Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery

by Coel, Margaret

  It had almost happened. Buffalo had been slaughtered across the plains. She remembered other stories Grandfather told, stories he had heard from his own grandfather: mounds of buffalo bones higher than log cabins, bleaching in the sun. They had been close to extinction, a few herds hanging on, mangy and starving, hides drooping over skeletons weak from running and running from the guns. Her people and the other Indian nations had also been close to extinction. She blinked at Grandfather’s words in her head: Eight hundred Arapahos had straggled onto the rez. We were a pitiful bunch.

  Vicky stayed with the others around a curve. It was then she saw a small herd of buffalo, grazing placidly, content, the wind shearing the fur on their massive heads. A cow looked up, snorted, and went back to grazing. Out on the pasture, moving among another stand of cottonwoods, were at least two dozen head. And beyond them, Vicky could see more buffalo.

  Carlos had stopped. He gestured with his fist at the herd in the cottonwoods. Vicky stopped behind the others and searched the herd for a small, white calf. “Watch and wait,” he said. “Takes a few minutes before the mother shows herself. She knows when the calf has visitors. Always shows off her calf when Sheila and me come out. There!” His fist jumped up and down.

  Vicky saw the huge, brown buffalo cow moving out of the trees. Swaying at her side was a white calf. She looked smooth and unruffled, as velvety as snow. Vicky felt her legs go weak. She set her hand against the post to steady herself, afraid she might fall down. The calf will be a sign the Creator is with us. Grandfather’s voice still running through her head. She could sense the power in the small animal. Something holy and ineffable. She wiped at the moisture on her cheeks and wondered what John O’Malley had thought—a priest from another way, so different from her own. She wondered if he had sensed the power, understood the meaning. Surely the Creator gave different signs to different peoples.

  She should have brought an offering. She glanced beyond the little group to where a small, tan-colored bag was attached to the fence. Clifford Many Horses would have brought the bag, she knew. Inside was tobacco, a worthy and fitting offering. She tried to think what she had in her bag that she could leave as a sign of respect. A sign she had been here. She rummaged in the bag until she found the soft case that held her sunglasses. She took out the glasses. The case was red, with blue-and-yellow designs and ties of black ribbon, the Arapaho colors for the four directions, east, south, west, and north. She reached up and plucked a strand of hair. Then another and another, winding them together until she had a thin, black string, which she rolled into a ball and slipped inside the case. She tied the black ribbon onto the fence. The case shivered in the breeze.

  “You seen the crowd at the front gate. We have more groups to bring out.” Carlos started walking back, a familiar confidence in the square of his shoulders, as if he assumed the others would fall in behind.

  Banner turned around. His eyes were like black pools. The Navajo officer behind him rubbed a fist across his own eyes. They felt the same, Vicky thought. Everyone except for Carlos, walking away. The white ranchers and the women stood still another moment, gazing at the small white calf. Then shrugging at each other, they started after Carlos, as if the calf made some difference but they weren’t sure what it might be.

  “It’s wonderful.” Vicky fell in next to Banner.

  “Part of me wishes it was born on another reservation. We’re going to be double-shifting all the officers until we see how many people come. Might have to call for help from outside.” Vicky felt the chief glance sideways at her. “I hear your client got lucky.”

  “Arnie’s in rehab.”

  “Drunk or sober, he’s a troublemaker. There’s a rumor he’s behind the random shootings. Three so far.” God, Vicky was thinking. Did nothing escape the moccasin telegraph? “Things have been quiet since Arnie boy’s been waiting for trial. Now he’s in rehab, I suspect the shootings will stop.”

  Vicky didn’t say anything. She was aware of the scuff of the ranchers’ boots ahead. She could guess what had happened. One of Arnie’s friends arrested, probably on a DUI or disturbance or assault, begging to make a trade. Arnie’s involvement in the random shootings in exchange for his own skin. “I’m not aware of any additional charges filed against my client.”

