Little Child/Mitakuye Oyasin: Jhon Collector Mysteries

By James Hess

Little Child: After former Homicide Detective Jhon Collector, a member of the Lakota Nation, returns to The Res, and as Christmas and the anniversary of the Wounded Knee Massacre 1890 approach, he is hired to find a young boy, and is called to testify in a hearing involving a disgraced minister, a suspect in the death of a member of the Lakota nation.

Mitakuye Oyasin: Before he became a Homicide Detective Jhon Collector was a college student. Home for the summer break he is enlisted by interim Tribal Chief of Police Elvis Goes-In-The-Center to help investigate the theft of a vehicle belonging to the United States Forest Service, abandoned on The Res. At the same time his father, legal counsel for The Res, is involved in a land swap case. When the cases intersect a truth about Collector and his father is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Hess
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463962145

James Hess

James C. Hess graduated from the University of Colorado, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, with additional studies in Editorial Journalism and Cinema Studies. He divides his time between his home in Colorado and all points west.https://www.instagram.com/j.c.hess/

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Mitakuye Oyasin

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Afterword

Addendum

*****

Little Child

*****

Little Child

Introduction

Shortly after the Jhon Collector story FOR UNTO US was published a note was received, offering praise for the writing, the story, and the talent responsible for the tale.

The note also included a question: would there be a new Christmas story for the coming year.

The question seemed odd, and I did not understand what was being asked. After much consideration and deliberation, I contacted the individual who had sent the question, and requested clarification.

The explanation provided was simple: FOR UNTO US had been published around Christmas and there is a Christmas element to it, so, therefore, according to the fan of the story, it is a Christmas story.

I admitted then - as I admit now - that it was not my intention to categorize FOR UNTO US in such a manner, and the timing of publication was. . . coincidental.

My confession did not dissuade the admirer of the Jhon Collector stories, who wanted to know when the next story would be published. I did not offer a specific timeline, only that it might be a Christmas story.

My attempt to be flippant failed, and the remark would prove prophetic, in a manner of speaking. Without giving away specifics I can offer that the outline for LITTLE CHILD was written before the question was posed and that the entire story was written without the possibility of it being a Christmas story.

Or so I thought. As I reread it for purposes of editing, I realized that unintentionally I had written a Christmas story.

Sort of.

That is, there are elements suggesting LITTLE CHILD could categorically be considered a Christmas story, albeit somewhat of a tragic one because of historic information included. But, like FOR UNTO US, there is more to it, superficially negating the categorization, and that is revealed as the story unfolds. The technique of slow and methodical revelation - especially in mysteries - is a time-honored one, and I believe that done correctly it serves as an indicator of good storytelling. The determination regarding that, however, will be decided by the reader. If categorization is required, I prefer to consider LITTLE CHILD as being a story about the Season of Giving.

Back to top.

*****

Chapter 1

The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb,

The leopard shall lie down with the young goat,

The calf and the young lion and the fatling together;

And a little child shall lead them.

- Isaiah 11:6

Former Homicide Detective Jhon Collector sat in the only available booth in Pony Joe’s, a small diner located between the statutory town of Cárcel, CO. and a seemingly infinite expanse of land known as The Res. His gaze was on the open book on the table before him, but his attention was on the only employee of the establishment, Stringfellow Six Bears. An elder of the Lakota Nation on The Res, two days a week Six Bears was also a busboy at Pony Joe’s. Eighty-five years of hard living had slowed him but he persisted, a low whistle heard now and then as he paused to catch his breath and steady his round-shouldered bulk.

Collector read a page as the elder moved from behind the counter to a large stack of gray plastic totes. One crooked finger touched the stack as he silently counted. When he had tailed the inventory required, he lifted a stack of ten and moved toward the row of booths where Collector sat. One by one the totes were dispersed. When the task was completed Six Bears returned to the first booth and carefully placed cups, saucers, plates, and dirtied silverware into the tote; a pause before he lifted the tote and placed it on the seat of the booth. A large white cloth was extracted from the back pocket of the baggy denim pants he wore, and he swept the food scraps and debris into the tote.

A low whistle was heard. Six Bears paused. Collector continued reading.

Six Bears picked up the note, carrying it to a metal conveyor bely leading into the kitchen area. He turned, his bowed and aged legs making him shuffle as he returned to the dining area, and moved to the next booth.

Six of the ten unkempt booths were cleaned and readied for the dinner crowd when Collector heard the small bell over the front door of the diner jingle. He did not look up but Six Bear’s tone of voice as reaction provoked his curiosity. Momentarily the elder made his way to the booth where Collector sat.

The busboy favored strong mints. When Collector smelled the scent of the one sucked, he looked up. The Lakota elder smiled, his dark, time-worn face succumbing to deep wrinkles.

