The Shaman Laughs (7 page)

Charlie Moon, a half cup of coffee in his fist, was standing outside the police station. Away from the crackle of the short wave radio, the incessant ringing of telephones, the whining complaints of a drunken prisoner who insisted that he was a very important man in Denver and a "damn good friend of the governor." Moon sniffed at the pungent scent of pine in the air; he squinted at a half dozen ravens gliding in a wide arc through the pale morning sky. How could a Ute ever leave this place? But many of the People had.

Before he saw it, Moon heard Gorman Sweetwater's pickup pass the Sky Ute Motel and turn the corner at KSUT radio. The old GMC lurched into the tribal police headquarters parking lot. The policeman was not particularly pleased to see Gorman's pickup truck until he noticed Benita sitting next to her father. So she was back from college for the summer. For the past two years, he had wanted to say something. He had planned a dozen artful ways of letting her know that she was always on his mind, but he never knew quite what to say to this pretty girl. In her presence, Moon always ended up playing the role of uncle.

The big policeman leaned on the door and grinned at the rancher. "Gorman, you still didn't get that tail pipe fixed.

And worse than that, you're parked in Homer Tonom-picket's spot."

The rancher snorted. "I'll worry about the tail pipe if it falls off, and you can go piss on the game warden."

Moon touched the brim of his hat. "Mornin' Benita. It's a good thing you inherited your momma's sweet disposition." He wanted to add "and her good looks," but the words hung in his throat.

Benita smiled and glanced uncertainly at her grumpy father. Charlie Moon was the best catch on the reservation. Maybe in Colorado. "How's your new house coming along, Charlie?" Maybe he'd ask her to come out and see it.

Moon avoided the old man's suspicious glare; he pushed a gravel pebble with his toe. "Still a lot of work to do." Maybe he should invite her over to have a look at the place. But what if she didn't come? He took a deep breath. "Maybe, sometime when you have some time to kill…"

She was about to accept this unfinished invitation when her father interrupted.

"I got me some trouble."

The policeman backed away as Gorman opened the door and slid to the gravel surface. "What kinda trouble?"

"The bad kind. Something… somebody's killed Big Ouray."

The policeman thought hard and came up with nothing. "Who's Big Ouray?"

"My registered Hereford bull, dammit. And don't tell me I shouldn't give my stock names. They're my cattle and I can damn well do whatever—"

"Now don't lose your water." Moon gestured toward the station door with his cup. "Let's go inside and have some coffee. You can tell me all about it." Gorman lost a beef every year or so, and he always waved his arms and yelled until he was hoarse.

"Don't need more coffee. We just had breakfast at your Aunt Daisy's. That woman pushes greasy food at me every time I stop by; I won't be able to eat nothing again before suppertime. All them eggs and pork is gonna cause me to have," he thumped his chest, "… one of them cor-uh… cor-oll… ahhh… coronations."

"Well now that'd be the day," Moon said earnestly. "I expect the whole tribe and half the town would show up to watch it happen."

Benita clamped a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. Gorman cocked his head and blinked curiously at the big policeman. Charlie Moon was supposed to be so damn smart but sometimes he said things that didn't make no sense at all. "What're you gonna do about my dead bull?"

Moon adopted his official tone. "Tell me what happened."

Benita watched them through a sand-blasted windshield. She barely winked at Moon; the big Ute ducked his head shyly.

The old man pushed his hands deep into his overall pockets. "Not much to tell. Big Ouray was dead when I got there just about sunup this morning. Ears and balls gone." Moon felt the hair stand up on his neck. "And," Gorman added quickly, "don't say it was coyotes; it wasn't no coyotes—somebody done it with a knife." He looked glumly toward the place where the sun comes up. "A razor-sharp knife."

"You see any tracks?" Moon knew what the answer would be.

"No tracks." Gorman lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "I heard a noise, though, from up on the mesa. Kind of a… a wail." No point in mentioning he'd shot at the sound, that would only bring a stern lecture about gun safety from the big policeman.

Moon nodded. Gorman had probably heard a cougar. Maybe. "How about the rest of your cattle, they all right?"

"Didn't find 'em. Expect they're holed up in them little draws way up the canyon." He scowled at the policeman. "I sure as hell can't afford to lose no more beeves so you better see it don't happen again! In the meantime, I'm gonna go over to Arlo's place and file a claim on the bull. That animal," Gorman sighed with bitter regret, "cost me a fair pile of money."

