White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  Terry Perkins stared at the young Ute woman. Miss April Tavishuts has a serious brain in her head. Something I must keep in mind.

  Charlie Moon watched the archaeologist leave, then followed her. Amanda Silk was unaware of the Ute’s approach. “Hi,” he said.

  She whirled on him, wild-eyed with alarm.

  He grinned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t ever do that.” She pressed a palm against her chest. “You could have scared me to death.”

  High-strung creature. “Guess I should wear a bell around my neck.”

  She took a deep breath and resumed her stride along the path. “I suppose I’m a bit nervous today.”

  He fell in beside her.

  She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re with the Ute police.”

  With? He’d never heard it put quite like that. “Used to be.”

  “Three or four years ago, a very tall tribal policeman changed a flat for me. After midnight. In the rain.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you remember.”

  The ex-policeman, who had changed a considerable number of tires for those he’d been sworn to protect and serve, admitted that he did not recall the incident.

  “Well, I do. And I’m very grateful.” They walked along in silence until she spoke again. “You have something of a reputation.”

  “Trying to live it down.”

  “As a lawman, I mean.”

  “Gave up that line of work. I’m raising cattle now.”

  “I like beef,” she said.

  The rancher was beginning to like this woman.

  “Lucky thing you showed up at Chimney Rock for Native American Day,” Amanda said. “Otherwise, that child might not have been missed until after she’d toppled off a cliff and broken her neck. But as fortune would have it, you were here. And able to find her.”

  He slowed his stride, to match her pace.

  “Tell me about the…” The word tasted bitter in the archaeologist’s mouth, so she spat it out. “…petroglyph.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  “I understand some mysterious person showed the child where it was.”

  “Yeah. Kid claims she followed a man.”

  Amanda Silk brushed a wisp of hair off her face. “Did she provide any sort of description?”

  Moon grinned. “Pair of legs. Couple of arms. One head. And he wore feathers.”

  She managed a thin smile. “Feathers?”

  “Like a big bird. And he had a dog with him. Carried on his back.”

  The archaeologist frowned at the twisting path in front of her. “Doesn’t that remind you of something?”

  “You think the little girl was telling me a skin-walker tale?”

  “It’s a rather pervasive myth,” she said. “Witch-men who wear wolf skins. Over the years, I’ve heard testimony from several eyewitnesses who swear they’ve seen skin-walkers shape-shift into wolves.”

  Moon tried not to smile. “You think a skin-walker might be hanging around Chimney Rock?”

  “Depends on how you define the term. I certainly wouldn’t rule out a lunatic with a coyote pelt draped over his back—who believes he’s the reincarnation of an Anasazi priest.” The scientist hesitated. “There have been reports of a peculiar old man moving about the ruins.”

  “There are lots of old men about,” Moon said. “Some of ’em are fairly peculiar.”

  The archaeologist pushed away a juniper branch that was blocking the path. “Last summer, one of the grad students was out for a walk at night. She reported seeing a man on the Crag, near the temple ruins. She thought it was one of the university staff. When she called his name—” Amanda blushed. “It sounds so incredibly silly. But the student swears he dropped onto all fours, started trotting toward her. Poor thing—she ran all the way back to the camp.”

  “Who was this graduate student?”

  Her expression was suddenly wary. “Why do you ask?”

  The former policeman hoped the scientist would accept a reasoned argument. “Let’s make three assumptions. First, the little Zuni girl followed a flesh-and-blood man away from the tour. Second, the graduate student saw a man up on the Crag.” He waited for the count.

  “And what’s the third assumption?”

  Moon looked toward the Crag. “Somewhere out there, there’s a half-wit who believes he’s half wolf.”

  She followed his gaze to the sandstone platform. “Such a man would be unbalanced. Perhaps dangerous.”

  “Which is why one of my friends at SUPD might want to talk to your graduate student.”

  She hesitated. “Very well. Her name is Melina Castro.”

