Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery (10 page)

Sheila turned back. “As you can tell from the cars and pickups that have arrived, the news has gotten out. I was hoping to get Dennis laid to rest before I made the announcement, but people have been showing up all day, demanding to see Spirit. I have hired a few new hands, and I'm going to need more. We've cleared a path along the fence to keep people from wandering all over the ranch looking for Spirit. The path will take them to the place where they can see her in the far pasture. No one will walk out there without an escort. We can only take a few people at a time. Father John and Mr. Many Horses have already gone out. If you like, the rest of you can go with Carlos now. You will have to excuse me. I promised the TV reporter an interview.”

Sheila Carey turned around and started past the barn toward the front gate, resolve in her stride. For a moment, nobody moved, then Carlos waved his arm like a baton, and said, “Follow me.”

Vicky realized John O'Malley had moved to her side. “I heard you found the body. How are you doing?”

She forced a little shrug, afraid that she might burst into tears. It had been hard to come across the body of a man shot to death in the night, hard to be there with Adam protesting, not understanding. John O'Malley understood. “I'll be fine,” she heard herself say.

Clifford Many Horses had wandered over and stopped in front of her. “Our people have been blessed,” he said. “You must go to the pasture, Daughter.”

She nodded and tried for a smile that would reassure the elder that she grasped the importance of the calf. She let her eyes glance off John O'Malley's, then started after Carlos and the others.

VICKY FOLLOWED THE
little group along the barbed-wire fence, past the gate with a big chain linking the posts together. Carlos in the lead, looking straight ahead, a spring in his step as if he were leading visitors to see a rare creature at the zoo. Lined up behind him, the ranchers and their wives, Chief Banner and the other BIA officer. Not from these parts, Vicky thought. He looked Navajo. She gave herself a little space behind them. It had been good to see John O'Malley, as if, because he was here, everything was as it should be. She hadn't seen him all summer, but the moccasin telegraph kept her informed: the scholarship he had arranged for Jimmy Summer at Creighton; the Saturday morning coffees with the elders at the senior center; the new day care center he was starting at the mission. The people would miss him when he left. She pushed the thought away. She didn't want to think of John O'Malley leaving.

The late-afternoon sun blazed in a clear sky; the hot, dry breeze rippled the dusty path. Off to the north, the pasture ran into the sky, the earth flat and brown with tufts of grass and sagebrush here and there and cottonwoods clustered near an underground spring or tiny creek. A few buffalo meandered about the cottonwoods, at home on the dry, bare earth, just as they had been at home for centuries. Nobody knew how long.
Buffalo came out of the earth.
She could hear her grandfather's voice as if he were walking beside her, his footsteps in rhythm with hers. She could imagine the excitement, the joy he would have felt to see a white buffalo calf.
We are close relations to the buffalo. They gave themselves that the people might live. The people must always show respect and gratitude. If the buffalo go back into the earth, the people will die.

It had almost happened. Buffalo had been slaughtered across the plains. She remembered other stories Grandfather told, stories he had heard from his own grandfather: mounds of buffalo bones higher than log cabins, bleaching in the sun. They had been close to extinction, a few herds hanging on, mangy and starving, hides drooping over skeletons weak from running and running from the guns. Her people and the other Indian nations had also been close to extinction. She blinked at Grandfather's words in her head:
Eight hundred Arapahos had straggled onto the rez. We were a pitiful bunch.

Vicky stayed with the others around a curve. It was then she saw a small herd of buffalo, grazing placidly, content, the wind shearing the fur on their massive heads. A cow looked up, snorted, and went back to grazing. Out on the pasture, moving among another stand of cottonwoods, were at least two dozen head. And beyond them, Vicky could see more buffalo.

Carlos had stopped. He gestured with his fist at the herd in the cottonwoods. Vicky stopped behind the others and searched the herd for a small, white calf. “Watch and wait,” he said. “Takes a few minutes before the mother shows herself. She knows when the calf has visitors. Always shows off her calf when Sheila and me come out. There!” His fist jumped up and down.

Vicky saw the huge, brown buffalo cow moving out of the trees. Swaying at her side was a white calf. She looked smooth and unruffled, as velvety as snow. Vicky felt her legs go weak. She set her hand against the post to steady herself, afraid she might fall down.
The calf will be a sign the Creator is with us.
Grandfather's voice still running through her head. She could sense the power in the small animal. Something holy and ineffable. She wiped at the moisture on her cheeks and wondered what John O'Malley had thought—a priest from another way, so different from her own. She wondered if he had sensed the power, understood the meaning. Surely the Creator gave different signs to different peoples.

