Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery (11 page)

FATHER JOHN COULD
hear the cheering and shouting from the ballpark. He managed to fit the Toyota pickup between two SUVs at the curb alongside Riverton's city park. A big crowd had gathered for the game between the Riverton Rangers and the St. Francis Eagles, the team he had started ten years ago, his first summer at the mission when he had been looking for something familiar to do, a priest from Boston finding his way on an Indian reservation. Baseball bridged a lot of divides.

He ran across the grass toward the diamond. He was late; the game had probably ended. He hoped the crowd was cheering for the Eagles. Last time they had played against the mighty Rangers, the winningest team in the league, the Eagles had barely managed to hold on to a 4–3 lead. Everybody had thought the win was a fluke. Even some of his own players, he suspected. Back at the mission, they'd had a meeting. A pep talk. Don't underestimate yourselves, he'd told the kids seated cross-legged on the lawn in front of the administration building, brown faces turned up at him, eyes shining like black pools. Don't think you didn't deserve to win, because you did. You worked hard. You're winners. He remembered repeating the phrase numerous times until the black eyes started to smile and blink in agreement.

Now he jogged around the edge of the diamond to the dugout on the third-base side. The kids were jumping up and down, high-fiving one another, hollering and yelling with joy. A couple of kids were rolling on the grass. He could feel the excitement. “What's the score?” he yelled.

“We won, Father,” one of the kids shouted. Then the whole team rushed around him, chanting, “We won! We won!” Someone shouted, “Five–zip. Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can believe it.” He threw his head back and laughed. Across home plate, in the Ranger's dugout, he could see the slumped shoulders, the lowered heads gathered around Steve Mantle, the coach. He liked Mantle. He was fair to the kids. His son played for the Rangers. He could imagine what Mantle was telling his players.
Hey, everybody has an off day once in a while. You're still the best.
The same thing he would have told the Eagles had they lost.

Marcy Hawk caught his eye and walked over, blue baseball cap with Eagles in big white letters on her head. Marcy had been helping him coach this season, and she was good. Black-haired, round, brown face; in her thirties, short, stout with an arm that could hurl power balls. Her son, Liam, was one of the pitchers; the kid had gotten his talent from his mom, Father John thought. He'd asked Marcy to coach today, since he wasn't sure how long the burial ceremonies at the Broken Buffalo might take. Looked like Marcy had pulled in Dexter Horseman's dad, Dennis, to help with the coaching. The Eagles had been in good hands.

He had driven Clifford Many Horses home and visited for a few minutes, listening to the old man relive the experience of seeing the white buffalo calf. A stunned look about him, going over and over it: the small white calf turning from her mother and stepping out alone, facing the barbed-wire fence as if she were
seeing
them. Tears had welled in the old man's eyes as he talked, just as there had been tears when he'd seen the calf. “Spirit. Spirit.” He had said. “A beautiful name.”

Father John had waited with the old man until Betty had come with her dad's dinner. Then he had broken a few speed laws to get to Riverton before the game ended. “Congratulations!” He waved to Marcy and Dennis, awash in kids.

“It was electric!” Marcy shouted over the kids. “They could do no wrong.” She managed to work her way through the kids until she was next to him. “Liam did just like you've been coaching him. He threw strikes. Never got behind in the count! You know Liam.” She rolled her eyes. Her son was a lot like her, Father John was thinking. Always sure of what he was doing. “Likes to throw fastballs. But he did like we practiced and struck out five hitters. Even struck out the kid nobody wants to pitch to, the one that goes yard on other pitchers.”

“Way to go.” Liam had positioned himself in front of Father John, a smile as big as the prairie on his face. Father John patted the kid's shoulder.

“I was focused, Father.” Liam worked the words around the big, open smile. “I wanted to do my job. Nathan was catching, he signaled the pitches like we practiced. If he asked for a fastball down and away, that's what I pitched. They only got four hits off me in six innings. They didn't score a run. No way. When they did hit the ball, the team made all the plays.”

Father John wondered if Liam Hawk would ever forget this day. “We were a team, like you always say, Father. We worked together.”

