The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

  Hoover blinked at the woman. There was no shortage of empty heads around here. Must be inbreeding. He turned his attention back to the "medical examiner."

  "Where," he demanded, "is the body?"

  "Body?" Schaid looked helplessly at Moon.

  The Ute policeman pushed his hat back and allowed himself a quick grin. "Mr. Hoover wants to have a look at what's left of Big Ouray."

  The veterinarian pointed toward the general direction of the carcass.

  Emily watched Hoover's back disappear through the brush. "You have some very strange friends, Charlie." Scott Parris got out of the car and slammed the door. He tipped his hat at the pretty woman, and was rewarded with a shy smile. She reached for Schaid's instruments, but Scott Parris grabbed the heavy bag. "Allow me," he said gallantly. He followed her to the van.

  "Why," Schaid growled as he watched Emily chatting with Scott Parris, "does a fed want to look at a dead animal?"

  "Those FBI types," Moon said with an air of mystery, "don't tell us ordinary cops more'n we need to know. Could be," the Ute added in a conspiratorial tone, "this dead animal is tied into some bigger case he's working on."

  Schaid hitched his thumb under his belt to steady a rhythmic twitching in the injured hand. "Old Gorman may have a hard time collecting his insurance money on that dead bull, unless I can make a good case for natural causes. Don't you let that fed screw things up."

  "Harry," Moon asked, "do you know who wrote the policy on Gorman's cattle?"

  The veterinarian used his uninjured hand to wipe perspiration from his forehead. "Gorman didn't say when he called, but it don't matter much. They all want the same information, only the forms are different. You want a guess, I'd say the policy was written on National Farmer's Union. Gorman probably used one of the agencies in Durango or Pagosa."

  "Afraid not," Moon said. "You know Gorman Sweet-water, always lookin' for a way to save a buck. Arlo Night-bird's agency wrote the policy, probably on some little fly-by-night company in South Clawhammer, Nebraska, that don't have the money to pay its phone bills."

  Schaid's mouth slowly dropped open. "I didn't know Arlo wrote any paper on cattle. Oh damnation, why didn't Gorman tell me?"

  "He probably didn't know Arlo's wife was working for you. Didn't know myself until a few minutes ago."

  "Well," Schaid said thoughtfully, "Emily's seen the carcass… but I'll ask her to keep mum about it."

  Moon sensed a tenderness in Schaid's voice when the vet mentioned Emily-something about the way he spoke her name. The delicate little woman, unlike her husband, was popular in Ignacio. She organized the annual blood drive, gathered clothing to distribute to the poor, collected money for an endless list of good works. "How come," Moon asked, "one of the richest women in the county is doing your dirty work? Can't be the pay."

  "Maybe she's bored from sitting at home." The veterinarian's tone hinted that Moon should keep such questions to himself. "I ain't about to ask. She's good with the animals."

  "What about Big Ouray… how'd he die?"

  The vet avoided eye contact with Moon. "Won't know for sure until I do some tests on samples from the stomach, but the big brute probably'ate a bushel of poisonous weed," Schaid said, "then fell over and died. Happens every day with cattle. One minute they're right as rain, next thing you know they flop over dead as a stump. I'll check out the flora on the canyon floor. Likely as not, we'll find some loco weed or death camas."

  Moon nodded toward the camera. "You take pictures of the carcass?"

  "Yeah," Schaid said. "I'll get you some copies if you want 'em."

  The Ute policeman watched Schaid's face carefully. The fix was in; Gorman would collect his insurance. "If it was bad weed that killed him, what happened to Big Ouray's ears and balls?"

  A muscle twitched under the veterinarian's left eye. "Hard to say. Coyotes. Buzzards. Raccoons." Schaid turned his head to watch Emily Nightbird, who was combing tiny burrs from her dark hair, carry on an animated conversation with Scott Parris. They were smiling. Like friends. Good friends. He clenched his fingers into fists, ignoring the pain from the injured hand. "Beeves die for no reason at all, then the predators come for lunch. I'm surprised you've got time to waste on stuff like this."