She should have brought an offering. She glanced beyond the little group to where a small, tan-colored bag was attached to the fence. Clifford Many Horses would have brought the bag, she knew. Inside was tobacco, a worthy and fitting offering. She tried to think what she had in her bag that she could leave as a sign of respect. A sign she had been here. She rummaged in the bag until she found the soft case that held her sunglasses. She took out the glasses. The case was red, with blue-and-yellow designs and ties of black ribbon, the Arapaho colors for the four directions, east, south, west, and north. She reached up and plucked a strand of hair. Then another and another, winding them together until she had a thin, black string, which she rolled into a ball and slipped inside the case. She tied the black ribbon onto the fence. The case shivered in the breeze.

“You seen the crowd at the front gate. We have more groups to bring out.” Carlos started walking back, a familiar confidence in the square of his shoulders, as if he assumed the others would fall in behind.

Banner turned around. His eyes were like black pools. The Navajo officer behind him rubbed a fist across his own eyes. They felt the same, Vicky thought. Everyone except for Carlos, walking away. The white ranchers and the women stood still another moment, gazing at the small white calf. Then shrugging at each other, they started after Carlos, as if the calf made some difference but they weren't sure what it might be.

“It's wonderful.” Vicky fell in next to Banner.

“Part of me wishes it was born on another reservation. We're going to be double-shifting all the officers until we see how many people come. Might have to call for help from outside.” Vicky felt the chief glance sideways at her. “I hear your client got lucky.”

“Arnie's in rehab.”

“Drunk or sober, he's a troublemaker. There's a rumor he's behind the random shootings. Three so far.” God, Vicky was thinking. Did nothing escape the moccasin telegraph? “Things have been quiet since Arnie boy's been waiting for trial. Now he's in rehab, I suspect the shootings will stop.”

Vicky didn't say anything. She was aware of the scuff of the ranchers' boots ahead. She could guess what had happened. One of Arnie's friends arrested, probably on a DUI or disturbance or assault, begging to make a trade. Arnie's involvement in the random shootings in exchange for his own skin. “I'm not aware of any additional charges filed against my client.”

“Not yet,” Banner said. “Let's say I'm giving you a heads-up.”

“What about Rick Tomlin. Any word on him?”

“He's gone, Vicky. Nowhere in these parts or we would have heard. Somebody would have given him up.”

“Right.” Gone, she was thinking.

“Cowboys like him are drifters. Start out in New Mexico or Texas and drift north until they hit the border, then start drifting back. Tomlin's in Montana or Idaho.”

“Sheila Carey thinks he could have killed her husband.”

“FBI is working the case. They haven't found any trace of Tomlin, which means he's out herding cattle in the middle of nowhere. Nobody knows where he is and nobody can get to him.” Banner stopped, and the Navajo officer behind him also stopped as if they were chained together, two officers protecting each other. “You ask me, Mrs. Carey and her husband would've been a whole lot better off hiring from the rez. The warriors have ties. Family, responsibilities, ceremonies, all the things that keep them close to home. Wouldn't have these drifters like the cowboys out front, work for a while 'til they get bored and set off for someplace different.”

“We have Arapahos working for us.” The two ranchers stopped and turned back, their wives stopping behind them, glancing at one another. A fringe of black hair showed below the cowboy hat of the tall, gangly-looking rancher. The other man was a couple of inches shorter, squat, with long, powerful-looking arms, a big cowboy hat, and a shiny, smooth spot at the base of his skull that made her think he was probably bald. “Nobody understands horses better than Raps,” said the squat rancher. “They can ride anything. Take the herd out to pasture, bring them back. I got to agree with you, Chief.” He tipped his head toward Banner. “They got ties around here, so you know they're not going to take off just when you need the herd rounded up.”

“Free country,” the other rancher said. “I guess Dennis could hire any hands he wanted. Maybe he felt more comfortable with white guys. No offense.” He threw a glance between Banner and the other officer. “I heard he had enough trouble getting along with his help. Maybe he thought Indians would be even more trouble.”

“Where did you hear that?” Banner said.

