Gorman ignored the insufferable woman's jibe. "I'm in bad trouble. Big Ouray was a twelve-thousand dollar registered Hereford. And he's only half paid for. I needed him to build up my herd, start selling registered animals instead of hamburger meat." He thumped his fist on his chest. "Can't take much more of this." His voice took on a pitiful tone. "I'm an old man, not goin' to be in this world many more winters." He glanced at his daughter to see if she understood the gravity of his pronouncement, then turned to watch Daisy putter about the small kitchen. "I expect my heart will just stop thumpin' some dark night. It runs in my family. You know my third cousin… Sally Bitter Horse who lives with her mother over at Hondo Fork?"
Daisy was devoting most of her attention to a mixing bowl. She added a cup of buttermilk, two large gobs of lard, and a pinch of salt to the dough. "Sure. Sally works in the high school over there."
"Mrs. Bitter Horse," Benita said, "teaches mathematics and music."
"Well Sally," Gorman continued, "the way I heard it, she was learnin' them kids some 'rithmatic, when she had an attack from one of them cor-uh… corollaries and she damn near died from it."
Benita sighed. "She had a coronary, Daddy."
He glanced at his daughter, wondering why she was repeating what he had just said. Maybe she was getting a little bit deaf, like her mother had been. He turned toward Benita and spoke a little bit louder: "And I could have me one of them corollaries myself. An' then," he pointed at her with the pipe stem, "you'd be a orrifun." This image brought a tear to his eye.
Benita leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "Daddy's complained about his heart for twenty years. But the physician at the clinic says he's in good condition for his age."
Gorman grunted. "Hmmmpf. Blue-eyed matukach from Robe Island." He sucked hard on the pipe. "What's he know?"
"You better go by the tribal police station," Daisy said. "See my nephew, tell him about the dead animal." She added another gob of lard to the dough. "He's in charge of the whole outfit while Chief Severo's away, and," Daisy added with quiet pride, "Charlie Moon always takes good care of family."
Benita nodded vigorously; her bright expression made it clear that she considered this a very sensible suggestion.
"After I call on the vet, I'll talk to your nephew the big-shot policeman," Gorman said.
The old woman turned away from her work to squint at her cousin. "Ain't it a little late to call the animal doctor?"
"Doctor Schaid is required to examine the carcass," Benita said, "before he fills out the insurance forms." She had already explained this to her father.
Daisy found her rolling pin; she pressed the dough onto a polished maple board until it was no thicker than her thumb. "So. You got insurance on that bull?" She was surprised that Gorman had demonstrated such foresight.
He drank the last of the coffee and belched. "Sure. Bein' a rancher is a perfession just like any other perfession." Benita had badgered him into buying the insurance.
"Since you give 'em all names, I thought maybe they was your pets." Daisy grinned and Gorman kept a poker face. "Who you got insurance with?" He ducked his head and she knew. "Not Arlo Nightbird…"
Gorman avoided her sharp eyes. "He's the cheapest."
Daisy winked at the girl. "You know what the matukach say: 'you get what you pay for.' Anyway, you're the stingiest man I ever knew, except for my second husband." She hurriedly crossed herself. "God rest his pitiful soul."
Benita chimed in. "Father never throws anything away. My history professor, she says that people who grew up during the Great Depression-"
"What's done is finished," Gorman interrupted. "I don't need no lecher from either one of you." It would be best to change the subject. "You heard about Arlo Nightbird's plans for the canyon?"
"I don't pay no attention to rumors," Daisy retorted. She searched a cabinet drawer until she found the soup can with the sharp rim. "You listen to all that tribal gossip, you'll hear something that'll keep you awake at night." The old woman, waiting anxiously to hear the gossip, used the soup can to cut the biscuit dough into neat discs.
"This ain't just talk," Gorman said. "The Economic Development Board's workin' on a deal with the government. Want to put some kind of garbage in Canon del Espiritu."
"Garbage? In the sacred canyon?" She refilled his cup. "They'd never do that."
"It's not exactly garbage," Benita said, obviously proud of her knowledge, "it's well… waste. Radioactive waste from nuclear power plants."
