Buffalo Bill's Dead Now (A Wind River Mystery)

by Margaret Coel

  There had been other visitors this afternoon: three stout, serious-looking white men in topcoats and hats, walking through camp, stopping to talk to Show Indians still in their regalia, visiting with women selling beaded necklaces and bracelets and earrings outside the tipis. Always jotting something down in notepads. Sonny had avoided them, his mind focused on protecting Chief Black Heart’s regalia.

  An Indian family hurried toward the dining tent, kids running back and forth, hollering and laughing. Horses neighed in the corral, and a couple of dogs had started barking. Pieces of memory surged inside him. He was back in his village in Oklahoma, one of the kids racing about, playing games. One day the government men from the agency had come with the wagon and taken him away. His father had been off hunting, and he had always known in a silent space deep inside that his father would have killed the government men, had he been there. He could still see his mother running behind the wagon, calling “Yellow Robe! Yellow Robe!” It was necessary to knock the Indian out of the child, the government men told him. They put him on the train packed with other Indian kids. For five days and nights they traveled across the plains and rivers and forests to the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania, a place he had never heard of. By the time he had walked away, all of his family was dead, except for a sister who had gone north to the Wind River Reservation.

  Beyond the tipis, past the block-stone buildings, he could see the train parked on the siding, red, white, and blue banners with giant words, “Buffalo Bill’s Wild West,” sagging across the passenger and freight cars. He had ridden another train across rivers and hills, boarded a ship called the Persian Monarch and sailed across waters more immense than he could have dreamed. He had heard that one of the Arapahos at Wind River, Chief Yellow Calf, had refused to go with Buffalo Bill. How could they ever find their tracks on the water when it was time to come home?

  At Le Havre, Black Heart had taken him by the arm and led him onto the Wild West train, knowing Sonny might bolt, run off and try to walk back home. Since then he had ridden the train across Europe, through France and south into Spain, east into Italy and north to Germany, giving two and sometimes three performances almost every day.

  Sonny ducked inside the dining tent. Panic hit him like a star falling from the sky. Marks was nowhere about. The man was sneaky, capable of running back for Black Heart’s regalia. Black Heart had removed the regalia in his tipi after the performance and packed it inside the black satchel. Sonny had carried the satchel to his own tipi, bent around the treasure, hurrying through the field of brush and trees between the camp and the old stone buildings. He had stored the bag under a buffalo robe that Black Heart had given him when he returned from Carlisle. Marks would go to Black Heart’s tipi first. When the bag wasn’t there, he would go to the tipi of Black Heart’s adopted son, but at least Sonny would have more time to stop him. Marks could find the regalia in the flap of a robin’s wings. He would smell it.

  Finally Sonny spotted Marks seated at the end of one of the four long tables that extended from the head table. Not the interpreter’s usual place, but a good place from which to disappear, Sonny thought. He would not allow the white man out of his sight again. He walked sideways down the length of the next table and took his seat next to Black Heart. The afternoon heat had gathered inside the tent, and the air was heavy with odors of grilled meat, hot oil, and fresh coffee. “I don’t trust Marks,” he said.

  “If anything happens to my ancestor’s things,” the chief said, “we’ll know who took them.”

  “Marks says he has buyers waiting.” He nodded toward the tent opening, the Indian camp and the arena. “They could be out there now. He’s been buying relics this afternoon.”

  A long moment passed before Black Heart said, “Two Eyes, the Ogallala, told me he didn’t want to sell his headdress, but now he’s thinking about it. The white man pays a lot of money. He said he can make another headdress when he gets home.” Black Heart shook his head. He looked tight with worry, lips drawn across his teeth, cheeks sunken. “It took years for Two Eyes’ ancestors to earn those feathers. They did brave things, faced many dangers. What brave deeds are left to us warriors now? What danger do we face? Growing hay? Looking for a job? The old man won’t live long enough to get himself another headdress.” He gave a small bark of laughter that sounded as if he were stifling a sob.