  Moon decided to push a little harder. “And she first thought this strange fella was one of the university staff?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Amanda nodded.

  “Did she say which one?”

  She glanced up at the dark man’s face. “Perhaps you should ask Melina.” They had arrived at the archaeologist’s camping trailer. Amanda Silk paused at the flimsy door. “Come inside, if you like.”

  He followed her in. The small trailer rocked under his weight. After removing his hat, it was still necessary for Charlie Moon to bend over.

  “Have a seat.” She nodded to indicate a round table. “That’s where I eat my meals. And do my paperwork.”

  He sat. And stared at a green plastic mule standing spraddle-legged beside a salt shaker.

  Amanda seemed mildly embarrassed. “It’s a pepper grinder. My nephew’s in the novelty business—makes a good living selling this kind of junk. I am regularly blessed with samples of his new products.”

  “How d’you grind the pepper—turn his tail?”

  “Right.”

  “Where does the pepper come out?”

  “You don’t want to know.” She opened a cabinet drawer, removed what appeared to be a peppermint candy cane. “Another gift from my nephew.” Amanda pressed a button on the device—a sizzling piezoelectric arc ignited a butane flame at the tip. She touched this to a ring on her small stove, turned a knob to open the propane gas valve. A ring of blue flame materialized under the sooty bottom of the coffeepot. “The wonders of our technological civilization,” the archaeologist muttered.

  After the pot had boiled, Amanda Silk poured her guest a cup.

  He inquired about sugar.

  She placed a fat plastic hippopotamus on the table.

  He grinned at the ugly thing. “Another gift from your relative?”

  “Twist his head a full turn.” She laughed. “My nephew or the river-horse, take your pick.”

  Moon performed the operation on the hippo, which obligingly popped a lid. He spooned a generous portion of sugar into the cup, stirred the brew, took a drink. Strong enough to melt the spoon. It was nice to meet a woman who knew how to make coffee.

  The archaeologist seated herself across the table from her guest. “Excuse me for just a moment. I must do this while things are fresh in my mind.” She opened a tattered green ledger, used an old-fashioned fountain pen to make an entry on the lined page.

  As an idle exercise, the Ute tried to read upside down. He was only able to make out a few words. And the page number. Ninety-eight. Looked like she had about three hundred pages to go.

  Amanda noticed his interest. “This is my professional log. I record things while they’re fresh in my mind.” Having completed her notes, she entered the date and time with a flourish, marked her place with a strip of purple cloth, then closed the thick ledger.

  “Those professors from Rocky Mountain Polytechnic seem to be pretty excited about the petroglyph.” He hoped this would provoke a response.

  It did. She threw up her hands in a dramatic expression of frustration. “Axton and Perkins are classroom scholars. They spend their days thinking deep thoughts and writing profound theoretical papers for the professional journals.”

  Moon thought he detected a hint of envy in her tone.

  “Once in a blue moon, they actually get out in the
field in their spiffy new hiking boots. Me, I’m just an ordinary pick-and-shovel archaeologist. But listen—”

  He leaned forward. Listened.

  She enunciated each word: “I-know-my-dirt.”

  Moon nodded with feigned earnestness. “First time I laid eyes on you, that’s what I said to myself: ‘This lady has a Ph.D. in dirt.’”

  Dr. Amanda Silk smiled crookedly. “Tell me exactly what you saw when the little girl showed you the rock drawing.”

  He thought about it. “Not much. All that was showing was one corner of the picture. One of the War Gods’ feet, I think. And the bottom end of his spear.”

  “Right. But the soil over the remainder of that pathetic cartoon was loose enough to brush away with a broom. Which is exactly what the grad students did so Professor Axton could get a look at the whole thing. But beyond the sketch, the dirt was packed quite hard—as it should be.” She leaned her elbows on the table, clenched her hands together into a single knobby fist. “Now what does that suggest?”

