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I get him back to Klausen’s Funeral Parlor for an autopsy, but I don’t think we’re gonna find any surprises. From what they tell me, they pulled the arrow out and didn’t get the tip. I expect it’s still in there, and it perforated the heart or one of the main arteries. Kid probably died in seconds. If not, they sure worked that point around in him while they were doing CPR. I may have a hell of a time figuring out what got damaged first. Fellow who did the CPR, he’s a trained med-tech for the PBS people. Says he couldn’t find a pulse when he got here. Still, didn’t think he had any choice but to try. Looks to me like all he managed was to pump a lot of blood out of the wound and into the ground.”
    The sheriff grunted in agreement.
    â€œWhen you’re through, you and Parker can help me load him in a body bag and tote him to my Buick.”
    â€œI can’t think of anything he can tell me,” the sheriff said. “Let’s get him ready to go.” He turned to Deputy Parker. “Where’s the arrow?”
    It was in a plastic bag at the base of the cottonwood. It didn’t look at all like what the sheriff had expected. “This come from a museum?” he frowned. “Shit! Don’t tell me. It’s Cheyenne, right?”
    Parker nodded. “That’s what the one legitimate Cheyenne who’s here says. The man took one look and pointed at those four grooves that circle the shaft and the turkey feathers it’s fletched with and said it was the kind his tribe used to make.”
    â€œOne more reason to talk to my brother,” the sheriff observed.
    â€œMaybe,” Parker said, “but don’t forget, this PBS thing is supposed to recreate an 1860s Cheyenne village. All the participants have been issued bows and quivers.”
    â€œLike this one?” The sheriff’s cell phone went off and he answered and almost missed her response beneath the frantic voice of Mrs. Kraus.
    â€œNo,” Parker said. “That old man—the real Cheyenne—he told us none of the others are authentic.”
    ***
    Deputy Wynn was questioning suspects. It wasn’t going quite the way he’d pictured it. Part of the problem was that everybody was a suspect, and thus, not to be let out of his sight. And part of it was that questioning required a level of individual privacy you couldn’t achieve while guarding the whole bunch.
    It didn’t help that he wasn’t sure where some of them had gone. He hadn’t even been able to get an accurate count, but he was sure there’d been more witnesses as he herded them back from the crime site at Deputy Parker’s suggestion.
    He hadn’t been enthusiastic about that at first. Then she’d offered to begin the investigation while he stayed behind and kept anyone else from disturbing evidence until Doc Jones and Englishman got there. Wynn had been quick to see which was the interesting job and jump on it.
    Wynn decided right off not to take them back to the fake Indian encampment. Tents didn’t appeal to him. They brought back unpleasant memories of his Boy Scout days—frogs and insects in his sleeping bag and, once, most of a can of pressurized whipped cream.
    What did he have? Maybe twenty, maybe more. Four families of “Indians,” the people attempting to recreate the lifestyle of the Cheyenne, numbered more than a dozen all by themselves. Being around the “Indians” made him feel awkward. First, they were all clothed in funny robes and dresses. Most of the men wore embarrassing breechcloths and leggings and not much else. And the Ramseys, the parents of the naked kid lying in the mud down by the creek, were demanding to know what happened and what was going to be done about it. Craving reassurance that everything would be all right, including the hideous truth. Hell, their kid was dead. Things were definitely not going to be all right. Wynn