"Arlo Nightbird carrying the paper on your animals?" Moon's tone was just critical enough to irritate the rancher.

"That's right," Gorman snapped, "and I don't want no lip from you about who I buy my insurance from. I already had a belly full from your Aunt Daisy. She thinks I should go up to Durango and buy insurance at one of them
matu-kach
agencies. Arlo ain't no saint, but," Gorman added in a virtuous tone, "he's one of the People and I try to give the People as much business as I can." Arlo was cheap.

Moon held his hands up in mock defense. "Hey, you want to deal with Arlo, it makes me no never mind."

"I'll take care of my ranchin' business," Gorman pointed at Moon's chest, "you take care of police business."

"I'll go up to Spirit Canyon and check things out." Moon stole a quick look at Benita over Gorman's battered hat. "Then," the policeman said, "I'll write up a report." He waited for the predictable response.

"Well, that's just dandy! A report. That'll do me a helluva lot of good." Benita offered Moon an apologetic look; Gorman slammed the pickup door and roared off in low gear, the tail pipe dangling on a single rusty hanger.

Moon watched the pickup disappear. "You're welcome." He waved. "We're here to serve!" Sooner or later, Benita would show up in town without her cranky father. Then, Moon promised himself, he'd manage to be where she was. Then—he kicked at a pebble—then he'd probably choke again.

At Benita's insistence, Gorman Sweetwater kicked some of the dried mud off his boots before he pushed the plate glass door under the sign that announced: nightbird insurance agency. Herb Ecker was sitting behind a battered desk, carefully inking words into a bound notebook. Gorman waited impatiently as the young man closed his eyes and repeated the words aloud: "I dance the dance of the old ones."

Gorman shuffled his feet to announce his presence, but

Herb, blissfully alone with his imagination, continued: "I dance the dance of remembering."

Gorman cleared his throat. "You'd best forget the dance, kid, and tend to your business."

The insurance salesman jumped to his feet as if launched by coiled springs. "Good day, Mr. Sweetwater, how may I be of service to you?" Herb looked hopefully at Benita, who flashed a lovely smile in return. The young man looked at the floor, his blond hair flopping over his forehead like a mop.

Benita stifled a giggle. She adored his blue eyes. "How are you, Herbie?"

Ecker blushed. "I am quite well." He glanced uncertainly at the old rancher, then at the daughter. "Thank you."

"Your hair," she said, "looks a lot nicer since you let it grow out. You writing poetry?"

The exchange student had been nearly bald when he arrived in Ignacio. Ecker started to reply, then hesitated when he saw the dark expression spreading over Gorman Sweet-water's face.

Gorman glared at the young man, then turned his harsh stare on his daughter. "You two know each other?" It had the unmistakable tone of accusation.

"Sure, Daddy. Herbie was in two of my classes last year. He's one of the smartest students at Fort Lewis College." She beamed at the young man. "Next semester, Herbie's enrolled in graduate school at the University of New Mexico."

Ecker's blush deepened. He looked as if he was about to apologize for sharing a class with Benita.

Gorman snorted. "New Mexico, huh?" Were Colorado schools not good enough?

"Yes, sir," Ecker replied with a spark of confidence. "Anthropology major."

The rancher scowled suspiciously at the distraught young man. Gorman decided that Herb was entirely too pretty to be a boy, and this made the rancher nervous. He wondered if this kid really liked girls. Rumor was, Herb took an un-healthy interest in his boss. Some Utes jokingly referred to Herb Ecker as "Nightbird's shadow." But it was time to get down to business. "My bull," he cleared his throat, "… he died."

Herb raised his eyebrows in a puzzled expression. "Your bull—you say it died?" His peculiar Germanic accent annoyed Gorman, who was suspicious of almost everyone. Especially foreigners.

"Yeah, died." Gorman leaned forward menacingly. "That's what happens when you drop off to sleep and you don't wake up no more." He was disappointed when the young man showed no sign of being offended. "You oughta remember him: Big Ouray. Registered Hereford. You sold me the policy, even came out to take them pictures of my animals."