  Moon stared across the table at the woman. “Sounds like somebody had cleaned the soil away fairly recently.”

  She nodded. “And made a plausible sketch of the Twin War Gods—with their spears pointing at the stone towers.”

  He swirled the coffee in his cup. “If somebody wanted the picture to be found, why cover it up again?”

  “He didn’t cover it up,” she said. “Not long after he finished his work—perhaps just a few days—the wind blew the loose sand back over it. Or most of it. But you can be sure he meant for it to be discovered. Anyone who goes to all that trouble wants his masterpiece seen. And appreciated. So the hoaxer waited for somebody to find it. But when nobody did, he got impatient.”

  “So the hoaxer showed the drawing to the little girl, hoping she’d tell somebody about it.”

  “It was a clever way to reveal his work to the world—while remaining anonymous.”

  Moon turned the cup in his hands. “You got any ideas about who might’ve faked the petroglyph?”

  She stared at the ugly plastic hippo. “To arrive at who, one must first determine why.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe somebody did it for a joke.”

  “I, for one, am not amused.”

  This was going nowhere. He got up, taking care not to bang his head against the arched ceiling. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Amanda followed the Ute outside. The archaeologist looked toward the Twin War Gods, where blue mists were gathering around the giants. Suddenly, she shivered.

  He wondered whether she was feeling a chill in the air. Or something else entirely. “You think this petroglyph hoaxer’s motive was serious?”

  “Sinister is the better word.”

  Charlie Moon squinted at the sky. He saw the dark profile of a raven. A shadow slipping along the floor of heaven. It drifted away softly…into the pale blue lonesome. And was lost in eternity.

  Most of Eve’s daughters seek after riches—or at least a modicum of comfort and security. A very few search for fame and glory. April Tavishuts was looking for a man.

  Not just any man. One whose matukach lady friend lived a long ways off in California. But Charlie Moon had vanished. Well. He just walked away without saying a word to me. Thus abandoned, she caught up with Melina Castro. The sturdy graduate student was stomping her way toward the camping area at the far end of Ghost Wolf Mesa.

  Melina withdrew a dark look from her quiver of feminine weapons. She launched this missile at her innocent companion.

  The projectile passed unnoticed. Blessed are the pure of heart.

  Presently, the tall blond trusted herself to speak. “Well. Aren’t you the clever one.”

  The Ute woman responded with a blank look.

  Damned little hypocrite. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. “You certainly managed to impress Dr. Perkins.”

  I hope so. He’s so nice. April Tavishuts shrugged, but her lips curved in a soft smile. And her girlish thoughts were transformed into words that came out of their own accord. “He is so cute it’s almost enough to”—she pressed her palms to her face—“to make you just want to die.”

  With the suddenness of a rattlesnake about to strike a mouse, Melina turned to tower over the shorter woman. “Don’t say that,” she hissed.

  April, alarmed by the intensity of this passionate response, backed away. The Ute maiden stared at the young matukach woman as one mesmerized. Her eyes were wide, puzzled. “You don’t think he’s cute?”

  Melina’s face relaxed into a bitter half smile. Cute doesn’t half say it. The pale-skinned girl looked hopefully to the heavens, from whence all blessings come. “Terry Perkins is extraordinarily good-looking.”

  The young women continued their way along the path in silence. As they came near the parking area, April looked at her companion. “Melina?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you upset with me?”

  Melina Castro closed her eyes tightly. “Never, ever say you want to die.”

  “But I didn’t actually mean—”

  “I know it was just a figure of speech.” Melina gave her companion an odd look. “But saying things…can make them happen.”

  April tried to smile at this odd statement. “I didn’t know you were so, well—superstitious.”

  Melina bit her lip. “There are lots of things you don’t know.” Or understand.

