The Shaman Laughs (3 page)

"Let's see," Homer scratched nervously at the gray stubble on his chin. "What's today? Thursday? Yeah. We moved 'em out on Monday. Took most of the day, I guess we got the last of 'em out about sundown. I'm sure it was Monday 'cause it was just before the big rain on Tuesday morning." He squinted at a long bank of clouds. "That sure was some gully-washer."

Moon left Homer leaning on the fence; the policeman walked around the south side of the pen, then the west side that paralleled the river. He poked around inside the ruined house; Homer had filled most of it with alfalfa hay. It took him almost half an hour to circle the pen. He paused several times to study the ground; it was still soft from Tuesday's rain. There were occasional tracks of coyote and raccoon. Even wild turkey. But no human prints aside from Homer's pointy-toed size-seven Tony Lamas. And no tire tracks. There were more questions than the locked gate and unbroken fence. The sensible way to kill a buffalo was with a rifle; but a gunshot would almost certainly have been heard. This was a quiet spot, and the veterinarian who lived up the hill near the county road didn't miss much. Only last month, Harry Schaid had called the police after midnight to report a "big ruckus down at the buffalo pen." Officers Sally Rainwater and Daniel Bignight had answered the call. Sally's report said they had driven off a pack of stray dogs that were worrying the buffalo. No, if there had been a shot near the pen, the veterinarian would have called it in. Or maybe Doc Schaid wasn't at home that night. Nothing was simple.

Homer was waiting at the corner post, stuffing his jaw with chewing tobacco. "Find anything?"

Moon nodded. "Not much." But it was clear that Rolling Thunder had vanished sometime before the rain washed the sign away. And, of course, after the other members of the herd were moved to the new pasture. Sometime between sundown last Monday and two or three the next morning when the rains came.

Homer blinked and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "I'm gonna miss that cranky old bastard." The aging bull was irritable and, when annoyed, dangerous. But Homer, who was getting old and cranky himself, had loved the animal. Tonompicket felt a pang of disappointment at the policeman's casual treatment of the disappearance; he had hoped for more. With Moon on top of this, there should have been a good story to tell and retell and embellish during the long winter nights when the freezing winds spilled down from the mountains and whistled through the pines.

But Homer realized that he would have to be patient. Police Chief Roy Severo always said that Charlie Moon might take his own good time to figure things out, but that in the long run, he generally got the job done. The Utes were proud of their big policeman's remarkable ability to make sense of actions that, on the surface, seemed to have no meaning. Only last year Moon had figured out why someone broke into the grocery store over on Goddard Avenue and took fifteen bottles of mouthwash without touching nearly two hundred dollars in the cash register. And just this spring,

Moon had immediately understood why someone had felled the flag post in front of the Ignacio post office. And understanding why had revealed "who." But for the moment, Homer mused, it looked like the big policeman had his mind on something else.

Charlie Moon pushed his hands deep into his jacket pockets. Normally at this moment, the Ute policeman would have been enjoying a plate of
huevos rancheros
at Angel's Diner. And his third cup of black coffee. He gazed across the waters of the Los Pinos toward the racetrack. Moon had a feeling… He would see Benita today.

Never Stops Talking interrupted his reverie.

The policeman turned his attention back to the old cow. Never Stops Talking had begun to talk. She puffed and snorted; her lungs rattled as she exhaled a warm mist. It was as if she had suddenly become aware of the Utes. The old cow wagged her shaggy head, then pawed the ground. Dare to come near, she announced in a language that could not be misunderstood, and I will make short work of you! Moon watched the animal with the innocent fascination of a child. If only you
could
talk, then you could tell me what happened here. In the old days, there were Utes who spoke to the buffalo. And the buffalo, the old men insisted, spoke to the People. The policeman's eyes locked with those of the great shaggy animal. Moon was mesmerized; unable to look away. Never Stops Talking suddenly shifted her head and looked toward the Los Pinos. What were those enormous, unblinking brown eyes staring at? He scanned the river bank. A morning breeze was beginning to stir the cottonwoods; the leaves rattled like dry bones. Then, the buffalo turned to glare past Moon toward the highway. She snorted, flipped her head, and pawed at the grass.

