Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery

by Coel, Margaret

  He realized Banner was talking about how murder on the rez was in the FBI’s jurisdiction. “We’ve handled the preliminary forensics,” he said. “Made casts of boot prints around the truck and tire tracks on the side of the road. Some are going to belong to Adam and Vicky. My guess is Carey knew his killer. Looks like whoever did it drove around him and pulled over. Carey pulled in behind, rolled down his window, and waited. He wouldn’t have done that if a stranger had tried to pull him off the road. He would have found a way to drive on. But he pulled over and waited. The killer walked up and shot him.”

  Father John felt a chill run through him, as if he had stepped into a surreal world: the matter-of-fact voice of the chief, the faintest notes of the opera in the background, the gurney disappearing into the van, the glow of the interior lights, the roof lights pulsing, and the darkness beyond. A world where an acquaintance or friend could walk up, pull a trigger, and extinguish a man’s life.

  “I’ll follow you to the ranch.”

  Banner swung about and walked to the car wedged between the truck and the coroner’s van, which was starting to nose out onto the highway. Father John waited until the van had skirted around the officers and the yellow tape and headed south for Lander. The morgue was in the basement of the old Fremont County courthouse. He got into the pickup and followed Banner south through a bend before turning right. O mio rimorso! was playing on the CD.

  4

  FATHER JOHN STAYED a couple of car lengths behind the police car that shimmered silver in the moonlight. A slow left turn onto Trout Creek Road, then another left onto a narrow dirt road. The old Toyota pickup bounced and skittered. Dust rolled backward and sprayed the pickup’s windshield. He dropped another car length behind. He and the police chief were driving farther and farther away from the houses, the debris-strewn dirt yards, the paved roads.

  The chief’s brake lights came on, and Father John followed them onto a two-track. The pickup was gyrating so hard he had to grip the wheel to keep from being tossed against the side window. The CD skipped and stuttered as the two-track undulated over the plains toward what looked like a log ranch house, the windows lit up like Christmas.

  Banner was knocking on the front door as Father John pulled in next to the police car and hurried up the stone steps. The wooden slats of the sofa and chairs on the porch rattled in the wind. From inside came the clack of footsteps that stopped on the other side of the door. Father John had the sense of a presence on the other side, of a hesitation.

  The door inched open the width of a brass chain, and Banner stuck his wallet badge into the opening. In an instant the door closed, then swung open, the metal chain clanking against the wood. Peering up at them with narrowed eyes and a fixed expression of dread was a small, attractive woman with reddish hair plastered against her head and fastened in the back. In her red plaid shirt and blue jeans washed gray, she looked capable of riding onto the pasture and roping a buffalo calf. She barely came to Father John’s shoulder.

  “Sheila Carey?” Banner tilted his head toward Father John. “Father O’Malley from the mission. May we come in?”

  “What are you doing here?” A deep well of suspicion rose in the woman’s voice.

  “I’m afraid we have bad news.”

  She stepped back and motioned them inside, then walked around a small table and perched on the edge of a sofa. “Whatever it is, let’s have it.”

  Banner dropped into the upholstered chair on the other side of the table, and Father John nudged a wooden chair out of a corner and sat down a few feet from the chief. He wondered how they must appear to the small woman staring wide-eyed at them, two big men bearing down on her with terrible news. The chief cleared his throat. It was never easy, Father John thought. “Your husband, Dennis, was shot this evening on Blue Sky Highway.”

  The woman pitched herself to her feet. There was a sharp thwack as her leg hit the edge of the coffee table. “That’s ridiculous.” Now she was looking down at them. “Dennis is at a meeting in Riverton. Monthly meeting of local ranchers. Afterward they go to a bar, sit around, drink beer, and gossip like a bunch of old biddies. He’ll be pulling up any minute.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Father John stood up and reached across the table for the woman’s hand. She yanked herself away.

  “How dare you show up in the middle of the night and tell me Dennis is dead. He cannot be dead. He’s on the way home. See . . .” She darted for the front window and peered past the edge of the drapes. “I can hear the rumbling of his truck. He’s out on the dirt road now. I’ll see his headlights coming up our road soon.” She pivoted about and stared at Father John a moment, then at Banner. “How dare you tell such lies!”

