The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

Moon turned for one last look. There was nothing he had not seen before. Most of the old man's belongings were here. But not all. Nahum's gray felt hat with the band of half-dollar sized silver conchos was not hanging on the wooden peg by the front door. Neither was his blue wool coat. There was no sign of his rawhide boots. Wherever he had gone, Nahum had been fully dressed.

  Nahum Yacuti's saddle hung from a stout oak peg by the rear door. This Christmas gift from his wife was a special treasure. The old shepherd had oiled and saddle-soaped the leather every Saturday night. Moon rubbed a fingertip along the dusty leather. Tiny cracks were opening in the shiny surface of the polished cowhide; it hadn't been oiled in a month of Saturdays. It didn't look like Nahum had been back. Or would be.

  Charlie Moon stared at the old saddle and whispered to himself. "Well, old man… where do you ride tonight?"

  3

  CaRon del Espiritv

  Oblivious to the stark beauty of the crisp, deep shadows cast by creamy moonlight, the tiny deer mouse paused to sniff tentatively, interrupting its nibbling on a pungent juniper seed. The rodent tilted her furry head and oriented oversized ears toward the source of the barely audible sounds. Scuff-scuff, the sounds said. After a brief silence, the peculiar sound would repeat. Scuff-scuff. The wee creature, long acquainted with the threat of the heat-sensing rattler and sharp-taloned pygmy owl, sensed that something even more sinister approached along the floor of the canyon. The mouse scampered up the trunk of a venerable puion. It slipped into its nest of shredded bark, which was expertly wedged into the crotch of a forked branch. Emboldened by the relative security of this hideaway barely a yard above the earth, the rodent watched with mesmerized apprehension as the source of the scuffing sounds approached. The little creature blinked its luminous black eyes in puzzlement at first sight of the thing; this unnatural apparition that moved in undulating motion like a shadowy wave over the moonlit sand of the canyon floor. At first, the shape of the intruder was indistinct, an amorphous patch of dark fog floating over the ground. Then, as if it could change its shape at will, the presence seemed to take on substance and form. The thing paused, raised itself to a standing position… like a great bear. But it was not a bear… This shaggy-haired creature had broad shoulders, no neck, and a peculiar, flattened head. The head had horns. And a single red eye. Now it would glow brightly, like an ember in a fire. Then it would dim, as if the creature had blinked. The mouse could not deal with abstract concepts, like Good and Evil. But there were primitive instincts deep within its breast that drummed an urgent warning: Be still, be still!

  A mosquito whined lazily around the dark form, confused by a peculiar mixture of scents that was alien, yet strangely inviting. The insect lit and immediately drove her long proboscis deep into the surface of the creature. There was no hint of blood… no evidence that the phantom was alive; the mosquito departed to search for a prey whose heart pumped the warm, nourishing substance of life.

  Something rippled underneath its fur, then the apparition moved away ghostlike through the fringed sage and Apache plume toward the dusty wallow under the old juniper where the great spotted animal slept. To the deer mouse, this choice seemed reckless. The great bellowing animal who ruled over this canyon would be annoyed if awakened; its great, sweeping horns would make short work of this mysterious intruder.

  A pygmy owl in a crevice on the canyon wall stopped its whoop-whoop call; even the leg-scraping chirp of the fat black crickets fell silent. The night creatures were unnaturally quiet, as if all the canyon's life had felt the approaching shadow of death. For a moment there was total silence, as if the mouse had gone deaf.

  When the terrible shriek filled the sinuous canyon and echoed off its towering sandstone walls, the deer mouse jerked its little head inside the bark nest and trembled spasmodically in elemental terror. The rich, sweet aroma of fresh blood slipped over the moonlit landscape like a heavy fog.

  * * *

  The soft glow of the morning sun was barely touching the horizon when Gorman Sweetwater shifted the pickup down to second gear, then glanced sideways at his daughter. Ben-ita was almost as pretty as her mother, and she was the only close family left since his wife had died. He dreaded the thought that she would meet some young man at the college in Durango, get married, and move far away. Then he'd be alone.

  Gorman grunted to get his daughter's attention; he jerked a thumb toward Daisy Perika's trailer home.

  "Kitchen light's on, Daddy. That means coffee's perking." Benita patted him on the arm. "You intend to stop and gossip with Aunt Daisy?"