  5

  After passing over many difficulties, the Twins found themselves way, way, way east—standing at the door of a great turquoise house.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  THE COLUMBINE

  PETE BUSHMAN, LONG-TIME manager of the vast ranch property, stood bowlegged on the front porch of the foreman’s house, looking down his nose at the three men. They waited patiently for the straw boss to say something worth hearing.

  “The new owner of the Columbine intends to make this a workin’ ranch again. Turn a profit.” There are fools, and then there are damn fools. Bushman chewed on a jawful of Mail Pouch tobacco. “There’s rusty old bob-war fences that need mendin’, alfalfa hay to be planted and cut, barns that need cleanin’ out. I’ll expect you fellas to work your asses off. If you got any ideas that this here is a soft spot to rest awhile and get fat, then hit the road now.”

  Silence.

  He spat on the powder-dry dust at their feet. “Any questions?”

  The youngest of the new hires, as if in a classroom, raised a hand. “This Mr. Moon—what can you tell us about him?”

  The other two were experienced. But the Kid didn’t know enough to keep his yap shut. Bushman considered his response with care. “Well, he’s one of them Ute Injuns. Decent enough fella if you treat him right.” The ranch foreman glared at the trio of misfits with steely-blue eyes. “The boss useta be a cop for his tribe. He never says nothin’ about it, but I know for a fact he’s killed at least eight men. Some of ’em with his bare hands. So don’t do nothin’ to get him pissed off.” The foreman produced a gold-plated Hamilton pocket watch and glanced at the ivory face. “I got to go up to the big house now—you boys come along with me. Boss’ll want to get a look at you.” But as far as Pete Bushman was concerned, there was wide, deep river separating these common hands from the owner of the Columbine. And the foreman was the bridge over those troubled waters. “Them Ute Injuns is kinda standoffish—so you fellas keep your distance. And don’t say nothin’—I’ll do the talkin’.”

  HUMAN RESOURCES

  Despite Bushman’s insistence that the cowboys should wait on the porch while he powwowed with the Indian, the Ute invited them into his enormous parlor. They wiped their boots on the welcome mat and came inside, hats in hand. The odd-looking trio positioned themselves near the massive door, ready to exit in a hurry if this gigantic Indian lost his temper. They exchanged uneasy glances, but uttered not a word.

  Charlie Moon thought the new hires seemed painfully shy. He was about to start up a conversation with the cowboys when deterred by a d
ark look from the foreman. Moon followed Pete Bushman to the far end of the long parlor.

  The foreman kept his voice low. “Well, there they are.”

  And indeed, there they were. Three sets of eyes, furtively darting around the room. Taking in the antique furnishings and expensive artwork. And thinking more or less the same thoughts: This is some sure-enough rich Indian.

  “I’d like to have a little talk with these cowboys,” Moon said, “let them know who I am. What I expect of them.”

  Pete Bushman shook his head stubbornly. “I’ve already told these hands who you are. And I’ll damn sure give ’em plenty of work to do.”

  “Thing is, I’d like to get to know—”

  The foreman’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “If you want to do my job, you sure’n hell don’t need me around.”

  Moon smiled. Which irritated Pete Bushman all the more. “I’d like to know something about these men.”

  “What? They’re just ordinary, run-of-the-mill—”

  Firmness was called for. “Pete. If they’re going to be my employees, I mean to know who they are. Where they’re from. What kind of work experience they have.”

  Knowing he was licked, the foreman shrugged. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He nodded to indicate the man on the far left. “That old one’s Alfredo Marquez. He’s got about nine middle names I don’t recollect. Alf’s up here from Mexico. I expect them federales are after him.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, there’s talk that Alf knifed some other Mexican fella. Fight over a woman, I expect.”

  The Ute ignored this tidbit of gossip. Maybe Mr. Marquez did have some trouble in Mexico. But Bushman tended to exaggerate. He watched as Alfredo Marquez, who was thin as a grass snake, leaned first one way. Then another. Moon shook his head. “You sure Mr. Marquez is strong enough to work?”