Homer chuckled. "I think she likes you, Charlie. Maybe she's tryin' to tell you something."

Maybe she was. Something peculiar had happened here, and he could still sense the remnant of its presence. Like a bad odor. The Ute policeman had an unsettling sensation—he had felt unseen eyes staring at the back of his head since he arrived at the buffalo pen. Aunt Daisy would say: "Pay attention to your spirit when it talks to you, Charlie. Sometimes it sees what your eyes can't." Maybe. But the wrong kind of imagination could get in the way of good police work. He grunted and turned toward the Blazer. "Let's go find some breakfast."

Homer Tonompicket followed, pleased at what he had accomplished by involving Moon in this mystery. The missing buffalo was now a police matter; it would be Charlie Moon who would write the official report. Moon would have to face the tribal chairman who sat in the chamber under the mounted head of the great buffalo, presiding over the affairs of the People. Tonompicket shuddered at the scene his mind painted. The chairman would be flanked by irate members of the tribal council, who would demand to know how Rolling Thunder had been lost and who was to blame. But Charlie Moon would cover for the game warden; Homer's face had recovered its customary smile. He drifted off into nostalgic recollections of Ernest Tubb and Roy Acuff and Little Jimmy Dickens. And, most of all, old Hank Williams. Under his breath so Charlie wouldn't hear, Homer sang a few lines about a man who was so awful lonesome he might as well just lay down and die. He felt the tears well up in his eyes; the tight knot in his throat choked off the sad song. Homer was remembering someone… his quiet little wife. Elisabeth had finished washing the breakfast dishes on that gray day in March. Then, she simply walked out the front door. He thought she was going to get the newspaper, but she didn't come back. He'd heard gossip that his wife was living with a school teacher in Albuquerque. Or with a truck driver in Fort Collins. Or that she had died from the tuberculosis in Kansas City. It was more than three years now, but Homer still expected her to show up any day. He sighed and shook his head in bittersweet sorrow. "You know, Charlie," he rasped hoarsely, "there damn sure won't never be another Hank Williams!" Or another Elisabeth.

Moon turned onto the blacktop and thought about it. Homer was right. Old Hank had crossed that deep river a long time ago. And now Rolling Thunder was gone. Vanished. Like night mist in the morning sunshine. But the Ute policeman had sensed something; this piece of work had the character of… a
message
. He had no idea who had written this letter, but there was no getting around it—the name on the envelope was Charlie Moon.

CaXon del Espiritu

It was early morning. The pale moon was still hanging in the western sky and the rising sun was blocked by a heavy bank of clouds. Daisy Perika bent over to pour cold well water from the galvanized pail onto the thirsty roots of a Better Girl. "There, there, sweet little
tumdtis
," the old woman sang soothingly to the scrawny tomato vine, "have yourself a long drink." She would have felt foolish if anyone could have heard her speaking to a plant, but there was not a living soul within a mile of her little trailer home at the mouth of
Canon del Espiritu
. The shaman was not concerned that one of the multitude of ancient ghosts might venture forth from their peaceful rest in Spirit Canyon to eavesdrop on an old woman's conversation. You learned to live with the
uru-ci
like you learned to live with the nervous little prairie rattlesnakes. You let them alone, respected their right to be where they were, they wouldn't harm you. Well, most of the time they wouldn't.

With some difficulty, she stood upright and straightened her aching back. What the half-dozen blighted tomato plants needed was a taste of fertilizer, but she had already used up the last of the blue powder from the box of Miracle-Gro and would not be able to buy more until the social security check arrived in her mail box. It would be cheaper to buy tomatoes at the grocery store in Ignacio, but their tart taste didn't compare to her sweet vine-ripened Better Girls.

