White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  “I imagine Charlie’s out on the range somewhere.” Whitmer said this with a wistful look. “I bet he’s doin’ some neat cowboy stuff.”

  “Sure,” the Easterner muttered. “He’s probably down at the old corral, punchin’ a cow.” He heard the end of Moon’s recorded message, and a beep. “Charlie—this is Stan Newman. There’s some important new developments in the Tavishuts homicide. Soon as you hear this, call me at the Durango office—or buzz me on my cell phone.” He pressed the Off button. “We’d better head up to Charlie’s ranch.”

  Whitmer was already pulling on his jacket. “I bet him and that student are sitting out yonder by a campfire somewhere. Singing somma them sad old cowboy songs.”

  Newman snickered.

  Whitmer raised an eyebrow at his contemptuous partner. “I bet you couldn’t name one cowboy song if your life depended on it.”

  “I could name a couple of ’em—just in case your life was in danger too.” Newman checked the clip in his 9mm automatic. “‘Bumbling Tumbleweeds.’ ‘Low Riders in the Sky.’”

  The older man sighed. “I think we’d best be careful out there.”

  THE BADGER HOLE

  It was a dark purpose that drew Daisy Perika on her trek into the Canyon of the Spirits. The Ute shaman—despite stern warnings from her Catholic priest—was seeking an audience with the pitukupf. Despite the scoffings and snickerings of younger members of the Southern Ute tribe, Daisy knew that the dwarf was quite real. For as long as she could remember—and probably for hundreds of years before she was born—the little man had lived in a badger hole in the Canyon of the Spirits. No one knew for sure when he had first attached himself to the People. But the pitukupf was a source of considerable power to the shaman. And almost as important, the dwarf was a source of information. Nothing went on among the People that he did not know about. Daisy—who was full of years—had enjoyed a long and profitable acquaintance with the peculiar little fellow. There were protocols to be followed, of course. You did not visit his home without a gift. Today, she had brought a bag of pipe tobacco, two candy bars, and a roll of green cotton cloth that he might use for making himself a new shirt. She had even added a half spool of brown thread, a fine steel needle, and a plastic thimble. If you wanted to get serious help from the dwarf, you could not skimp.

  On the way into Cañon del Espíritu, the elderly woman had stopped several times to rest. Now at her destination, Daisy leaned on her stout oak staff, breathed hard. She wiped sweat from a dark, furrowed brow, then looked up at the sandstone walls towering three hundred feet. It would be pleasantly warm up there on the top of Three Sisters Mesa. But here in the cradle of the canyon, under soft covers knit from shadows, the remnant of winter slept. Dreaming frigid dreams of next October. Icy winds. Heaping drifts of snow.

  Grunting at the painful stiffness in the small of her back, Daisy half-leaned and half-squatted to drop the gifts into the entrance to the pitukupf’s cavern. The well-meant offering was swallowed up, sinking down the earthen throat into the dark innards of the dwarf’s underground domicile.

  Hoping the cranky little man would be pleased, Daisy shuffled away to the company of a fragrant juniper. She seated herself on a flat outcropping of gray limestone left behind by an ancient sea. The weary woman leaned against the trunk of the twisted tree and closed her eyes, unaware of a bluefly that buzzed busily around her forehead. Within moments, her breathing was even. Quite soon after this she fell into a deep, restful sleep. And the shaman did dream.

  Floating in front of her, Daisy saw the kindly face of Father Raes Delfino. The little Jesuit’s features were sorrowful to know that this troublesome member of his flock was straying once more. “Daisy, Daisy…what am I to do with you? I have warned you, so many times—it is dangerous to commune with the pitukupf. He is not of our Lord’s kingdom.”

  “I wasn’t actually communing,” the dreamer protested. “I just brought him some things to eat. Pipe tobacco. And cloth for a new shirt.”

  “Ahh,” the priest said with a wry smile, “and you did this with not the least thought of receiving anything in return from the dwarf-spirit?”

  “That’s just the way it was,” the shaman said earnestly. “It was Christian charity that made me want to help that poor little fellow.”

