James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

Herb Ecker produced a piece of blue paper. "The photographs and ear-tag numbers are all here, Mr. Nightbird." The young man pointed at a color photo stapled to the list. "That is Big Ouray. Ear tag number 101."

Arlo glared at the color photograph of the sullen bull, then unfolded the policy and read it through the bottom of his bifocals.

Gorman grinned. Arlo was boxed in; maybe he'd get a major case of heartburn. Maybe even one of them coro-whatzits.

Arlo folded the papers and dropped them on his desk. "So how'd your damn old bull die?" He tried hard to sound casual. "Some cityboy hunter mistake him for an elk?" That would void the policy.

"Elk season," Gorman said, "ain't till October." The rancher smelled a trap; he looked down at his muddy boots. "Big Ouray's stone dead; that's all that matters. I want my money."

Arlo sensed a weak spot. "Policy only pays on death by natural cause. Terminal belly ache, lightning strikes, baseball-sized hail stones, predators, that kind of thing."

Gorman looked up quickly. "It was a pred-predabiter."

"What kind of predator? Mountain lion, bear?" Arlo grinned. "Sasquatch?"

"Don't know." Gorman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Whatever it was didn't wait around for me." Or did it? The blood-chilling howl from the mesa top still rang in his ears.

Arlo chewed on his cigar, allowing Gorman time to sweat a bit. "You'll need some evidence. The insurance adjuster, maybe he'll think you killed the bull." He saw Gorman's massive fists clench. "Now don't get edgy. I didn't say / believed you'd try to cheat the insurance company, but you know how nit-picking these adjusters can be."

"You tell the adjuster it was a predabiter. Then he'll pay."

"Okay. Tell me what kind of animal killed your bull."

"Don't know for sure."

"There must have been signs, tracks. What the hell kind of Indian are you, Gorman, you can't tell from the signs…"

Gorman raised his big frame from the chair and leaned over the desk, waving his hand as if he might grab Arlo by the throat. "What the hell kind of Indian are you , Arlo, trying to cheat one of the People? You little thief, I ought to-"

Arlo backed his chair up against the wall. "Now calm down, I didn't mean to upset you, but I got to go by the rules. Have Doc Schaid examine the animal."

"I called the vet already; he's on his way to the canyon by now."

"If he says it's natural causes, we'll pay. I guarantee it. You have Arlo Nightbird's word."

Gorman grimaced. "I'd sooner have a bad case of the piles."

Arlo let the insult pass. There was a rumor that, in his youth, Gorman Sweetwater had killed a knife-wielding Apache with those huge hands. The cigar hobbled in Arlo's mouth as he talked. "Dammit, Gorman, you ought to retire from this cattle business anyway. Can't make any real money at it, not with the import quotas from Argentina going up every year. Before long, you'll likely have to move them bone-bags out of Spirit Canyon anyhow."

Gorman was stunned. "What do you mean? I've had an allotment in Canon del Espiritu for my whole life; my father had it, and my grandfather…"

Arlo hung his thumbs over his alligator-skin belt. "You read the Drum , you'd know I'm the new chairman of the Economic Development Board. We're going to shake the federal government's money tree. They need a temporary site to store radioactive wastes from nuclear power plants. We're going to propose using Spirit Canyon. Indian reservations are a natural; the state legislatures don't have much to say about what we do on our own land."

The rancher's doubtful expression annoyed the entrepreneur.

"Listen, Gorman, the Skull Valley Goshutes in Utah and the Mescalero Apache down in New Mexico got a big head start on us, but I think we got a good chance to beat them out with our canyon site. I've been working on the Phase One proposal for weeks now; it's only for fifty thousand, but there's big money for whoever finally gets the installation."

"I heard about it, but I don't see why my cattle couldn't stay in the canyon if that knuckler crap is as safe as they say it is."

Arlo took another sip from his small flask of bourbon, scratched his crotch, and belched. "Government rules say we have to keep domestic animals and people away from the site."

Gorman stared out the window at passing traffic. "The tribe wouldn't never allow the matukach to put garbage in the sacred canyon."

"Sacred bullshit. I'll tell you what's sacred. Greenbacks, deutsche marks, yen." Arlo rabbed a beautifully manicured finger against his thumb. "That's what pays the rent. Anyway, it's not like it'll hurt that useless old canyon. I hear they'll cover the waste with enough concrete to build a freeway from here to hell and gone. And it's only temporary. When Yucca Mountain is ready, they'll move it all over to Nevada."

"When would that happen?"

Arlo ducked his head. "Oh, not too long." Fifteen, maybe twenty years. Maybe never.

The rancher turned to leave. "You see I get paid for Big Ouray."

Arlo followed him to the outer office. "Hey, is that Ben-ita? She sure has filled out."

Gorman saw the leer on Arlo's piglike face. It had been a very bad day, and this was finally just too much. He wheeled on the smaller man. "You better get control of it, Arlo, before somebody snips it off." The rancher's hand made a cutting motion across his crotch.

Louise Marie LaForte, an elderly French Canadian who had stopped by to renew her fire insurance, watched through slit lids.

" Oui ," she whispered to Herb Ecker, "a warning to take seriously."

Arlo raised his hands in apology. "Hey, I didn't mean nothin'…"

Ecker fumbled awkwardly with a sheaf of papers; he avoided looking at Benita.

The rancher, with his daughter leading the way, stomped toward the door.

Arlo's mouth dropped open. "Get a hold of yourself, old man, all I said was-"

Gorman slammed the door hard. The plastic sign listing the daily hours of the Nightbird Insurance Agency popped loose and clattered onto the floor.

Arlo watched Ecker replace the small sign on the door. "Hardnosed old bastard," he muttered.

Herb Ecker cleared his throat; he moved close to his boss.

"I'm about to take the mail to the post office. Is there anything you want before I leave?"

Arlo waved his cigar impatiently. "Yeah, you Kraut Boy Scout, I want you to take some friendly advice. Sell insurance on automobiles and houses. Move some term life whenever you get half a chance."

He glanced toward Louise Marie but didn't bother to lower his voice because any fool knew that all old people were half deaf. "Scare the old grannys into spending every penny they have on supplemental health insurance. But you sell one more policy on somebody's good-for-nothing livestock, and you can find yourself another job. I could replace you like that"-he attempted to snap his stubby fingers-"salesmen are a dime a half-dozen and overpriced at that." Arlo clamped his teeth, almost biting through the fat cigar. "Maybe you'd like to go back to Doc Schaid and clean up after the animals for minimum wage. I imagine he likes Krauts."

Herb's back stiffened; there was a momentary hint of defiance in his eye. "I am not German, Mr. Nightbird. I am Belgian."

Arlo leaned forward, his unblinking eyes like fried eggs, and shook his finger in the young man's face. "Wops, dagos, Krauts, Frogs," he rasped, "they're all the same European immigrant white trash to me."

Louise Marie LaForte momentarily forgot that she was pretending not to hear; the mouth-filling oath spilled out between her pursed lips. " Cochon … stinking little swine!"

Arlo slowly turned his head and focused his bloodshot little eyes on the old woman, who clamped a tiny hand over her mouth. Louise Marie was certain that she would live to regret this error.