  "Maybe you could keep me posted on what you find." Moon watched Schaid's face closely. "It'd help to know…"

  "I got more'n enough on my plate, treatin' the sick animals. Don't have much time left over to spend with dead ones." With that, the veterinarian stumbled off toward his van. He nodded at Emily, who said something to Scott Parris before she got into the van. Moon frowned thoughtfully as Schaid pulled around the Blazer and left a trail of dust floating over the rutted dirt lane.

  Emily was waving. "That," Parris said to Moon as he waved back, "is a nice looking little woman. Awfully pretty eyes."

  The Ute grinned at his pardner. "When did Anne leave? Must be hard to be without a woman for a whole day."

  Parris felt a pang of guilt. "I just said she was awfully pretty."

  "She's also awfully married," Moon said dryly. "Emily's husband is Arlo Nightbird. Arlo owns an insurance agency; he carried the paper on Gorman's cattle. Also finagles government grants for the tribe." Moon didn't mention that Arlo had a half-dozen local girlfriends and was a regular customer at a chicken ranch in Nevada. Emily Night-bird deserved a lot better than Arlo.

  Parris was watching the veterinarian's van disappear around a curve. "Is she a Ute?"

  "Nope. Half 'Pache, other half Mexican," Moon said. "Her momma was one of the Roanhorse 'Pache bunch down at Dulce. Good family, made some money with gas leases. Emily's dad is Fidel Sombra; runs a hog farm up by Oxford."

  Parris glanced toward the sandstone cliff and sighed. "Wonder What'll happen when Hoover finds the dead bull?"

  Moon grinned. "Let's go see." Parris followed the Ute's giant strides through the clumps of fringed sage. Judging from Moon's direction, the FBI agent had wandered off course. The Ute led Parris to a grove of ancient pinon. Parris saw the remains of Big Ouray as soon as Moon broke a path through a thicket of Apache plume.

  The Ute stood over the carcass and looked at the ground. The veterinarian and his assistant had made enough tracks to obliterate any evidence that might have remained of the mutilator. Crossed strips of white tape covered the incision where the veterinarian had inserted a tube into the animal's stomach. "Nuts, ears, sliced off clean as a whistle," Moon said, "this wasn't done by coyotes."

  "Yeah," Parris said. He fought off a threat of nausea. "Who'd do something like this?"

  Moon squatted by the carcass and thought about what had happened. Maybe he should have come out this morning to look for some sign. But who would have expected Schaid, who had a busy small-animal practice, to respond so quickly to Gorman's summons? The Ute kneeled by Big Ouray's head; he ran his hand over the bull's neck. "Didn't bleed much." He looked up at Parris. "Bull must have been dead when somebody cut him or the arterial pressure would have sprayed blood all over the place." He ran his fingers over a slight abrasion between the horns and the eyes. "Wait a minute." Moon pressed his thumb against the red hide; there was a depression where the bone had been crushed. "Somebody smacked this big fellow on the head."

  Doc Schaid should have noticed this; unless the alcohol was fogging his brain. But even if he did, it wouldn't be in his report. The veterinarian, who depended on local ranchers for much of his income, would leave out any detail that might endanger Gorman's insurance claim. So there it was.

  Moon took a dozen steps away and walked a wide circle around the dead animal. There were only a few footprints. Unfortunately, they all matched the ones Harry Schaid had left at the carcass. The vet was probably attempting to find some bad weed to blame the animal's death on. In this canyon, that shouldn't be hard to do. The Ute returned to the carcass and stood in silence, gazing intently at the remains of an impressive animal.

  Hoover appeared unexpectedly. "Help me find the man's body; we've got more serious business than som
e stinking dead cow!"

  "Not a cow," Moon replied evenly. "That's a bull." Or what had been a bull.

  "Fine. Cow, bull, whatever. The important question, is where in hell is Mr. Ouray's body?"

  Moon nodded toward the carcass. "That's him. Mr. Big Ouray. Gorman Sweetwater's prize Hereford bull."

  A blank expression spread over the special agent's face. "This is some kind of joke?" It had never occurred to Hoover that a mere tribal policeman would dare to trifle with him.

  Parris put his hand on Hoover's shoulder. "I tried to warn you. Charlie Moon can't pass up a chance to have a little fun."

  "Fun?" Hoover was nibbling at his lower lip; his hands trembled. "Hey, it's what I should have expected out here among the mentally deprived. Country yokel plays a prank on the city boy." The special agent was breathing in short, rapid puffs.