Daisy paused and looked blankly at the greasy propane stove. "Why would the tribe want to do something like that… in my canyon?" She slid the tray of biscuits into the preheated oven, then lit a burner with a butane cigarette lighter.
"It's not all that bad," Benita said. "They put worn-out nuclear fuel elements into big tanks of water, then they put concrete slabs on top of the tanks. The water and concrete stops the radiation. You could sleep right beside it every night for your whole life, no problem." She watched doubtful expressions spread over the faces of her elders. "It shouldn't be any danger to our cattle."
Her father squinted at her. "What did you say that stuff was?"
Benita repeated her words slowly: "Nuclear… fuel… elements."
The old man added a pinch of tobacco to the brier bowl and relit his pipe. "If them knuckle filaments is so damned safe," he asked, "then why don't they just keep 'em where they're already at?"
Benita opened her mouth to reply, read the combative expression on her father's face, and thought better of it.
"You two need some breakfast," Daisy said quickly.
Gorman put on a sad demeanor as easily as some men slipped into a coat; it was carefully designed to generate sympathy. "Don't know if I can eat. What I seen in the canyon kinda took my appetizer away." He glanced at the black iron skillet and sniffed hopefully at the fetching aroma of the ham slab swimming in the popping grease.
Daisy played his game. "I made enough cheese omelet for all three of us. And there's a big slice of sugar-cured ham. And hot biscuits with maple cream." She paused to give him time to think about it. "But I expect you'd be better off to go home and have some oatmeal. They say oatmeal's good for old men's bowels. Cheese and eggs, they might stop up your plumbing."
Gorman sighed. "Well, if you're gonna keep after me, I guess I might as well have a bite."
"Maybe," Benita asked, "you have some cereal?"
"I got ham and I got eggs," Daisy replied sharply. Her tone said take it or leave it.
4
Charlie Moon, a half cup of coffee in his fist, was standing outside the police station. Away from the crackle of the short wave radio, the incessant ringing of telephones, the whining complaints of a drunken prisoner who insisted that he was a very important man in Denver and a "damn good friend of the governor." Moon sniffed at the pungent scent of pine in the air; he squinted at a half dozen ravens gliding in a wide arc through the pale morning sky. How could a Ute ever leave this place? But many of the People had.
Before he saw it, Moon heard Gorman Sweetwater's pickup pass the Sky Ute Motel and turn the corner at KSUT radio. The old GMC lurched into the tribal police headquarters parking lot. The policeman was not particularly pleased to see Gorman's pickup truck until he noticed Benita sitting next to her father. So she was back from college for the summer. For the past two years, he had wanted to say something. He had planned a dozen artful ways of letting her know that she was always on his mind, but he never knew quite what to say to this pretty girl. In her presence, Moon always ended up playing the role of uncle.
The big policeman leaned on the door and grinned at the rancher. "Gorman, you still didn't get that tail pipe fixed.
And worse than that, you're parked in Homer Tonom-picket's spot."
The rancher snorted. "I'll worry about the tail pipe if it falls off, and you can go piss on the game warden."
Moon touched the brim of his hat. "Mornin' Benita. It's a good thing you inherited your momma's sweet disposition." He wan
ted to add "and her good looks," but the words hung in his throat.
Benita smiled and glanced uncertainly at her grumpy father. Charlie Moon was the best catch on the reservation. Maybe in Colorado. "How's your new house coming along, Charlie?" Maybe he'd ask her to come out and see it.
Moon avoided the old man's suspicious glare; he pushed a gravel pebble with his toe. "Still a lot of work to do." Maybe he should invite her over to have a look at the place. But what if she didn't come? He took a deep breath. "Maybe, sometime when you have some time to kill…"
She was about to accept this unfinished invitation when her father interrupted.
"I got me some trouble."
The policeman backed away as Gorman opened the door and slid to the gravel surface. "What kinda trouble?"
"The bad kind. Something… somebody's killed Big Ouray."
The policeman thought hard and came up with nothing. "Who's Big Ouray?"
"My registered Hereford bull, dammit. And don't tell me I shouldn't give my stock names. They're my cattle and I can damn well do whatever-"
"Now don't lose your water." Moon gestured toward the station door with his cup. "Let's go inside and have some coffee. You can tell me all about it." Gorman lost a beef every year or so, and he always waved his arms and yelled until he was hoarse.
