Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery

by Coel, Margaret

  Adam took a drink of coffee and set the mug down. “Traffic accident nearby.” He had been watching her, she realized.

  “It must be bad.” Vicky could sense people in the entry watching their table. So many visitors; every restaurant crowded. She’d heard there wasn’t an available room in the motels. The campgrounds were full. Someone in line had mentioned the only available camping place they’d found was up by Dubois, a good hour’s drive away. She gulped at her coffee.

  “We don’t have to hurry,” Adam said. “Let’s talk a little.”

  Talk! Vicky closed her eyes a moment. They had been talking for three hours. On the drive to and from the Broken Buffalo, during dinner. Talking and talking about the white buffalo calf. How helpless and vulnerable the calf had looked, Vicky had said. Adam had disagreed. Look at the way the rest of the herd hovered over her, a protective shield, as if even the buffalo knew she was different, a sacred creature they had to protect. On and on they had talked, recalling stories they’d heard as children. Arapaho and Lakota, allies once, in the Old Time. All the tribes tried to befriend the powerful Lakota or stay out of their way. The cultures were similar, the old stories the same.

  “The offerings have about filled up the fence,” Adam had said. “Seems to me Sheila Carey should be setting another fence in front of it. Something nice about the way folks want to leave a part of themselves for the calf.” She had agreed. Yes, it was nice. She had left strands of her hair inside a little case. This afternoon, Adam had left a small bag of tobacco. Small talk, all of it.

  Then he had mentioned the metal donation cans. “You ask me, Sheila Carey could make some serious money.”

  She has serious expenses, Vicky had told him, wondering even now why she had stood up for the woman. There was something about the redheaded Sheila Carey that was off-putting, as if she wasn’t what she seemed—or perhaps was more than she seemed. “She’s had to hire extra hands, repair and build fences, bring in porta potties.”

  “I say she’s still going to make more money than any buffalo ranch could hope to see in a lifetime.”

  He could be right, Vicky thought now. What did it matter? The white buffalo calf was a blessing to all the people. The topic they should be talking about, she knew, had risen between them like a boulder fallen out of the sky, too large to push aside, too dense to see around. They had ignored it.

  The sirens were louder. A couple of police cars, roof lights flashing, raced past the plate glass windows on the other side of the café. The waitress swung by and refilled Vicky’s cup. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  The woman straightened up, a hand gripping the handle of the coffeepot, her eyes on Adam. She was small and blond and beautiful in a vapid, obvious way, Vicky thought. “Heard there was a burglary in the strip mall. Some guy got shot.” Adam waved a hand over the top of his mug, and she moved toward the next table, swinging the pot like a banner.

  “Somebody walked in on a burglar.” Adam shrugged, as if walking in on a burglar and getting shot were normal occurrences. Things happened. He leaned toward her. “What do you think?”

  “About somebody getting shot?”

  “About Denver.”

  Here it was, then. Vicky sipped at the hot coffee, bitter tasting now, leaving a sharp, unpleasant tingling sensation in her throat. She let the silence stay between them and looked away from the worry in his eyes. They had an uncanny sense about the lies they told each other, she thought. She would not lie. “I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “Vicky . . .”

  Yes. Yes. She gave him a little wave. What sense did it make? No time to think about an important, life-changing decision? “I’ve been preoccupied with a client. Worried about Arnie Walksfast.”

  “I thought that case was settled. He’s in rehab. You got him a better deal than he deserved, the way I see it. What are you worried about?”

  “He could be involved in something bigger than an assault case. I can’t talk about it.”

  “If we were partners, we could talk about it. Maybe you would stop worrying about things you needn’t worry about.”

  Vicky set the coffee mug down and smiled at the handsome, self-assured man across from her. He worried, she knew, but always about important cases. Cases that mattered. Arnie Walksfast and most of the clients who found their way to her office—scared to death, helpless, locked in some tangled legal problem—hardly qualified. Hardly mattered in the glass-enclosed corporate offices of oil and gas companies, where Adam hammered out the best agreements, the tightest contracts to the advantage of tribes across the West. Now he had been offered a partnership in a Denver law firm.

