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

by Margaret Coel

  Gianelli was on his feet, nodding toward the girl. “Sandra Dorris,” he said. “She’s had quite a shock.”

  “What’s this?” Sandra let out another wail.

  Father John pushed his chair back as the man extracted a blood pressure cuff from the black bag. In a second he had wrapped it around the girl’s arm and was studying the small glass readout.

  “I don’t need this,” the girl said.

  The man kept his eyes on the readout. “Little high,” he said. “Any physical injuries?”

  “Leave me alone.” The girl was attempting to stand up, but there was no room. “There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s Eldon that’s hurt.”

  “Who’s Eldon?” the blond woman said.

  “The director,” Father John said. “He’s missing.”

  The woman nodded, as if a traumatized girl and a missing man were part of her routine. “She wasn’t hurt?” she said, gesturing toward Sandra.

  “You don’t have to pretend I’m not here,” Sandra said. “Nobody hurt me. I want to go home.”

  “We can take her to the hospital for observation,” the woman said.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Up to her,” the man said, folding the cuff and placing it inside the bag. “Had there been any physical altercation, I would suggest we take her. If that isn’t the case…”

  “I want to go home,” Sandra said again.

  “Her mother should be here any moment,” Father John said.

  “Like I say, it’s her call.”

  Gianelli nodded, which seemed the signal the attendants needed because they swung around and started back down the corridor. The heave of the door shutting punctuated the clacking of their boots. In another second, a motor roared to life outside.

  Father John realized that the fed had pulled a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Vicky left me a message a little while ago,” he said, opening the paper in front of the girl. “Do the names Hol Chambers and Raphael Luna sound familiar?” he said.

  The girl ran her eyes over the sheet. “I never heard of them.”

  “Could be they had been trying to buy artifacts at a powwow?” he said.

  The girl shook her head.

  Gianelli handed the sheet to Father John. He stared at the names and shook his head.

  The fed focused again on the girl. “I’ll want to talk to you tomorrow. Sometimes things come to mind after the initial shock wears off.”

  “Where’s my daughter?” The voice was as high and shrill as Sandra’s. The boom of footsteps got louder, and Barbara Dorris, all flushed cheeks, mussed black hair, and swishing blue jeans, threw herself into the office. She muscled her way forward, encircled the girl with fleshy arms and drew her close. “Sandra, baby! Are you all right?”

  “They killed Eldon.” The girl’s voice was muffled against her mother’s chest.

  “We don’t know what happened to Mr. White Elk,” Gianelli said.

  “I told her”—Barbara Dorris pulled away and tossed her gaze about from Father John to Gianelli to the two officers—“the museum was dangerous. Those people that took the Buffalo Bill stuff might come back looking for more stuff. I told her to stay away. Now look what’s happened. She could’ve been killed, like that boss of hers.”

  “Barbara,” Father John said, struggling to keep his voice on a reasonable footing. “It appears Eldon is missing. That’s all we know.”

  “I want to go home,” the girl said.

  Her mother was already guiding her into the corridor. “Forget about going to that creepy apartment. You’re coming home with me,” she said. Then she shouted over one shoulder: “She’s sure as hell not coming back here.”

  Father John waited a moment until the charge had seeped out of the atmosphere. He turned to the fed. “Why take Eldon?”

  “They also took his computer and rifled the files.” Gianelli ran his gaze over the paper-strewn floor, the empty surface of the desk with a shadow of dust outlining the place where the computer had stood. “They’re looking for buyers, and they think the museum director might have an idea where to find them.”

  “If that were the case, he would have told you,” Father John said. Another thought began working its way into his mind, and he looked away, trying to grasp it. “Maybe he found something on the internet,” he said. “Maybe he contacted someone looking for information, and it got back to the thieves. They might have decided he was getting too close.”

  Gianelli seemed to ponder this a moment before he said: “We know the artifacts were stolen from the warehouse at the airport. Riverton Police got the surveillance video. Three men entered through the front door, went right to the cartons stacked against a wall, slit them open, stuffed the contents into a large carton they had brought with them, resealed the original cartons, and left. Took three minutes.”