  "Business before gossip. We'll check on the stock first."

  He continued for another hundred yards, then braked his pickup to a stop at the mouth of Canon del Espiritu; Benita got out and opened the flimsy barbed-wire gate that blocked the dirt road. After his daughter was beside him again, the Ute rancher shifted into low and released the clutch. He chugged along the rutted lane, blinking into the morning haze as he searched the brush for a glimpse of his small herd of purebred Herefords. It was not that they needed checking on, but the animals were a source of joy to the rancher. Several times every week he would leave his home before dawn and drive to the canyon to admire their handsome forms. And talk to them. Gorman knew every animal; each had its own personality. He had loaded three bales of alfalfa hay into the pickup, but this was just an excuse to make the trip.

  The rancher was familiar with their habits. On cold nights, the Herefords usually slept in the pinon grove along the sandstone shelf on the north side of the canyon. It was a good place; the sandstone was covered with petroglyphs, the sacred markings of the Old Ones whose spirits rested peacefully within these towering walls. There was, of course, the pitukupf as well, but the dwarf had not done any real harm for many years. Not since Gorman's horse had grazed too close to his underground home. The rancher pushed this unpleasant memory from his mind. The Ute wondered if the pitukupf was, like himself, getting too old to cause any serious trouble. He smiled at the thought; Daisy Perika claimed that the pitukupf was full of years beyond counting, and Daisy knew something about this subject. Daisy had the Power. The Old Power. She was probably the only Ute left who could hear the voice of the pitukupf. Most of the younger generation didn't believe in the dwarf's existence. Many of the youngsters, unlike Benita, couldn't even speak the language of the People. But with the new Ute language program in the Ignacio public schools, that would change. A few went away to Fort Lewis College and learned the matukach view of Native American history. What else did they learn from the whites? The thought troubled him; what would come to pass in another twenty years? There were barely more than a thousand Utes on the southern reservation, fewer still on the Ute Mountain enclave. Would anyone be left who understood the ways of the People? Daisy Perika was very old; after she departed for the next world, who would talk to the dwarf-spirit? The rancher wondered if the pitukupf was ever lonely. Gorman was lonely every day Benita spent at Fort Lewis College; this was another reason he visited his cattle and stopped by to visit with Daisy.

  He set the brake on the pickup, filled his brier pipe with a wad of Prince Albert, and touched a flame to the fragrant tobacco. The rancher took a deep draw, then pursed his lips to blow a puff of gray smoke toward the windshield.

  Benita put on her stern face; little wrinkles rippled across her forehead. "You ought to give up smoking." Unconsciously, she imitated her mother's tone.

  "I'm trying to get used to the pipe again, it's not so bad as the cigarettes. Anyhow," he added with an air of self-righteousness, "I don't impale."

  Lately, he was having trouble finding just the right word. "You don't inhale," she corrected gently.

  "That," her father said, "is why it don't hurt me none." Gorman exhaled smoke from deep within his lungs. Benita studied her father's profile; when she wasn't around to keep an eye on him, did he roll a new cigarette every ten minutes?

  Gorman was considering how much he had to be thankful for when he heard the sound. It was something
between a howl and a hoot, from somewhere on the cliff above the canyon. Was it a cougar… or another type of beast altogether? The rancher put his pipe on the dashboard and lifted an old 30–30 caliber carbine off the rack over the rear window.

  "Stay put," he said. It would not have occurred to Benita to question this solemn instruction. Gorman slid from the pickup seat and planted his big feet on the sand of the canyon floor. He tried to remember a prayer. When he was younger, he had memorized a half dozen of the prayers in the tiny black book he found in his uncle's medicine bag. Gorman's memory was fading; he reverently repeated the one prayer that he could remember. He was whispering "… deliver us from evil" as he moved toward the pinon grove. He squinted at the mesa ridge, more than a hundred feet above the canyon floor. "For thine is the power. And the glory…" The old man could see nothing unusual on the rim, but he felt it. Watching him. "… for ever and ever." He gritted his teeth and cocked the lever-action carbine. "Amen," he grunted.

