Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery

by Coel, Margaret

  He glanced through the search history and clicked on the site of a ranch where a white buffalo calf had been born ten years ago. He skimmed the story again: the unexpected birth of a white calf; the visitors coming for years, trampling the pastures, clogging the roads. Then he found the photos he had been looking for: a long fence like the fence at Broken Buffalo, sagging under the weight of gifts. Another photo showed lines of people waiting to see the calf. In yet another, a metallic sea of cars, trucks, and vans stretched toward the horizon. He went back to the first photo, looking for something else among the gifts. There, in the lower-right corner, a metal canister the size of a small trash bin. Scrawled in red paint across the front were the letters DONAT. The rest of the word ran off the edge of the photo.

  Father John typed in a new search: monetary donations white buffalo calf. A page of sites came up, and he clicked on the one at the top and read down the black lines of type:

  The birth of a white buffalo calf on a farm or ranch has proved to be expensive for the owners. Indians and non-Indians alike believe the rare calf is the embodiment of the sacred. A great number of people can be expected to visit the calf, which can present a challenge to owners. New fences must be constructed, current fences repaired and strengthened, and special areas marked off for parking. Porta potties must be installed. Visitors must be kept on special paths so that they do not ruin pastures and grazing lands. The volume of visitors can outpace the best efforts of the owners. Impatient visitors can be expected to break through fences, park in cornfields, and generally come across the pastures in any way they believe necessary to gaze upon the sacred calf. Most owners will be forced to hire extra hands to control the crowds. Local authorities also see additional expenses in controlling traffic.

  Visitors can be expected to bring donations to the calf, considered personal mementos, or even sacrifices. They will also donate money to help defray the costs of maintaining the calf. It is not unusual for donations to exceed a million dollars in a year. Usually the visitors begin to diminish after two or three years, and the donations lessen.

  Father John closed the site, sat back, and stared at the icons aligning themselves on the screen. One million dollars the first year. Another million the second year. Fewer donations after that, but still something. He wondered how much Sheila Carey would bank after paying wages for the hired hands, repairing fences, marking out pathways. Most of it, he thought.

  He realized the phone was ringing, and he reached around the corner of the monitor and lifted the receiver. “Father John,” he said.

  “Oh, Father, I’m so glad to reach you. Nuala O’Brian returning your call. It’s not too late, I hope. I’m in Mayo.” She hurried on: “Ever since I got your message, I’ve been praying you have good news about Jaime. You do have good news, I hope.”

  “I’m sorry. I was hoping you had news.”

  “Me? There’s been nothing. I came home to spend Jaime’s birthday with his parents. They’re getting old. Not in the best of shape. Not knowing what happened to Jaime, well, it’s about killed them. The police don’t seem to be doing anything to find him. I’ve called every month, but nothing new has turned up. I have to remind them who I’m calling about.”

  “Did you file a missing person report?”

  “Three. FBI, sheriff, and BIA police. I didn’t want to at first because I was”—he could hear her gulping in air—“worried Jaime might have wanted to get lost. Maybe get away from me and our wedding plans. Maybe he wasn’t ready to settle down and didn’t want to disappoint me. Crazy things were going through my head. If he didn’t want me, well, I certainly didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t want me. But after I talked to you, I realized that the idea of Jaime running away was silly. He’s not like that! Jaime runs toward whatever he has to face, and he’s faced some hard things in his life. Leaving the farm here and his parents, going off to the States to make money to save the farm. That’s the kind of man my Jaime is. So I reported him missing. It hasn’t done any good. I keep hearing how cowboys wander around, hire on to ranches, sometimes get paid in cash. You Americans call it under the table, so there’s no Social Security or tax or bank records. They can disappear. But that is not my Jaime.”

  She was crying now, and the sobs made a shushing noise on the line. “I don’t know what else to do. Can you help me, Father?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can try.”

  The phone had started beeping another call. He told Nuala good-bye, wondering if she had heard him, as she was crying so hard, and switched to the new call. Before he could say anything, a woman’s voice said: “Father! You heard what happened?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Marcy.” She was gulping in air. “Marcy Hawk.”

  He could picture the short, black-haired woman who had been helping him coach the Eagles this season. Always wearing the blue baseball cap with Eagles across the front. Whistling, clapping her hands overhead, shouting, “Way to go!” after the Eagles had shut out the Rangers.

  “What happened?”

  “Coach Mantle’s been killed.”

  “What?”

  “In his office a couple hours ago. Burglar broke in and shot him.”

  27

  RED, BLUE, AND yellow lights swirled in the darkness a block ahead. Traffic bunched together on Main Street, crawling past the strip mall where Ranchlands Employment was located. Father John switched to the far right lane and skimmed alongside the curb before swinging into the parking lot. Police cars were scattered about as if they had been dropped out of the night sky. Beyond the cars a half circle of yellow police tape flickered in the breeze. People stood around, heads bobbing, feet shuffling. Several uniformed officers huddled beside the cars, glancing at the notepads in their hands. Plainclothes officers in white shirts and leather vests moved about inside the police tape. Cameras flashed.

