Betrayal at the Buffalo Ranch

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  ers back, and started fishing for his clothes from a nearby chair. “Okay, thanks, Dot. No, don’t call anyone else. I know, I know. I’ll get back to you later.”

  “What’s going on?” Ginny whined. “It’s not even daylight yet.”

  By then Hawk had fumbled his way into his clothes and began

  searching for his shoes and socks. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got to go.” He shoved both socks and cell phone into his pocket, pushed his feet into his shoes, and hurried out the door.

  ★

  “You’ve got to see a doctor, Dad,” Becky pleaded. “Look at you. Your

  arms are skinned up and you can hardly walk.”

  “Oh, stop mothering me. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was

  twelve years old.” Grover sounded angry. “I’ll be fine. I just don’t have 184

  the balance I used to, that’s all. What kind of a fool Indian falls off his own horse, anyway?”

  “Horse?” Becky said, failing to hide the exasperation in her voice.

  “You were riding a horse?”

  “Horses are good for what ails you,” Grover said. “And, besides,

  Blackie is real gentle.”

  “Okay, Dad, you win. I’m going to stay with you for a while, until I

  know for sure you’re all right.”

  “Good.” Grover nodded his approval. “Now, can you help me back

  into bed? I’m a little tired.”

  Becky helped her dad into bed and then sat down on his worn couch

  to assess the situation. She got up, pulled one of his prescription bot-

  tles from the kitchen cabinet, and wrote down the doctor’s name. She

  glanced into the bedroom where her dad had already fallen asleep. She

  needed some information and it was obvious she wasn’t going to get it

  from him, so she left a note and headed toward the Indian Health Clinic

  in Sycamore Springs.

  The landscape disappeared from her mind as she drove. She couldn’t

  take care of herself, how could she be expected to take care of her dying father? They had never shared secrets with each other, and in her estimation, it seemed too late to start now. She doubted anyone at the clinic would talk to her, but she had to try.

  She parked and walked into a crowded waiting room full of weary-

  looking elderly people, young pregnant women, and crying babies.

  Walking over to the receptionist’s window, she mustered the most posi-

  tive attitude she could.

  “Hi,” she said. “My name is Rebecca Silver. My dad is Grover

  Chuculate. I was wondering if I might be able to talk to his doctor.”

  The middle- aged Indian woman sitting on the other side of the glass

  enclosure looked past Becky into the waiting room. “Is your dad with

  you?”

  “No, he isn’t. He fell yesterday and he doesn’t want to come in.”

  The woman smirked. “It’s kind of hard to do anything for him if he

  ain’t here.”

  Becky bit her tongue and remained silent.

  “Sign in,” the woman said, “and I’ll put you on the list, but I

  wouldn’t hold my breath about getting any information from anyone

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  around here unless your dad has already signed the form to allow you to do that.”

  “Oh, could you check?” Becky asked.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get back with you.” She slid the glass window shut.

  Becky retreated from the window and noticed a man in a white coat

  appear behind the unfriendly woman. They spoke for a few moments

  and the woman, looking unhappy, disappeared through a door. The man

  smiled at Becky and followed. A minute later, a door opened and the

  man in the white coat called Becky’s name. “Ms. Silver?”

  Becky jumped to her feet and walked toward him. “Yes?”

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Becky followed the white coat down a long hallway and through an

  open doorway into what appeared to be an employee break room.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding toward a small table in the corner.

  “Would you like some coffee or a soft drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” she said.

  He pulled two bottles of water out of a refrigerator, placed them on

  the table, and sat down. He looked too young to be a doctor. He had kind

  eyes, black hair and brown skin, and a confidence that filled the room.

  “I’m Mickey Barehead,” he said, and offered his hand. “I’m a phy-

  sician’s assistant here at the clinic.”

  Becky shook his hand and realized her hands were sweating. “Becky

  Silver,” she said. “Grover Chuculate’s daughter.”

  “You’re just as beautiful as Grover said you were.” His smile lit up

  his entire face.

  “You know my dad?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve known your dad for a few years now. He gave me

  riding lessons two years ago, and he’s been known to take me fishing

  on occasion. He even taught me where to find the best wild onions. He

  always talks about you.”

  Becky looked down at her hands, trying to will her eyes to absorb

  the tears that were trying to escape.

  “You know, legally, I can’t tell you anything about your dad’s med-

  ical records. But I can tell you stories about a friend I have and you can draw from that.”

  Becky nodded. “He fell,” she said. “He won’t let me bring him to

  the clinic.”

  186

  Mickey grinned. “I’m not surprised. He’s pretty much done with doctors from what I can tell.”

  “Well, I can’t just let him suffer.”

  “He’s been suffering for quite a long time, Becky. Has he told you

  he has leukemia?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has refused treatment to prolong his life. Once he reaches the

  point where the pain is too much to bear, he promised me he’d call so

  we could make arrangements for hospice. I’m not sure he will do that,

  though. Do you think we’re at that point?”