  “Any way to identify them?”

  “They wore ski masks.”

  Father John walked over to the window. Except for the police cars and Gianelli’s SUV in front, the grounds looked peaceful and normal, the breeze riffling the branches of the cottonwoods. He turned back. “I spoke with Buzz Moon today. He said two white guys were at the powwow a couple of weeks ago trying to buy Arapaho artifacts.”

  Gianelli held up a hand. “I’ve talked to Moon. Robert RunningFast said he saw the white men. His grandmother called on my way over here. I’ll talk to her later.”

  It could be tomorrow before the fed interviewed Wilma, Father John was thinking, and Eldon was missing now. He said, “I understand the white guys also talked to Cam Merryman and to Eldon.”

  The fed’s face remained immobile, but Father John caught the flicker of interest in his eyes. “Every law enforcement officer in the area is looking for the two white men that you saw racing away from Trevor Pratt’s ranch. They can’t hide forever.”

  So much emptiness, Father John thought, pockmarked with arroyos, brush shelters, abandoned barns and sheds. People could get lost on the rez.

  “You ever seen a couple of white guys around the mission?”

  “Nobody that looked suspicious,” Father John said. Pickups and sedans drove in and out of the mission all the time: visitors to the museum or to the church where they gawked at the stained glass windows and murals created by Arapaho artists; parishioners dropping off and picking up kids for religious education classes or coming for the social committee, liturgy, sodality and altar society, and AA meetings that took place each week. He never paid much attention to the sound of vehicles out on Circle Drive.

  “Whoever came here used the back door.” Gianelli crooked his head for Father John to follow. They walked down the corridor to the intersection with the hallway that led to the back. The door hung open, and even from several feet away, Father John could see the gouges in the wood around the lock.

  “They must have surprised Eldon in his office,” he said. Uniforms were milling about outside. The rez police would scour the premises. Cast footprints and tire tracks, lift impressions of fingerprints, and take samples of blood drops that trailed down the hall, but Gianelli would handle the investigation. We work together, the fed had told him once. Too much space, too many distances for law enforcement agencies not to cooperate.

  “Looks like it. There was definitely a struggle. We figure they took the back way from Rendezvous Road. We’ll collect any evidence they left behind, but it’s a long shot. Unless somebody saw something…”

  “I was in my office, I’m afraid.” Bishop Harry came walking out of the exhibition hall. “Pardon my eavesdropping. I was admiring, not for the first time, the lovely Indian artifacts from Buffalo Bill’s time. My, if only they could tell their stories. I’m afraid the museum isn’t visible from my office.”

  “I saw a car driving away on the back road.” Elena stood at the bishop’s shoulder. Of course she had seen a car, Father John thought. She saw everything. She knew every vehicle that drove into the mission.

  “What kind of car?” Gianelli said.
“When did you see it?”

  “All I know, it was a dark color. Dusty. Walks-On was sleeping on his rug. The car didn’t bother him any. I seen it before. It always comes down the back road. I figured it made deliveries to the museum. I just put a cake in the oven this afternoon when I seen it. Three o’clock.”

  “Did you see it drive in?”

  Elena shook her head and looked away. “Odd,” she said. “Not many cars on the back road. I should’ve heard it drive in.”

  19

  Berlin

  July 23, 1890

  AS FAR AS Sonny could see, there wasn’t a vacant seat. Seventeen thousand tickets sold for the evening show. An undercurrent of voices and motion spilled through the air. The arena was alive, a gigantic animal shimmying with anticipation. The performers were already in place in the staging area at the entrance to the arena. Sonny found his pony, Dolly, saddled and waiting for him. The other Arapahos were already mounted. He was late. He had brought Black Heart’s regalia to his tipi and waited until the chief had put it on. When the chief set out with the others for the arena, Sonny had hung behind and kept an eye on Marks.