  Father John drove around the bystanders, pulled in behind the police cars, and jumped out. A plainclothes officer nodded in his direction, lights flashing over the look of annoyance on his face. “Crime scene. You need to go back.” He waved toward the street.

  “Father O’Malley from the mission.” He kept walking toward the police tape. He recognized the detective: George Samuels, Riverton Police Department. He had met him at other all-too-similar crime scenes. The play of lights, the stunned onlookers, the hush of voices. “I knew Steve Mantle and his family. Is his body still here?”

  The annoyance in the detective’s face melted into recognition. “Sorry, Father. Should’ve recognized your old pickup. Coroner took the body fifteen minutes ago. We’re finishing up with forensics.”

  “What happened?”

  “Burglary, plain and simple. Professional job. Knew what they wanted. Computer’s missing. Safe emptied. No sign of Mantle’s cell phone. He was shot in the back of the head at his desk, execution style. No way did they want to be identified.”

  Father John took a moment, fighting the wave of nausea that rolled over him. Execution style. Dear Lord, a few hours ago Steve Mantle had told him about the cowboys he’d sent to work at the Broken Buffalo. Two by two, hired together, left together. But Ranchlands Employment was only part of the man. He blinked at the image of the coach on the other side of the field when the Eagles played the Rangers. Checking the batting lineup, coaching in the runners, clapping his hands overhead when the kid in left field caught a fly. His son, Richard, loading up the bats and balls and gloves, hoisting bags over his shoulder, following his dad off the field.

  “How about the family?”

  “Wife drove over soon as she heard. Hysterical. One of the policewomen took her home. It’s tough, real tough. I don’t have to tell you. You seen it before.” Too many times, Father John was thinking. Too many senseless endings to too many lives.

  The detective threw a glance around the parking lot and drew in a long, slow breath that expanded his chest. “How well d
id you know him?”

  “We coached Little League teams. He was a good coach. Good man. I was here this afternoon.”

  “What about?”

  “I was curious about three cowboys who have gone missing. Steve had placed them on the Broken Buffalo Ranch. They worked for a while, then left. He didn’t know where they might have gone.”

  The detective nodded. “Cowboys don’t always leave forwarding addresses.”

  “Last March the fiancée of one reported him missing to the fed and the BIA police. You hear about it?”

  “Probably came across my desk. I’d have to check. Are you suggesting it might have something to do with the killing?” The detective was shaking his head. “They came for what was valuable. Mantle’s wife said he kept cash in the safe, probably a couple thousand. Sometimes he’d loan a cowboy money until he could find him a job. The killer came in here, forced Mantle to open the safe, then took off with the contents and the computer. Hit the jackpot.”

  Father John waited a moment before he told the detective he was going over to the house to see if there was anything he could do.

  Detective Samuels gave a quick nod, then ducked under the police tape and started toward the other plainclothes officers.

  * * *

  IT MIGHT HAVE been a party. The two-story house lit up, lights flaring over the front yard and bouncing in the trees. Cars jammed the driveway and crowded the curb on both sides of the street. Dozens of people, probably neighbors, blocked the sidewalk. Father John had to drive to the next block before he found a parking space. He walked back, only half-aware of the conversations fading into the breeze as he passed people on the sidewalk. “The mission priest,” he heard someone say. A hushed, mournful tone, as if the presence of a priest somehow made the inexplicable real. He hurried up the narrow front sidewalk to the porch, where baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling. The door stood open. Silhouettes of people moved around the brightly lit living room; the faint smell of fresh coffee and the soft noise of voices wafted toward him.

  He rapped on the door frame, then stepped inside. A crush of people, like in the grief-stricken homes he was used to visiting on the rez. Neighbors, family, all the relations—and, on the rez, everybody was related, it seemed—gathering together to comfort someone whose world had changed forever. The conversations died back. He could see the expectancy in the eyes turned on him, as if he, the priest, could make sense of this. A pathway seemed to part on its own across the room to the sofa against the far wall. Curled into the corner was Julia Mantle. He had seen her at the games, small and dark-haired, packed with energy, like a cheerleader for the Riverton Rangers. Jumping and shouting at every hit. All she needed, he used to think, were pompoms to wave overhead.

  He walked over and sat down on the edge of an ottoman someone pushed toward him. “Julia.” He kept his voice soft, the voice of the confessional, of holy things. “I’m so very sorry.”

  She shifted away from the back of the sofa and made an effort to turn in his direction. Her black hair was shiny and matted where she had been leaning against the cushion. She blinked into the lights that flowed from the ceiling and the assortment of table lamps as if she had just come in from the dark and needed time for her eyes to adjust. She lifted a hand, then let it flutter back to her lap. He wondered what she had taken, what kind of drug to mask the pain that, he knew, would come roaring back, a monster no drug or alcohol could tame. “You heard?”

  Father John nodded. “I came to see if I can help you in any way.”

  “Steve liked you. He said you were a good coach. Your kids play fair.”

  “He was a good coach.”