  Becky drew in a quick breath. “He didn’t say anything about that

  to me.”

  “Your dad is tough, and he made me promise he could die on his

  own terms. I told him it was his call, and I plan to stand by my words.”

  Becky began to sob. “I waited too long to come home, didn’t I?”

  He spoke in a comforting voice. “You’re here now. That’s what

  counts.”

  Becky tried to collect herself.

  “I tell you what,” he said. “How about I make a friendly non- doctor

  visit before long?”

  “Oh, would you?”

  He handed her a box of tissue from another table and she dabbed at

  her eyes and blew her nose.

  “I’d love to. Tell him I’m overdue for an update on his fishing tales

  and I’ll try to get by and see him in the next few days. I’ve got to get back to work and see if I can help empty out that waiting room.”

  A nurse poked her head into the break room. “Break’s over, Mickey.

  Get your ass back to work.”

  “See you later,” he said, and disappeared into the hallway.

  187

  Chapter 31

  Lance took the travel mug of hot coffee Sadie had given him and drove

  toward town to pick up the search warrant he’d already called about.

  The warrant was waiting for him when he got to his office, so after lock-

  ing the arrow with the white feather in the evidence cabinet, he grabbed

  the warrant, refilled his tra
vel mug with more coffee, and drove back

  toward the Buffalo Ranch in record time.

  Besides searching the house, Lance wanted to scrutinize the crime

  scene again in daylight to see if he’d missed anything the night before.

  Then he’d turn it over to the lab team to collect evidence. The sun had

  made its grand entry earlier, as the pink and orange streaks in the sky

  faded to a solid powder blue. It promised to be a long day, and he was

  already tired.

  Sheriff Long had assigned Deputy Jennings to secure the murder

  scene the night before. It would be interesting to see if Jennings had

  managed to stay awake on the job.

  A trail of dust followed Lance’s vehicle all the way to the Buffalo

  Ranch. When he got there, much to his chagrin, he could see yellow

  crime- scene tape flapping in the morning breeze. Someone had breached

  the perimeter of the crime scene. He let his vehicle roll to a stop as he scanned the area. Jennings had better be paying attention.

  Behind the tall fence, the small buffalo herd grazed in the distance,

  and Lance wondered who was going to take on the task of caring for

  them. But that was for someone else to figure out. He just wanted to know who had killed the man who owned them— the man everyone hated.

  As Lance approached the barn where Angus had died the day be-

  fore, he saw Jennings’ vehicle near the barn and a black Lexus in front

  of the house with the trunk popped wide open. Lance parked behind the

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  Lexus and got out as Eugene Hawk came out the front door carrying a long gun.

  “Morning, Councilor. You’re up early this morning.” Lance placed

  his foot on the back bumper of the Lexus. “What do you think you’re

  doing?”

  Hawk stopped in mid- stride and straightened his spine. “I just

  stopped by to pick up some of my things.”

  “Your things?” Lance nodded toward the entrance to the Buffalo

  Ranch. “Do you see that yellow crime- scene tape blowing in the breeze

  down there?”

  Hawk’s eyes shifted toward the road and then back to Lance.

  “I guess you must’ve skipped class the day they talked about tam-

  pering with evidence at a crime scene, so I’ll refresh the information for you. Everything on this side of that yellow tape belongs to my criminal

  investigation, regardless of whether you think it is yours or not. And

  now your freaking fingerprints are all over it.”

  Jennings opened his car door and scrambled toward the house.

  “Something wrong, Lance? He said he was Clyborn’s lawyer.”

  Lance shot a warning glance at the deputy. “Get some gloves on and

  take this rifle from Mr. Lawyer and take it back into the house. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Jennings turned and ran back to his vehicle.

  Lance, his foot still planted on the back of the Lexus, turned and

  scrutinized the items in the trunk— six bottles of water, an empty card-

  board box, and a camouflage- colored high- velocity crossbow, complete

  with a pistol- type grip, a trigger pull, and an attached quiver of three arrows.

  “This is a pretty fancy crossbow you’ve got,” he said. Pulling his

  handkerchief from his pocket, he picked the crossbow up and raised it

  into the air. “I guess you know I’m going to have to confiscate the con-

  tents of your trunk, too.”

  Hawk spoke with urgency. “That crossbow is mine and has abso-

  lutely nothing to do with Angus. You can’t take anything out of my

  vehicle. I know my rights.”

  Lance looked up at Hawk, who had moved closer to the edge of the

  porch.

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  “Really?” Lance said. “I guess I’m a little vague on those rights, so I can either take this crossbow, or you can come with me and explain those

  rights to the judge.” Lance stared into the distance as if trying to remember something and then pinned his gaze back on Hawk. “However, best

  as I recall, the judge took a couple of days off, gone fishing I guess you’d say. But you can wait in jail until he comes back if you want. Probably

  be only a few days, maybe a week.”