Herb nodded and smiled politely. "Of course, I do remember now. I am very sorry about your loss, Mr. Sweet-water." Herb clasped his hands in the manner of a mortician comforting the bereaved. The blond kid had bounced from job to job to earn his tuition and a meager living. Part-time tutor in German and mathematics, veterinary assistant to Dr. Schaid, now peddler of insurance. Maybe, Gorman mused, Herb had put in a stint with a funeral parlor.

Gorman suddenly lost interest in baiting this sickly-pale foreigner; he was eager to finish his business and leave. "I'm here to file a claim."

"Certainly. I do not handle that part of the business, you understand. I sell the policies. Mr. Nightbird, he processes the claims."

This sounded like a run-around. "Arlo does that? I thought he spent all of his time working up big moneymak-ing deals for the tribe. Where in hell is that little crook?"

Herb glanced uneasily at a closed door. "Mr. Nightbird is busy. I'll tell him that you—"

Gorman marched toward the closed door. "He'll see me right now. Benita, you wait here." Herb was frantically pressing the intercom button when Gorman stomped into Arlo Nightbird's office.

Arlo had his immaculate ostrich-hide boots propped on his desk. He was watching a pornographic video while, between puffs on an oversized cigar, he sucked on a silver flask of expensive bourbon. Arlo pressed the pause button on his remote control and glared at his visitor. "Can't you read English, Gorman? It says private on that door, and that's damn well what it means."

Gorman nodded toward the naked figures frozen on the television screen. "From the looks of
that
, it should say

PRIVATES."

Arlo scowled and pointed his cigar at Gorman's feet. "And your boots, your big damn rubber boots! What'd you do, wade the river? You're tracking mud all over my brand-new antique Persian rug!"

Gorman dropped his lanky form into a chair and removed his hat to reveal long, unkempt wisps of iron-gray hair. He scratched at his scalp. "My bull. Big Ouray. He died last night."

"Well, hell, Gorman, I'm just
heartbroken
." Arlo switched off the television. "We'll have to round up some Irishmen and throw us a wake. Maybe we can invite a few cows, some that was mounted by your bull." Arlo rubbed the turquoise stud in his left earlobe and waited for a reply that didn't come. Gorman's silence unnerved him. "What do I care if your damn bull croaked? Go tell your blackbird priest; it's none of my business."

"Don't bad-mouth Father Raes. And it is your business. I'm here to file a claim."

Arlo was wide-eyed. "You're kiddin' me. We wrote a policy on your damn cattle? I don't believe it."

"Believe it, piss-ant." Gorman pitched a scuffed blue envelope on the oak desk.

Arlo opened the envelope, eyed the policy suspiciously, then bellowed. "Ecker, you write this big ass-hole a policy on his swayback cows?" Under his breath: "Dumb Kraut son-of-a-bitch."

Herb appeared at the office doors. "Yes I did, Mr. Nightbird."

Nightbird muttered to Gorman. "Damn Europeans been nothin' but trouble since Christopher rowed his boat ashore." Arlo buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Why'd I go hire a foreigner?"

Gorman imitated that superior air he had often seen on his daughter's face since she had become a college student. "Probably 'cause he came cheap." You get what you pay for.

Arlo was practically pulling the turquoise stud from his earlobe. "Damn, I feel heartburn coming on!" A ray of hope flashed across his face. "Is the policy paid up?"

Ecker approached somewhat uncertainly; he offered his boss a folded computer printout from a legal-size file folder. "Yes sir. In effect through next December for twenty-four animals."

Arlo squinted uncomprehendingly at the printout; Gorman watched his face and was reminded of a weasel. "How do we know the policy was written on your dead bull? Maybe," he glanced sideways at Gorman, "you got two hundred cows, you only insured two dozen?"

Herb Ecker produced a piece of blue paper. "The photographs and ear-tag numbers are all here, Mr. Nightbird." The young man pointed at a color photo stapled to the list. "That is Big Ouray. Ear tag number 101."

Arlo glared at the color photograph of the sullen bull, then unfolded the policy and read it through the bottom of his bifocals.

Gorman grinned. Arlo was boxed in; maybe he'd get a major case of heartburn. Maybe even one of them coro-whatzits.

Arlo folded the papers and dropped them on his desk. "So how'd your damn old bull die?" He tried hard to sound casual. "Some cityboy hunter mistake him for an elk?" That would void the policy.

"Elk season," Gorman said, "ain't till October." The rancher smelled a trap; he looked down at his muddy boots. "Big Ouray's stone dead; that's all that matters. I want my money."