  “Not yet,” Banner said. “Let’s say I’m giving you a heads-up.”

  “What about Rick Tomlin. Any word on him?”

  “He’s gone, Vicky. Nowhere in these parts or we would have heard. Somebody would have given him up.”

  “Right.” Gone, she was thinking.

  “Cowboys like him are drifters. Start out in New Mexico or Texas and drift north until they hit the border, then start drifting back. Tomlin’s in Montana or Idaho.”

  “Sheila Carey thinks he could have killed her husband.”

  “FBI is working the case. They haven’t found any trace of Tomlin, which means he’s out herding cattle in the middle of nowhere. Nobody knows where he is and nobody can get to him.” Banner stopped, and the Navajo officer behind him also stopped as if they were chained together, two officers protecting each other. “You ask me, Mrs. Carey and her husband would’ve been a whole lot better off hiring from the rez. The warriors have ties. Family, responsibilities, ceremonies, all the things that keep them close to home. Wouldn’t have these drifters like the cowboys out front, work for a while ’til they get bored and set off for someplace different.”

  “We have Arapahos working for us.” The two ranchers stopped and turned back, their wives stopping behind them, glancing at one another. A fringe of black hair showed below the cowboy hat of the tall, gangly-looking rancher. The other man was a couple of inches shorter, squat, with long, powerful-looking arms, a big cowboy hat, and a shiny, smooth spot at the base of his skull that made her think he was probably bald. “Nobody understands horses better than Raps,” said the squat rancher. “They can ride anything. Take the herd out to pasture, bring them back. I got to agree with you, Chief.” He tipped his head toward Banner. “They got ties around here, so you know they’re not going to take off just when you need the herd rounded up.”

  “Free country,” the other rancher said. “I guess Dennis could hire any hands he wanted. Maybe he felt more comfortable with white guys. No offense.” He threw a glance between Banner and the other officer. “I heard he had enough trouble getting along with his help. Maybe he thought Indians would be even more trouble.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Banner said.

  “Just some things he said at meetings. Ranchers hereabouts get together to chew the fat, talk over common problems, like we did the night he got shot. Dennis was always hiring or firing. Claimed he couldn’t get anybody he could depend upon, but he kept trying.” He gave a ragged laugh that sounded as if he were clearing his throat.

  “You ask me,” the short rancher said, “Dennis knew he was going to get killed.”

  “What makes you think so?” Banner said.

  “Last couple meetings, he was a nervous wreck. Couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop talking. Real jumpy. Truck backfired outdoors. He jumped a foot.”

  “Drinking a lot,” the other rancher put in. “Four or five shots every meeting. Staggered outside and got in his truck. Jesus. I told him more than once he shouldn’t be driving. Give me the keys, I said. Me and Chet’ll take you home. But nothing doing. Everything in control, he said. You ask me, he was out of control. Something was on him, tracking him like a big mountain lion, and he knew it. He was just waiting until it took him out.”

  “You tell the fed this?”

  “Lot of good it done.” The gangly man leaned sideways and spit a string of saliva onto the dirt. “Just a hunch. We don’t have proof. Wasn’t like Dennis took us into his confidence.” He gave another snort-laugh, and the other rancher laughed with him. “Anyway, we gave our opinion, for what it’s worth.” He shrugged. “Well, time we was getting back to o
ur spreads. See you around, Officers.” The ranchers lifted two fingers and saluted toward Vicky. “Ma’am,” one of them said. Then they were off, the men and their wives heading toward the crowd clustered at the gate, past Carlos coming down the path with six or seven visitors in tow.

  “You know anything about Dennis being nervous?” Vicky realized Banner was staring at her.

  She shook her head and looked in the direction of the patch of ground where the ashes of Dennis Carey had been buried. “I never met the man.”

  Carlos and the little group passed by, making a half circle around them. A mixture of Indians and whites, somber and reflective, as if they were on their way to church. Banner and the Navajo started toward the gate, and Vicky stayed with them until they had reached the front of the house. Sheila Carey stood on the porch, talking to two men. One held a camera on his shoulder.

