Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery (15 page)

THE BROWN PICKUP
parked in front of the administration building didn't look familiar. Father John drove around Circle Drive, his eyes on the pickup. A long dent—a slash—along the driver's side. Splotches of primer paint here and there. Frame sinking on bald tires. The pickup might belong to any number of people on the rez.

He pulled in next to it. As he got out, he saw an Indian emerge from the shadows in the alley between the administration building and the church. Shuffling, bent partway forward, as if an invisible rope were pulling him along. He glanced up past the brim of a brown cowboy hat. “Got a minute, Father?” he called.

“Of course.” Father John knew the man. Lewis White Feather, in his fifties with the look of a man thirty years older, placing one boot after the other on the gravel as if the earth might shift beneath him. He had the grooved, weatherworn features and the sallow, yellowish complexion of a man who had divided his time between the outdoors and the bars. Father John could smell the whiskey from ten feet away.

“Been waiting for you.” Lewis drew up next to him. He was making an effort—oh, Father John recognized the effort—to appear steady and in control when everything was spinning out of control. “You heard about the calf?”

“I have.”

“She's a miracle from the Creator. Don't matter how bad things get, the Creator is still with us. Still cares about what happens to the people. I went out to the ranch this morning. Had to wait a couple hours with a bunch of other Indians for some white cowboy to escort us out to the pasture. ‘Escort.' That's what they call it. Hurried us along after we got out there, but I left my gift of tobacco. Tied a medicine bag to the fence. There was lots of gifts going up on the fence. Folks paying respect and leaving signs of thanksgiving. You know what a white buffalo calf means?”

“Hope.”

The Indian grinned and nodded. “We got hope. We can do better. Spirit come to let us know we aren't alone. The Creator is with us. We forget that lots of times. I came here to take the pledge.”

“Where would you like to take it?” Father John tried for a smile of encouragement. He had given the pledge to many Arapahos. An oath, taken on the Bible, not to drink alcohol for a month or two months or longer, if the man—or the woman; he had pledged many women—thought they could do it. Lewis had taken the pledge two or three times before. He had managed to stay sober afterward. Until the end of the pledge period.

“I went out by the Little Wind River while I was waiting. I can feel the spirits of the ancestors there.”

“Hold on a minute.” Father John took the steps in front of the administration building two at a time and let himself inside. Bishop Harry's voice floated down the corridor. The phone had probably been ringing since he'd left with people wanting to talk about the calf. Whenever there was what he thought of as a touchstone, a junction between Indian beliefs and Christianity, the phone started ringing. People dropped by.
What do we think about this?
He had asked himself the same question. Even the bishop, he knew, had asked the question. Sometimes there was no knowing, no explaining. Only accepting that the Creator worked in mysterious ways.

He took his Bible from the shelf behind his desk, found his stole in the drawer, and hung it around his neck. Outside, Lewis was staring down the alley toward the trees that fringed the river. He fell in beside the man, trying to keep to Lewis's slow, deliberate pace. Past Eagle Hall, past the guesthouse, where Lewis had stayed a couple of years ago after his wife, Marty, had thrown him out. Set his moccasins at the front door, was how Lewis had explained it.

They walked down the path that wound through the stands of cottonwoods and scrub brush. The air was cooler, the dirt softer in the shade. “Ancestors had troubles.” Lewis's voice was quiet, reflective. “Just like now. People need jobs to feed their kids. Kids need to go to school. The ancestors, they never lost hope. They come here to give us a better life.”

Father John was quiet, waiting for the man to go on. He had heard stories about the ancestors, stories handed down in families, bits and pieces of information he had never seen in any history book, about what it was like when the Arapahos had arrived on the Wind River Reservation almost a hundred and fifty years ago. It was the Shoshone reservation. Chiefs Black Coal and Sharpnose had gone to the Shoshone chief, Washakie, and asked if the people could come under his blanket. Eight hundred Arapahos, survivors of the Indian Wars, sick, hungry, with no place else to go. Washakie had agreed.
We were a pitiful sight
, he remembered one of the grandfathers saying.