  Now Sonny could see Black Heart mounted on Settler, looking like a chief about to lead the warriors on a buffalo hunt or into battle against the enemy. Gas flares and lamps lit up the arena. Bonfires were burning. Dusk was coming on, and it would be dark before the show ended, but it would be like daylight. Another of the wonders of the Wild West, he thought, changing night into day. He wondered how many people had seen the exhibition? A million? At times, Sonny thought all the white people in Europe must have seen it, but in every city, more people streamed into the arena. He could feel the pride swelling in his chest as he walked over to Dolly. This is how it was in the Old Time, the sense of purpose and focus that had taken over the warriors and filled them with courage.

  Something was wrong with Dolly. He knew the horse well; they had traveled together across Europe, and before that, he had ridden Dolly over the plains, sometimes imagining that they were free, the two of them, and life was the way it had been. The horse was skittish, nervous. She backed up, lifted her head, and neighed as he took hold of the reins. She was always ready to burst into the arena and show off, enjoying the freedom as much as he did, he thought. Balloons of dust rose as she pawed the dirt. A blur shot past the edge of Sonny’s vision. He swung around as the wrangler who’d taken Dolly into the corral after this afternoon’s show took off running in the direction of the camp.

  Sonny patted the horse’s nose. She was beautiful, brown and smooth, but he could feel her trembling. “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “You’re okay.” He wasn’t sure she believed him; he didn’t believe himself. Out in the arena, the brass band had started playing, and shouting and clapping rose over the arena. The show was about to begin.

  He walked around, set his boot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Dolly reared back, and he tightened his knees against her flanks to keep from being thrown. He patted the side of her neck. It was moist with perspiration. She reared again, and the horses just ahead picked up on her nervousness and started pawing and shuddering. “Settle down, girl.” Sonny used the most soothing tone he could muster.

  The brass band had launched into the entrance music, and Sonny could feel the waves of excitement rolling through the air. Buffalo Bill himself, wearing his white buckskin trousers and shirt, fringed and beaded, waving his white Stetson overhead, rode into the arena. The crowd jumped up and cheered and shouted over the music as Buffalo Bill raced around. The old scout, the old buffalo hunter and Indian fighter, riding like the wind, reining with one hand, waving the Stetson in the air with the other. It occurred to Sonny that Buffalo Bill was no different from the Indians, reliving the past, trying to recapture the best of what used to be. After circling the arena, Buffalo Bill drew up in front of the section where city officials and other important people were seated. Sonny could see the three men from the consulate who had been talking to Indians in camp all day. The crowd had gone as quiet as the wind settling down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Buffalo Bill’s voice filled the space. “Permit me to welcome you to the Wild West. Let our show begin!”

  The crowd rose like an animal to its feet and cheered over the sound of the band. Buffalo Bill, still waving his hat, rode back and motioned for the grand entrance to begin. Sonny watched Black Heart ride out first, long headdress flying, beads on his shirt and vest and buckskin trousers glinting in the flickering lights. The other Arapahos thundered behind, warriors on the trail again. Behind them, he knew, would be the cowboys, the Brule and Ogallala warriors, the Cheyennes, the white frontiersmen and cowboys, the flag bearers holding aloft flags from the different tribes. And then Buffalo Bill again riding as the head of the Army scouts.

  Sonny struggled to keep Dolly headed forward, but she balked and tried to pull to the side of the other riders. In an instant, she was up on her hind legs, pawing at the air, the other horses and riders thundering past and the crowd shouting with joy. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle. He’d been thrown by horses before, but to be thrown here… it would be death. He would be trampled under the hooves pounding past. He managed to get Dolly down, but now she began kicking and jumping. The only fatality in the Wild West Show, he knew, had been when a rider was thrown and trampled. A good rider, too. He leaned over the horse’s neck, rising a little out of the saddle, and that seemed to calm her. He guided her into the race around the arena, but they had fallen behind the Arapahos and were riding now with the Cheyennes. The horse was trying to throw him. It was all he could do to stay mounted. They rode back into the staging area and Sonny jumped off, knowing Dolly would try to throw him again. He walked over to the side. Another roar had gone up in the arena. The horse races with Indians, cowboys, and Mexicans were underway.

