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Brushy Jim stirred。 〃Well； now； Mr。 Pendergast； I don't think 'willing' is the right word there。 It's just not a pretty story； that's all。〃
〃I'm all ears； Mr。 Draper。〃
Brushy Jim licked his lips。 Then he leaned forward。 〃All right； then。 You know how I said that the sentries were among the last to be killed？〃
Pendergast nodded。 He had picked up a battered copy ofButler & pany's New American First Reader and was leafing through it。
〃The very last to be killed was a fellow named Harry Beaumont。 He was the leader of the Forty…Fives and a real hard case； too。 The Indians were furious at what had been done to their women and children； and they punished Beaumont for it。 They didn't just scalp him。 Theyrounded him。〃
〃I'm not familiar with that term。〃
〃Well； let's just say that they did something to Harry Beaumont that would make sure none of his family recognized him in the afterlife。 And after they were done they cut off his boots and skinned off the soles of his feet； so his spirit couldn't follow them。 Then they buried the boots on either side of the Mounds； as a backup； like； to trap his evil spirit there forever。〃
Pendergast returned the book； pulled out another； even more battered； titledmerce of the Prairies。 He flipped through the pages。 〃I see。 And the curse？〃
〃Different people will tell you different things。 Some say Beaumont's ghost still haunts the Mounds； looking for his missing boots。 Some say still worse things that I'd just as soon not repeat in front of a lady； if it's all the same to you。 But the one thing I can tell you for sure is that； right before he died； Beaumont cursed the very ground around him…cursed it for all eternity。 My great…granddaddy was still hidden in the hollow； and he heard him with his own ears。 He was the only living witness。〃
〃I see。〃 Pendergast had pulled out another volume； very narrow and tall。 〃Thank you； Mr。 Draper； for a most interesting history lesson。〃
Brushy Jim rose。 〃Not a problem。〃
But Pendergast seemed not to hear。 He was staring closely at the narrow book。 It had a cheap cloth cover； Corrie noticed； and its ruled pages seemed filled with crude drawings。
〃Oh； that old thing；〃 Brushy Jim said。 〃My dad bought that off some soldier's widow； years and years ago。 Swindled。 I'm ashamed he was taken in by such a fake。 Always meant to throw it out with the trash。〃
〃This is no fake。〃 Pendergast turned a page； then another； with something close to reverence。 〃To all appearances； this is a genuine Indian ledger book。 Fully intact； as well。〃
〃Ledger book？〃 Corrie repeated。 〃What's that？〃
〃The Cheyenne would take an old Army ledger book and draw pictures on the pages…of battles； courtship； the hunt。 The pictures would chronicle the life of a warrior； a kind of biography。 The Indians thought decorated ledger books had supernatural powers； and if you strapped one to your body they would render you invincible。 The Natural History Museum in New York has a ledger book done by a Cheyenne Indian named Little Finger Nail。 It wasn't as magical as Little Finger Nail would have liked： it still bears the mark of the soldier's carbine ball that passed through both the ledger bookand him as well。〃
Brushy Jim was staring； wide…eyed。 〃You mean 。 。 。〃 he began in an incredulous tone。 〃You mean to say that； all this time 。 。 。 The thing's real？〃
Pendergast nodded。 〃Not only that； but unless I'm much mistaken； it's a work of singular importance。 This scene； here； seems emblematic of the Little Bighorn。 And this； at the end of the book； appears to be a depiction of the Ghost Dance religion。〃 He closed the volume with care and handed it to Brushy Jim。 〃This is the work of a Sioux chief。 And here perhaps is his glyph； which might be interpreted as Buffalo Hump。 It would take additional scholarship to be sure。〃
Brushy Jim held the book at arm's length； trembling； as if afraid to drop it。
〃You realize that it's worth several hundred thousand dollars；〃 Pendergast said。 〃Perhaps more； should you want to sell it。 It is in need of conservation； though。 The groundwood pulp in ledger book paper is highly acidic。〃
Slowly； Brushy Jim brought the book closer； turned the pages。 〃I want to keep this here book； Mr。 Pendergast。 The money's no good to me。 But how do I get it； um； conserved？〃
〃I know a gentleman who can work wonders with books as damaged and frail as this one。 I'd be happy to have it taken care of； gratis； of course。〃
Brushy Jim looked at the book for a minute。 Then； without a word； he extended it to Pendergast。
They said their goodbyes。 As Corrie drove back to town； Pendergast fell into silence； eyes closed； deep in thought； the carefully wrapped ledger book held very gently in one hand。
Eighteen
Willie Stott moved across the slick concrete floor； sweeping the hot mixture of bleach and water back and forth； propelling stray gizzards； heads； crests； guts； and all the other poultry effluvia…collectively known as 〃gibs〃 by the line workers…toward the huge stainless steel sink in the floor below the Evisceration Area。 With the expertise of years； Stott flicked his hose hand left and right； sending additional strings of offal skidding away under the force of the cleanser； rolling them all up neatly together as they were forced toward the center。 Stott worked the jet like an artist works a brush； teasing everything into a long bloody rope before giving it one final signature blast that propelled it down the drain with a wet swallow。 He gave the floor a once…over； snaking the jet here and there to catch a few stray strings and wattles； the odd beak； causing the stragglers to jump and dance under the play of the hose。
Stott had given up eating turkey within days of starting work at Gro…Bain； and after a few months had given up meat altogether。 Most everybody else he knew who worked there was the same。 At Thanksgiving； Gro…Bain gave free turkeys to all its employees； but Stott had yet to meet anyone who actually ate it。
Work plete； he switched off and racked the nozzle。 It was ten…fifteen and the last of the second shift had left hours before。 In years past there would have been a third shift； from eight until four in the morning； but those days were gone。
He felt the forting pressure in his back pocket from the pint bottle of Old Grand…Dad。 As a reward for finishing； he slipped out the flask； unscrewed the cap； and took a pull。 The whiskey； warmed to body temperature； traced a nice warm tingling line right down to his belly and then； a few moments later； back up to his head。
Life wasn't so bad。
He took a final pull and emptied the bottle； shoved it back into his pocket； and picked up the big squeegee that hung on the tiled wall。 Back and forth； back and forth…in another five minutes the floor； workers' platform； and conveyor belt overhead were all so clean and dry you could eat off them。 And the stench of turkey shit； fear； blood； and sour guts had been replaced by the clean； astringent smell of bleach。 Another job well done。 Stott felt a small stab of pride。
He reached for the bottle； then remembered it was empty。 He glanced at his watch。 The Wagon Wheel would be open for another thirty minutes。 If Jimmy； the night guard； a