  “You should take the offer,” she said. “I’m sure the oil and gas companies sit up and take notice when they have to deal with Trent, Lawrence, and Vickery. It’s what you want, a wonderful opportunity. You will be able to do a lot for our people.”

  “I’m not going without you.”

  “Don’t say that.” Vicky clasped her hands in her lap; they felt cold and shaky. “Don’t make me the reason you turn down a great opportunity. You would come to hate me, Adam. I don’t want that.”

  Adam pushed his own mug halfway across the table. “I was thinking about something else today when we were at the ranch,” he said. “The white buffalo calf is a sacred sign of the Creator’s presence. Don’t you see, Vicky? She’s a blessing for our lives. A personal blessing for each of us. She’s a sign we’re on the right path, we can go forward together. It is what should be.”

  The waitress was back with the coffeepot, but Adam waved her away. She stared at him for a long moment before turning toward the next table. The most handsome man in the restaurant, Vicky thought. Here with her, asking her to move to Denver with him. Start a new life together. Telling her the calf was a personal blessing.

  Adam held up a hand in the Plains Indian sign of peace. “Let’s not talk about it now. I don’t want you to make a decision if you haven’t thought about it.”

  “Is there anything else I can bring you?” The waitress was back, all smiles and ingratiating bows toward Adam. Vicky felt as if she were invisible.

  “You can bring the check.” Adam gave the woman one of his warmest smiles.

  “I’d say she likes you.”

  “Don’t, Vicky.” Adam sat forward and pulled a thin wallet from the rear pocket of his blue jeans.

  “It’s a compliment.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  Vicky dug into her bag on the bench beside her, extracted her wallet and tossed a twenty and a five into the center of the table. “Put that on the bill.”

  He pushed the money back toward her. “Let me at least take you to dinner.” He smiled at her. “Peace?”

  “Peace.” She took the bills, slid to the end of the bench, pulling her bag with her, and got to her feet. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  It had cooled a little, but it was still warm outside, the wind gusty and dry. Whirls of dust spun across the sidewalk and trailed along the curb. Headlights streamed up and down Main Street, campers and SUVs and cars with out-of-state license plates. People pushed around her and shouldered their way into the restaurant, where others were still milling about the hostess’s desk. She wondered how long this pilgrimage would continue. A year? Two years? Until the white calf was no longer a calf?

  The sirens had stopped, but there was still commotion in the next block, still people standing about. Adam was probably right. Somebody had walked in on a burglar. The thought sent a chill through her. It could happen to anyone. She dug through her purse for her cell phone. She had turned it off at the ranch—a ringing phone would have been incongruous, a sacrilege, an imposition on the sacred and timeless. She had kept it off during dinner. Now she checked her messages. There were four, all from Annie. She called her secretary’s cell.

  “Vicky, I’ve been trying to reach you.” Annie�
��s voice was breathless and tense.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Arnie left rehab.”

  “What? When did he leave?”

  “About five o’clock. The rehab nurse called and said he didn’t show up for dinner. He seemed fine this afternoon, went to physical therapy and spent an hour with his counselor. They thought he was making progress. They checked his room, and he was gone. She has to report to probation.”

  “Did he tell anyone where he was going? Leave any written messages?”

  “Nothing. I think they were pretty surprised. Never saw it coming.”

  Of course not, Vicky was thinking. Arnie Walksfast was a chameleon. He could be whatever you wanted him to be. “Have you talked to his mother?”

  “I didn’t know if I should call her.”

  “I’ll handle it.” If she could find him, Vicky was thinking, she might be able to talk him into returning tonight. The probation officer might look more favorably upon his leaving if he returned within a few hours. “Call me if you hear anything else.”

  Vicky pressed the end key, aware of Adam standing beside her. “What’s up?”

