Now the circle was closed.
The Shaman's Home: CaRon del Espiritu
Daisy Perika sat up in bed, her arthritic fingers clutching desperately at the frayed cotton blanket. Her prayer was a solemn chant. "Oh God… Great Mysterious One… protect Charlie Moon… cover him in the shadow of your wings."
East of Ignacio, The B uffalo Pen
The old bull paused, forgetting a mouthful of half-chewed blue grama grass. The cow, unaware of his sudden unease, continued to graze in peaceful bliss. The bison raised his immense head and sniffed as the breeze whipped at his beard. At first, he detected nothing more than the pungent aroma of pifion. He braced his legs, stood perfectly still and listened; there was only the warm whisper of the west wind and the ripple of sweet water over the shining rocks in the river. A deep bellow rumbled in his throat; he blinked and scanned the familiar horizon. He watched the sea of dry grass, thirsty waves rolling and swelling as the breeze troubled the surface of the pasture. The animal raised his head to blink at the thin blue layer that separated his world from the infinite vacuum of space. A pair of red-tailed hawks circled over a giant cottonwood on the bank of the Los Pi-fios. They floated without effort, as if lost in a dream. The smallest detail of his domain appeared to be exactly as nature had ordained. But it was not. Something watched. And waited.
Homer Tonompicket was maneuvering Charlie Moon into just the spot where he wanted him, and this put him in an exceptional mood. The Game Warden threw his head back and bellowed the latest melancholy ditty from Nashville:
"Now sweet Sally's gone… my heart I would of give
her… She'd swallered enough gin — to pickle all the catfish in
Mud River… Sally's eyeballs they turned yeller, she'd shake and
she'd shiver…
But the bartender told me: 'What killed her was her liver!' "
Homer stopped to catch his breath and glanced at the driver of the Blazer. "Old Gene Autry-now there was a singin' cowboy that could ride and shoot and rope."
Charlie Moon grinned. For one of the People, Homer had a peculiar fascination with cowboys.
"And," Homer reminded his companion, "Gene always got the pretty girl." A dark scowl fell like a curtain over the game warden's face. "Dammit, Charlie! Why ain't there no more singin' cowboys?"
Moon eased his boot off the accelerator. "I guess nothing stays the same." The policeman turned off the blacktop of County Road 321; he shifted into second gear and steered the Blazer down the rutted incline toward the fenced forty-acre pasture.
"Old Gene, he give up his singin'," the game warden whispered in a tone of disbelief. "Went and bought hisself a baseball team." Homer, who was a purist, had terminated his annual pilgrimages to Nashville after "they" moved the Grand Ol' Opry out of the small downtown theater and into the gaudy suburban acreage dubbed Opryland. This had happened decades ago but to the recalcitrant old man it was only yesterday. Disneyland in Tennessee, that's what it was. All that was missing, he had told everyone in Ignacio who would listen, was that big black mouse that talked like a girl. "It's the end of real country music, that's what it is," he complained bitterly to other Utes who wondered why Homer cared what those matukach yodelers did in Tennessee.
Moon shifted into low. "You ready to tell me what this little trip is all about?"
The tribal game warden pointed a stubby finger across the dashboard and shouted over the roar of the V-8 engine. "Over there, Charlie."
Charlie Moon braked, the Blazer to a lurching stop near a stack of baled hay and cut the ignition. He followed Homer
Tonompicket toward the gate in the barbed wire fence. "There," the game warden said, pointing at a heavy chain that secured the dual steel gate at the center. "You see that?"
Moon leaned over and squinted at a new Master padlock. "This lock looks okay to me." He straightened up and looked down at Homer's face, which was partially hidden under the black Stetson's dusty brim.
"That's the whole point, Charlie. That lock ain't broke. You're my witness."
"You brought me out here at sunrise to show me a padlock that's not broke?"
"Now," Homer said, "take a look out there in that pasture. Whadda you see?"