  She buckled under his words, face wrinkling, tears puddling in her eyes. “What will I do? Who will be the father to our children? Who will look after us and love us? Tell me, Father. What will I do? Oh . . .” She lifted her hand again. It looked as small as a child’s, with thin fingers and pink nails. “Don’t tell me to pray. Don’t tell me God will take care of us. What kind of God lets a good man like Steve be shot like a dog? I don’t want your God. I’m alone here. All these people, they’ll go away, and it will just be me and the kids, and what are we supposed to do?”

  “I don’t think your family and friends will go away.” He glanced at the little groups hovering about. “They will help you find the way. You will gain strength from them.” He had seen it happen: the bereaved carried along on a wave of strength from family and friends. She didn’t believe him, though. He could see it in the vacant look in her eyes, as if she were staring into an abyss.

  She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Moisture pooled on her cheeks. “He was here with us. He was here.” She opened her eyes and gave him a pleading look. “You understand? We were about to eat dinner. It’s still in the oven waiting for Steve to come home. How can this be? I mean, his dinner’s in the oven.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s coming home, I’m sure. He never misses dinner. Dinner with the family is a big thing with Steve because he didn’t really have a family. Just him and his mom. She was a waitress, so she used to bring home food from the restaurant. She always worked at dinnertime. He’d find something in the fridge and eat it by himself. Watch TV. Sometimes he wondered where she’d gotten the food. Scraped leftovers off somebody’s plate? He never knew, but he was always hungry, so he just ate whatever was there. But what he was really hungry for was a family to eat dinner with. Talk over the day. Steve created the family he always wanted.”

  Father John didn’t say anything. He could almost feel the memories rolling through the small, dark woman across from him, staring off into the past, her legs tucked under her. Finally she brought her eyes back to his. “Steve’s not coming home for dinner, is he?”

  “No, Julia. He’s not.” He took a moment before he said, “You said you were about to eat dinner. Why did he go back to the office?”

  Now she was staring in the direction of the dining room that opened off the living room. There were people sitting at the table, sipping from coffee mugs. Richard and a little girl sat across from each other. Father John wondered if the kids were in the same seats they always sat in at dinnertime, as if everything were normal. A woman with white hair and an air of authority set a plate of food in front of each child and leaned down to tell them something, her voice lost in the voices around them and the clanking noise from the kitchen.

  Julia kept her eyes fixed on the dining room table, as if she were picturing the family having dinner together. How was your day? Finally she looked back. “A client called. Steve took good care of his clients. They put the food on the table, he used to say. Family came first, but clients supported the family. He pulled his cell out of his shirt pocket, got up from the table, and went into the kitchen. No media at our table, that was his rule. I knew from the tone of his voice that something had come up and I would have to put dinner back into the oven. ‘Sorry,’ he said when he came back. He had to go to the office. It would only take thirty minutes. ‘We’ll wait,’ I told him. Oh God.” She dipped her face into her hands. “Why did I say that? Why didn’t I say, ‘You can’t go! You can’t leave us!’”

  “You told the detective about the call?”

  “I told him.” She peeled her hands away. Little black streaks, like fine lines, ran down her cheeks. “He’ll check Steve’s cell records. He’s got to find out who called! The client that needed to see Steve might have seen the killer hanging around the mall somewhere. He might have seen a car or truck. Detective Samuels has to find the client!”

  Father John looked away. It hadn’t dawned on Julia Mantle that the client might be the one who’d robbed and killed her husband. Clients were locals, part of their world. She and Steve went to church with clients, ate picnic suppers in the park with clients. Clients didn’t rob and kill. They supported the family.

  “Steve didn’t say who the client was?”

  S
he was shaking her head.

  “Listen, Julia. If I can ever help you or the kids in any way, please call me. Even if you just need someone to talk to.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed, as if she had just realized who he was. “Steve always said you were a good man.”

  Father John took her hand for a moment, then got to his feet. He made his way past the knots of people to the dining room. He saw Richard and the little girl watching him, dark eyes like their mother’s, rounded with grief and confusion. He placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. It was thin and knobby, layers of muscles not yet laid down. “This is tough,” he said, looking across the table at the kid’s sister. Big brown eyes and straggly brown hair. She looked even more fragile than Richard. “You’ve got friends and family here” he said. “They’ll help your mom and you kids.”

  The little girl pushed a fork through the macaroni on the plate in front of her. The kids might have been twins, except that the girl was smaller. “I seen you at the games.” Even her voice was small.

  “Remember, you have your mom, and you have each other,” he said.

  Both kids nodded, as if they understood more than should have been asked of them.

  28

  SIRENS ROSE AND fell somewhere on Main Street. Vicky sipped at her coffee and watched Adam stir a spoonful of sugar into his cup. The sound of sirens was always unnerving, with their mournful sense of someone in need of help. The sirens had been going throughout dinner, starting up, quieting down, starting up again. Odd how everyone ignored them—the waiters bustling about the tables, the other diners. The café, a new restaurant they had decided to try, was packed. They’d had to wait twenty minutes for a table, and people still filled the entry. A few people looked familiar. They had been in the line to see the white buffalo calf this afternoon.