  “Arnie left rehab.”

  “Nothing you can do about it. He’s made his own choices.” She could feel the pressure of his hand on her arm, steering her along the sidewalk toward the parking lot next to the restaurant. “The waitress told me she heard the guy who got shot was named Steve Mantle. Ran an employment office.”

  Vicky pulled away and stopped walking. “Ranchlands Employment.”

  “You know him?”

  “He found jobs on ranches for cowboys. He placed at least six cowboys on the Broken Buffalo.”

  Adam stood beside her, not saying anything. Waiting, she knew, for some explanation. What did this have to do with her?

  “At least three of the cowboys are missing. One of them had pressed the assault charges against Arnie, then didn’t show up for the trial. No one knows where he went.”

  “You think Arnie might be involved in his disappearance?”

  “I don’t know.” Vicky started toward the lot, hurrying, catching a heel in a sidewalk crack, righting herself, aware of Adam’s hand on the middle of her back, steadying her. She darted past the parked cars, waited for Adam to open the passenger door on the BMW, and slid inside.

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” Adam slid behind the steering wheel and pulled his door shut. He was looking at her as he turned on the ignition. Lights from the dashboard striped his face.

  “Just take me to the office.”

  “Vicky . . .”

  “There are some things I want to check on.” The car turned through the lot and burst into the traffic. The lie was like something heavy and unreal between them. She knew that he knew she was lying; she could sense the barely controlled anger in the sound of his breathing. She stopped herself from telling him that he wouldn’t understand. They drove in silence.

  29

  VICKY CLOSED THE door and leaned against it. The office glowed in the light from the streetlamps: Annie’s desk and chair, the computer, side chairs against the wall. She could hear the click of Adam’s footsteps receding on the sidewalk, the sharp ratchet of the engine turning over. Then the fading noise of the BMW moving down the street. Sadness washed over her. Shouldn’t there have been shouting and tears, some force of emotion, to mark the end of a relationship? Something more fitting than silence? They had started with so much hope, she and Adam. Such a promising direction, as if on some day in the future she would love him and he would love her and they would go on, but that day had never arrived. They had loved each other as much as they could, she thought. As much as was possible, but it hadn’t been enough, all that wanting love. They had needed more.

  She flipped on the switch and watched the light from the ceiling shimmer in the beveled-glass doors. She walked over, flung open the doors, and went to her computer. Nothing in her e-mail that needed attention, nothing about Arnie. She clicked on the Web site for the Gazette. A bold, black headline ran like a banner across the page: LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED THIS EVENING. She scanned down the lines of text.

  Steve Mantle, owner of Ranchlands Employment, was shot to death this evening in his office on Main Street in Riverton. Police believe Mantle was killed in the course of a burglary. The office had been ransacked, and numerous items were taken. Mantle had run the employment company, which placed ranch workers in the area, since 2002. Active in the community, he was a member of the Presbyterian church and had coached the Riverton Rangers for three years. He is survived by his wife, Julia, and two children, Richard and Mary Ann. Riverton police ask that anyone who may have noticed anything unusual around the office of Ranchlands Employment between 6:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. contact them.

  Practically broad daylight. Someone in the strip mall must have seen a burglar and killer going into Ranchlands Employment. And yet, people tended to their own business, picking up dry cleaning or pizza, locking up the front door for the day—normal, normal—not expecting anything unusual.

  She dragged her cell out of her bag, called the number for the rehab clinic, and asked to speak to the nurse in charge. Several moments passed before a woman’s voice, deep and confident, came on the line. “This is Ruth Avery.”

  “Vicky Holden. I represent Arnie Walksfast.”

  “Yes. I called your office as soon as we realized Arnie had left the hospital.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about why he left? Something he might have said? Any note?”

  “I’m afraid not. He seemed to be doing well in treatment. Very accommodating.”

