The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

  "Charlie was here yesterday. He went up the canyon to look at your dead animal."

  "Figured he would," the rancher muttered. With the report he expected from Doc Schaid, the insurance payment was practically a done deal. Why couldn't Moon leave it alone?

  "Scott Parris, that policeman from up at Granite Creek, he was here too."

  Gorman grunted. He had no interest in this matukach cop. He gave the porch railing an expert once-over. "You hear about the tribal council meeting last night?"

  "How would I hear? I got no phone and don't get a newspaper but once every two weeks."

  Gorman shook the railing. A couple dozen number ten nails should do it. Maybe an extra cross brace. Or maybe two. This called for a smoke. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for the fixings. Daisy waited patiently while he poured tobacco from a worn leather pouch into a cigarette paper that was thin enough to read through. "The council decided to let Arlo Nightbird send them dockamints in to the government in Washington." Gorman licked the paper and sealed the assembly into a misshapen cigarette.

  "What'd you say?" Daisy knew what he meant, but she wished to delay the full realization of this news.

  "Dockamints… papers to get a study done on putting that nukuler power plant garbage here in Canon del Espir-itu," Gorman said sourly. He thumbed the wheel on his butane lighter and touched the dancing yellow flame to the twisted tip of the homemade smoke. "I expect Arlo Night-bird is happy as a maggot in road kill."

  "I expect he is," Daisy agreed. "What about your cattle?"

  Gorman turned and gazed at the first light of dawn filtering into the canyon; the sacred refuge where his cattle were just waking. "Most likely, I'll have to move 'em out. Over to the winter range at Bondad." He cleared his throat and wiped a moist eye. "Jimson weed, blood-sucking ticks big as a dime, and mostly alkaline water, but," he added bitterly, "they say I can't stand in the way of progress."

  "That's bad," Daisy said simply. The shaman was shivering from the cold, and also from a sense that when the sun was high, darkness would remain. As the old woman turned to retreat to the warmth of her kitchen, she spoke over her shoulder. "I made biscuits too."

  Gorman sniffed at the kitchen aromas. Daisy's lard biscuits sure beat those that came in a can. "Don't feel hungry, but I guess I could eat a little bit if you want some company." Hog lard, he knew, could stop up a man's veins just like a wad of coffee grounds could block the drain pipe under a sink. And that would bring on the dreaded heart attack. But the old man pushed the image of the dreaded corollaries from his mind.

  Nancy Beyal greeted her favorite policemen with characteristic cheerfulness. "Good morning, fellas."

  Moon glanced toward a spare office, informally reserved for the FBI. "Where is he?"

  "Mr. Hoover? Haven't seen him since late yesterday." Nancy thought she saw something odd in Moon's expression. "He came in, picked up his stuff, and cut out. I suppose he's off to Durango, or," she added hopefully, "maybe Denver." Timbuktu wouldn't be far enough.

  "Can't imagine why he left so soon." Parris winked slyly at Nancy, "we were having us a fine old time."

  "Did you hear," Nancy whispered, "about Gorman Sweetwater's threat to… to castrate Arlo Nightbird? Louise Marie LaForte heard the whole thing; it's all over town." Such stories were a sweet tonic that eased the tedium of her job at the tribal police station.

  "Gorman gets hot under the collar," Moon said, "but he cools off pretty fast."

  The telephone rang; Nancy answered it, then gestured to Parris. He pressed the receiver to his ear, and heard Sam Parker's voice. "Hello, Scott. How are you doing?"

  "Fine, Sam. How are you this morning?" Had Hoover already complained about Moon's prank?

  "Still hittin' on eight cylinders. You taking good care of… Hoover?"

  "Sure." Parris dismissed a twinge of guilt. "He's getting special treatment."

  "Anything happening down there… law and order related?"

  "Nothing much," Parris said cautiously, "we had a cattle mutilation."

  Parker, who specialized in kidnapping and armed robbery of banks, snickered. "Wow. Wish I'd been there."

  "It was a valuable animal," Parris said defensively. "Worth over ten grand. Somebody cut off the ears. And testicles."

  "Did it happen on reservation land?" Sam Parker was familiar with the crazy-quilt layout of the Southern Ute Reservation.

  "Yeah. Moon's investigating."

  "Well, you have a good time. Anything I can do to help, you let me know."

