looked up at the big man. “At the behest of the American people.”

Brandon gestured toward himself. “Are we not the American people?”

“Certainly you are.” He looked at me for help, but I was going to let him tread water on his own. The agent licked his lip, smiled, and breathed deep. “We’re just here to make sure that everybody plays fair.”

Brandon White Buffalo’s head tilted to one side as he considered the AIC before laughing. He turned and mounted the steps to my office, his gigantic legs carrying him up like the dinosaurs that had held my imagination recently. “You are about two hundred years too late, Agent in Charge.”

McGroder turned to look at me as the glass door swung closed, the gold and black letters of my department shuddering with the soft impact. “I have a feeling that the next week is going to be interesting around here.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

He smiled, waved good-bye to Vic, and then collected his people from the bench. “Hey, where is the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, anyway?”

I pointed. “South end of town, across from the high school. It used to be the Moose Lodge and before that a carpet outlet.”

He thought about it. “The tin building that I saw on the way in?”

I shrugged as Vic and I started up the steps to our defunct library offices. “We take our institutions where we find them.”

He pulled out his phone as the trio started toward the black Tahoe with government plates parked at the curb. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask for your cell number?”

“You can ask.”

He shook his head, and they loaded up and started off, catching the light on Main and disappearing around the corner.

Vic finally turned. “I’ve got a question.”

I gave her my full attention, the way I always did.

“Skip?” She pulled the door open and entered. “A deputy U.S. attorney by the name of Skip?”

 • • •

“I told Brandon that he couldn’t smoke in here.” My dispatcher answered a phone and asked the caller to please wait, then hit the hold button.

I looked around. “Where is everybody?”

Ruby nodded her head toward the hallway behind her desk. “Your office.”

I walked past Saizarbitoria’s door and could see that Double Tough, my other deputy, who had just come back from medical leave, was standing next to Sancho’s desk. The skin on the side of his face was mottled from having been burned, and I was still getting used to the eye patch. “How you doin’, troop?”

He did his best Blackbeard imitation as Vic and I crowded in the doorway. “Argh . . .”

The Basquo urged me in. “Boss, we need an opinion here.”

“I’ve got people in my office.”

“It’ll just take a second.”

I entered Saizarbitoria’s immaculate but tiny room and stood there with the other two men, Vic holding at the doorway. “What’s up?”

Sancho gestured toward Double Tough. “DT’s got a new eye.”

What with Danny Lone Elk, like we didn’t have enough ocular problems as of late?

I turned and looked at him. “Well, let’s see it.”

He glanced around the room, his one-eyed gaze on Vic, and then peeled the patch back, leaving it on his forehead. “It’s a fourteen millimeter . . .”

We all leaned in and looked at the artificial orb, Double Tough staring straight ahead and as nonchalant as you can be with three people peering into your fake eye.

“It looks great.”

He seemed doubtful. “Really?”

“Yep; if I didn’t know any better I’d say it was real.” I glanced at Sancho for a little backup. “Right?”

“Yeah, it looks great.”

“It’s the wrong color.”

We all looked at Vic. “What are you talking about?”

She stepped in closer and stared at Double Tough. “What color did you order?”

“I didn’t order it, they did . . . It’s hazel-blue.”