"Don't need more coffee. We just had breakfast at your Aunt Daisy's. That woman pushes greasy food at me every time I stop by; I won't be able to eat nothing again before suppertime. All them eggs and pork is gonna cause me to have," he thumped his chest, "… one of them cor-uh… cor-oll… ahhh… coronations."
"Well now that'd be the day," Moon said earnestly. "I expect the whole tribe and half the town would show up to watch it happen."
Benita clamped a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. Gorman cocked his head and blinked curiously at the big policeman. Charlie Moon was supposed to be so damn smart but sometimes he said things that didn't make no sense at all. "What're you gonna do about my dead bull?"
Moon adopted his official tone. "Tell me what happened."
Benita watched them through a sand-blasted windshield. She barely winked at Moon; the big Ute ducked his head shyly.
The old man pushed his hands deep into his overall pockets. "Not much to tell. Big Ouray was dead when I got there just about sunup this morning. Ears and balls gone." Moon felt the hair stand up on his neck. "And," Gorman added quickly, "don't say it was coyotes; it wasn't no coyotes-somebody done it with a knife." He looked glumly toward the place where the sun comes up. "A razor-sharp knife."
"You see any tracks?" Moon knew what the answer would be.
"No tracks." Gorman lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "I heard a noise, though, from up on the mesa. Kind of a… a wail." No point in mentioning he'd shot at the sound, that would only bring a stern lecture about gun safety from the big policeman.
Moon nodded. Gorman had probably heard a cougar. Maybe. "How about the rest of your cattle, they all right?"
"Didn't find 'em. Expect they're holed up in them little draws way up the canyon." He scowled at the policeman. "I sure as hell can't afford to lose no more beeves so you better see it don't happen again! In the meantime, I'm gonna go over to Arlo's place and file a claim on the bull. That animal," Gorman sighed with bitter regret, "cost me a fair pile of money."
"Arlo Nightbird carrying the paper on your animals?" Moon's tone was just critical enough to irritate the rancher.
"That's right," Gorman snapped, "and I don't want no lip from you about who I buy my insurance from. I already had a belly full from your Aunt Daisy. She thinks I should go up to Durango and buy insurance at one of them matu-kach agencies. Arlo ain't no saint, but," Gorman added in a virtuous tone, "he's one of the People and I try to give the People as much business as I can." Arlo was cheap.
Moon held his hands up in mock defense. "Hey, you want to deal with Arlo, it makes me no never mind."
"I'll take care of my ranchin' business," Gorman pointed at Moon's chest, "you take care of police business."
"I'll go up to Spirit Canyon and check things out." Moon stole a quick look at Benita over Gorman's battered hat. "Then," the policeman said, "I'll write up a report." He waited for the predictable response.
"Well, that's just dandy! A report. That'll do me a helluva lot of good." Benita offered Moon an apologetic look; Gorman slammed the pickup door and roared off in low gear, the tail pipe dangling on a single rusty hanger.
Moon watched the pickup disappear. "You're welcome." He waved. "We're here to serve!" Sooner or later, Benita would show up in town without her cranky father. Then, Moon promised himself, he'd manage to be where she was. Then-he kicked at a pebble-then he'd probably choke again.
At Benita's insistence, Gorman Sweetwater kicked some of the dried mud off his boots before he pushed the plate glass door under the sign that announced: nightbird insurance agency. Herb Ecker was sitting behind a battered desk, carefully inking words into a bound notebook. Gorman waited impatiently as the young man closed his eyes and repeated the words aloud: "I dance the dance of the old ones."
Gorman shuffled his feet to announce his presence, but
Herb, blissfully alone with his imagination, continued: "I dance the dance of remembering."
Gorman cleared his throat. "You'd best forget the dance, kid, and tend to your business."
The insurance salesman jumped to his feet as if launched by coiled springs. "Good day, Mr. Sweetwater, how may I be of service to you?" Herb looked hopefully at Benita, who flashed a lovely smile in return. The young man looked at the floor, his blond hair flopping over his forehead like a mop.