  She was swaying on her feet, and Father John walked over and took her arm to steady her. “You had better sit down. Your husband didn’t survive.”

  She shrugged away again, and wrinkles of understanding began to crease her face. “Didn’t survive? How can that be? He was fine. He went to a meeting. How can he be dead?”

  Father John took her hand and tried to lead her back to the sofa, but she was like dead weight, stuck in the middle of the floor. A door opened and shut in the back of the house, and a cowboy, black hat pushed back on his head and bunched fists hanging at his sides, materialized out of the darkness in the kitchen. He looked Hispanic, dark-skinned with flashing black eyes, and a short, stocky build. He stopped a couple of feet into the living room. “You need help, Mrs. C? I seen the police car and old truck out front.”

  Behind him, like a shadow, was another cowboy, lean and young and tense looking, acne popping on his forehead.

  “Chief Banner.” Banner got to his feet and faced the two men. “Who might you be?”

  “Hired hands,” Sheila Carey said. “Carlos Mondregan, the foreman, and Lane Preston.”

  Banner nodded. “Father O’Malley and I have brought Mrs. Carey some very bad news. Her husband was shot this evening.”

  “What?” Mondregan’s mouth opened into a wide O. “Shot? Where?” The other cowboy stepped backward, as if he had been pushed.

  “On Blue Sky Highway. He was probably on his way home.”

  “I should’ve gone to the meeting with him. I should’ve gone. Nobody would’ve gotten close to him if I’d been there. God, Mrs. C.” Mondregan swung toward the woman who was rocking back and forth, eyes darting about the room. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I have to go to him.”

  “I’ll take you,” Mondregan said.

  Banner told them the coroner had removed the body to the morgue. “We’ll arrange for you to see him and make a positive identification.”

  “Positive identification? You mean, there could be a mistake?”

  “I’m afraid there is no mistake.”

  Sheila Carey ran her tongue over her lips. “Oh my God. It’s true then, isn’t it?”

  “Is there anyone I can call for you?” Father John said.

  She dropped onto the sofa and dipped her face into her hands. “There’s nobody else.” Her voice was shaky and muffled. She peered through the Vs of her fingers. “Carlos and Lane have been helping out on the ranch. But it’s just me and Dennis in our own little world here, like it’s been ever since we met eight years ago. Both of us looking for something, and we found each other. Dennis is a real cowboy.” She dropped her hands, closed her eyes, and sat rocking back and forth, as if she had escaped into another time, another place. “A real cowboy. Wandered around the West for years, working other people’s ranches, drinking too much, hooking up with no-account women. Same for me, except for the cowboying and women. I hooked up with loser guys. It was like I had a beacon on me to attract losers. Wandering all over, like Dennis, with a lot of lousy, miserable jobs and rat-infested apartments. Things are gonna change, be different, he told me that first night. We’re gonna get us our own spread, and we’re gonna raise buffalo. He had a thing ab
out buffalo, Dennis did. Buffalo are wild, can’t ever be tamed. He felt a kindred spirit with them. So he got a good job on a ranch outside Grand Junction, and I hired on at a restaurant. No more drinking and carousing. We saved every penny. Two years ago, we put a down payment on this spread. Mortgage to knock out your eyeballs, but it was Dennis’s dream. Our dream.” She was crying now, as if the present loomed in front of her.

  Father John went over and sat down beside the woman. He waited a moment before he said, “Are you sure there isn’t someone we can call? A friend on the rez?” Had Dennis and Sheila Carey been Arapaho, the moccasin telegraph would have spread the news by now. The house would be filling up with relatives and friends. Women working in the kitchen, fresh coffee brewing, casseroles and cakes appearing as if by some conjuring trick. People would be pressing around Sheila Carey, patting her shoulder, holding her hand. Sipping coffee, eating, crying.

