Justice by Larry Watson

talked that way! At least no one in Bentrock, Montana.
    Martha took the package and she smiled at Wesley, a smile that told him in an instant exactly how she felt about him. She thought he was a foolish boy, and though she thanked him extravagantly, it was plain she received this offering the way a
mother or older sister would accept a gift from a five-year-old son or brother.
    As soon as the package was out of his hands Wesley backed away, and he got off the porch quickly so he would not have to hear the laughter of Martha and her friend.
    He trudged home, soaking his boots in the water and slush that filled the gutters and streets of Bentrock on Christmas of 1921.
    He thought that day that he would never again experience a Christmas like those of his childhood—stealing his mother’s cookies, opening the expensive gifts from his father, pushing through the crowd of friends and neighbors who often filled the house, listening to his mother play the piano and sing carols, sledding and skating with his brother—all that innocence and joy seemed to vanish with the melting snow.
    But maybe those Christmases could come back if only the snow would return.... Since that day, snow never fell without Wesley thinking, at least for a moment, that it was a fulfillment of his wish.
    Yet tonight Wesley and his brother and their friends sat in the McCoy jail because snow filled up the fields and sloughs, the hills and ravines, the highways and trails of Montana and North Dakota.
    The jail’s floor was not much warmer than the frozen ground the building sat upon, and the cold worked its way up Wesley’s spine until his entire body was wired tight. Nevertheless, he stayed where he was; he was too tired to stand up and move around, and he’d be damned if he’d go into one of the cells, even if it did have a bunk to sit on.

    â€œAnybody got a watch?” asked Lester. “How long we been in here?”
    Wesley reached for the pocket where he usually kept his watch. Then he remembered Frank’s instruction: on a hunting trip you leave your watch at home.
    â€œI don’t know. A couple hours,” Frank said.
    â€œMaybe this is it,” suggested Tommy. “Maybe he’s going to keep us here a while then let us go.”
    â€œMaybe,” Frank replied.
    â€œBut you don’t think so.”
    â€œI didn’t say that.”
    â€œBut do you,” Tommy pressed, “do you think he’ll just let us go? I mean, we been here a while.”
    â€œI don’t have an opinion,” answered Frank. “Why the hell you keep asking me?”
    â€œBecause your old man’s a sheriff!”
    â€œNot here he ain’t.” Frank’s face was flushed with anger, and Tommy let the subject drop. Instead, he raised a new issue.
    â€œI don’t get it,” Tommy said. “So she’s the daughter of this old Sioux warrior. What the hell does that mean? This sheriff has to protect her or something? I never heard of such.”
    â€œWonder who her boyfriend is,” Lester mused.
    â€œWhite, do you think?” Tommy asked.
    Frank was bent over, studying the door latch. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
    â€œIt ain’t even got a lock,” Wesley told his brother.
    â€œI can see that.”

    â€œâ€˜I shoot my last arrow,’” said Tommy. “What kind of bullshit is that?”
    Frank and Lester both laughed. “Indian bullshit,” Frank said.
    â€œHe didn’t say he shot his last bullet,” added Lester. “Or stoled his last horse. Or rustled his last cow. Or took his last scalp. Or slit his last throat.”
    â€œOr drank his last whiskey,” Tommy said.
    Wesley couldn’t join in. Iron Hail’s words were still running around his mind, and Wesley found them thrillingly poetic. He knew he would remember them to the end of his days. He wished the day would come when he could repeat it himself. Perhaps