Benita stifled a giggle. She adored his blue eyes. "How are you, Herbie?"
Ecker blushed. "I am quite well." He glanced uncertainly at the old rancher, then at the daughter. "Thank you."
"Your hair," she said, "looks a lot nicer since you let it grow out. You writing poetry?"
The exchange student had been nearly bald when he arrived in Ignacio. Ecker started to reply, then hesitated when he saw the dark expression spreading over Gorman Sweet-water's face.
Gorman glared at the young man, then turned his harsh stare on his daughter. "You two know each other?" It had the unmistakable tone of accusation.
"Sure, Daddy. Herbie was in two of my classes last year. He's one of the smartest students at Fort Lewis College." She beamed at the young man. "Next semester, Herbie's enrolled in graduate school at the University of New Mexico."
Ecker's blush deepened. He looked as if he was about to apologize for sharing a class with Benita.
Gorman snorted. "New Mexico, huh?" Were Colorado schools not good enough?
"Yes, sir," Ecker replied with a spark of confidence. "Anthropology major."
The rancher scowled suspiciously at the distraught young man. Gorman decided that Herb was entirely too pretty to be a boy, and this made the rancher nervous. He wondered if this kid really liked girls. Rumor was, Herb took an un-healthy interest in his boss. Some Utes jokingly referred to Herb Ecker as "Nightbird's shadow." But it was time to get down to business. "My bull," he cleared his throat, "… he died."
Herb raised his eyebrows in a puzzled expression. "Your bull-you say it died?" His peculiar Germanic accent annoyed Gorman, who was suspicious of almost everyone. Especially foreigners.
"Yeah, died." Gorman leaned forward menacingly. "That's what happens when you drop off to sleep and you don't wake up no more." He was disappointed when the young man showed no sign of being offended. "You oughta remember him: Big Ouray. Registered Hereford. You sold me the policy, even came out to take them pictures of my animals."
Herb nodded and smiled politely. "Of course, I do remember now. I am very sorry about your loss, Mr. Sweet-water." Herb clasped his hands in the manner of a mortician comforting the bereaved. The blond kid had bounced from job to job to earn his tuition and a meager living. Part-time tutor in German and mathematics, veterinary assistant to Dr. Schaid, now peddler of insurance. Maybe, Go
rman mused, Herb had put in a stint with a funeral parlor.
Gorman suddenly lost interest in baiting this sickly-pale foreigner; he was eager to finish his business and leave. "I'm here to file a claim."
"Certainly. I do not handle that part of the business, you understand. I sell the policies. Mr. Nightbird, he processes the claims."
This sounded like a run-around. "Arlo does that? I thought he spent all of his time working up big moneymak-ing deals for the tribe. Where in hell is that little crook?"
Herb glanced uneasily at a closed door. "Mr. Nightbird is busy. I'll tell him that you-"
Gorman marched toward the closed door. "He'll see me right now. Benita, you wait here." Herb was frantically pressing the intercom button when Gorman stomped into Arlo Nightbird's office.
Arlo had his immaculate ostrich-hide boots propped on his desk. He was watching a pornographic video while, between puffs on an oversized cigar, he sucked on a silver flask of expensive bourbon. Arlo pressed the pause button on his remote control and glared at his visitor. "Can't you read English, Gorman? It says private on that door, and that's damn well what it means."
Gorman nodded toward the naked figures frozen on the television screen. "From the looks of that, it should say PRIVATES."
Arlo scowled and pointed his cigar at Gorman's feet. "And your boots, your big damn rubber boots! What'd you do, wade the river? You're tracking mud all over my brand-new antique Persian rug!"
Gorman dropped his lanky form into a chair and removed his hat to reveal long, unkempt wisps of iron-gray hair. He scratched at his scalp. "My bull. Big Ouray. He died last night."
"Well, hell, Gorman, I'm just heartbroken." Arlo switched off the television. "We'll have to round up some Irishmen and throw us a wake. Maybe we can invite a few cows, some that was mounted by your bull." Arlo rubbed the turquoise stud in his left earlobe and waited for a reply that didn't come. Gorman's silence unnerved him. "What do I care if your damn bull croaked? Go tell your blackbird priest; it's none of my business."
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