“That they did.” Dennis walked over. “Dexter here”—he ruffled the black hair of his son—“had four hits and batted in two runners. Randall Hunter got us on the scoreboard early with a solo home run. Then Nathan drove in two runners with a key double.” He nodded to the skinny kid bouncing on his feet, tossing his cap into the air.

“Peter Boxley was on second when Randall came up again,” Marcy said. “Randall hit a single up the middle and Peter scored on a play at the plate. And Liam”—she patted the top of her son's cap—“totally shut them down. I put Mason in for the final three outs, and he did us proud.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Father John could see the Rangers lined up for the post-game handshakes. The kids had been so busy celebrating the unexpected win, they had forgotten that handshakes should come first. “Time to congratulate your opponents,” he shouted.

“They didn't win,” a high, thin voice shouted back.

“You know the rules of good sportsmanship. Congratulate them on a good game.” There were a few groans; kids were shuffling their feet.

“I don't like what they say to us.” Liam glanced up at him out of black, pleading eyes. “Like, ‘Dirty Indian.' ‘Go back to the rez.' Stuff like that.”

“You shake their hands anyway.” Father John said loud enough so all the kids could hear. “Doesn't matter what they say. You tell them they played a good game. You show them how to be good sports.”

They started to turn around, a slow, reluctant motion, and slot themselves into a single line that started toward the other line. He could hear the voices calling, “Good game. Way to go.” The lines moved fast past each other, palms barely touching. It was the ritual that counted. Marcy was grinning beside him. “What a sweet win,” she said.

Father John waited until the kids had finished the show of sportsmanship, then fell in beside Marcy and headed for Steve Mantle and a couple of other coaches on the Ranger's team. “I hear it was a great game,” he told Mantle.

“For your kids.” Mantle was about six foot two, almost as tall as Father John, with sandy-colored hair that stuck out in tufts around the red baseball cap with Rangers on the front. He towered over Marcy, who had plastered an earnest look on her face and begun assuring the other coaches their kids had played very well.

“We look forward to our next game,” Mantle said. He shot a meaningful look at the two coaches next to him, probably other fathers on the team. Father John recognized the look. Extra work at practice on whatever the coach thought the kids had messed up.

When they got back to the dugout, the kids had picked up the bats, balls, and catcher's gear and stuffed them into bags that they were lugging across the grass toward the parked cars. Father John thanked Marcy for coaching today and doing such a good job, gathered up a glove and bat he found in the dugout, and started down the outfield foul line.

“Hey, Father!” Mantle came jogging across the field, waving one hand as if he were feeling his way, a brown equipment bag slung over his shoulder. Father John waited for the man to fall in beside him. He was breathing hard, flushed. “Is what I heard about the rez true?”

“What did you hear?” Father John knew what the man would say; the moccasin telegraph usually ran into Riverton.

“White buffalo calf born.”

Father John stopped and faced the man. “It will be on tonight's news.”

“Born on the Broken Buffalo a week before Dennis Carey got shot? Sure surprised me. I expected a white buffalo calf would get born on an Indian ranch, not on that spread.”

“You know the Careys?”

Mantle shrugged and adjusted the wide strap over his shoulder. They started walking again. Out in the street, pickups and cars were pulling away from the curb. A few kids climbed into the waiting cars, excitement still leaking from their waving hands and bobbing heads. “Visited with them once or twice when they came into the office. I run Ranchlands Employment over on Main Street, try to match ranches that need help with cowboys looking for work. Dennis and Sheila came in a year ago last spring after they had the ranch six months or so. Came back last fall. I sent a few cowboys their way. Made some connections.”

They had reached the curb, and Father John set the glove and bat in the back of the pickup. He looked at the man, who readjusted his own bag, then started moving his baseball cap back and forth as if he were scratching his scalp. “Don't like speaking ill of the dead, but I never could figure out what they were doing out there. Sat across from me and said how much they needed help. I sent them perfectly good hands that they turned down. Only ones they hired came from out of state.”