  “See you later,” Vicky said, veering to the right. She made her way across a patch of shade to the porch steps and waited. After a few minutes, the two men stomped down the steps, faces cracked in grins. The cowboy with the black hat walked over. “This way out to the north pasture to see the calf,” he said.

  Sheila came down the steps, her eyes trailing after the three men. “Well, that’s it.” She might have been speaking into space. “It’ll be all over the news tonight. Spread across the nation, I expect.” Her voice rose and fell on notes of anticipation.

  “It meant a lot to see the white calf,” Vicky said. “Thank you.” She waited a beat, then she said, “There’s something I wanted to tell you.” The woman turned slowly toward Vicky, as if she were turning toward a minor inconvenience. “I spoke with a cowboy from Colorado, Reg Hartly.”

  “Colorado? What does he want? A job? I’ll need more help with the crowds coming.”

  “He’s looking for a friend. Josh Barker. One of the cowboys told him nobody by that name ever worked here, but he said Josh had sent postcards home saying he had been hired on the Broken Buffalo.”

  Something happened in the woman’s face, as if the muscles and sinews were starting to collapse. “One of the cowboys that hated Dennis. Hated him! Took off one day after a big argument. Just got in his truck and drove out of here. Just like Rick Tomlin. Left us high and dry with dams getting ready to calve. I’m sick of questions about those sonofabitches!” She was shouting, and Vicky took a couple of steps back. “Do you understand? Sick and tired of questions.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Upset me?” Shock registered in her features, as if she realized she was shouting. She lowered her voice, but angry red marks were moving up her throat and into her cheeks. “Why shouldn’t I be upset? Cops knocking on my door looking for Tomlin. Expect me to know where he is. Now this cowboy looking for some other cowboy. The new hires don’t know who worked here before, and I plan to keep it that way. Anybody comes around asking questions, they’ll get rid of them. God, let the cops find them. Rick. Josh. Whoever. One of them killed my husband.” She took off her cowboy hat, ran her hand through her reddish hair, and set the cowboy hat back on. “You tell your cowboy friend, he shows up, I’ll have him tossed out on his head.”

  Sheila swung around, marched up the steps, and let herself into the house. The screen door banged behind her in the wind.

  Vicky started for the gate, aware that the people there had been watching, like an audience at a play, surprise and shadows of worry on their faces. She was about to duck under the gate when she saw the wooden post just inside the gate. It had a new, bleached look about it. She hadn’t noticed it before. Affixed to the top was a metal container with the word DONATIONS printed in bright red letters.

  16

  FATHER JOHN COULD hear the cheering and shouting from the ballpark. He managed to fit the Toyota pickup between two SUVs at the curb alongside Riverton’s city park. A big crowd had gathered for the game between the Riverton Rangers and the St. Francis Eagles, the team he had started ten years ago, his first summer at the mission when he had been looking for something familiar to do, a priest from Boston finding his way on an Indian reservation. Baseball bridged a lot of divides.

  He ran across the grass toward the diamond. He was late; the game had probably ended. He hoped the crowd was cheering for the Eagles. Last time they had played against the mighty Rangers, the winningest team in the league, the Eagles had barely managed to hold on to a 4–3 lead. Everybody had thought the win was a fluke. Even some of his own players, he suspected. Back at the mission, they’d had a meeting. A pep talk. Don’t underestimate yourselves, he’d told the kids seated cross-legged on the lawn in front of the administration building, brown faces turned up at him, eyes shining like black pools. Don’t think you didn’t deserve to win, because you did. You worked hard. You’re winners. He remembered repeating the phrase numerous times until the black eyes started to smile and blink in agreement.

  Now he jogged around the edge of the diamond to the dugout on the third-base side. The kids were jumping up and down, high-fiving one another, hollering and yelling with joy. A couple of kids were rolling on the grass. He could feel the excitement. “What’s the score?” he yelled.