  Sonny started to say he would talk to Two Eyes, but another thought crashed through. If Two Eyes sold his headdress, Marks might be satisfied and leave Black Heart alone. He and Black Heart could stop worrying, stop moving the relics from one tipi to another, stop watching the white man every minute. He pushed the thought away. The relics were part of Black Heart, of his history, of who he was. Two Eyes’ headdress was part of him. He would talk to the old man.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen.” The voice rang like the sound of a familiar melody, low and solid with authority, working through the buzz of conversations around the tables. Buffalo Bill stood tall and square-shouldered at the center table, gazing out over the dining tent. He wore a white suit that shone against the late afternoon daylight filtering through the canvas tent. His hair and trimmed goatee flowed long and dark over his shoulders. Colonel William F. Cody, famous everywhere. Army scout and Indian fighter and buffalo hunter in the old days.

  Sonny noticed that the strangers he’d seen in camp earlier were seated on either side, heavyset men in dark topcoats and ties, perspiration glistening on their foreheads, hair slicked back and wet looking. “It is my honor to formally introduce our esteemed guests. The United States Consul General to Berlin on my right.” Buffalo Bill nodded toward the flushed-looking man who made an effort to rise halfway out of his chair and give a little nod. “On his right is the Legation Secretary.” A smaller man leaned back against his chair as if he wanted to disappear. “And here”—Buffalo Bill turned to the left—“The United States Consul to Hamburg.” The consul glanced over at his comrade before getting to his feet and bowing.

  “I have invited these eminent gentlemen to visit our exhibition this evening. I hope many of you have had the chance to speak with them, and I trust you have given their questions honest answers. They are here to determine the kind of treatment Show Indians and their families receive while performing in our educational exhibitions. I purposely chose not to tell you they would be with us because I did not want to make you think you should answer with anything but the truth. Despite the nasty rumors that have appeared in the New York Herald about your treatment, you have stood up and told the truth. These gentlemen have heard the facts from Show Indians themselves. Your pay represents a fair share of profits. The food you receive is good food. Meat, bread, canned milk, vegetables—your meals are the same as mine. These gentlemen have told me that you are the best-looking and apparently the best-fed Indians they have ever seen.”

  A shout of laughter burst over the tables, and Buffalo Bill waited a moment before he went on. “Are you held here under any constraints? No. You may return to your homes whenever you choose, and the Wild West will pay for your trip. I thank you for providing the facts to these worthy gentlemen. They have assured me they will contact the New York Herald and demand that the truth be printed. I remind you, if you ever encounter mistreatment, report it to me immediately. I will not allow my people to be mistreated. Enjoy your dinner.” He nodded toward the plates heaped with beef, potatoes, and carrots that had been boiling most of the day in large pots in the nearby cooking tent.

  Sonny cut into the meat on his plate and took a bite. So the important-looking men were investigators, here to see for themselves if the rumors started by that crazy Indian, White Horse, had any truth. White Horse had walked away from the Wild West and taken money from the newspaper man to tell lies that could cause the commissioner of Indian affairs to ban Indians from going with Buffalo Bill. Sonny had heard the thin thread of worry in BB’s voice.

  Marks was gone! In the few seconds that Sonny had kept his eyes on BB, Marks had disappeared. Sonny dropped his kni
fe, pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. He didn’t remember covering the length of the tent or running outside, but now he was running down the grassy road, past the tipis with bales of hay that served as chairs, all of it blurring into the arena on the right and the field and old buildings and train on the left. He could hear the noise inside Black Heart’s tipi, as if a wild animal had gotten inside and was rooting through Black Heart’s belongings.

  Sonny threw back the flap. He stood in the opening, the graying daylight shooting past him over the white walls. “Get out,” he said.

  Marks had been leaning over a trunk, pulling out shirts, trousers, undershirts. On the floor was a tan cowboy hat, the brim stained with Black Heart’s sweat. How many times had he seen Black Heart riding across the prairie, the hat bobbing against the blue sky? Next to the hat was a box of inlaid wood that, Sonny knew, Black Heart treasured. A white man had given him the box after Black Heart found the man’s stallion wandering the plains. He could have kept the stallion, improved his own horse stock, but Black Heart had searched for the owner and taken the horse home.