“My grandfather's father was here,” Lewis said. Father John could hear the gurgling sounds of the river; not much more than a creek, really. The path was widening, as if it would spill into the creek. Lewis stopped at a fallen log and gazed at the water tumbling over boulders, glistening in pockets of sunshine. “People didn't have food. His little daughter was dying. They prayed to the Creator to help them.” He shifted slowly around until he faced Father John. “I think the Creator must have sent a white buffalo calf back then as a sign the people needed to hold on to hope. Same as now.”

Lewis put up one hand, palm forward in the Plains Indian sign of peace. Father John held out the Bible, and Lewis set his other hand on top. “I pledge to stop drinking for . . .” He gulped, as if he were trying to pull the words out of his throat. “Sixty days. I pledge sixty days. I ask the Creator and Jesus our Lord to help me. I thank the Creator for sending the calf that showed me what I had to do.”

Father John made the sign of the cross over the man. “God bless you.” Then he said, “God will bless you, Lewis.”

*   *   *

HE WAITED UNTIL
Lewis White Feather had lifted himself into the brown pickup and settled around the steering wheel. He leaned down toward the open window and told Lewis to stop by the mission any time he wanted to talk. AA meetings on Tuesday nights. Once in a while Lewis came. The pickup cranked into life, spit out black exhaust, and wobbled around Circle Drive into the cottonwood tunnel, grayish exhaust trailing behind. “God help you,” Father John said out loud.

Bishop Harry was still on the telephone. Father John marveled at the patience in the old man's voice as he walked down the corridor to the back office. The bishop leaned sideways into the phone clamped to his ear. “Yes. Yes. We must be very grateful. Yes, indeed. The white buffalo calf is sacred.” After a moment, the bishop smiled, and said, “It is no trouble. Call anytime.” He dropped the phone into the cradle and looked up, light flickering in his eyes.

“The calf has everybody talking and thinking about God.” He nodded toward the phone. “How can that be anything but a miracle?”

“Would you like to see the calf?”

The bishop nodded. “Very much.”

“We'll take a drive out to the ranch later.”

“I'm afraid I have bad news.”

Father John had turned around and was about to head to his own office. He turned back. “Another random shooting on the rez last night,” the bishop said.

“I've heard. A cowboy from Colorado by the name of Reg Hartly. Fortunately he wasn't hurt.”

“A couple of callers mentioned the shooting. People don't know how to take it. The birth of the calf should bring peace and hope. Instead, people are frightened. Took place out on the highway north of the casino. About a mile from the mission.”

Father John held the old man's gaze a moment. Reg Hartly hadn't said where the shooting had taken place. Dear Lord, a mile from the mission! He turned slowly and started back down the corridor. The phone rang as he walked into his own office. He took the space between the door and the desk in three steps, but before he could pick up, the ringing stopped. Bishop Harry's voice reverberating in the old building: “Yes, yes, we have certainly been blessed.”

He sat down at his desk and squared the notepad in front of him. He drew a black line halfway down the page below the names of Josh Barker and Jaime Madigan. Then he wrote the date and the words “Interview with Steve Mantle, Ranchlands Employment.” Coach for the Riverton Rangers, he was thinking, determined to beat the Eagles and claim the league championship, father of a boy on the team. Good coach, good man.

He starting writing down what Steve had told him. Get it down, get it down before it evaporated like smoke. Six cowboys hired by the Broken Buffalo in a year and a half, outsiders, all of them. White. Hired in pairs, left in pairs. Except for Carlos Mondregan, the man he had met when he and Banner had gone to notify Sheila Carey about her husband, and another hand, Lane Preston. Other cowboys hired in the past few days to handle the crowds. Four or five that Steve knew about.

He flipped to a new page and made a column of names. Two by two down one side of the notepad, in the order in which they had been hired and had left. He wrote the dates next to the names. Jack Imeg, Lou Cassell, a year ago last spring, left last fall. Jaime Madigan and Hol Hammond, hired last fall and left in February. Rick Tomlin, Josh Barker, hired in April. Left in late June. He drew circles around Jaime Madigan and Josh Barker, who seemed to have disappeared. Then he drew a circle around Rick Tomlin, who'd failed to show up to testify at Arnie Walksfast's trial.

