“What for?”

“He’s been buying silver, shells, feathers, and stones from me for years. I’ve always had trouble getting him to pay. He makes, or rather made, beautiful things, but he doesn’t sell them for enough money. A lot of the time he wouldn’t sell them at all.”

“So you cut him off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Two weeks ago. I have to pay my suppliers. You see all that stuff over there? Cost me hundreds of dollars. I supply all the artists and jewelers in this section of the Rez.”

“And you had a fight with him?”

“Yes, sir. I went over there to collect at least some of what was owed. My wife has diabetes and she can’t work anymore. I need the money. So I went there and he spoke to me disrespectfully and we had a tussle.”

“I see you still have a black eye.”

“He threw the first punch.”

“People say you threw it.”

“They can go to hell.”

“They also say you lost the fight.”

“They can go to hell two times over. No one got the better of me. I whupped his ass.”

Coldmoon thought. “That buckskin jacket you’re wearing? Beautiful.”

He grunted.

“Is that the work of Mr. Twoeagle?”

“Payment in kind.”

Coldmoon nodded. “Mr. Running, Mr. Twoeagle was murdered between noon and four on Sunday. May I ask where you were during that time?”

“Right here. With Mrs. Running.”

“That’s right,” said his wife loudly from another room, where she had apparently been listening.

“What were you doing?”

“What doyoudo, sittin’ around the house? Drink coffee. Listen to music. Catch up on work.”

“Do you own a rifle, Mr. Running?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Browning.”

“Browning what?”

“.223 caliber, lever action, twenty-inch barrel, stainless.”

“Can I see it?”