  “Don’t seem like it’s any of your business,” Marks said. “What’s gonna happen if the chief takes his stuff home? They’ll get lost, trampled in the dust. Some relative will sell them for pennies to buy a bottle of gin. These relics stay here with collectors, they’re gonna get the best of care, be preserved for future generations, you might say.”

  “You heard Yellow Robe.” Sonny realized Black Heart had come up behind him. He moved past him into the tipi, wide shoulders and back blocking the shaft of daylight. “Get out of my home.”

  “I’m raising my price, Chief,” Marks said. “We both know there’s nothing like your relics. None of them other Indians got headdresses and regalia that were in the Custer fight. So I’m gonna give you more money than you can count. Hell, you can do the grand tour and send money home for the folks if you want. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Buffalo Bill would like to know what you’re up to,” Sonny said.

  “What?” Marks pivoted about, eyes wide, mouth flapping like a hooked fish.

  “You’ll be fired, Interpreter. Sent on your way like you deserve. Get out of here and forget about Black Heart’s regalia.”

  “You talk to BB and I swear…”

  Sonny closed in on the white man. “You think you can scare me?” He felt the heat in his face; he was spitting out the words. “I killed a man like you with a hatchet once,” he said. Another white man. He could still see the white face and blue eyes coming at him in the creek bed where he’d been hiding on the long walk home. The white man wanted his boots. “Take them off,” he’d ordered. Then he had clenched his fist and hit Sonny hard, knocked him into the brush and rocks and jumped on top of him. Sonny had managed to get the hatchet out of the man’s belt and slam it into his head. He had set off running into the woods, away from the creek bed, the man’s blood hot and then cool on his face and hands.

  “Get out,” he said again, waving toward the opened flap. He had killed once, he was thinking. He didn’t want to kill again.

  12

  “YOU HEARD ABOUT Trevor?” Father John stood in the doorway to the director’s office. Eldon White Elk was bent toward the computer screen. A cigarette burned in a saucer next to his fist that looked as if it might have just been driven into the desktop. Sandra Dorris occupied a chair by the window, flipping through a catalogue of some sort, black hair flowing like a veil around her face. A pile of catalogues lay scattered at her feet.

  “Heard last night.” Eldon glanced up. Sandra pushed herself off the chair. “I’ll go to my office and finish this,” she said, bending down to scoop up the catalogues. Father John stepped into the small office as the girl hurried past, dipping her head and giving him a shy smile as she went.

  “We’re researching the cost of artifacts like those that are lost,” Eldon said. “Haven’t found anything yet with the same kind of history. But we’d like to replace them with other regalia from the Wild West, if we can. We’ll need a generous benefactor. What a tragedy, Trevor getting murdered. He might have identified the thieves.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Father John dropped into one of the side chairs against the wall. He had spent the last hour and a half at the sheriff’s office in Lander giving a formal statement. Just as he was leaving, Vicky had come in, looking drawn and tense. He wondered if she had been up all night, and decided she probably had. Wide awake, unable to settle into sleep, walking the floor and going over and over in her mind the horrible scene in the barn. He had asked how she was doing, and she had assured him she was okay. Not great, she said, but okay. All she wanted was for the men who killed Trevor to be brought to justice. She had thrown a challenging look at the sheriff’s investigator when she said this.

  “You saw the way Trevor ran out of here after we opened the cartons.” Eldon swiveled sideways, picked up the cigarette, fitted it in his fingers, and took a long drag. “Been in the collecting business for years, knows everything about Plains Indian art. You can bet he had a good idea of who was likely to come after the artifacts.”

  “I meant, what makes you so sure the artifacts are lost?” The morning light flooded through the window and danced across the framed certificates and college degrees on the wall behind Eldon. A thin twist of smoke rose from the saucer; the office smelled of smoke.