He opened the laptop, gave it the minute or two it required to wake up, and typed Nuala O'Brian in the search engine. A list of sites came up. Singer at McCloskeys pub in Dublin. Physical therapist, Danbury, Connecticut. Second grade teacher in New Orleans. None of them the girl who had sat in his office swallowing back tears. He'd had the feeling it was all the girl could do to keep from running out the door screaming with heartbreak and fear.

Then he saw it. Nuala O'Brian's Day Care, Albuquerque, New Mexico. He waited until the bishop's voice went quiet before he picked up the phone and punched in the number. “O'Brian's Day Care.” The voice on the other end was sunny and energetic. He could picture the woman out on a playground pushing kids on a swing. He told her he was calling for Nuala O'Brian.

“I'm afraid she's not here. If this is about registration, I can help you. We are still accepting children for the fall semester.”

“Can you tell me how I can reach her?”

The question seemed to stop the woman. She took a couple of seconds before she said, “May I ask what this is about?”

“My name is Father John O'Malley. I'm at St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation. Nuala came to see me last winter about her fiancé.”

“Jaime? This is about Jaime? He's been found? He's dead, isn't he?”

“I'm afraid I don't have any news.” Father John let the words settle a moment. He hoped the man wasn't dead. “How can I reach Nuala?”

“She's in Ireland. I'll give her the message next time she calls.”

Father John thanked her and gave her the mission's number along with his cell number. Then he hung up, drew a line under the notes he'd made, and wrote Nuala O'Brian and the telephone number. He stared at the words a moment before he wrote: Jaime Madigan still missing.

The phone rang again, but when he answered, the bishop was already on the line. He slipped his cell out of his shirt pocket and slid his finger over Vicky's name. “Vicky Holden's office.” The secretary's voice was familiar; so many times he had called when he needed to talk to Vicky. Would she have time to see him today?

“I will give her the message,” Annie said.

HE WAS IN
a traffic jam. A two-track dirt road across the plains, and a line of pickups, SUVs, and dust-covered cars stretching ahead. Reg pounded on the steering wheel, frustration burning like acid in his throat. The line moved forward a couple of feet. He moved with it, closing in on a white SUV with a New Mexico license plate. God, at this rate, he would be here all day, the sun beating down, the air like fire. The air-conditioning in the truck had conked out last summer, and he hadn't had the cash to get it fixed. The windows were down, but the temperature was ninety-five and rising.

The line inched forward again. Reg tapped on the gas, then the brake. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. He studied the people in the truck behind him. Indians. Man in a black cowboy hat behind the wheel, woman in the passenger seat fanning herself with a magazine. Two black-headed, brown-faced kids in the rear seat popping up between them. Air-conditioning must not be working for them, either. They had come a long way. The license plate was from Oklahoma.

People from across the country coming to see the white buffalo calf. He had never seen a white buffalo, even though he had spent two years working a bison ranch in southern Colorado and had watched the birth of a lot of calves. Fuzzy, wiggling, black. Sometimes he wondered if the white buffalo was nothing but a legend, handed down through generations of Indians to convince themselves they had a special connection to the Creator. He would send the white buffalo in times of need—except He never did, in Reg's experience, and God knew Indians had seen lots of needy times.

Now a white buffalo calf born on the Broken Buffalo. He had to admit he looked forward to seeing it. Which would probably mean waiting in more lines. His fist made a hard, popping sound against the steering wheel. He stared at the SUV and tried to grasp the image at the edges of his mind: The owner of the ranch in Colorado, seated on a log around a campfire one evening after they had been riding the fence, looking for breaks. A small buffalo herd grazing off in the pasture, huge, black hulks against the gray sky. “One of those white calves the Indians talk about gets born here, you know what to do.”

Reg had waited. They were sipping beer and had just finished eating stew out of cans. He hadn't thought about doing anything different if a white calf were born. Leave the mother and calf alone. The mother would have gone off a ways from the rest of the herd to have her calf. She would introduce the calf when she was ready. Not until she was ready would she allow the tractor and flatbed to come close enough so that Reg or one of the other hands could fork off a bale of hay.

“Shoot it.”

