People filing past the casket would look at the photos and then at Mogie and just get sad. They marched by slowly, first signing the guest book and then bending over to read each inscribed little card on each floral arrangement. There were about a dozen wildly decorated cakes, many of them with inscriptions in piped frosting: “To a good friend,” “To Rudy, our beloved brother,” and “In Memery of my Father.” Memory was spelled wrong, Rudy noted. The family had ordered six cakes done, and other people had brought six others on their own.

  Soon that period of the wake came when there was an open microphone for anyone who wanted to get up and eulogize Mogie. Some of his drinking buddies got up and slobbered sadly around, talking wine-scented mixtures of Indian and English. A girl they had gone to high school with and who later became a minor country and western singer and heroin addict got up with her guitar and sang “Silver Wings,” the Merle Haggard classic, and then she sang Willie Nelson’s “Seven Spanish Angels.”

  Two of Mogie’s old high school teachers got up and said some kind though bland words. A Catholic priest got up and practiced his Latin grammar and then started in on the decades of the Rosary. That really pissed Rudy off. No one had invited that creepy little reverse-collared do-gooder. When the Pope’s eunuch finished and strolled toward the coffee at the snack bar window, Rudy marched right up to him and popped off.

  “We’re not practicing Catholics, so don’t do that horseshit no more,” Rudy said. The priest blushed and winced and Rudy walked away before he could apologize. Mogie had hated the Catholic Church, all it stood for, and he despised all those skins who got sucked into it with a passion. The irony was that he was going to be buried in a Catholic cemetery. For as long as anyone could remember, members of the Yellow Shirt family had always been buried at the Holy Rosary Mission cemetery at Red Cloud.

  “There’s still two hours before the feed,” Vincent said after Rudy returned to his seat. “Let’s go outside for a smoke.” Rudy said okay, and they went out into the cold night air and stood in the parking lot that served both Billy Mills Hall and Sioux Nation Shopping Center.

  Rudy sneaked a look at Vinny like he was a cop taking down a description of a criminal. Vinny was tall, maybe six-two and rail thin. He was darkly handsome and his short, black hair was combed towards the back of his head, Rudy noted. It looked like Vinny’s “do” was held down with hair spray. He wore a brown leather jacket, baggy black jeans, a red and black sweater, and brand-new, white tennis shoes.

  They smoked, hopped around to ward off the chill, and tried to talk brotherly. Vincent was pretty shook up about Mogie’s death, although he had never really been all that close to him while they were growing up or even after they became adults. Even Rudy admitted that he did not know Vinny very well at all. But they were brothers, and that was what Rudy reminded himself of when he asked a very direct question.

  “Vinny, don’t be hurt, but the way you look, I gotta ask you. Do you have AIDS?” His little brother laughed and then made several strange noises that could have either been giggles or strange crying. “Geez, don’t be afraid to be blunt. Yes, Rudy, I am HIV positive. I’m not ashamed. I’m learning to live with it. Is it that obvious?”

  “Well, you do look skinny, skinnier than Storks used to be.”

  “Don’t tell anybody else, okay Rudy? I will at the proper time.”

  “Okay, I won’t if that’s how you want it. I don’t know what the big secret is, but if that’s how you want it, okay by me.” Christ, Rudy analyzed. If he had figured it out, then almost anybody who saw Vinny could easily do the same.

  “Thanks,” Vinny said. “We’ll talk more later on this.”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “Well, maybe I should say something.”

  “No, Vinny. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain—”

  “Well I’m praying they come up with a cure before my virus gets full-blown. You wouldn’t believe how many of my friends have died from this plague. The new administration in Washington is supposed to put a lot of money into finding a cure, but they probably won’t.”

  “I don’t know for sure, Vinny. My opinion is that Clinton’s a bullshitter. I don’t know that much about the AIDS scene. There aren’t that many cases around here as far as I know. What are your plans, anyway?”

  “To go back home to the Bay Area. It’s my home now. I can’t live out here like a wild Indian. I need some civilization around me. I live with my friend there and I’m going to be trying a new treatment. Who knows? Maybe this one will work and kill all those stupid little viruses.”