  Parris watched Moon; the Ute was at the coffeepot, well out of earshot. "There is something, Sam. It's about this fellow you sent to help us. James E. Hoover."

  "What about him?" Parker's tone was wary.

  "Everybody here loves him and he's one helluva cop.

  Matter of fact, local opinion is that J. E. could do your job. After he had a frontal lobotomy."

  "Watch out what you say, you smart-mouthed bottom-fisher," Sam Parker said over a chuckle. "Mess with me and I'll assign Hoover to cover Granite Creek until he retires."

  Parris was hanging up when Charlie Moon, at a cue from Nancy Beyal, picked up a telephone and was patched through to the emergency line. "What is it?" he grunted. The Ute listened quietly for some moments before he interrupted. "Louise Marie, how many times have I told you? Don't call me…" He waited again. "Yeah. I'll come out. But this is absolutely the last time." He hung up nodded at Parris. "Let's go, Acting Chief. It's time you met some of the local citizens."

  They found the old woman sitting on her front porch swing, busily shelling dried peas. The yellowed husks matched the hue of the skin stretched over the purple veins crisscrossing her plump hands.

  Moon touched his hat brim. "What's cookin', Louise Marie?"

  The elderly woman looked up, smiling benignly at the big Ute.

  "Louise Marie, this fellow is Scott Parris. He's standing in for Chief Severo for a few weeks." Moon nodded toward the placid figure in the swing as he spoke to Parris. "This little dumpling is Louise Marie LaForte. She's not a Ute, not even an Indian. In fact," Moon pretended disdain, "we're not sure she's even a United States citizen. Louise Marie came from up in Quebec. One of them Frenchies." Louise Marie allowed herself a coy smile as Moon continued. "Doesn't matter to Louise Marie that I'm only supposed to answer calls on reservation property. She gets me out here every week or so, just to waste my time."

  Her peas all shelled, she looked up through the thick lenses of her spectacles at the Ute's towering form. "It was so nice of you to drop by, Charles."

  "When," he demanded with feigned gruffness, "are you going to stop calling me? You should be bothering the Ig-nacio police anyway, you're not even in my jurisdiction. If you want to harass me, Louise Marie, you're going to have to join the tribe and move onto the reservation."

  "I only call you because I like you, Charles Moon." The town police ignored her many calls. "You're lucky I'm fond of you, I don't generally care all that much for the gendarme." She patted the cushion beside her, indicating that he should sit. Parris watched while Moon seated himself, wondering whether the rusty chains that suspended the swing from a pair of crooked eye-bolts in the porch roof would support the big Ute's weight.

  Moon folded his arms and closed his eyes, preparing for the inevitable assault on his rationality. "What is it this time-is Taxi bothering you again?"

  Louise Marie glanced across the yard at the ruin of a two-story frame house where Taxi had squatted since he arrived in Ignacio from goodness knows where. "No, it's not Taxi. I wish he'd get out of that taxidermist work-I can smell the stink from his place when the wind blows just wrong." She shook her head in despair. "He still peeks at me sometimes, out of that upstairs window. But he mostly keeps to himself since you had your little talk with him." No point in mentioning the stuffed squirrels the lunatic had left on her front porch. Moon would tease her about having a boy friend if he knew about the gift. She carefully placed the aluminum pan of shelled peas on a stool at her knees. "I
saw it, just before daylight this morning. Down by the river bank." She nodded toward the general direction of the Los Pinos, waiting for Charlie to ask what it was.

  The Ute remained silent.

  Parris waited as long as he could. He stepped onto the porch and leaned on a supporting column; the powdery paint soiled his jacket sleeve. "What did you see, ma'am?"

  Louise Marie looked up as if she was aware of his presence for the first time. "Who are you?"

  The acting chief of police nodded toward the Ute and grinned. "I work for Charlie. Sort of help out from time to time. Did a prowler bother you, is that why you called?…"

  "I got my dead husband's old pistol to take care of prowlers," she snapped. "Wasn't no prowler. It was the hairy one." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It was the loup-garou.?'

  Parris leaned over to hear more clearly. "The what?"

