James Doss: The Shaman Laughs

"Decided to leave her here. Figured Rolling Thunder needed himself a female companion."

Charlie Moon understood. A younger bull would service the herd in the big pasture, so to keep the peace the old bull had to stay behind. Homer Tonompicket, a romantic to the core, had figured that Rolling Thunder needed some female company. Homer's house was empty now, so he would know something about being lonely. Moon stretched his neck, giving the pasture another inspection. "Where's Rolling Thunder?" A dozen years earlier, there had been a contest to name the first buffalo calf born on the reservation.

"Now," Homer said grimly, '*you see what I mean. He's gone without a trace. And the gate ain't been touched. It's like…" Homer raised his arms to the sky, "… like he just up and flew away. Like old Nahum Yacuti."

"Buffaloes don't fly, Homer." Moon's stern tone hinted that he did not welcome the reference to the old shepherd who had vanished in a freak windstorm. There was still no sign of Nahum's remains, and unfinished business made the policeman uneasy. And prone to bad dreams. And there was the nightmare vision… of a helpless soul suspended upside down from a tree limb, all trussed up to be butchered by… Moon dismissed the picture from his mind. "Who's got keys to that padlock?"

Homer's voice went flat and stubborn. "I got the only set." Maybe the big policeman was wrong this time. Maybe buffalo could fly. If they had some help.

Charlie Moon was looking across the river; the sun was illuminating Sky Ute Downs in a soft yellow glow. The policeman turned to squint at the sunrise, blooming like a fiery flower over the eastern range. The bottom of a heavy cloud was a vast field of glowing embers, threatening to rain molten drops of gold onto the mountains. Fire from heaven. Or some place. He didn't look at Homer when he spoke. "You walk the fence?"

"Sure I did," the game warden snapped. "Fence is in good shape." He waited for the policeman to speak, but Moon was ominously silent. "Dammit, Charlie, I know what you're thinkin'! No, I didn't go off and leave the gate open, come back and find the buffalo wandered off, and then lock the gate and call my old friend at the poleece and tell him a bald-faced lie."

Charlie Moon was embarrassed that the game warden had so easily read his thoughts. "Okay, Homer." He patted the old man on the shoulder.

"Then," Homer demanded, "tell me what happened to a full grown bull buffalo!"

"Well," Moon said, "I expect somebody wanted some meat. Maybe a skin to sell. They probably waited until

R. T. was rubbing his hide against the fence so they wouldn't have to move him very far, then shot him."

"How'd they get half a ton of buffalo over the fence? Tell me that."

"Maybe they had a truck with a winch." He would ask Officer Sally Rainwater to check on some of the local wrecker trucks. Maybe somebody had rented one. "Or, maybe they cut him up in chunks and pitched 'em over the fence."

The game warden leaned on the fence, grasping a rusty strand of barbed wire with both hands. He nodded toward the buffalo cow. "Maybe that's the way it was, Charlie. But what about Never Stops Talking?"

Moon knew exactly what Homer meant. If someone was going to go to all this trouble and risk for some fresh meat, why not take both buffalo? Even if they couldn't haul away that much meat, the old cow would have been a hazard to anyone who spent enough time in the pen to butcher Rolling Thunder. It would make sense to shoot the cow, but there she was. "When did you move the rest of the herd?"

"Let's see," Homer scratched nervously at the gray stubble on his chin. "What's today? Thursday? Yeah. We moved 'em out on Monday. Took most of the day, I guess we got the last of 'em out about sundown. I'm sure it was Monday 'cause it was just before the big rain on Tuesday morning." He squinted at a long bank of clouds. "That sure was some gully-washer."

Moon left Homer leaning on the fence; the policeman walked around the south side of the pen, then the west side that paralleled the river. He poked around inside the ruined house; Homer had filled most of it with alfalfa hay. It took him almost half an hour to circle the pen. He paused several times to study the ground; it was still soft from Tuesday's rain. There were occasional tracks of coyote and raccoon. Even wild turkey. But no human prints aside from Homer's pointy-toed size-seven Tony Lamas. And no tire tracks. There were more questions than the locked gate and unbroken fence. The sensible way to kill a buffalo was with a rifle; but a gunshot would almost certainly have been heard. This was a quiet spot, and the veterinarian who lived up the hill near the county road didn't miss much. Only last month, Harry Schaid had called the police after midnight to report a "big ruckus down at the buffalo pen." Officers Sally Rainwater and Daniel Bignight had answered the call. Sally's report said they had driven off a pack of stray dogs that were worrying the buffalo. No, if there had been a shot near the pen, the veterinarian would have called it in. Or maybe Doc Schaid wasn't at home that night. Nothing was simple.

Homer was waiting at the corner post, stuffing his jaw with chewing tobacco. "Find anything?"

Moon nodded. "Not much." But it was clear that Rolling Thunder had vanished sometime before the rain washed the sign away. And, of course, after the other members of the herd were moved to the new pasture. Sometime between sundown last Monday and two or three the next morning when the rains came.

Homer blinked and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "I'm gonna miss that cranky old bastard." The aging bull was irritable and, when annoyed, dangerous. But Homer, who was getting old and cranky himself, had loved the animal. Tonompicket felt a pang of disappointment at the policeman's casual treatment of the disappearance; he had hoped for more. With Moon on top of this, there should have been a good story to tell and retell and embellish during the long winter nights when the freezing winds spilled down from the mountains and whistled through the pines.

But Homer realized that he would have to be patient. Police Chief Roy Severo always said that Charlie Moon might take his own good time to figure things out, but that in the long run, he generally got the job done. The Utes were proud of their big policeman's remarkable ability to make sense of actions that, on the surface, seemed to have no meaning. Only last year Moon had figured out why someone broke into the grocery store over on Goddard Avenue and took fifteen bottles of mouthwash without touching nearly two hundred dollars in the cash register. And just this spring,

Moon had immediately understood why someone had felled the flag post in front of the Ignacio post office. And understanding why had revealed "who." But for the moment, Homer mused, it looked like the big policeman had his mind on something else.

Charlie Moon pushed his hands deep into his jacket pockets. Normally at this moment, the Ute policeman would have been enjoying a plate of huevos rancheros at Angel's Diner. And his third cup of black coffee. He gazed across the waters of the Los Pinos toward the racetrack. Moon had a feeling… He would see Benita today.

Never Stops Talking interrupted his reverie.

The policeman turned his attention back to the old cow. Never Stops Talking had begun to talk. She puffed and snorted; her lungs rattled as she exhaled a warm mist. It was as if she had suddenly become aware of the Utes. The old cow wagged her shaggy head, then pawed the ground. Dare to come near, she announced in a language that could not be misunderstood, and I will make short work of you! Moon watched the animal with the innocent fascination of a child. If only you could talk, then you could tell me what happened here. In the old days, there were Utes who spoke to the buffalo. And the buffalo, the old men insisted, spoke to the People. The policeman's eyes locked with those of the great shaggy animal. Moon was mesmerized; unable to look away. Never Stops Talking suddenly shifted her head and looked toward the Los Pinos. What were those enormous, unblinking brown eyes staring at? He scanned the river bank. A morning breeze was beginning to stir the cottonwoods; the leaves rattled like dry bones. Then, the buffalo turned to glare past Moon toward the highway. She snorted, flipped her head, and pawed at the grass.