  There was a loud noise, like the sound of a branch snapping. The image of the priest vaporized. Daisy Perika opened her eyes. The shaman was not—as she had expected—in the eternal twilight of the dwarf’s underground cavern. She was sitting on the limestone shelf, under the juniper. It seemed that she had slept for some time. The shadow of the tree reached almost to the canyon wall; the evening sky had the mottled gray texture of sour milk. She was disappointed by her failure to communicate with the little man. But it was getting late in the day—no time to linger in this place where the spirits of the dead walked. With the intention of getting to her feet, Daisy reached for her walking stick.

  And then she saw him.

  The pitukupf was seated on a piñon stump not two yards away. As was his way, he pretended not to notice the presence of his visitor. Having impaled the discarded wrapper on a cluster of yucca spears, he was munching on a candy bar.

  “Nasty little litterbug,” she muttered.

  And so they sat opposite each other. Time, gauged only by the rhythm of Daisy’s heartbeat, passed slowly.

  Finally, she spoke. “I hope you like the stuff I brought you.”

  The pitukupf, having consumed the candy bar, scratched his belly. And belched loudly.

  Being a civilized woman, she found this behavior offensive. But being sensible, she understood that though the pitukupf was extraordinarily powerful, immeasurably old, and extremely peculiar, he was also a helpless product of his gender—a little man much like other men. And so Daisy wisely decided to accept this small vulgarity as an expression of appreciation. Or at least an acknowledgment of her gift. She resumed her monologue. “Nice weather, we’re having. For this time of year.”

  He grunted.

  So she got right to the point. “You may not know that April Tavishuts was killed over at those Chimney Rock ruins.” She had no doubt that he knew. But he was a taciturn little fellow. And one way to get him talking was to suggest that there might be something of importance to the People that he did not know. This ploy never failed to tweak his vanity.

  He took a deep breath, puffing up his chest.

  “Nobody knows who killed poor April,” Daisy said.

  Using an archaic version of the Ute tongue that even the Ute elder could barely follow, he told her that who had done the killing was unimportant. Why it had been done was what mattered.

  Daisy did not agree, but she kept her lips pressed together.

  The dwarf told his visitor why two terrible crimes had been committed. Why a horseman had died at Chimney Rock. Why April Tavishuts had met her terrible end. The cause he described was a tale about a single creature. An old man. A gray wolf.

  The shaman listened intently.

  His story completed, the pitukupf pointed a crooked finger at the earth.

  The shaman looked at her feet, and saw viscous streams of blood flowing by. At a great distance, she heard anguished cries from those whose throats had been slit. She began to tremble.

  The little man pointed at the sky.

  Almost against her will, Daisy Perika looked up.

  Great drops of rain—the size of a man’s fist—were falling.

  She asked what this could mean.

  The dwarf told her.

  Daisy was greatly relieved to hear that these were White Shell Woman’s tears—shed for the sacrificial victims of the Anasazi priests. But even as the Ute elder watched, each of the precious drops of fluid was transformed into a fiery coal of blue-white fire.

  As the flaming cinders fell to earth, the shaman saw more. Much more.

  COLUMBINE RANCH, THE FOREMAN’S HOUSE

  Dolly Bushman was a kindhearted woman, slow to anger. And not given to complaining.
But her man was getting on her nerves. She let her knitting drop into her lap. “Peter.”

  Pete Bushman did not hear her. He was engrossed in his noisy work with the number two bastard file.

  “PETER!”

  The Columbine foreman glanced up from the crosscut saw, which he had been sharpening tooth by tooth. “Eh?”

  “Go do that somewhere else.”

  He feigned an innocent expression, which was hidden under the bushy beard. “What’s the matter?”

  “That awful noise is driving me to distraction.”

  “Where’n hell’s that,” he drawled. “Somewheres down south of Grouchyville?”

  “If you don’t stop,” she said with a menacing gesture of the knitting needle, “I’ll push this thing in one of your ears and pull it out of the other. Without hitting anything in between.”