Father John didn't say anything. He could still see the small, thin girl with black hair and blue eyes and skin as pale as the dawn sky. Nuala O'Brian, a pretty Irish girl with a brogue that had followed her to the U.S. and to some small town in New Mexico he had never heard of. He could still hear the panic in her voice. She was looking for her fiancé and she'd thought, well, because Jaime Madigan was Catholic, he might've come by the mission. He'd hired on to a buffalo ranch on the rez and had gone missing. Had Father John heard of him? He'd told her he was sorry, but he hadn't met Jaime. If he was missing, she should report it to the tribal police.

She had put out her hand, as if to stop that line of thought. Jaime wouldn't want the police looking for him. It's not that he was ever in serious trouble, but, you know, he'd sown a few wild oats before he'd met her. They were going to get married. The owners at the Broken Buffalo said he decided to leave one day. Packed up his bags and drove off. They had no idea where he went.

“Ever hear of a cowboy named Jaime Madigan?”

Mantle tipped his head back and stared at the sky a moment. The sun had set over the Wind River range an hour ago, and the clouds were fading into pinks and reds. There was a pinkish cast in the air. “Sounds familiar, but I can't be sure. Out of state?”

“New Mexico.”

“We get a lot of cowboys wandering in, looking for work. I might've placed him on the Broken Buffalo. Stop by tomorrow if you get a chance. I can take a look through the records.”

*   *   *

THE PALE FLUSH
of daylight hovered in the sky when Father John drove through the tunnel of cottonwoods and swung around Circle Drive. The mission had a deserted feeling. No parked cars about; a warm breeze tinged with the scent of wood smoke drifted into the cab. The Women's Society had met at five thirty for a carry-in supper at Eagle Hall. The odors of enchiladas, spaghetti, and stew clung to the walls of the old hall after every meeting. He circled past the alley that divided the administration building from the church. Eagle Hall stood behind the church. No cars in the alley.

Walks-On was waiting in the residence on the other side of Circle Drive, tail wagging, eyes shining. The dog had the ears of Superman. He would have heard the old Toyota pickup lumbering through the cottonwoods and coming around the drive. Father John went down on his haunches, rubbed the soft fur behind the dog's ears, and closed his eyes as Walks-On lavished wet kisses on his cheeks. “Good boy,” he said. Walks-On had that odd look on his face, as if he were trying to smile.

Television noises, voices talking over one another, floated out of the living room. He stood up and walked into the dimly lit room with curtains pulled and television lights flashing over the carpet and the sofa. Bishop Harry looked settled and comfortable in the recliner next to the sofa.

“You've heard about the white buffalo calf?”

“All over the TV, my boy. Couldn't miss it.” The bishop looked up and gave him a smile of gladness and wariness. “You see her?”

Father John perched on the armrest of the sofa, Walks-On dropping at his feet. The bishop muted the television voices and, for a moment, they watched in the silence as the small white calf strolled alongside her mother. At one point she veered off sideways, as if she might scamper away. She looked healthy and energetic. Whatever invisible sign the mother had sent, the calf turned back and started nuzzling beneath the shaggy hair on her mother's stomach until she latched onto the teat. “I saw her this afternoon. She's small and helpless looking, like a lamb. The tribes believe she is a symbol of the Creator with us. Her name is Spirit.”

“The Creator has blessed us with many symbols in the world.” The bishop kept his eyes on the small white creature sheltering beneath the enormous, powerful-looking buffalo. It struck Father John that the dam would kill anyone—any creature—if she perceived any danger to her calf. “We must open our hearts to see them,” the bishop said. “I think the Creator sends signs to get our attention. There were many signs in India.” He shook his head. “The Brahman bull. The sacred cow, the sign of all life. The Gaja.” He seemed to be staring into a space inside his head, as if he had located a lost memory. “The elephant, the sign of the Creator's heavenly throne. Sometimes we just don't see the signs around us.”

“The Arapahos believe the calf is a manifestation of White Buffalo Woman, who . . .”

The bishop held up one hand. “Who brought the sacred rituals and ceremonies to the Lakota, but meant them for all Indian people. I did some research this afternoon.”