  “It’ll probably be something simple that finally cures it,” Rudy said. “Something in everyday life, like maybe a combination of aspirin and asparagus juice. Or maybe baking soda mixed with rabbit blood.”

  “What an imagination you have, Rudy.”

  “They’ll find something.”

  “Maybe. . .”

  “Come on Vinny. Be positive.”

  “I hope so, before I really start to get sick,” Vinny said.

  “I don’t mean to be cruel, but you don’t look so good now, Vinny. Is there anything you need? Do you have enough money?”

  “Jesus, Rudy. Lighten up, will you? This is Mogie’s funeral, not mine. I don’t want any more talk about me or AIDS. Remember now, you promised not to say anything to anyone, right? Just cut us all some slack, okay big brother? Let’s honor the memory of Mogie. This is his day.”

  “Right, Vinny. Let’s go back in.”

  “Just quit being such a big brother,” he lisped slightly and put his arm around Rudy.

  “I love you, Vinny,” Rudy said.

  “I love you too,” Vinny said and smiled.

  Rudy knew that Vinny would be the next heartache he would have to live through. He admired his courage for being openly homosexual. In general, Indians were highly intolerant of gay people.

  In the old days, winktes had been well-respected, almost revered members of the Sioux and other plains tribes. When his time to go came, Rudy would do his crying for him then. His little brother was right about one thing: tonight was Mogie’s night, not Vinny’s. Tonight Mogie Yellow Shirt began his trek on the spirit road.

  Inside, the services were becoming less structured. An elderly drum group pulled some chairs up around the microphone and sang about three honoring songs in Lakota. When they were done, Aunt Helen went up to the lead singer and handed him two folded twenty-dollar bills that Rudy had given her to give to them. They’d put Aunt Helen in charge of the money at the wake. Many people handed them sympathy cards that contained checks or cash to help with the expenses. Even some of Mogie’s winos-in-arms handed them crumpled dollars as they expressed their condolences. Those wino Indians touched Rudy to his core.

  When the drum group departed, a drill team of nearly a dozen elderly VFW members marched to the microphone and began to do a quick and often clumsy routine with their old M-l carbines, which were painted white. Out of shape, balding, and white-haired, the sadly comical vets had collected the names of all the veterans present in the gym and began to give roll call. As each name was called, the vet called would shout a hearty, “Here, Sir!” and then give a stiff salute.

  This went on for about ten minutes until they finally called the last name. “Albert ‘Mogie’ Yellow Shirt,” the old leader hollered. Of course no one answered. There was a stunning moment of silence that brought tears to every Yellow Shirt eye in the gym.

  Again, Mogie’s name was called. Again, no answer came. When this happened for the third time, one of the drill team members shouted out, “Not here, Sir.” The drill team brought their rifles to their shoulders, did an about face, and marched shakily from the hall. Rudy turned to watch them trudge away. Old soldiers never die. They just fade away their fucking livers!

  Around midnight, Ed Little Eagle got up, burned sage and sweetgrass, and performed a prayer in Lakota that lasted nearly forty-five minutes. Then he sang a low and haunting song of departure to the spirit world. After Little Eagle finished, it was time for the midnight feed. The people lined up behind the immediate family at the cafeteria window in the huge auditorium.

  Volunteers and some extended family members filled their plates with sandwiches, fried chicken, fry bread, wojapi, and large bowls of taniga. A large container of the tripe soup made with timpsila and dried corn sat at the end of the line. It was optional; not everybody liked taniga. For about an hour after he ate, Rudy walked around shaking hands with people. Most he knew, but many he didn’t.

  He shook hands with a lot of guys he’d busted and sent to Heartbreak Hotel. There was a large and strong-smelling delegation from the Pine Ridge wino’s union. They had lost one of their own. Usually at wakes, the winos hung out in the shadows, only having come to the wake to eat or sit and get warm. No matter who died, the winos always flocked to the wakes. They were an accepted part of life. They were part of the tribe. Now though, they strutted to and fro, proud that their compadre Mogie Yellow Shirt was receiving such a fine wake.

  Rudy’s sisters, the “Flying Nuns,” had set up Mogie’s old record player, and a stack of Mogie’s favorite, but scratchy 45s reverberated through the gym. They played a strange collection of Mogie tunes: “Endless Sleep” by Jody Reynolds, “Killer Joe” by Rocky Fellers, “It’s Over” by Roy Orbison, “Guantanamera” by the Sandpipers, and “Old Paint” by the Sons of the Pioneers.