Moon scanned the fenced forty-acre pen. There wasn't much to see. Some grama grass, a few clumps of sage, the crumbling ruin of a house at the northwest corner. And, of course, Never Stops Talking. The aged buffalo cow stood near the rectangular stock pond, oblivious to the presence of these official representatives of the Southern Ute Tribe. Except for a slight wagging of her head, she might have been a statue. The old buffalo cow had earned her name by her habit of snorting and bawling almost continually. This morning, she was unnaturally quiet. And very still, more like a taxidermist's product than a living creature. Moon frowned at the game warden. "I see an old buffalo cow. Why didn't you move her to the new pasture, with the rest of the herd?"
"Decided to leave her here. Figured Rolling Thunder needed himself a female companion."
Charlie Moon understood. A younger bull would service the herd in the big pasture, so to keep the peace the old bull had to stay behind. Homer Tonompicket, a romantic to the core, had figured that Rolling Thunder needed some female company. Homer's house was empty now, so he would know something about being lonely. Moon stretched his neck, giving the pasture another inspection. "Where's Rolling Thunder?" A dozen years earlier, there had been a contest to name the first buffalo calf born on the reservation.
"Now," Homer said grimly, '*you see what I mean. He's gone without a trace. And the gate ain't been touched. It's like…" Homer raised his arms to the sky, "… like he just up and flew away. Like old Nahum Yacuti."
"Buffaloes don't fly, Homer." Moon's stern tone hinted that he did not welcome the reference to the old shepherd who had vanished in a freak windstorm. There was still no sign of Nahum's remains, and unfinished business made the policeman uneasy. And prone to bad dreams. And there was the nightmare vision… of a helpless soul suspended upside down from a tree limb, all trussed up to be butchered by… Moon dismissed the picture from his mind. "Who's got keys to that padlock?"
Homer's voice went flat and stubborn. "I got the only set." Maybe the big policeman was wrong this time. Maybe buffalo could fly. If they had some help.
Charlie Moon was looking across the river; the sun was illuminating Sky Ute Downs in a soft yellow glow. The policeman turned to squint at the sunrise, blooming like a fiery flower over the eastern range. The bottom of a heavy cloud was a vast field of glowing embers, threatening to rain molten drops of gold onto the mountains. Fire from heaven. Or some place. He didn't look at Homer when he spoke. "You walk the fence?"
"Sure I did," the game warden snapped. "Fence is in good shape." He waited for the policeman to speak, but Moon was ominously silent. "Dammit, Charlie, I know what you're thinkin'! No, I didn't go off and leave the gate open, come back and find the buffalo wandered off, and then lock the gate and call my old friend at the poleece and tell him a bald-faced lie."
Charlie Moon was embarrassed that the game warden had so easily read his thoughts. "Okay, Homer." He patted the old man on the shoulder.
"Then," Homer demanded, "tell me what happened to a full grown bull buffalo!"
"Well," Moon said, "I expect somebody wanted some meat. Maybe a skin to sell. They probably waited until
R. T. was rubbing his hide against the fence so they wouldn't have to move him very far, then shot him."
"How'd they get half a ton of buffalo over the fence? Tell me that."
"Maybe they had a truck with a winch." He would ask Officer Sally Rainwater to check on some of the local wrecker trucks. Maybe somebody had rented one. "Or, maybe they cut him up in chunks and pitched 'em over the fence."
The game warden leaned on the fence, grasping a rusty strand of barbed wire with both hands. He nodded toward the buffalo cow. "Maybe that's the way it was, Charlie. But what about Never Stops Talking?"
Moon knew exactly what Homer meant. If someone was go
ing to go to all this trouble and risk for some fresh meat, why not take both buffalo? Even if they couldn't haul away that much meat, the old cow would have been a hazard to anyone who spent enough time in the pen to butcher Rolling Thunder. It would make sense to shoot the cow, but there she was. "When did you move the rest of the herd?"
"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.
2
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 Cauon 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.
The Shaman Laughs cm-2 Page 2