Aggie's Broncs

Out on the sidewalk between the art gallery and the old downtown saloon, Fleetfoot was stabbed to death. But not before he'd cussed out the white man running the gallery. Milford stood in his open door staring down at the blood pooling from beneath the thick black rope of braid snaking down the Native American's back. "Good lord, what a spot to do murder. I'll never get the blood stains out of my sidewalk," Milford mumbled to himself but half out loud. Nasturtium the Third, Fleetfoot's wife, Aggie's cousin, and Wyoming's Secretary of State, was arrested for murder. "Just because Nasty was married to him, doesn't mean she killed him," said Aggie to Walt Fletcher, Cheyenne's chief of detectives. "Maybe not, but it puts her at the head of the list of suspects." Walt scratched his graying crew cut. An ex-Marine, the square-built, muscular policeman looked fierce when he scowled, more like a teddy bear when he grinned. An eye tooth missing, he could have been a six-year-old. Aggie knew better. She had seen her childhood chum up close and mean when he was into serious business. Like the time she had helped identify a killer in a heighborhood feud. "Walt, I'm sure it wasn't Nasty who stabbed Fleetfoot." "Why not? The news I get from an informant off the reservation, Fleetfoot was bad news, abused both his wife and son." Aggie gasped. This news was too close to home. Reminded her of her precious granddaughter, Nicole, and her relationship with her husband, Cowboy Billy Taylor. "If it's not revenge involved, like Fleetfoot's hate for the white man, it's often money and greed," she said, musing. Then, biting her tongue, she hoped Walt couldn't follow her train of thought. If something happened to Billy, the cops would surely arrest Nicole if they heard the gossip about her beating him up. Spousal abuse, sometimes it was the opposite of what people expected. Was she willing and able to protect either her cousin or her granddaughter? That was the question Aggie posed to herself.