  Geneva and Vienna had certainly played some of Mogie’s favorites, but they hadn’t played any of Mogie’s acid rock favorites like Led Zeppelin, Country Joe and the Fish, Big Brother and the Holding Company, or the Beatles. They were not too familiar with those albums. Rudy supposed not many nuns were.

  At 2:30 in the morning, Rudy made a quick trip home, sucked down a Budweiser tallboy, and let his dogs in the house. Then he jumped in the hot shower and drank another beer quickly as he stood in the steaming water. Twenty minutes later he was back at the wake.

  At five, some of the family members decided to go home and sleep for an hour or at least shower and change clothes before the burial at ten. Rudy had already showered and had no real reason to go home. He sat on a folding chair between Herbie and Aunt Helen, who was dozing.

  Mogie was being buried at Red Cloud Cemetery next to their mom and dad, their grandparents, and their great grandparents, and that pleased Aunt Helen. She had a special love for Mogie. He was not only her first nephew, but because of all the times she’d had to take care of the kids, she had really looked upon him as her own son. They all loved Helen. Even Herbie was closer to his aunt than he was to his own father. Herbie had accepted Mogie as a matter of fact, and more often than not a burden. He accepted Aunt Helen with unconditional love.

  At nine in the morning, Ed Little Eagle gave a final prayer and family members filed past Mogie to give him a final kiss or touch. Rudy kissed him on the forehead and placed an eagle feather into his folded hands. Then he stood on one side of the casket and scanned the crowd to see if he could spot Stella. He couldn’t.

  When all the family had kissed Mogie, those in the audience who wanted to filed by for a last view. Then the lid to the casket was closed and the pall bearers, including Rudy, Vincent, Herbie, and three of their male cousins, carted Mogie to the waiting silver hearse.

  Outside, a bright, but impotent sun teased the wintered land. A strong wind from the west whipped newspapers and empty beer cans around the back entrance of the hall. The huge parking lot that the hall shared with Sioux Nation Shopping Center was packed completely full of running cars ready for Mogie’s final parade. Then they headed out, the Yellow Shirt family immediately behind the hearse.

  Rudy’s immediate family was in his Blazer. His brother Vinny, his sisters Geneva and Vienna were all together, along with Aunt Helen and Herbie, and Rudy drove in the shadow of the hearse all the way to the Red Cloud cemetery.

  Behind them, a hundred and fifty cars crammed full of Oglalas followed. Rudy felt strangely empty, emotionless, and he felt guilty for feeling that way. He had cried all the tears he could for his brother. Mogie Yellow Shirt was now on his journey upon the wanagi canku, the ghost road. The road that every Indian must walk.

  The sun brightened at the cemetery. It was cold and the wind was still whipping small objects around. Then they lowered Mogie into the Indian earth. After some prayers, the grave was filled with dirt by family members and then by friends taking turns with seven shovels.

  While Rudy shoveled, he happened to turn his head and spotted Stella dressed in a dark suit and heavy coat in the huge crowd of mourners. He winked at her and pursed his lips into a kiss, but the wind was blowing so hard he didn’t know if she noticed his almost inappropriate signal of affection. He was glad for her beauty. He focused on it. Otherwise, he felt he might be overwhelmed with sadness.

  Rudy kept on shoveling and had a startling, unwanted image of his dad’s burial flash through his mind. He reflected back to the football game in the fall of ’67. For a moment his mind was lost in a small debate. Of all that happened that night of the Custer game, Rudy didn’t know which was worse: what his dad did to their mom in front of the whole damn football stadium or what Mogie did to their mom when she was passed out.

  No, it was really cut and dried. Mogie had done something truly horrible, but he had only been a child himself. Still, because of what Mogie did, Rudy knew his own mind had short-circuited and that he blew some kind of fuse. Somehow, he had lost some brain-agitating and heart-shriveling information for many years, and maybe that was for the best.