  Moon grinned at Hoover. "I never said he was a man; everything I told you about Big Ouray was the gospel…"

  Hoover sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He fixed his icy stare on the Ute and enunciated his words with great care. "You overgrown… inbred… shit-for-brains asshole!" Hoover whirled and marched away.

  The Ute policeman shook his head in mock dismay. "Overgrown, am I?" Moon glanced sideways at Parris who wore an "I told you so" expression all over his face.

  "He's a bit irked," Parris said as they watched Hoover stumble over a sage bush.

  "Uh-huh." Moon shook his head sadly. "Nervous little feller. Walks like he's stompin' post-holes."

  "I expect he has a long memory, Charlie. Sooner or later, he'll find a way get even with you. Can't say I'd blame him."

  "He doesn't," the Ute observed, "have much of a sense of humor."

  An hour later Charlie Moon and Scott Parris were comfortable and warm, basking in the inviting aromas of Daisy Per-ika's tiny kitchen. "So what killed Gorman's bull? An animal or a man?" Her suspicious eyes were focused on her nephew's face.

  "Hard to say," Moon said, "didn't find much out there. You have any notions?" There wasn't much that happened in Canon del Espiritu that Daisy didn't know about. Or have an opinion about.

  She stirred a cedar spatula in the iron pot, then turned the propane flame down until the yellow ring turned to a blue flicker. "I figure it's some crazy person." The shaman thought about the rusty twelve gauge in the closet. Might be a good idea to load the gun. Just in case.

  Parris sniffed at the aroma. "Smells fantastic." Marvelous what fresh air would do for your appetite.

  "The vet's report," Moon said, "will most likely say Big Ouray ate some bad weed. That coyotes chewed off the missing body parts. I guess maybe that's what happened."

  Daisy dipped a full ladle of lamb stew into each of three plastic bowls. "Don't play that game with me, Charlie Moon. Whenever you try to fool me, you blink your eyes a lot. If you don't want to tell me what happened, it don't matter the least bit to me."

  Charlie gave her an enthusiastic bear hug, lifting her little feet off the linoleum. "Auntie, I never tried to fool you in my whole life." He sat her down, and unconsciously, blinked several times.

  Daisy Perika elbowed her nephew sharply and fought back a smile. "You'll never grow up, you big buffalo." She watched Scott Parris taste his stew, but directed her question to her nephew. "You figure whoever killed Gorman's bull and cut it up like that… could be somebody we know?"

  A frown passed over Moon's face. "Hard to say." It had to be someone who was willing to attack a full-grown bull with some kind of club. Someone who was a little crazy. Or… someone who could get close without alerting the animal. A troubling possibility occurred to the policeman, but he dismissed it.

  Moon went to the bathroom to take a shower; Scott Parris occupied himself with a copy of the Southern Ute Drum. As she washed the dishes, Daisy's thoughts were on her nephew. Charlie Moon was a fine, honest man, and everyone said he was a good policeman. He attended mass at the Catholic church every Sunday morning but his aunt suspected that he had retained some interest in the way of their ancestors. Most of the Utes were at least nominal Catholics, but a few kept the old ways too. Daisy remembered how Charlie got his Ute name when he was a little boy.

  Lois Winterheart was Charlie's grandmother. Daisy's mother had told incredible stories about Lois-said the old woman could "change herself, become like the spirits who moved about without need of a body." Daisy could picture her mother, as she described as Lois, moving her hand in a floating motion, "and she could drift through the trees… you couldn't see her, except maybe you might see her shadow." Daisy remembered the delightful thrill as she would lean closer to hear her mother whisper: "But if you paid attention, you could feel something like a gentle breeze drifting through the pines, whenever Lois would pass by. Some of the old people," mother would continue, "said Lois had a power to make the wind fall still, then start up again. But you couldn't hear nothing at all when she was on the move. All the birds and everything, they would get real quiet when Lois used her power."

  Her father had dismissed this as a foolish woman's idle tale, but Daisy would never forget what happened those many years ago, during the Moon of Great Hunger. It was when the heavy snows came. The February snowflakes were like wet goose-feathers; they fell without pause for three days. Then, the moaning winds rolled in from the northwest. When the storm finally moved away toward Chama and Tres Piedras, the drifts were big enough to lose a team of horses in.