  A red flag, Vicky was thinking. Arnie had been belligerent and angry when she had seen him. He blamed everybody for his predicament. Everybody except himself. If he had turned accommodating, it meant he had decided to leave. “Have you reported his absence to the probation department?” God. Arnie’s probation could be revoked. He could spend a year in jail.

  “I’ll have to report him missing tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, of course.” Which left some time to find Arnie and talk him into returning voluntarily, unless . . . She thanked the nurse and ended the call, a chill moving through her. Arnie had walked away from the hospital around five o’clock, and sometime between six and eight, the man Arnie and his friends blamed for putting outsiders into jobs on local ranches was shot to death. My God, what had Arnie gotten himself involved in? Shooting at cowboys, trying to scare them away? And now, at least three cowboys missing—there could be more—and a businessman murdered?

  Vicky started to call Betty Walksfast, then ended the call. If Arnie was at his mother’s, a telephone call would send him fleeing somewhere else. She swung away from the desk and hurried back through the office and into the still, warm night filled with stars. In ten minutes she had left Lander behind and was following the sheen of headlights onto the reservation. More traffic than she had ever seen on Rendezvous Road, cars and trucks barreling in both directions, headlights strobing the asphalt. All around, the plains were dark and quiet, limitless. From time to time houses rose at the edge of the headlights. Sometimes the windows were dark, sometimes faint lights glowed behind the curtains.

  She followed a truck from Oklahoma and kept going until she saw the lights of Arapahoe on the west. Still more traffic, and she wondered where all the visitors would bed down for the night. Not until she turned into Arapahoe did the traffic fall behind. She tried to remember which of the white, look-alike houses belonged to Betty Walksfast. Which house had Arnie grown up in? Become angry in?

  She drew up in front of the house on the corner with a little peaked roof over the stoop. A single light shone in the front window. Parked next to the house was a dark truck with a license plate that hung off a single screw. She waited, half expecting Arnie to fling himself past the door and run to the truck. He would back up and leave before she had t
he chance to turn the ignition.

  No one came to the door. After two or three minutes, Vicky got out, walked up onto the stoop, and knocked. “Betty,” she called. “It’s Vicky Holden.”

  The door opened. A small, stooped figure in a pink robe cinched at her waist stood outlined in the rectangle of light. Greasy smells of something fried, like chicken, seeped from inside the house. “I seen you drive up. Wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s about Arnie. Is he here?”

  “Here? He’s in rehab. Doing okay, too. I talked to him today.” For a moment Vicky thought Betty would close the door, then she seemed to hesitate. “Why’d you come here?”

  “He left the clinic this afternoon.” The woman hadn’t invited her inside, and Vicky wondered whom she had been frying the chicken for. “I have to talk to him. I want to help him.”

  “He’s not here.” Now the door was closing, and Vicky wrapped her hand around the edge.

  “Listen to me. The clinic won’t notify probation until morning. If Arnie returns, everything might be okay. I have to get him back tonight.”

  The woman was shaking her head. “I’d tell you if he was here. Arnie don’t need any more trouble. I told him I’d take him back, but he said he had something to take care of.”

  So Arnie had come home. Vicky didn’t press the point. “Where did he go?”

  For a moment, Vicky thought the woman might fold inward and crumple to the floor. She looked shaky and uncertain, as if the world had started turning about her. “Are you okay?”

  Betty blinked into the outdoors, as if she could blink herself back, and leaned against the door frame. “I did my best for that boy. I raised him right here in this house. He went to school over there.” She nodded in the direction of the dark expanse of the Arapahoe school yard. “I had help. All my aunties and grandmothers, my nephew was like a big brother. Didn’t make any difference. Arnie went on his own way, found his own friends. No good, any of them. See what they brought him? All the relatives threw up their hands and said no more. We’re not bailing him out of jail, paying lawyers, vouching for him to some judge. No more promising to look after him. He was on his own. Except for me. I know the goodness in my boy. He’s got to throw away all the bad stuff and come back to the Arapaho Way like he was raised.”