  Rudy moved earth until his arms hurt and then handed the shovel to someone else. And then it was over. Part of Rudy was buried in the ground, never to return, never to walk among the living. Mogie was now making his journey along the ghost road on his way to the spirit world. Rudy thought it was odd how he now remembered that Mogie used to joke and say that the Kmart up in Rapid City was “Indian Heaven.”

  After they buried Mogie, they all went to a huge dinner that afternoon at Billy Mills Hall. It was an especially sad, though well-cooked dinner. Someone had donated two hind quarters of beef, so they had their wastunkla wahunpi or dried corn soup, boiled beef stew, and roast beef as the main courses.

  Rudy was exhausted and not very hungry, but he sat and drank coffee. He munched on a piece of frybread and shook hands with dozens upon dozens of people, so many people that after a while he found himself timing how many seconds each person would hold his hand.

  It seemed like hundreds of winos were in the food line, getting their dinner as wateca or “take home” and then leaving to eat the food at home, if they had homes, or in the bushes or alleys if they did not. Rudy couldn’t blame them. He wanted to go home too. But he stayed for two more hours talking to Geneva and Vienna and Vinny about Mogie and then he went home. They decided they’d all meet the next morning at Aunt Helen’s for breakfast.

  When Rudy got to his house, it was turning dark. He let his mangy malamutes out to run in the backyard and went out with them to get some cold, but refreshing night air.

  The stars were alive and dancing. A waning silver moon dangled between two lone clouds. Hanhepi Wi, the moon, looked like a fat, white-bellied carp in a dark pond of twinkling minnows. Rudy heard a coyote down by the creek screeching his lonesome love song for some Pine Ridge bitch. Dewey and Louie howled back a studly challenge to the coyote. The air was thick with pine smoke from the neighborhood woodstoves. Spirits were dancing in the chilled air.

  Rudy lit a Marlboro. In the darkness, the shaking coal blended into the millions of stars in the Milky Way above his head. Each star was a campfire in the wanagi canku, the ghost road. Mogie was camped up there, journeying the road to the spirit world.

  All of their ancestors were up there waiting for him. Ciye, his older brother, was up there, sober, and in the best shape of his life. Mogie was up there, strong, young, and alive. Rudy waved up at him, gave him a clenched fist salute, and then he went inside and cried for two straight hours. Hard bitter tears.

  When he got tired of crying, he called Stella. She wasn’t home. Rudy wondered where she was, and the more he wondered, the more lonesome he became. She was the one who told him to call her, and he told her that he would. Well, he’d feed his two dogs, take a short nap, then try her again. He began to have jealous thoughts. Maybe she. . .no. Maybe she had found someone else, like she’d found him.

  His furry children weren’t thrilled when he fed them dry Purina Gravy Train because he was too tired to mix water and canned dog food into their bowls. Rudy knew that they were spoiled rotten and refused to eat at all. He said the hell with them and then he stripped buck naked and crawled into bed. The pouting Dewey and Louie soon joined him.

  Rudy slept for fourteen straight hours and had some sporadic but fractured dreams of remorse for Mogie, for himself, for the Oglala oyate, for all those pitiful, those onsica ones who suffered through life.

  Rudy didn’t know what the dogs dreamed about or if dogs dreamed at all. He speculated that if they did, the sunkas probably had better dreams than he did. Then again maybe they didn’t. Their own brother dog had died too, and he could tell they missed him.

  Rudy dreamed Indian lies: bitter dreams of broken arrows scattered in piles on the street corners, the dirt roads, the back alleys, and the cottonwood valleys of his reservation. The arrows told the same old story: “This road you are walking has no beginning or end. It’s an old Indian curse but don’t worry. It’s a good curse.”

  Rudy didn’t know whether to believe the arrows or not when he woke up, so he called Stella and told her how much he loved her. She told him what he wanted, needed to hear. Stella loved Rudy too. After he hung up, he decided to go back to work in two or three days even though he was still technically on leave.

  The next day, he called Eagleman and told him he’d be at work in two days. And two days later, he strapped on his holster. Wild Indians were waiting for him to arrest them. And after he’d spent the day locking skins in jail, he would have Stella to look forward to. Rudy Yellow Shirt would lock his brown skin inside her brown skin. Then maybe they’d drive over to the Hacienda in Gordon and eat some prime rib. But there was still one final thing that needed to be done.