  He was trying to think of a snappy response when the telephone rang. Pete Bushman bunched his bushy eyebrows at Mr. Bell’s invention.

  “You get it,” Dolly said, clicking her needles.

  “Why?”

  “I got it last time it rang.”

  “But that was on Tuesday.”

  “PETER!”

  “Okay.” He got up, grumbling under his breath about how Dolly had turned out to be just like her cranky old mother who had driven her husband to drink. Which made him think about a small taste of blackberry wine. He pressed the black plastic device to a hairy ear. “Yeah?” A pause. “Oh. It’s you.”

  Dolly wondered who might be calling. She realized from his tone that it was someone her husband didn’t like. Which did nothing whatever to narrow things down.

  He scowled. “No, I don’t know where he is.”

  There was a lengthy silence as Pete Bushman listened, occasionally interrupting as he tried to slip a word in.

  “Well, when he gets back I’ll—”

  “Lissen, there’s no need to—”

  “He don’t generally tell me where he’s headed and I don’t—”

  He gave the instrument a pop-eyed look, slammed it onto the cradle.

  Dolly looked up from her knitting. “Who was it?”

  The Columbine foreman took his seat before the fireplace. He stared at the crosscut saw as if wondering what on earth it was.

  “Pete, who was on the phone?”

  He snorted. “That nasty old woman.”

  Dolly sighed. “Does she have a name?”

  “There’s a few I could give her.”

  “All right—don’t tell me.”

  “It was the boss’s Injun auntie. You know the one—Dizzy Pear-Creek.”

  “Daisy Perika,” Dolly said. “What did she want?”

  The old cowman waved his thin arm dismissively. “Some foolishness about the boss. Said she’d called the big house, got his machine. Wanted to know where he was and right now. I told her I didn’t have no idea. Then she commenced to yellin’ at me—like I was some kinda sorry-assed nincompoop.”

  “I know where Charlie is.” Dolly made this announcement with a superior air. “He stopped by on his way out. It was right before lunch. I fixed him a cheese sandwich.”

  Bushman shot a yellow-eyed look at his wife. “It’s a wonder he didn’t stay and eat us out of house and vittles. That’s the hungriest redskin I ever saw.”

  “Charlie’s a nice man.” The needles clicked rhythmically as she worked. “I wonder why Mrs. Perika was so upset.”

  Bushman chuckled. “Because she’s an old fool. You know what she told me to tell him when he showed up?”

  “Now how in the world would I know?”

  “I’m to tell the boss not to go nowheres near that place where that Injun girl was murdered.”

  The needles stopped clicking. “Those old ruins at Chimney Rock?”

  He nodded. “Charlie Moon’s auntie says if he does, he’ll die sure as possums eat grapes.”

  Dolly set her knitting aside. “Pete.”

  “What is it now?”

  “That’s where Charlie told me he was headed. Chimney Rock.”

  The ranch foreman did not like to hear bad news. He pulled a tobacco-stained mustache. “You sure that’s what he said?”

  She was already pulling her coat on. “Get the pickup started right now, so it can warm up.”

  “Now, Dolly, you lissen to me—that’s over a hunnerd miles and Charlie’s got a good four-hour head start. Hell, he’s prob’ly already on his way back here by now.” He took a deep breath. “And besides that, all we got to go on is a crazy old woman’s—”

  She gave her husband a withering look. “Peter Bushman, are you so bone lazy that I have to go by myself?”

  13

  The Elder Brother threw the being down over the cliff where his own children were waiting. There was a great shouting below. Someone said, “Mine is the head.” Another said: “Mine is the heart.” And so on, for they wanted different parts of the body. But when the body reached the ground they all stepped back. “This is the body of our father!” they cried. But the mother told them to go ahead and eat.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  FOLLOWED

  AS IF PROTESTING this brutal exposure to abrasive asphalt, the thinning tire-skin whined in painful complaint. Charlie Moon was unaware of the rubbery objection originating beneath his aging Ford pickup. His attention was focused upon something more important. Something his aunt Daisy would have understood. Something that embarrassed him. A bad feeling.

