Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery (17 page)

“Forget it. I'm not going. If Rick turns up, he'll beat the crap outta me. And Arnie will dump me.”

Vicky didn't say anything, and the girl hurried on: “He hasn't dumped me yet, if that's what you're thinking. He loves me.”

“Where are you from, Lucy?”

“Kansas. Nowheresville, Kansas. I ain't ever going back if that's what you're gonna suggest.”

Vicky moved toward the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open. It was as light as cardboard. She stepped out onto the stoop, then looked back. “Think about it.”

“I'm not going to the police.”

“I meant about going home.”

T
HE SUN BLAZED
white over the Wind River range, and an orange, red, and violet panorama streaked the sky. Trout Creek Road, running ahead, was tinged in orange. Father John readjusted the visor against the glare off the hood. The bishop seemed relaxed in the passenger seat, staring over the half-open window at the passing scrublands. The swoosh of the wind melted into the sounds of
La traviata
. Traffic was heavy, with more cars in the oncoming lane than in the intermittent line of vehicles ahead.

Father John checked his watch. Nearly seven. The Broken Buffalo Web site listed viewing hours as eight a.m. to eight p.m. He and Bishop Harry should have enough time to walk out to the pasture. He had called Sheila Carey before they'd left the mission and told her the bishop would like to see the calf. She would leave word at the gate, she said.

“How long will they keep coming?” Out of the corner of his eye, Father John could see the bishop nodding toward the truck with the Utah license plate ahead.

“It could go on several years.” Father John tried to ignore a sense of alarm flitting like a ghost at the edge of his mind. Years, season after season, out-of-state cars and trucks crossing the reservation, crowds pouring through the wide-open spaces. How many might stay? Settle on a ranch in the area, start a business in Riverton or Lander? This was a land of few people, not yet taken over. It belonged to itself. And yet . . .

He heard himself saying that the newcomers would be good for the local economy.

“Perhaps.” The bishop gave a little laugh. “Change will come. It cannot be stopped.”

Father John followed the Utah truck into the turn onto the two-track. Little brown circles of dust splattered the windshield. He slowed down to give the truck more space. Another mile and they were bouncing over the ruts toward the gate ahead. Beyond, the setting sun outlined the roof of the log ranch house. A cowboy had directed the truck into the parking lot. Father John pulled up close to the gate. Carlos walked over and leaned toward the driver's window; the beginnings of a beard bristled on his jaw. “Mrs. Carey said you can drive up to the house. She's gonna escort you to the pasture herself.” He waved at another cowboy, who lifted the gate, and Father John drove through.

Sheila Carey was coming down the porch steps when he stopped the pickup. “Carlos called and said you were on the way up,” she said as Father John let himself out of the pickup. He started around to the passenger side, but the old man was already out, stretching his shoulders, glancing about the ranch. Small groups of people were waiting by the fence that enclosed the pasture. He introduced Sheila to the bishop, who stopped stretching and shook the woman's hand.

“How are you doing with the crowds?” Father John asked.

“Had to take on more cowboys than I planned.” The woman hooked her thumbs into the pocket of her blue jeans. The wind blew strands of reddish hair across her face. “We're managing just fine. I'll walk you out to the calf.”

Father John and the bishop fell in on either side of the woman as they started down the path beside the fence, past the groups waiting. Fastened to the fence about every twenty feet were large metal canisters with slits in the tops. On the outside, painted in black, were the words:
DONATIONS FOR SPIRIT
. Another group, returning from the pasture, huddled around one of the canisters. He watched as people took turns stuffing bills through the slit.

“People want to help take care of the calf,” Sheila said, leading the way around the group. “I don't mind saying Spirit costs a lot of money. Oh, I've thought about selling her, but how would I keep her safe? Most ranchers would kill her for the meat. They don't want the trouble. I see what she means to Indians. Whites, too. All kinds of folks know the calf is a sacred sign from the Creator.” She stopped and looked up at him. “People here from Chicago this morning.”