  She blinked her eyes, looked up and down the weed-choked gravel lane to make sure no passerby overheard. "That loup-garou. All hairy. Oui, with a long tail, him. And," she added ominously as she held a gnarled finger beside each temple, "with horns!" She started to tell them about the other strange feature on the monster's face and thought better of it. A loup-garou was one matter; they were common enough. But who would believe that she had seen a terrible red eye, an eye like a coal of fire?

  Parris looked hopefully at Moon for an explanation. "Loo Guru?"

  Moon cleared his throat. "A loup-garou," he said with an almost imperceptible touch of sarcasm, "is actually a fellow with a serious problem. He's an ordinary citizen by day, a dangerous animal by night. Usually half wolf and half man. The man half is generally French, so he shows himself to Louise Marie. She's the only Frenchie in the neighborhood."

  The elderly woman nodded vigorously. "Oui, oui, he was hairy as any ape you ever saw but this one wasn't no wolf! He had horns on his head!" Louise Marie shivered. "A bad one, him!"

  Parris realized that Charlie Moon was happy to leave the interrogation to his "pardner." He hesitated to ask, but there was no turning back. "What did this… loo… um… hairy fellow do?"

  "Well," she said, "he crawled along the river bank on all fours, sniffing at the ground like a great dog, wagging his big head, dragging his tail on the ground behind him." Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. "Isn't that the sort of thing you police are interested in?"

  Parris opened his mouth, but couldn't think of an appropriate response. Moon got up from the swing and patted the old woman on the shoulder. "Sure we are, Louise Marie. Keep your doors and windows locked." He patted his side-arm. "We'll be on the lookout for your loup."

  "You can't kill loup-garou with ordinary bullets," she said, shaking her finger at the Ute. "In Quebec, my father would load a shotgun shell with exactly twelve rosary beads. One for each of the Holy Apostles!"

  As they drove away, Parris watched the little figure in the porch swing. "What's the story here?"

  "Louise Marie," Moon said, "married an Iroquois up in Quebec by name of Henry Gray Dog. He brought her here thirty-odd years ago. Worked in the oil fields down by Farm-ington. Did some guide work for the elk hunters; I heard he was a first-rate tracker. Back in ninety-one, Henry left for a hike one morning. Hasn't been seen since. Louise figures he'll come back someday; that's why she never went back to her family in Canada." Moon paused to wonder what had really happened to Henry Gray Dog. Dead, most likely. "She's lonesome. Probably drinks a little too much homemade wine. I stop by to check on her from time to time."

  "Sounds like she's a lot of trouble for you," Parris said.

  Moon didn't reply. He was wondering about Louise Marie's loup-garou. What had the old woman seen?

  8

  Scott Parris, flat on his back, squinted at an electric light that was suspended on a long brass chain from the ceiling of the gymnasium. He gave up a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. He did find some comfort in the knowledge that the big Ute was on the next table. Herb Ecker appeared at his elbow, rolling his sleeve down. "This is the first time I have donated blood," the insurance salesman said in a Germanic accent. "It was not so difficult."

  "Nah," Parris agreed. "Kinda like a bee sting." The nurses who inserted the needles always said that. Like a bee sting was nothing.

  "You should have seen Dr. Schaid," Ecker said. "The veterinarian told them to take an extra pint."

  "Doc Schaid's a sissy compared to my pardner," Moon chimed in. "Now Scott Parris, he's not afraid of hollow-point bullets or needles big as your thumb."

  Ecker smiled and left with some comment about how it was a good feeling to give a part of yourself to help others. Parris turned his head to see Moon, whose boots extended well over the edge of the six-foot table. "I thought we were on our way to see this guy up in Durango. You didn't say anything about getting bled."

  Moon folded his hands over his chest. "Our civic duty, pardner. Besides, we got a kind of competition with the Ig-nacio town cops. Last year, they gave two more pints than the reservation police."

  Parris closed his eyes when Cecelia Chavez, the public health nurse, pushed his sleeve up and wrapped a section of surgical rubber tubing around his arm. "You look kind of pasty. You feel all right?"

  "Pasty is my normal complexion."