  From the edge of his visual field, he thought he saw something move above him, on the edge of the cliff. It could have been imagination. Probably something ordinary, like a coyote or a wandering uru-ci; there were many ghosts in this place. He moved along the path in the sage. There was fresh manure on the sand by a Gambel oak, and other signs that the Herefords had slept in the pinon grove. He moved closer to the canyon wall, brushing aside the freshly bloomed Apache Plumes. Then, there was an odor that penetrated the chill morning air. Blood. Freshly spilled blood! Gorman rested his finger on the trigger and moved against the light breeze that drifted down Canon del Espiritu. He saw the carcass as he rounded the face of a squat sandstone pillar. The big animal was on its side, legs protruding stiffly, belly beginning to bloat with gas.

  "No, no," he pleaded, "Please, God, don't let it be my bull." He stopped and closed his eyes, hoping the dreadful apparition would vanish. "God, listen to me. I can do without a cow or a steer, but I need my bull!" He opened his eyes. The animal was still there. Gorman's feet were like lead as he forced himself close enough to inspect the carcass. "Oh… no. Oh, please, no." It was the bull. Or had been. The mouth was open, tongue lolling out, as if the animal had bellowed. The ears had been removed. There was something terribly familiar about this. Yes. That bull elk up in the Never Summer range. Gorman's legs wobbled; he forced himself to move close to the carcass. He used the carbine as a staff to steady himself as he squatted to discover the final horror. Before he looked, he was virtually certain of what he would see. He looked, then closed his eyes and swore. The butcher had also removed the bull's testicles!

  There was a wailing howl from atop the mesa. Gorman wheeled, set the carbine stock firmly against his shoulder and fired in the direction of the sound. "Damn you!" He cocked the carbine and fired again. And again. The cracks of the shots echoed back and forth between the canyon walls until the sounds dissipated into the morning mists. Then, total silence. Gorman squatted by the dead animal and leaned his old carbine on a pifion snag. And wept.

  Daisy Perika was frying a thick slice of ham in the iron skillet when she heard the faint echo of distant rifle shots. Was her cousin taking a deer out of season? If so, she knew she would get a share. She imagined sliced deer-liver with diced onion in her skillet and the vision made her mouth water. No, more likely Gorman was shooting at a cougar. Not likely he'd hit anything; the cataracts in his eyes were gradually dropping a milky curtain over his world.

  Only minutes earlier, she had heard her cousin entering the canyon. There was no mistaking the old GMC pickup; it had a loose tail pipe that rattled against the frame when

  Gorman jolted over ruts in the dirt road. Even without that clue, it had to be Gorman. Who else visited Canon del Es-piritu at the crack of dawn? Then, in the stillness of the morning, she heard the truck engine start. This morning, he'd cut his visit short. Gorman was usually in Spirit Canyon for at least an hour, gloating over those fat cattle. But wait-the truck wasn't lurching over the bumps; someone with a more delicate touch than Gorman was driving. Daisy smiled with satisfaction; Benita was home from Fort Lewis College in Durango. The shaman had already placed an extra plate on her kitchen table for her cousin; she added another plate for Benita. Gorman always stopped to visit on his way out of the canyon. It was invariably the same routine: Daisy offered breakfast, he would refuse. Then after she urged him, he would grudgingly accept. "If you're going to keep after me," he would say, "I might as well have some." Gorman was one of life's constants.

  Daisy opened the door of her trailer home as she heard Gorman's heavy step on the wooden porch. He had those dirty rubber boots on; she frowned at his big feet. Gorman leaned on the porch railing while he pulled them off. Daisy moved forward to embrace Benita. "How are you, little girl?"

  Benita's eyes were moist. "Fine, Aunt Daisy." Gorman was obviously in a foul mood and Benita was shaken. Daisy waited impatiently to learn what they would tell her. If it was a family dispute, the Sweetwaters would keep it to themselves. It would be bad manners to pry, but if it came to that, Daisy would pry.

  Benita noticed the third setting at the table. "But how did you know I'd be here?"

  Daisy assumed a solemn expression and touched a forefinger to her temple. "I have my own ways of knowing these things." The shaman was rewarded by a wide-eyed expression of awe from the young woman. It was best to stay a step ahead of these college kids. Kept them in their place.