“What?” Reg had spit out a mouthful of beer to keep from choking. Buffalo were expensive animals; it cost money to raise a herd. What sense did it make to destroy a calf?

“Those are my orders.”

Now he understood why. Thousands of people converging on the ranch to see the white calf, trampling the pastures, breaking through fences. Lines of traffic clogging the roads, like the road he was on now. What rancher would welcome such a blessing?

See where it had gotten the owners of the Broken Buffalo? Dennis Carey shot to death. The widow left to cope with thousands of visitors. A new thought hit him: what if there was a connection between the birth of the calf and the man's death? Reg shrugged the thought away. The Indians had taken care of Dennis Carey, he was sure of it. And one thing he had learned cowboying was to take care of his own business and nobody else's. The calf and all the visitors and the ranching itself were the widow's problem now. All he wanted was to find out what had happened to Josh.

He realized the line had stalled. The same clump of sagebrush outside his window, the same hawk diving and swirling overhead. He slammed a fist hard against the edge of the wheel, then jerked the wheel sideways, stomped on the gas pedal and pulled around the white SUV. He kept going, past the line of vehicles, bouncing over the ridged, hard-packed earth, tearing through the scrub brush like a race car driver. Keep truck upright, avoid obstacles, keep going.

He could see the gate ahead, the cowboys bent toward the passenger window of a black truck. Finally one of the cowboys waved the driver over to another line of vehicles waiting to get into the pasture that had been turned into a parking lot. The lot was already full, with rows of vehicles stacked around the arroyos and brush. Two other cowboys were running up and down waving trucks and cars toward the far end of the rows. The cowboy who had told him yesterday that Josh Barker had never worked here didn't seem to be anywhere around.

He ignored the tall, horse-faced cowboy running toward him, arms flailing, motioning him back into line, and drove for the gate. He slid to a stop, jumped out, and walked over to the stocky, dark-haired man staring at him from beneath the rim of his cowboy hat. He looked Hispanic. Not many Hispanics in this area, but he'd known a lot of Hispanic cowboys in southern Colorado. Reg could see the handle of the pistol on the cowboy's hip. Smells of dust and sagebrush blew in the air. Men shouted, engines growled. The horse-faced cowboy appeared at his side and grabbed his arm. He pulled away. “I got an appointment,” he shouted.

“Let him go.” The Hispanic cowboy fixed the other man with a death-ray gaze. Then he turned to Reg. “Who are you?”

“Reg Hartly. Here to see Mrs. Carey. She knows I'm coming.” It was true. The Indian lawyer lady had told Mrs. Carey to expect him. What he didn't tell the cowboy was that Mrs. Carey had threatened to have him thrown off the ranch if he showed up. “Okay if I go on up to the house?”

“You here about a job?”

Reg took a moment. The idea had been floating around his mind since last night. Hiring on here, seeing what he could learn about Josh. “Yeah. I hear she's hiring.” He threw a glance at the line of pickups, the other cowboys running about. “Need a lot of help to handle this crowd.”

“Wait over there.” The Hispanic cowboy nodded toward a couple dozen cowboys standing off to the left. They'd been waiting in the sun awhile. He could see the dark bands of sweat on the backs of their shirts. Another group of cowboys was forming. At any moment the Hispanic could announce the quota had been filled, and he would lose whatever chance he might have to get to the ranch house.

“You don't understand. Mrs. Carey's expecting me.”

“Good story. Too bad you're the fiftieth guy to use it.” The cowboy was implacable, face stone-set. “Over there.”

Reg shifted about. He didn't want to push things. The last thing he needed was for the Hispanic to call the house to check on his story. He was about to start toward the first group of cowboys, all watching him, sloped forward, thumbs hooked in the pockets of their blue jeans, desperation in their faces.

“Hold on.”

Reg turned back.

“Ranchlands send you?”

“That's right.” Reg didn't hesitate. Ranchlands could be anything, but it was a way in.

“Why didn't you say so?”

“I told you Mrs. Carey was expecting me.”

“Go on up to the house. Leave your truck here. No vehicles past the gate.” He reached over and lifted the gate. Reg darted under.