  Sonny undid the cinch and lifted off the saddle. He removed the blanket. A clump of burrs as big as his fist had been pressed down into Dolly’s back, tiny needles digging into her skin. Anger surged inside him like bile. He picked out the burrs, taking care to remove the needles. Then he shook out the saddle blanket and ran his hand over it checking for other needles. The horse races ended, and a different sound exploded in the arena, familiar shrieks of delight as Annie Oakley came out. A little woman, so small it was hard to notice her in the camp with all the people about, but she could shoot the eye out of a raven. Sonny had watched her entrance many times; she never walked. She ran and stopped and waved, and took off running again. Then stopped and waved and blew kisses. Frank Butler, her husband, looked after her. By now he would have laid out her guns on a table in the center of the arena. The first shot burst through the air. Then a concussion of shots as she brought down the clay pigeons Butler released. One pigeon, then two, three, and four at a time. The crowd shouted with delight.

  The shots set Dolly off again. She started pawing and snorting, and Sonny rubbed his hand over her sore back until he could feel the trembling begin to ease. He laid the blanket over her again, lifted the saddle and let it settle into place. He took his time tightening the cinches, getting her back to normal. He knew what had happened. Marks had wanted him dead. What did he suppose? That he could get Black Heart’s regalia if Sonny were out of the way? The white man would never get Black Heart’s regalia. He finished saddling Dolly in time to ride out for the surprise Indian attack on a wagon train. Buffalo Bill would then ride at the head of cowboys and frontiersmen to defeat the Indians and save the train. The battle would look real, and it always felt real, Sonny thought. As if the Indians could turn back the wagon trains and change history.

  Dolly performed as usual through the battle and the other acts: the attack on the Deadwood stagecoach, the attack on the frontier village. Buffalo Bill always riding in command of the cowboys, always defeating the Indians. But there was the buffalo hunt, where the Arapahos and other Indians would never be defeated. This was what they knew; this was what they had done. The buffaloes, released from the corral, tore around the
arena, and Dolly bore in close, as if they were on the plains. Responding to his lead, dodging and sidestepping as if she and the massive beasts were in a dance as they drove the buffalo back toward the corral. There was no killing. So few buffaloes left now, they had to be carefully tended. “Don’t know where we’d get any more if something happens to these fellows,” Buffalo Bill had told the troupe.

  The flares were burning down, the bonfires giving off a blue glow that kept the darkness out of the arena. The wranglers were in the staging area to take the horses back to the corral. Sonny looked for the wrangler who had run away, but he wasn’t there. Buffalo Bill rode out alone and gave the final salute. The arena filled with the noise of clapping, cheering, and stamping of feet. Sonny could feel the ground tremble. He would deal with the wrangler later. Tonight he would deal with Marks.

  He waited while the Indians and cowboys made their way out of the staging area toward the camp. Marks was nowhere around. Then Sonny caught up with Chief Black Heart. Crowds of people poured out of the arena, heading in different directions. Flares stuck in the ground threw shimmers of light over the paths. “I’ve been looking for you,” the chief said. “Pahaska wants to see us right away.”

  Wants to see us? The words rang like a bell inside Sonny’s head. Pahaska was the name the Lakotas had given Buffalo Bill. It meant Long Hair. Maybe BB already knew about the way Marks kept pestering the Indians for their regalia. Maybe he wanted to confirm the rumors that reached him. Sonny stayed in step with the chief as they made their way with the other performers toward the camp. The crowd got smaller as Indians peeled off into the tipis. The cowboys and frontiersmen kept going toward their camp just ahead. Buffalo Bill’s tent stood at the junction, and Sonny followed the chief to the closed flap. A lamp burning inside cast a yellow glow on the canvas walls.

  “We have come,” Black Heart said.