  It was that awful winter when Lois Winterheart had moved into the adobe house down on the banks of the Piedra, ten minutes (in good weather) from Daisy's trailer home. Lois needed to borrow fuel for her cooking stove, but a person needed snowshoes to navigate wave after wave of drifts. Despite these obstacles, old Lois appeared on Daisy's front porch in her tattered woolen shawl and beaded moccasins, asking to borrow any coal oil her neighbor could spare. Lois had waited patiently in the kitchen, sipping a cup of strong coffee while the shaman poured kerosene from a five-gallon can into a glass jug. Lois had departed with the jug under her arm. A moment later, when Daisy had hurried outside with the shawl that her neighbor had forgotten, the old woman was gone. And there were no tracks in the deep snow. None coming, none going. And everything was deathly silent… it was as if the whole earth and all its creatures had, for a few moments, held their breath.

  And that wasn't the end of it. Daisy remembered it like last week. Back in nineteen and sixty-eight, Lois had taken sick with pneumonia and was making ready to go to the other world. On the far side of that deep river. Daisy paused as she remembered, gazing blankly at the wall. She could almost see the misty edge of that other world. Before Lois passed over, she had summoned little Charlie Moon to her bedside. Charlie was her favorite grandchild. Daisy had watched as Lois put her right hand on her grandson's head and gave him some of this power she had. And a secret name.

  Daisy sighed. She had a suspicion that Charlie could hear the songs the old ones sing. But maybe he tried not to listen. The shaman paused and listened; she could often hear the songs that wafted down the Canyon of the Spirit. But Charlie was drifting away, losing touch with the old ways that had sustained the People since time began. Her dark eyes snapped fire as she turned from her dish-washing to glare, almost accusingly, at the white policeman who was reading an article about Miss Southern Ute in the Drum. "Charlie acts more like a matukach every year. You know he got himself a subscription to the Wall Street Journal, then bought some stock in a fruit juice company down in Georgia?"

  "Charlie never mentioned it to me," Parris said with a straight face, "don't suppose he'd want that kind of information spread around."

  She nodded; her scowl said that of course Moon would keep such shameful activities concealed. Daisy dried the last cup; she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and closed her eyes. "I had a bad dream about Charlie last Friday, woke me up in the middle of the night. Couldn't get back to sleep for worry."

  This at least, Parris understood. Those who were close to policemen often dreamed of gruesome deaths at
the hands of ruthless criminals. "Something bad happen to Charlie?"

  "It was awful." Daisy shuddered at the distasteful memory. "Dreamed he'd taken up golf."

  7

  The morning sun illuminated the crumbling wall of Three Sisters Mesa; the air was heavy with a damp, gray mist. Gorman Sweetwater rolled the truck window down and sniffed at the sweetness of the crisp morning air. He lifted his boot off the accelerator pedal and glanced toward Daisy's trailer to see if her kitchen light was on. It was. He watched the trailer door open, framing the old woman's stooped form. She moved carefully down the porch steps and waved. Gorman shifted down to low gear and turned into her lane. By the time he switched off the ignition, she was leaning on the truck door.

  "Good morning, cousin. Come to check on my cattle." The ones, he reminded himself bitterly, that remained.

  "Stop for a few minutes. I got a skillet full of scrambled eggs and pork sausage and Hatch chili."

  "I'm not all that hungry," Gorman lied. Benita kept nagging at him about how eating rich food would cause something to clog up his arteries… but what was it? Since she'd been to college, Benita had so much to say it was hard to keep track of it all. But suddenly it came back to him; Gorman was certain that he remembered his daughter's exact words. "Anyhow," he said, "them eggs and sausage would be bad for my castor oil level."

  Drained of patience, Daisy turned away and waved a hand to dismiss this nonsense. This old man got sillier with every year.

  He sniffed at the rich aroma drifting from her kitchen window. "But," he said with a pious tone, "I'll come in and have some eats if it'll make you feel better."

  "Check the railing on my porch. It moves when I lean on it." Those who eat should also work.

  "Got a hammer and crowbar in the truck, maybe some nails. I'll see what I can do." He knew that her last husband had been a pitiful excuse for a carpenter and Daisy never missed a chance to maneuver her cousin into the odd job.