  “Now he’s dead. I know he’s dead.” This seemed to take all the woman had left, because she fell sideways onto the armrest. Banner and Carlos both jumped forward as Father John put an arm around her shoulder and lifted her into a sitting position. Her head lolled against the back cushion. She blinked at the ceiling, then made an effort to pull herself upright. “There is something you can do.”

  He waited, and after a long moment, she went on: “Bless the grave. Dennis would want to be on the ranch.” She ran her tongue over her lips. They looked cracked and sore. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. He glanced up at Carlos. “She could use some water.”

  The cowboy swung about and disappeared into the dimness at the back of the house. The sounds of running water and glass clanking on metal drifted out of the kitchen.

  “I can get an ambulance,” Banner said.

  “No! No ambulance!” A surprising amount of energy pumped through the exclamation. “No hospital. No drugs to help me cope. I had enough of that in that other life. You gotta arrest that bastard.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Banner asked. “Do you have an idea of who might have shot your husband?”

  “Oh, I got ideas all right.” She grasped the glass that Carlos held out and gulped at the water. “I got more than ideas. That cowboy Dennis had to let go in June. Threatened he’d come back and settle things.”

  “If he’s still in the area, we can pick him up. What can you tell me about him? Name? Local connections? Where did he go?”

  “He was no good. I told Dennis not to hire him the minute I laid eyes on him, and believe me, I know a loser when I see one. But Dennis said he needed help. Long stretch of fence to repair, dams about to calve. So he hired him. Rick somebody. Thomas. Thompson. Tomlin, maybe. He didn’t work out, just like I knew would happen. Drunk half the time. How would I know where he went? He wasn’t from around here. After Tomlin and another hand took off, we were lucky to hire Carlos and Lane.”

  Banner started to his feet. “I know this is hard, Mrs. Carey, but if there’s anything about Rick Tomlin you happen to remember, give me a call.” He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and set it on the table. “Agent Gianelli will also want to talk with you.”

  “The fed?” Mondregan’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I don’t want cops and feds all over the place,” Sheila said.

  “Mrs. Carey, your husband was murdered.”

  “We were supposed to be blessed.”

  Both cowboys leaned in close. “You sure you want to talk about this now?” Carlos said.

  “Talk about what?” Banner sat back down.

  “Can’t stay a secret, not on the rez with people coming around. Word’ll get out.”

  She drained the glass of water, then set it on the coffee table. “We had a great blessing. Ironic, isn’t it? Dennis gets killed just when we’ve had a blessing.” She was staring at Banner. “It’s a blessing when the white buffalo calf gets born, isn’t it? In the Arapaho Way?”

  Banner made a sucking noise, as if he were trying to catch his breath. “When did this happen?”

  “About a week ago,” Carlos said.

  “When were you planning to notify us?” Banner leaned forward, not taking his eyes from the woman, and Father John tried to remember what he had heard about the white buffalo. A being so rare, a white buffalo calf was considered by all the tribes to be sacred, a special blessing from the Creator, a reminder that the Creator was with the people. People from all over would descend on the ranch to see the white buffalo calf.

  “Not until we finish repairing the north fence,” Carlos said. “We gotta control the crowds.”

  “I’m asking Mrs. Carey.”

  “We didn’t expect . . .” She broke off and sobbed quietly into the palm of her hand. Finally she lifted her head. “Nobody expects a white buffalo calf to be born. It just happened. Dennis spotted it in the pasture. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Pure white buffalo calf with black nose and black eyes. Not an albino. I didn’t know what that meant until he told me. Our calf is the real thing, as rare as a gold nugget the size of my fist. We were blessed. That’s what he said. We were blessed. Some blessing!”

  Banner had extracted a white handkerchief and was patting at his forehead. He stood up and, looking down at the woman slumped on the sofa, said, “When do you plan to make the birth public?”

  “It was Dennis that was gonna handle it.”

  “We need a couple days before we can get the fence fixed,” Carlos said. “Maybe longer. We can’t have people trampling the pastures. We gotta fix a pathway they can use to go see the calf.”