  “We won, Father,” one of the kids shouted. Then the whole team rushed around him, chanting, “We won! We won!” Someone shouted, “Five–zip. Can you believe it?”

  “Of course I can believe it.” He threw his head back and laughed. Across home plate, in the Ranger’s dugout, he could see the slumped shoulders, the lowered heads gathered around Steve Mantle, the coach. He liked Mantle. He was fair to the kids. His son played for the Rangers. He could imagine what Mantle was telling his players. Hey, everybody has an off day once in a while. You’re still the best. The same thing he would have told the Eagles had they lost.

  Marcy Hawk caught his eye and walked over, blue baseball cap with Eagles in big white letters on her head. Marcy had been helping him coach this season, and she was good. Black-haired, round, brown face; in her thirties, short, stout with an arm that could hurl power balls. Her son, Liam, was one of the pitchers; the kid had gotten his talent from his mom, Father John thought. He’d asked Marcy to coach today, since he wasn’t sure how long the burial ceremonies at the Broken Buffalo might take. Looked like Marcy had pulled in Dexter Horseman’s dad, Dennis, to help with the coaching. The Eagles had been in good hands.

  He had driven Clifford Many Horses home and visited for a few minutes, listening to the old man relive the experience of seeing the white buffalo calf. A stunned look about him, going over and over it: the small white calf turning from her mother and stepping out alone, facing the barbed-wire fence as if she were seeing them. Tears had welled in the old man’s eyes as he talked, just as there had been tears when he’d seen the calf. “Spirit. Spirit.” He had said. “A beautiful name.”

  Father John had waited with the old man until Betty had come with her dad’s dinner. Then he had broken a few speed laws to get to Riverton before the game ended. “Congratulations!” He waved to Marcy and Dennis, awash in kids.

  “It was electric!” Marcy shouted over the kids. “They could do no wrong.” She managed to work her way through the kids until she was next to him. “Liam did just like you’ve been coaching him. He threw strikes. Never got behind in the count! You know Liam.” She rolled her eyes. Her son was a lot like her, Father John was thinking. Always sure of what he was doing. “Likes to throw fastballs. But he did like we practiced and struck out five hitters. Even struck out the kid nobody wants to pitch to, the one that goes yard on other pitchers.”

  “Way to go.” Liam had positioned himself in front of Father John, a smile as big as the prairie on his face. Father John patted the kid’s shoulder.

  “I was focused, Father.” Liam worked the words around the big, open smile. “I wanted to do my job. Nathan was catching, he signaled the pitches like we practiced. If he asked for a fastball down and away, that’s what I pitched. They only got four hits off me
in six innings. They didn’t score a run. No way. When they did hit the ball, the team made all the plays.”

  Father John wondered if Liam Hawk would ever forget this day. “We were a team, like you always say, Father. We worked together.”

  “That they did.” Dennis walked over. “Dexter here”—he ruffled the black hair of his son—“had four hits and batted in two runners. Randall Hunter got us on the scoreboard early with a solo home run. Then Nathan drove in two runners with a key double.” He nodded to the skinny kid bouncing on his feet, tossing his cap into the air.

  “Peter Boxley was on second when Randall came up again,” Marcy said. “Randall hit a single up the middle and Peter scored on a play at the plate. And Liam”—she patted the top of her son’s cap—“totally shut them down. I put Mason in for the final three outs, and he did us proud.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Father John could see the Rangers lined up for the post-game handshakes. The kids had been so busy celebrating the unexpected win, they had forgotten that handshakes should come first. “Time to congratulate your opponents,” he shouted.

  “They didn’t win,” a high, thin voice shouted back.

  “You know the rules of good sportsmanship. Congratulate them on a good game.” There were a few groans; kids were shuffling their feet.

  “I don’t like what they say to us.” Liam glanced up at him out of black, pleading eyes. “Like, ‘Dirty Indian.’ ‘Go back to the rez.’ Stuff like that.”