  “A million miles away by now.” Eldon drew on the cigarette and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I’ve posted photos on the internet that Trevor gave us. ‘Be on the lookout for stolen artifacts from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.’ Every collector and buyer in the business has most likely seen the photos. Nada. Nothing. Those artifacts dropped into a big empty void. The buyer has seen the postings, you can bet on it. He knows they’re hot. So they’re gonna disappear into a special room in his mansion. Probably great art hanging all over the place. Wows his guests. But only a few special guests get to see the special room. ‘My really valuable art is in here.’ He had switched into the deep, confidential voice of a radio announcer. “Guests feel special, like the room. Maybe they’ll see the postings and realize the SOB had bought stolen goods, but are they going to report what they’ve seen? Not on your life. It would be the last time any collector invited them into his special room.”

  Father John didn’t say anything.

  “It’s my job to know these things,” Eldon said. “Collecting, preserving, and exhibiting valuable artifacts, pieces of the past, if you will, is what I do. I have to be on top of all the ways the crooks would like to stop me.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Father John caught sight of the white SUV curving onto Circle Drive. He watched it pull up in front of the administration building and rock to a stop. Gianelli, white shirt, tan vest, blue jeans, jumped out and headed up the steps. Father John got to his feet. “The fed just drove up,” he said.

  Eldon snuffed the cigarette in a saucer and stood up. Father John was aware of the director’s boots clacking down the corridor in rhythm with his own.

  “SUPPOSE YOU TELL me exactly what happened yesterday at the ranch,” Gianelli said. He had settled into one of the old chairs Father John kept in his office for visitors, pen poised over a notepad the size of his palm. “Sheriff faxed me the statements you and Vicky gave this morning. We’re cooperating here on the assumption that Trevor’s murder and the theft are related. I’ve gone over the statements, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  Father John started with the two men in the dark sedan, racing away from the ranch in a cloud of dust. “Ran us into the ditch,” he said.

  “Two men?” Eldon sat forward in the chair across from the fed. “There you go. The thieves and murderers.”

  “Either you or Vicky get a view of their faces?”

  Father John shook his head. “Not really. I think they were white,” he said. Then he told the fed about going to the ranch, not finding anyone around, and looking in the barn. “Trevor was in the back stall.” The
image planted itself again in his mind’s eye. He looked away, taking a moment. Pray that it never gets easier.

  Gianelli scribbled something in the notepad, flipped the page and continued writing. Finally he looked up. “No sign that the cartons were tampered with either in New York or Denver. They were loaded onto the Denver flight and transferred immediately to the flight to Riverton. Arrived here 4:34 p.m. Signed into the warehouse at 5:13 p.m. Stars Shipping picked them up Tuesday morning and delivered them to the museum thirty minutes later.” He flipped the notepad closed. “During the night, someone managed to open the cartons, remove the artifacts and reseal the cartons. I’ve put out a be-on-the-lookout for a dark sedan with a driver and passenger to every law enforcement agency in the area. If those guys are still around, a patrolman or deputy could spot them.”

  “Confirms my theory.” Eldon shifted sideways, crossed one leg over the other and bounced a black cowboy boot into the middle of the office.

  “What’s that?” Gianelli said.

  “Who had the most incentive?” Eldon said. “Who knew how to sell them, how to locate buyers?” He paused for a second and rubbed a fist against his mouth, a desperate look about him as if he longed for a cigarette. “I don’t like to blame anybody, but all the signs point the same way. Trevor set this whole thing up himself. He had connections. My guess is he already had a buyer lined up when he made the deal to purchase the artifacts. Brought in a couple of thugs he knew to take the artifacts from the warehouse. Who knows what happened between him and those guys?” He shrugged. “Falling out of thieves, is my guess. Maybe they didn’t like the size of their cut for doing the dangerous part. Probably put the squeeze on him. Got into an argument and Trevor ended up dead.” He stared into the middle of the room. “Now they don’t have to cut him in.”