  Banner stuffed the handkerchief into the back pocket of his uniform trousers. “We’re going to need time to plan for crowd control.” He was looking sideways into the middle of the room. “Roads will be jammed.” He switched his gaze between the woman and the cowboys hovering nearby, then he tapped the card he had laid on the table. “I would appreciate a heads-up before you make the announcement. Like I said, if you remember anything that might help us locate your husband’s killer, call me immediately.”

  “Oh God,” Sheila said. “Why did this have to happen?”

  Father John got to his feet, leaned over, and patted the woman’s shoulder. “I’m at the mission if you want someone to talk to.”

  He followed the chief across the living room and out the door. The night was getting cooler, and the wind had picked up. The chief hurried to his car and slid inside, shoulders rounded with determination. The engine had barely coughed into life when Banner pulled a U-turn and headed out onto the two-track. Father John got into the pickup and started after the red glow of taillights that jumped and bounced ahead. The woman was right, he was thinking. A white buffalo calf born on the rez, and a few days later, her husband shot to death. How could the calf be a blessing? And yet Indian people everywhere believed the calf was a blessing, a symbol of the Creator’s presence. Hundreds, probably thousands of visitors would descend on the rez to see the white buffalo calf. And Sheila Carey, left to cope alone with only the help of hired hands. Dear Lord. He turned off the two-track and onto the dirt road, a few scattered stars shining through a sky black with clouds, the red taillights plunging into the darkness ahead.

  5

  FATHER JOHN TOSSED the Frisbee into the tall grass surrounded by Circle Drive and watched Walks-On lope after it. The early-morning sun burned at his neck, but a hint of the night’s coolness lingered in the air. He had slept fitfully, a few hours of tossing and turning, images of the surprised look in Dennis Carey’s face stamped in his mind. But something else had nagged at him: the uneasy feeling that the man in the confessional had killed again and, somehow, Father John should have stopped him. The feeling had kept him awake most of the night and followed him this morning like a shadow he couldn’t identify or ignore.

  The dog disappeared into the stalks of grass and reappeared with the red Frisbee clenched in his jaw. He ran back, a shak
y, unbalanced sprint filled with confidence and enthusiasm, as if the fact that he was missing a hind leg was of little importance. Walks-On had been tiny, not much larger than a brown paper bag tossed out of a car, when Father John had found him in the ditch on Seventeen-Mile Road. He had been at St. Francis a couple of years then, still wobbly with the effort to stay sober, grateful to have a place to work, to be a priest.

  Even now it made him flinch to think he might have driven past if the puppy hadn’t moved his head. Father John had pulled over, gathered the broken body in his arms, laid the dog on the front seat, and driven for the vet’s office in Riverton. A week later he had gone back and claimed him, when no one else had. A puppy with an amputated hind leg who had grown into a muscular golden dog, full of life, seemingly unconcerned about his loss. A lesson in that, Father John thought.

  He threw the Frisbee again, this time angling it toward the residence. The slope in Walks-On’s shoulders meant that he understood: the game was over. Father John made his way across the field on the dirt path worn by countless past Jesuits. Like so many aspects of St. Francis Mission—the black-and-white photos that lined the administration corridor, the theology and philosophy books in the library, the files in the archives—the dirt path was a reminder that he followed in the footsteps of other men, better men. He never wanted to let them down.

  A white pickup turned off Seventeen-Mile Road and flashed through the tunnel of cottonwoods as Father John hurried up the church steps and let himself inside. Mass was supposed to start in ten minutes. He had played catch with Walks-On longer than he should have. Now he walked down the aisle, genuflected before the altar and the tabernacle Arapaho women had made from tanned deerskin to resemble a tipi, and made his way into the sacristy. He could hear the front door opening and closing with the arriving parishioners as he put on the chasuble and walked out to the altar. The red, blue, and yellow geometric patterns in the stained glass windows glowed in the morning sun: lines symbolizing the roads of life, triangles for the village, circles for the buffalo. At least a dozen Arapahos knelt in the pews, most elderly and set in their ways, used to starting the day with the quiet solemnity of Mass.