"Thunkasila," Collector said.

Six Bears nodded approvingly at the use of the Lakota phrase, which indicated reverence and respect.

Someone would like to see you," Six Bears said.

Collector tried to see around the elder, but his girth obstructed the view.

She said that she stopped at the Sheriff’s Office. Honor Two Songs told her that you would probably be here, Six Bears said.

Collector sat up straight, his arms spreading along the back of the bench. He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled loudly.

Grandfather, Collector said. Do you have a woman in your life? Someone who tells you want to do? Who interferes?

Collector saw the pain of sadness in the old man’s eyes as response, and knew that his choice of words had been unkind.

I do not have a woman in my life, Six Bears said, softly. I do not have someone who tells me what to do. There is no one in my life that does so.

Collector tried to amend his error by leaning forward, submission apparent in his body language.

Would you like one? I can have her wrapped with a bow, and under the tree for Christmas.

The old man smiled. He looked at his junior, waiting. Collector understood his unintentional cruelty had been forgiven. He lowered his chin slightly as acknowledgment. Six Bears slowly nodded in response, turned, and moved toward the door, his form still blocking Collector’s view.

Another page of the book was read when Collector realized that he had company. He looked up. A slim, young woman, dressed in simple black clothes, stood near the booth he sat in. Her shiny, shoulder-length black hair was carefully styled and held by a silver clasp at one side.

"Akicita Isnala Najin," she said.

Collector looked toward Six Bears, who had resumed his work. He looked to the young woman again.

You speak Lakota, Collector said.

I am Lakota. The tone was one of equal parts declaration and defiance.

The young woman made no indication she would sit. Collector made no gesture for her to do so.

I am Allie Sand Owl. Something was familiar in the name, causing Collector to nod, indicating that she should approach. When my grandfather was accused of a crime that he did not commit your father defended him.

Collector slowly nodded and closed the book, the back cover over the front cover, hiding the title. He indicated that Sand Owl should sit. She did so.

He was found not guilty, Collector said.

Anger flashed on Sand Owl’s face.

He was not declared innocent.

One verbal mistake for the day was sufficient. Collector hesitated in responding, choosing his words carefully.

He was a good man.

Sand Owl relaxed.

"After your father came to his defense and the law found him not guilty, he chose to walk The Red Road - Chanku Luta. Your father helped to get me a scholarship for college. He wanted me to get an education, to leave The Res. I did as he desired. He passed shortly after I graduated at the top of my class."

Collector did not provide a response immediately, watching Six Bears in his peripheral vision. A low whistle, the tribal elder paused, then resumed his work. Another tote filled with dirty dishes was transported to the kitchen. Another tote was positioned, and the quiet clanking of dishware and glasses was heard again.

You have returned, Collector said.

After I graduated, I took a job working for a title company. I worked there almost ten years before I met a man from The Res, Sand Owl said. She paused. Collector noticed the hesitation and responded by placing his forearms on the table. It was nice to know someone who had come from where I came.

Collector waited.

His name is ‘Amen Blue Little Fox’, Sand Owl said.

Blue Little Fox. Collector looked toward Six Bears and back to Sand Owl. She did not look away, as many did when Collector looked directly at them. The anniversary of Wounded Knee approaches, Collector said, inexplicably.

Sand Owl visibly stiffened at the memory that contained so much pain for so many. I have come for my son.

Collector glanced to Six Bears.

When I met Amen, he was working a full-time job and going to school to study mechanical design and engineering. I was attracted to him because he reminded me of my grandfather. He told me that he had made mistakes as a teen-ager and that he was walking The Red Road. I thought him sincere. But that changed when he learned that I was expecting. He dropped out of school, quit his job, and went to the oil fields in the Dakotas because he said it paid better than anything he could hope for.

You. . . blame yourself for his choices?

No. Sand Owl shifted in her seat, sitting tall. I did not ask him to make the choices he made. I did not tell him he had to do what he did. He made his own choices. She sighed, the erect posture eroding. After he got a job working in the Dakota oil fields, he opened two bank accounts. One for me and one for the unborn child. After our son was born the combined balance was more than sixteen thousand dollars.

He made a financial commitment to his child.

Sand Owl shrugged, implicitly deflecting the praise of her child’s father.

He was not present for the birth, Sand Owl said.

Did you ask him to be present?

Sand Owl looked at Collector with intended defiance, away, and then to him again.

No.

Collector waited, sensing that there was more to come.

Amen considers himself a traditionalist. For example, when he chose to walk The Red Road, he chose to do things a certain way.

Why do you come to me? Collector asked.

Amen visited shortly after I gave birth to our son. He had changed from the man I knew. He said that he wanted his son to be raised in The Lakota Way.

You disagree?