“Just some things he said at meetings. Ranchers hereabouts get together to chew the fat, talk over common problems, like we did the night he got shot. Dennis was always hiring or firing. Claimed he couldn't get anybody he could depend upon, but he kept trying.” He gave a ragged laugh that sounded as if he were clearing his throat.

“You ask me,” the short rancher said, “Dennis knew he was going to get killed.”

“What makes you think so?” Banner said.

“Last couple meetings, he was a nervous wreck. Couldn't sit still, couldn't stop talking. Real jumpy. Truck backfired outdoors. He jumped a foot.”

“Drinking a lot,” the other rancher put in. “Four or five shots every meeting. Staggered outside and got in his truck. Jesus. I told him more than once he shouldn't be driving. Give me the keys, I said. Me and Chet'll take you home. But nothing doing. Everything in control, he said. You ask me, he was out of control. Something was on him, tracking him like a big mountain lion, and he knew it. He was just waiting until it took him out.”

“You tell the fed this?”

“Lot of good it done.” The gangly man leaned sideways and spit a string of saliva onto the dirt. “Just a hunch. We don't have proof. Wasn't like Dennis took us into his confidence.” He gave another snort-laugh, and the other rancher laughed with him. “Anyway, we gave our opinion, for what it's worth.” He shrugged. “Well, time we was getting back to our spreads. See you around, Officers.” The ranchers lifted two fingers and saluted toward Vicky. “Ma'am,” one of them said. Then they were off, the men and their wives heading toward the crowd clustered at the gate, past Carlos coming down the path with six or seven visitors in tow.

“You know anything about Dennis being nervous?” Vicky realized Banner was staring at her.

She shook her head and looked in the direction of the patch of ground where the ashes of Dennis Carey had been buried. “I never met the man.”

Carlos and the little group passed by, making a half circle around them. A mixture of Indians and whites, somber and reflective, as if they were on their way to church. Banner and the Navajo started toward the gate, and Vicky stayed with them until they had reached the front of the house. Sheila Carey stood on the porch, talking to two men. One held a camera on his shoulder.

“See you later,” Vicky said, veering to the right. She made her way across a patch of shade to the porch steps and waited. After a few minutes, the two men stomped down the steps, faces cracked in grins. The cowboy with the black hat walked over. “This way out to the north pasture to see the calf,” he said.

Sheila came down the steps, her eyes trailing after the three men. “Well, that's it.” She might have been speaking into space. “It'll be all over the news tonight. Spread across the nation, I expect.” Her voice rose and fell on notes of anticipation.

“It meant a lot to see the white calf,” Vicky said. “Thank you.” She waited a beat, then she said, “There's something I wanted to tell you.” The woman turned slowly toward Vicky, as if she were turning toward a minor inconvenience. “I spoke with a cowboy from Colorado, Reg Hartly.”

“Colorado? What does he want? A job? I'll need more help with the crowds coming.”

“He's looking for a friend. Josh Barker. One of the cowboys told him nobody by that name ever worked here, but he said Josh had sent postcards home saying he had been hired on the Broken Buffalo.”

Something happened in the woman's face, as if the muscles and sinews were starting to collapse. “One of the cowboys that hated Dennis. Hated him! Took off one day after a big argument. Just got in his truck and drove out of here. Just like Rick Tomlin. Left us high and dry with dams getting ready to calve. I'm sick of questions about those sonofabitches!” She was shouting, and Vicky took a couple of steps back. “Do you understand? Sick and tired of questions.”

“I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Shock registered in her features, as if she realized she was shouting. She lowered her voice, but angry red marks were moving up her throat and into her cheeks. “Why shouldn't I be upset? Cops knocking on my door looking for Tomlin. Expect me to know where he is. Now this cowboy looking for some other cowboy. The new hires don't know who worked here before, and I plan to keep it that way. Anybody comes around asking questions, they'll get rid of them. God, let the cops find them. Rick. Josh. Whoever. One of them killed my husband.” She took off her cowboy hat, ran her hand through her reddish hair, and set the cowboy hat back on. “You tell your cowboy friend, he shows up, I'll have him tossed out on his head.”

Sheila swung around, marched up the steps, and let herself into the house. The screen door banged behind her in the wind.

Vicky started for the gate, aware that the people there had been watching, like an audience at a play, surprise and shadows of worry on their faces. She was about to duck under the gate when she saw the wooden post just inside the gate. It had a new, bleached look about it. She hadn't noticed it before. Affixed to the top was a metal container with the word
DONATIONS
printed in bright red letters.