  Cecelia grinned as she tapped on his arm to find a suitable vein. "All you big men are such babies when it comes to such a teeny little pinprick." She nodded toward her right. "You see Emily Nightbird over there?" Parris opened one eye but could not see the pretty woman. "Emily organizes the Ignacio drive every year, and she's always the first one to donate blood. And Nancy Beyal, bless her little heart, she was here an hour ago. If Nancy can give a pint, we ought to get a quart from you." Cecelia scowled toward Charlie Moon. "And someone the size of this big horse ought to give us a good half gallon." The public health nurse nudged Parris's ribs with her elbow. "You know what Charlie did a few years back? When he didn't want to give blood?"

  Parris was eager to distract himself from this nervous woman who wielded a needle with hands that fluttered like aspen leaves in the wind. "I'm only interested if it's something that'll sully his reputation."

  "That big galoot," she whispered, "filled out the donor's form with a pack of lies. Said he had every disease from hepatitis to TB. We took his blood anyway."

  "Oh, I don't know that he was joking," Parris replied without smiling. "I've heard nasty rumors about Charlie and some kind of awful social disease…"

  "After you get his pale matukach blood," Moon muttered to Cecelia, "see if you can snap the needle off in his arm."

  Emily Nightbird appeared, and placed the tips of her fingers lightly on Parris's hand. "Hello, again. It's so kind of you to help us."

  Parris tried to nod, but it was a difficult maneuver with his head resting on the stainless steel table. "My pleasure," he lied.

  Emily leaned over. Her dark hair fell close to his face; he caught the scent of a deliciously fragrant perfume. "I hope you don't mind the procedure… some donors are bothered by the needle."

  Parris forced a hearty chuckle. "Needles? Nah. No problem." He winced only slightly as the nurse shoved a stainless cylinder into his forearm, completely missing the vein.

  "Now squeeze that rubber ball I put in your hand," Cecelia commanded. "Pump, pump!" She sighed with disappointment. "Well, well, you got little bitty veins like a girl. No flow at all. I'll give it a couple more tries. If that don't work, we'll have to jab the other arm."

  Daisy Perika was trudging up the incline from her mailbox when she heard Gorman's pickup behind her. The rancher pulled over and got out. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a crumpled envelope from the Nightbird Insurance Agency. "Look," Gorman growled, "at this."

  Daisy removed the contents and frowned at the perforated blue paper; her lips moved as she read the figure on the check. "Four hundred and twelve dollars. And twenty-two cents." She looked up at her cousin's grim face. "Big Ouray was worth thousands, is this all the insurance will pay?"

  "There won't be
no payment on Big Ouray. That's a refund on my policy; it's been canceled." He coughed, threw a half-spent cigarette butt onto the path and ground it viciously under his boot heel. "Arlo claims there was a mistake when them papers was filed. Says that Ecker kid wrote one number wrong when he copied Big Ouray's registration. I figures he's doctored the papers, but that makes my insurance not worth a shiny dime."

  "Arlo's found a way to keep from paying, then," Daisy said with stoic resignation.

  Gorman's hands shook as he produced a tobacco sack and attempted to pour its contents into a flimsy cigarette paper. "That little bastard-he always finds a way." The old man spilled half the tobacco and muttered a curse. "I should of got my insurance with one of them outfits up in Durango, instead of trying to save money on the premium."

  Daisy opened her mouth to remind her cousin that she had told him this, but decided to remain silent. Gorman was suffering enough right now. Later, he would be feeling much better. Then she would remind him.

  "So," Parris asked, "this Oswald Oakes is a friend of yours?"

  "Oz," the Ute said thoughtfully, "is a guy I play cards with." Friends were few and far between, and Oz didn't quite make the grade. Moon pulled the Blazer to the curb behind a blue Miata convertible. The towering house perched uncertainly on the crest of a forested hill that sloped gently toward the rocky banks of the Animas. "His main interest is collecting stuff. Old books. Antiques. Prehistoric artifacts." Moon reached to the rear seat for his wide-brimmed Stetson and jammed it down to his ears. "Oz is a pretty good source of information." And, because he'd never quite gotten the hang of five-card stud, a pretty good source of income.

  "Information?"

  "On odd things." Moon switched off the ignition. "UFO reports. Monster sightings."

  "And let me guess-animal mutilations?"

  The Ute nodded as he set the emergency brake and opened the door. "He keeps a set of files. I guess it's kind of a game for him." For Oz, everything was a game.

  Parris pulled his hat brim over his forehead to shield his eyes from the stinging rain. "You figure he'll help us sort out this bull mutilation?"