I believe that we should make such decisions together. His choice, his decision, indicated that he did not believe that or agree with it.

Collector looked toward Six Bears, who had filled another tote with dishes, moved it to the kitchen area for cleaning, and was working on preparing another booth for the next iteration of customers.

Did you and Amen marry?

No.

Did you seek sole custody of the child?

Amen agreed that I should care for him, and he would provide financially. I decided that meant I should have sole custody. But I did not pursue the legal aspect.

When Amen came for a visit did you talk about custody?

No.

Collector looked at the closed book, at Six Bears, at Sand Owl. You have not answered my question. Why do you seek my assistance?

Sand Owl bowed her head, as if signaling shame. She slowly looked to Collector.

Amen continued to put money into the accounts. Shortly before Jacob celebrated his tenth birthday Amen came and said that he wanted his son to know his history - where he came from so that he would know where to go in life. Amen came a week before Thanksgiving. They left the day after Thanksgiving. I have not heard from them since.

Did he say where he was going?

No.

Does Amen have family on The Res who might know?"

He has a brother. I already asked him. He claims that he and Amen do not talk because he considers The Red Road a fool’s game. He told me that he did not know where Amen would take Jacob.

Have you contacted the police?

The Tribal Police?

The police beyond The Res.

Yes.

What did they tell you to do?

This is why I am talking to you. The implication was apparent to Collector.

Collector quietly inhaled, held the breath momentarily and quietly exhaled. Six Bears continued his slow progress.

I will talk with Amen’s brother again. Do you know how to get in touch with his employer? I would like to talk to his boss to find out what he might know.

Sand Owl shifted on the bench seat, and removed a small piece of paper from her pocket, laying it on the table near Collector’s book.

Amen’s brother’s address. He does not have a telephone. There is also a number for his employer, his supervisor. He has not heard from Amen, but Amen took paid time off from work, so there is no reason for him to have contact with his job.

Collector considered the paper, palmed it, and slipped it between the pages of the book.

Where can I contact you? Collector asked.

Sand Owl expressed subtle sadness.

After my grandfather passed my brother assumed his home and I took his house - for when I visit. There is no telephone at either house. You can leave a message with the Tribal Chief of Police.

The mention of the tribal police department seemed to make Collector shift awkwardly in his seat. Sand Owl studied Collector, and he sensed that she wanted to say something, ask something.

Your father is a lawyer, Sand Owl said. He charges a lawyer’s rates.

I am not a lawyer.

It is known that you are good at what you do.

The inference was apparent to Collector.

I do not require much. Gas for my vehicle, a place to sleep when I am working and away from home, food, and small expenses.

How ‘small’ are small expenses?

I may need change for a pay phone.

Sand Owl looked at Collector, frowning, and then she smiled, understanding his sense of humor.

I will not charge for something I do not need. If we need to discuss payments we can do so at a later date.

Sand Owl considered the specifics, and nodded firmly, approving.

Good.

"Doka," Collector said.

Sand Owl considered the remark, and stood.

I would like my son to be with me for Christmas, Sand Owl said. "Wah zee ya wana ou."

Before Collector could respond, Sand Owl turned and quickly made her way to the door, pausing to quietly speak with Six Bears. The elder finished his work, carried the full tote to the counter, set it down with a loud thump and clattering of the contents, and made his way to Collector.

Collector said nothing as Six Bears leaned on the back of the booth as if weakened, and a low whistle was heard.

"Wopila, Six Bears said. Wa chuntay oh gna kay."

Sometimes, Collector said. I should not be so generous with my heart.

Six Bears regained his strength, and stood.

A warrior does what needs to be done, Six Bears said. And generosity can be its own reward.

Collector stood, picking up his book, tucking it into the large pocket of the long, black coat he wore, and nodded respectfully. As he walked toward the door a low whistle was heard from behind him, suggesting a train leaving the station one last time.

Back to top.

*****

Chapter 2

The weather outside Pony Joe’s had changed in subtle and sublime ways since Collector had entered several hours before. The humidity level had increased; a light wind blew between the leafless aspen, pines, and spruces lining the road leading to The Res and into the town, gathering dried leaves from the ground and tossing them into the air before dropping them again in new configurations. Collector paused, inhaling deep the cold, fresh air through his nose, exhaling through his mouth, feeling the crispness move through his lungs, providing for a sensation of life and existence.

As he did a large, black pickup truck with a discrete light bar mounted on the cab pulled to a stop next to him. Streaks of red mud contrasted the color of the vehicle and partially hid the logo on the door identifying the vehicle as property of the tribal police. The driver’s side window slowly went down, the soft hum of a hidden motor maneuvering it in the track that held it.

A man’s head emerged from the semi-darkness inside the cab. Neither man said anything. From somewhere inside the truck cab came the sound of music performed by a well-known jazz musician who favored musical instruments popular with Native Americans.