The log house stood at the end of the dirt road, windows blinking in the sun. He walked fast, eager to leave the noise and confusion behind. A white wooden chair creaked on the porch as he came up the steps. He was about to knock on the door when it swung open so fast that he thought Sheila Carey must have heard his steps. The Hispanic cowboy had probably called up to the house after all.

“Ranchlands?” The woman was small and attractive: reddish hair falling around her shoulders, green eyes appraising him as if he were one of the ranch animals.

“That's right.”

She gestured with her head for him to come inside. Still appraising him, he thought, taking her time before she said, “We'll talk in the study.”

He followed her around the oak staircase that dropped into the entry, past pocket doors folded into the walls. The study was large and filled with sunshine that streamed through the windows. A fan hummed in the corner next to the desk, sending gusts of warm air across the room. “Have a seat,” she said, jabbing a finger toward a straight-backed metal chair. She dropped into a black-framed chair behind the desk and set a notepad in front of her. “Start with particulars. Name. Where you come from.”

“Reg Hartly. Colorado.” He watched the complacent expression on her face dissolve into a hard knot of comprehension. A red flush started up her throat.

“I told your Indian lady friend . . .”

“She's not a friend.”

“Vicky Holden seemed to be under that impression. Concerned about your missing buddy. I fail to see how the cowboys on this ranch could be any business of hers. Ranchlands sent you?”

Reg clasped his hands between his knees and leaned forward. “Yeah.” He was thinking Ranchlands must be some kind of employment agency. “Look, Mrs. Carey, I came here to find Josh Barker. He's gone missing. One of your hands told me Josh never worked here.”

“I suppose Steve Mantle gave you some story about your buddy working here. Well, I keep the records on this ranch, not Ranchlands. I don't care what that lying sonofabitch Mantle told you.” She swiveled sideways and looked out the front window. He would check out Ranchlands, he was thinking. They might have records on Josh.

Sheila Carey squared herself again at the desk. “You can walk out of here, or I can have my cowboys beat the crap out of you and carry you out. Your choice.” She stretched an arm over the desk and picked up the phone.

“Josh isn't the only reason I'm here.”

The woman sliced the air with the phone. “Get out.”

“I hear you're hiring.”

Something seemed to change behind her eyes. She stared at him a long moment. “Why would you want to work here?”

“I'm running short of cash, and you need a lot of hands.”

She seemed to consider this a moment. “You got experience with buffalo?”

“Couple years on a buffalo ranch in Colorado. I know how to work around the animals. They're tricky, require a lot of skill. And smarts,” he added. “Seems to me you need help controlling crowds right now, but ranch work has to go on. Most those cowboys out there never got close to a buffalo. Wouldn't know what to do if one charged him.”

“What would you do?”

“Stay out of the buffalo's way, and it won't be charging.”

The shadow of a smile played at the edges of her mouth. “You sound like my husband, Dennis. You heard he was murdered?”

“I'm sorry.”

She nodded. Reg half expected her to say she was sorry, too. Instead, she leaned forward and dropped the phone into its cradle.

“We pay when we butcher and sell the meat or when we sell a calf or bull. We've got a contract with an organic health food chain, stores all over the west. I'm telling you this so you'll know we're good for the money.”

“How long would I have to wait?”

“Don't worry. You'll have plenty to eat. You'll sleep in the bunkhouse, nice and dry, plenty warm in the winter. I can let you have an advance from time to time when I get the cash. You understand, we're a small operation and—and I've been forced to hire extra hands. Lot of expense with this buffalo calf, but . . .” She hesitated, then seemed to shut down, whatever she had been about to say pushed back. “You got your gear?”

“In my truck.” He had packed up the tent and sleeping bag, the small kit of utensils, and cleared the campsite in Sinks Canyon. He hadn't known what he might find at the ranch. Some word on Josh Barker—who had never worked here. At least that was what Sheila Carey and her hired hand wanted him to believe. Never worked on a spread that he'd written home about. Had even sent a photo of the ranch house.

“Take it to the bunkhouse in back, then go find Carlos, my foreman. He's at the gate. He'll give you instructions. We have fences to mend.”

“I'd like to see the calf.”

“Spirit? You'll see her when you ride the fence.”