As Daisy was wondering whether her little vegetable garden could endure for another week without fertilizer, a small cloud slipped over the white disk of the moon. Into the shadowy stillness, a gust of wind was exhaled from the yawning mouth of
Caüon del Espiritu
, whipping the old woman's wool skirts around her arthritic knees. The wind was deathly cold. She turned to gaze intently toward the mouth of the canyon. The shaman was certain that in her mind's eye, she could see the male spirit of this icy wind—a billowing gray form that beckoned to her. This was, as her grandmother would have told her when she was barely twelve, a sign to be read. Daisy turned her gaze upward to a small dark cloud that moved stubbornly against the winds. While great cumulus clouds were drifting to the east, this dismal blemish of frozen vapor was attached to the face of the moon as the great orb fell toward the western horizon. Yes, the cold wind from the Canyon of the Spirits was certainly a sign. And the wrong-way cloud was also an omen. But what did it mean? Daisy Perika thought she knew.

"Charlie," she whispered, "Charlie Moon…"

Interstate 25, South of Denver

Scott Parris hadn't spoken ten words during the long drive to the airport. Anne Foster unbuckled her safety belt and moved close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He tried to ignore the soft waves of strawberry hair, the scent of honeysuckle. The policeman glanced at Anne's safety belt, now useless on the passenger seat. "I oughta give you a ticket for that."

She whispered in his ear. "For snuggling? Not even the chief of police would be so unromantic."

In spite of his glum mood, he smiled briefly and put his arm around her. "You'll be a long time gone." And so far away.

"Oh, I don't know. It'll pass quickly enough for you, with all your official duties to keep you occupied." She pretended to pout. "You'll probably forget all about me."

"Yeah," he muttered, "when pigs learn how to fly." . "When they do," she countered, "you could wing out to see me. I'd love," she added in a husky whisper, "to entertain you."

He pulled her close, and grinned. "From time to time, a man does need a bit of entertainment."

Anne had little to say on the rest of the trip to Denver International, and he had less. He checked her bags and picked up her boarding pass. As they hurried toward the gate, Parris held her bulky carry-on in one hand, squeezed her little hand in the other. His thoughts were on an earlier journey. The airport that time had been O'Hare. It had been Helen who hung on his arm and promised that the brief visit to her mother in Canada would just "whiz by." His wife had died in Montreal in a freak traffic accident. This catastrophe had sent him into a deep abyss of depression and triggered his early retirement from the Chicago police force. That trip to the airport had started a tragic chain of events that eventually led him to Granite Creek in Colorado where he had now served almost two years as chief of police.

He kissed her, then watched her slender form disappear into the mouth of the long tunnel that disgorged its contents into the belly of the sleek airplane. Scott Parris stood by the plate glass window; he frowned at the greasy stains on the engine cover and wondered whether the near-bankrupt airline could afford proper maintenance. He also wondered when he would see her again—
if
he would see her again. The policeman turned away, angry with himself for these absurd, neurotic imaginings. Of course the engine wouldn't fall off the wing. Of course she would be back. And if the deep lonesomes moved in to stay, he would say good-bye to Colorado and show up at her door. This fantasy was immensely calming.

He was in the parking garage when he heard Sam Parker's booming voice.

"Parris! Scott Parris, you trout-fishing sunnuvagun, is that you?" Parker burst from a crowd of travelers, the image of a successful attorney in his expensive three-piece suit.

Parris grabbed Parker's outstretched hand and pumped it with enthusiasm.

The special agent in charge of the Denver Field Office was, he explained from the corner of his mouth, just returning from a trip to Boston. On some unmentioned Bureau business. "Why don't you come over to the house this evening, spend the night with us," Sam said. "I'll broil some steaks so rare, there'll still be ticks on the hide."