Jhon Collector.

Elvis Goes-In-The-Center, Collector said. There is no crime on The Res today?

Elvis looked around, seeming to look for misdeeds in the immediate vicinity, and then returned his gaze to Collector.

I am the Tribal Chief of Police. There are others who can take care of such things - when they happen.

A single snow flake silently succumbed to gravity’s embrace. Collector watched the descent without moving. After it had reached the ground and melted, he looked to Goes-In-The-Center again.

Your father called me, Goes-In-The-Center said.

Why?

He said that your cell phone is not turned on.

Collector reached into an inside pocket and brought out a simple cell phone. The tiny monitor was dark. He pushed a button on the side, and the screen flickered to life.

A cell phone only works when you want it to work, Elvis said.

Collector pocketed the cell phone. Why did my father call you?

He asked that I remind you of the. . . appointment tomorrow at ten.

Collector looked to the sky, as if seeking more snow flakes.

I have not forgotten, Collector said.

If you need a ride, Elvis said. I am going. A bench warrant sent to me was rescinded. I want to make sure that there are no loose ends.

Collector nodded, accepting the offer.

It will likely be much of the day, Collector said.

Elvis disappeared into the darkness of the truck cab. The music gave way to the sound of the truck engine idling.

This is about Roy Hayden Preston? Elvis asked, as he moved from the darkness.

Yes.

A slippery one, Preston. There have been many times that he has come to trial and many times he has not been held accountable.

Collector watched another snowflake make its way from the graying sky to the ground. He looked to Elvis once more.

There was another reason for why you were looking for me? Collector asked.

I went by the Sheriff’s Office. Honor Two Songs said you might be here. I am going to have a talk with Myron Fast Horses.

Collector held his empty hand out, palm up. A third snowflake settled on his warm skin, transforming into water. Curling one finger at a time he made a loose fist. After making the fist he clenched it until white showed at the knuckles. He unmade the fist by uncurling one finger at a time. The snowflake that had become water was gone, absorbed into his flesh.

Myron Fast Horses? There is a rumor that he is. . . in the transportation business, Collector said.

I do not believe that is a rumor.

Collector put his hand into his pocket, and turned his attention to Elvis Goes-In-The-Center. I have heard that he is working with interests beyond The Res.

Another rumor that I do not believe is a rumor.

The Tribal Chief of Police investigates rumors that are not rumors and leaves crime on The Res to his subordinates?

Sometimes the truth needed to triumph resides in rumors. If you are coming, get in.

Collector made his way around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in. By the time he had the passenger side door closed the window on the driver’s side was returned to its closed position and the music filled the warm darkness of the truck cab.

Back to top.

*****

Chapter 3

Myron Fast Horses lived on the southwestern edge of The Res. The road leading to his home turned off a county road located beyond the boundaries of The Res. The county road was a two-lane, paved road. The road leading to the home of Fast Horses was initially a paved, two-laned road, which became an unpaved road that became two tracks, defined by use and erosion, pockmarked by holes and exposed rock.

Goes-In-The-Center slowed his truck as the asphalt gave way to gravel, and slowed again when the gravel transitioned to tracks. As he approached a large dip in the tracks, he maneuvered the truck to one side, onto slick, wind-swept, and icy faded yellow and red grasses, and then back into the tracks where there was solid footing. The truck seemed to grumble in protest as it was required to climb a steep hill before descending to a small valley defined by sandstone formations and a formative gray uplift at one end.

Tucked behind a large cottonwood devoid of leaves was a single-wide trailer that was dominated by a large pole barn nearby. A short distance from the trailer was a large outcropping of exposed sandstone.

As Elvis Goes-In-The-Center drove toward the modest abode the porch light flickered on, attempting to illuminate the winter setting.

Elvis slowed to a stop, turning the truck to hide the passenger side from the view of anyone inside the trailer.

Get out, Elvis said.

Collector looked at Goes-In-The-Center, and then at the trailer.

There are two entrances on the trailer, Elvis said. One at the front, one at the back. Get out and go around to the back - just in case he decides to run.

He will not see me, Collector said.

Stay low. When I drive closer, I can block the view, and that will allow you cover to reach the back without being seen from the front of the house.

Collector opened the passenger-side door and slipped out, crouching. Before he could close the door, it was pulled shut from inside the vehicle.

The truck moved forward, Collector matching the movement. As the truck approached the front door Collector moved to the outcropping and sprinted toward the back of the trailer. The second door was apparent. Like the front door it featured a porch light, which was also turned on.

Collector waited at the edge of the trailer, listening. The sound of the running truck engine transitioned to quiet. A truck door slammed; movement through dried and frozen grasses; crunching through patches of reconstituted snow; the sound of a