  Gorman sat down heavily at the table. Daisy poured a cup of pitch-black coffee into his favorite mug, the one with the

  Nestle bunny that appeared after the cup heated. Benita didn't drink coffee; said it made her nervous. Children nowadays behaved so strangely! Gorman had a tentative sip.

  "You two want some breakfast? I'm making a cheese omelet and some ham. Got a jar of maple cream from my friends in New York State. Goes good on the hot biscuits."

  Benita glanced at the lard can on the biscuit-board and realized these were old-fashioned biscuits; she nodded her polite rejection of this offer. "Thanks, Aunt Daisy. I don't have much of an appetite this early."

  Gorman rested his face in his hands. His voice croaked when he spoke. "Ouray is dead!"

  Daisy tilted her round face and raised her eyebrows. Had he been drinking this early in the morning? Who did Gorman think he had shot? "Well, it's a bad thing, I guess, but you ought to be over it by now. Chief Ouray's been dead way over a hundred years."

  Gorman looked up, wide-eyed and outraged. "Dammit, Daisy, not that Ouray. My registered Hereford bull, Big Ouray, he's dead!"

  Men, the old woman sighed, they were all alike. They loved their pickup trucks and their animals. And ignored their wives. She wondered what she should say to comfort her cousin. "They say you should never give an animal a name unless it's a pet." This brought no response. Daisy poured an extra dash of coffee into his mug. "That the bull you bought back in January?"

  Gorman grunted. Benita started to say something, then clamped her mouth shut.

  Daisy adopted a more sympathetic tone. "How did it happen?" That bull, with his enormous horns and nasty temper, was a dangerous brute. No cougar or bear would dare mess with him. "He eat some poison weed?"

  Gorman shook his head; he felt a need to cleanse his thoughts. "This is a bad thing. Somebody cut him up. Took his ears and balls. Like that elk in the Never Summer range."

  She remembered the story about the mutilated elk in the alpine pasture. Some Utes figured it was witches. The crazy matukach woman in Durango insisted the culprits were little silver-clothed people (with long ape-like arms!) who came from the stars in flying ships that like looked like huge cigars. But nobody really knew what had happened to the unfortunate animal.

  Daisy sat down beside Gorman and patted his shoulder in a motherly fashion. She had always tried to look out for her lanky cousin, ever since they were children. He was like a brother. "A Ute wouldn't do anything like that," she offered. "Sounds like some crazy matukach at work. Some of them are filled with superstition; who knows why they do the
things they do?" Daisy noticed Benita's smile and was puzzled. Who could understand young people? Maybe Ben-ita had spent too much time with the matukach professors, learning a lot of foolishness.

  Gorman rubbed at his eyes with a dirty red bandanna. "I don't know. White people in the canyon? It happened late last night; he was still warm." He looked out the trailer window. "The only way into Spirit Canyon goes right past your place… Wouldn't you have noticed if somebody went up the lane?"

  "I didn't hear a car or truck." Daisy was searching for an answer. "Maybe the animal got sick and died; coyotes eat what is easy to get, like the tongue and privates and…"

  "Big Ouray still had his tongue, and coyotes don't eat ears." He eyed her curiously. "I heard something. Howling." Gorman swirled the coffee in his cup. "You don't think… that little man who lives in the canyon might have had something to do with this?" This question embarrassed Benita, but Gorman didn't care.

  Daisy shook her head to dismiss this troubling question. The pitukupf! No. The dwarf would never mutilate an animal. The shaman's brow furrowed. Would he?

  "Daddy," Benita began firmly, "there isn't any such thing as a pitukupf, it's just an old tribal myth, like the Water-Baby." The young woman was pointedly ignored by her elders.

  Gorman stuck his brier between his teeth. He looked through the kitchen window and into the yawning mouth of the great canyon. "The dwarf-he killed my best horse a few years back."

  "That was different," Daisy retorted sharply. "Your own fault. You shouldn't have hobbled him so close to the little man's home. You know he doesn't like that." She got up and opened a small sack of flour. "Anyway, I put tobacco by his home every new moon. He wouldn't do anything bad to me. Or my relatives." She adjusted the propane flame under the coffee pot and gave Gorman a sideways glance. "What'd you shoot at?"

  "Nothing," he said. "Shadows."

  "Gorman the great hunter," she mocked, "bring some shadow-meat with you next time, I'll make you a shadow-breakfast."