  Jennings reappeared wearing a pair of blue rubber gloves and threw

  an identical pair to Lance. Jennings walked up to Hawk, took the rifle

  from him, verified it was unloaded, and then carried it back into the house.

  Lance laid the crossbow back down, shoved the handkerchief into

  his pocket, and pulled on the rubber gloves. He carried the crossbow to

  his vehicle and put it in the back seat, and then walked over to the Lexus and glanced through the windows. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave

  my crime scene, but before you go, is there anything you’d like to share

  with me regarding your dead client? Like who might’ve killed him?”

  Hawk walked to his car, slammed the trunk lid closed, then stopped

  and turned toward Lance. “I’ll have your badge, Smith.”

  Lance grinned. “Give it your best shot, Esquire.”

  As Hawk drove away, Lance shook his head. His next task— figuring

  out what Hawk was hiding.

  Lance bounded up the steps to the house and entered. A pool ta-

  ble, surrounded by leather furniture, sat in the middle of the dark living room. Exotic animal heads stared blankly from the high walls. The air

  reeked of stale cigars and cigarettes, and empty beer bottles covered the top of a corner bar. With no television or entertainment center anywhere

  in sight, Lance wondered where the Clyborns had spent their evenings.

  He couldn’t imagine that playing pool and drinking beer captivated their

  entire lives.

  A collection of rifles rested inside a glass display case. Lance opened

  it and surveyed the weapons. Still wearing his rubber gloves, he checked

  each firearm to make sure it was unloaded and then sniffed at the barrel

  of each one. He realized his method of investigation wasn’t very scien-

  tific, but he was quite sure none of these rifles had been fired recently.

  Conversely, the odor of gun cleaner was not present. Nonetheless, he’d

  have the lab add this arsenal of weapons to Hawk’s rifle.

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  Hoping to find a note, he continued working his way through the house and into the dining room and kitchen where he’d talked to

  Camilla the night before. Maybe she’d committed suicide by purposely

  careening into the creek.

  Her empty glass remained on the table next to an ashtray full of

  cigarette butts. He moved to the counter and thumbed through a stack

  of junk mail. On the bottom of the stack an opened envelope from the

  Delaware County Treasurer with the words “Do not discard— Tax Bill

  Enclosed” in large red letters caught his eye. He pulled out a tax bill

  and couldn’t believe what he saw. The Clyborns were about to lose the

  Buffalo Ranch for unpaid back taxes.

  Lance returned the bill and the envelope to the counter. While the

  tax bill was a surprising revelation, it didn’t help answer the question of who murdered Angus.

  He walked out the back door and toward the barn to study the crime

  scene. The barn, the house, and the other buildings sat in a carved- out

  valley surrounded by hills and ridges covered with red oak, blackjack,

  sycamore, pine, and cedar trees, not to mention underbrush so thick a

  man could hide in it for weeks an
d never be found. To discover where

  the shooter had taken the fatal shot would be next to impossible. He

  would have to solve this murder some other way.

  ★

  Eugene Hawk sped away, leaving the Buffalo Ranch behind him. He

  was past caring what happened to the ranch and its entire herd of bison,

  including the embezzled animals the chief had demanded he hide there.

  Angus Clyborn was dead, and even though he wasn’t even buried yet,

  Hawk could feel the arrogant white man’s hands tightening around his

  neck, choking off his last breath. He involuntarily coughed and stretched his neck as he drove toward Sycamore Springs.

  Deputy Sheriff Smith had complicated his life even more this morn-

  ing. If he’d gotten there a little sooner, he could have had his belong-

  ings and been long gone before Smith showed up. But this hiccup would

  go away soon enough. As soon as he could, he would pay a visit to

  the district attorney and see what he could do to complicate things for

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  Smith. In the meantime, he still had one large problem looming over his head— the white buffalo calf.

  He’d tried to do the right thing by hiding the calf, but everything

  had changed now, and he was running out of time. He couldn’t risk

  being found out. He’d already put his career in jeopardy by agreeing to

  embezzle buffalo for the chief, and hooking up with Angus had been the

  worst mistake of his life. Just being in the same room with Angus had

  made him feel like he needed to take a dip in the creek to wash off the

  stench of the yonega.

  As a child, Hawk had lived with his grandparents, accompanying

  them to stomp dances, Green Corn Festivals, and other Cherokee gath-

  erings. His grandfather taught him to respect his elders and to share with his neighbors. He taught him about the right path in life, tried to teach him the Cherokee language and the traditional ways of his ancestors.

  But when Hawk got older, he rebelled. He decided he didn’t want

  to be Cherokee; he wanted to be like his white friends. He found him-

  self struggling, falling into the abyss between the worlds of Indian and

  white. He forgot about his grandfather and, in doing so, he lost his moral compass. He had sold out for status and money, turning his back not

  only on his grandparents, but all of his ancestors.

  When the white buffalo calf appeared, he thought it was a sign. He’d