They were leaving more of the noise and confusion behind the farther they walked, moving closer and closer to nature. A soft, quiet wind rippled clumps of grass and sagebrush and plucked at the barbed-wire fence. Another group was returning, stopping to put bills into the canisters. Sheila waved and nodded in appreciation.

The bishop was doing fine on the hard, smooth-trampled path, one foot planted after the other, eyes on the pasture, as if he might catch an early glimpse of the calf. Ahead, the fence was solid with gifts: paper flowers, small cloth bags, bunches of tied grass, envelopes, photographs, a couple of knit caps, a baby rattle, packages of cigarettes. All rustling in the wind so that the fence itself seemed to be swaying.

They had walked past the gifts when Sheila said, “We'll stop here. You brought your camera?” She was looking at the bishop. He leaned toward the fence and shook his head. “I only want to see the calf.” And not capture its spirit, Father John was thinking. Old people, traditionalists on the rez, would understand.

The buffalo herd had gathered under the cottonwoods, a large, brown circle, placid and content. “They're protecting Spirit,” Sheila said. “So many people looking at her. They know she needs quiet. I'm sorry, but we may not see her.”

Then the herd seemed to break apart, a few wandering out of the trees and into the pasture, stopping to graze as they went. A large buffalo came toward the fence, nodding and snorting. Scampering behind was the white calf. A chorus of
ah
s went up from the group stationed farther along the fence. Sheila was shaking her head. “She's come to see you.”

The bishop stood very still, gazing across the space between the barbed wire and the white calf. “She is very beautiful,” he said after a moment. “Praise God for this blessing.”

On the way back, the bishop stuffed a couple of dollars into one of the canisters. Another group had started out to the pasture, and a couple of women stopped to feed a canister. They were almost at the house when Father John spotted Vicky and Adam waiting in the last group. He thanked Sheila Carey, told the bishop he'd be just a moment, and walked over.

Adam barely nodded, but Father John stuck out his hand anyway. “Good to see you.” The Lakota's hand was smooth and hard. “Any luck?” He looked at Vicky.

“Lucy Murphy refuses to file a missing person report. What about Jaime's fiancée?”

“I haven't heard anything yet.”

“What are you talking about?” Adam moved closer to Vicky, as if to shelter her.

“Cowboys missing from this ranch. Driven off, most likely.” Vicky took a couple of breaths. “Reg Hartly's working here.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him riding in the pasture when we parked.”

“Maybe you can ask him about filing a report.”

“I doubt I'll get to talk to him.” Vicky nodded at a point beyond his shoulder, and Father John turned around. Sheila Carey stood on the porch watching them.

A cowboy walked over to escort the group, and Father John headed back to the pickup. The bishop was sitting in the passenger seat, door flung open to the breeze. Father John slid onto his seat, aware of Sheila Carey hurrying down the steps. The friendly hostess, the keeper of the sacred calf, gone, he could see, and in her place, an angry, distrustful woman who gripped the top of the window with both hands and leaned toward him. “You and that lawyer have something to say to me?”

He waited a few seconds to let the tension evaporate before he said, “Some cowboys seem to have disappeared. They had worked here. Rick Tomlin. Jaime Madigan. Josh Barker. Any idea of where they were headed?”

“I don't babysit the hired help. Leave it alone.” Sheila spun around, ran up the porch steps and into the house. The door slammed like a clap of thunder.

*   *   *

QUIET LAY OVER
the residence. The bishop had gone upstairs an hour ago, and the mission itself seemed to have settled into a deep slumber. Father John filled a mug with the coffee he'd just brewed and went into his study. He made his way around Walks-On snoring on the pillow in the corner and dropped behind his desk. The laptop was open, the screen glowing blue and pink around the icons. He had been searching the internet again for news about the calf at Broken Buffalo Ranch. Dozens of sites—Facebook, YouTube, Web sites, blogs—had materialized. The news had spread everywhere. There was even a blog in Belgium. Trips offered by specialty travel sites to “Experience the sacred buffalo calf in the wilds of Wyoming.” Traffic crowding the ranch this evening, visitors yet to come—it was just the beginning. He could feel the hard knot tightening in his stomach.

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.”