  It started in his socks. A dull tingling at the tips of his toes. Crawled up shin and thigh to drop a sour nugget in his gut. And moving still upward, the writhing thing ignited a warm prickling in his spine, a warning tickling in his brain. There was this whisper: Somebody’s back there. Behind you.

  He glanced at the cracked rearview mirror, and saw no automobile headlights. No airborne hag straddling a broomstick. Nothing. And so he responded to the voice: There’s nobody back there.

  He was mistaken.

  Now it seemed as if the follower spoke to him. You can’t see me—but I’m here. And when I’m ready…

  Being a rational man, Charlie Moon understood that no one had spoken to him. With a tooth-grinding set of his jaw, the Ute forced himself to ignore the dark messages.

  He slowed to turn at the entrance to Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. Rather than let the engine idle as he got out to unlock the gate, Moon killed the ignition. He told himself this decision had nothing whatever to do with the sense that he was being followed…and wanted perfect quiet, so he could listen for any sound of his imaginary pursuer. He buttoned his jacket against the chill and stood still as a post. He heard nothing except the passing growl of a big Durango-bound semi a few miles to the north on Route 160. Within moments even this was gone. Now there was nothing whatever to hear. Aside from the sudden whuff-whuff of an owl’s wings as the goggle-eyed night hunter passed close overhead. Looking for the unwary rabbit—or something else?

  The Ute looked up at the shadowy form. Don’t call my name tonight…

  The owl went about its nocturnal business. Whatever that was.

  The tribal investigator opened the gate, eased the creaking pickup through the site entrance, then got out to slam the heavy bar against the post. He dropped the steel locking pin, snapped the padlock shut. And felt some small satisfaction. If someone is tailing me—he’ll have to get through that.

  Wrong again.

  The drive up the winding gravel road to the mesa top took less than ten minutes. Only one camper was in the parking area. There was a feeble yellowish glow in the window of Amanda Silk’s small trailer. Probably shouldn’t bother her. But he was unaccountably lonely. Maybe she’d like some company. After a moment’s hesitation, he knocked on the door.

  The yellow light dimmed. “Who is it?” she barked.

  “Charlie Moon.”

  Curtains parted in the small window; the fuzzy outline of a face appeared as if an Impressionist portrait had miraculously manifested itself on the glass. The pain
ting stared at him for a long moment. Then vanished. The light in the camper increased. A latch snapped, the aluminum door opened with a sly creak. And there she was, bathed in the light of a Coleman lantern. Long locks of stringy hair draped onto her thin shoulders. A tattered red terry-cloth robe was wrapped snugly around her frame. Amanda’s feet, shod in green gum boots, protruded comically from under the warm garment.

  Moon tried not to smile. He was almost successful.

  She smiled back at him. “Well, I may not look like a movie star, but I stay warm.”

  He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I was just passing. Thought I’d stop and say hello.”

  “Come in.” She pulled on a belt to cinch the heavy robe tightly around her long waist. “And close the door behind you.”

  As on his first visit, the small trailer lurched and creaked as he stepped inside. He shut the flimsy door gently.

  Amanda hung the light on a hook that was screwed into the varnished plywood ceiling. The lantern swung in pendulum fashion. “How’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Good enough,” he said.

  “Sit down,” she pleaded, “before you poke your head through my roof.”

  The tall Ute eased himself into a chair across from his host. The cluttered table provided a surface for simple meals and reading old books and recording the results of work well done. He wondered how the scientist could manage to read or write in the dim glow of lantern light.

  As if she had read his mind she said: “I’ve got twelve-volt electric lights. I use the Coleman to conserve my storage battery.”

  It was not hard to tell what she had been doing when he arrived. There was a half cup of black coffee, the remains of a cheese sandwich on a plastic picnic plate.

  “You want something to eat?”

  “No thanks.” He sniffed, eyed a cup on the table. “Coffee smells good, though.”

  She poured her guest a cup, and pushed the fat plastic hippopotamus across the table.