James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

The old shepherd did not reply.

She pulled the old quilt around her shoulders. "Why are you here?"

"To talk."

"Talk…?"

"About Charlie Moon. And his matukach friend."

The shaman was not surprised; Nahum had always known what was on her mind. "I'm worried about those two, out there in Snake Canyon. Between the both of them, they ain't got a teaspoon full of common sense. I've got this bad feeling they'll get in a shoot-out with…"

"The one they search for," the old man said firmly, "has no fear of bullets."

"Then," Daisy insisted, her fingers gripping the cotton quilt, "you've got to do something." Somehow, this old man always knew exactly what needed to be done. And did it. The old shepherd's eyes were filled with a strange melancholy that she had not seen before.

"Tonight in Canon del Serpiente … one will bleed, another shall weep." He bowed his head. "Blood," Nahum sighed, "will be salted with tears."

Now Parris could see nothing that moved and he began to have doubts. Had the earlier sighting been a mistake? Or had Moon dropped into the kiva? There was absolutely no sound, not a breath of air whispered in the Canyon of the Snake.

He did not see the presence behind him, nor did he hear it. He felt it. Scott Parris was suddenly overwhelmed with the dread of a small boy who imagines a monster lurking under his bed, and wants to hide under the covers. But he was not a small boy. And there was nothing to cover himself with. As he turned, the policeman slipped the Smith amp; Wesson revolver from the holster under his left arm.

At first, he saw only a vague darkness. As he examined it, his mind searched the apparition and gave it shape. Broad shoulders. Hairy. Enormous head. The head had horns. And a single red ember that glowed brightly, then dimmed. A cyclops. Parris felt his breath coming in short gasps; the revolver was ice in his hand. "What is it," he muttered, "what in Hell…"

Something like arms… or wings, spread outward from the shadowy form. It was an almost graceful gesture… an invitation.

The policeman took a step backward, aiming the revolver at the center of the shadowy form. "It's not real," he whispered. But this was wishful thinking.

The shadow's arm-wings were lifted higher; the amorphous form now had the appearance of a great bird of prey. The creature was waving something… a great scepter?

It did not occur to the policeman to give a warning. Such formality had no place when you met the Devil. He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty cylinder. He remembered cleaning the gun; the bullets were still in his pocket! The shadow grew to blot out the night sky as it moved toward him. Silently, almost unconsciously, he prayed. God protect me from the nameless terror …

Parris heard a familiar voice behind him. "What's cookin', pardner?"

Parris glanced over his shoulder at Charlie Moon. "Look out, Charlie, I've got it cornered!"

Moon's fingers found the bone grips of his.357 Magnum. "Got what cornered?"

Parris motioned with his empty revolver. "There." But it was gone. Now the crickets chirped. Somewhere on a perch in the canyon wall, an owl hooted.

Reluctantly, Parris holstered the.38. "You didn't see him? Big bastard, shoulders out to here." He held his arms wide, like a lying fisherman. "Seven, maybe eight feet tall. And," Parris's voice dropped almost to a whisper, "… horns. One big red eye." He began to tremble; he hoped Charlie Moon wouldn't notice.

The Ute policeman cocked his head quizzically. "Horns? One eye?" Moon's features were concealed by shadow.

Parris suspected that Charlie was smiling.

The Ute was not smiling.

"Horns," Parris said stubbornly. "And one red eye."

Moon's silence was response enough for his partner.

"Horns," Parris repeated. "The Tonompicket kid must have seen the same thing. No wonder he thought he'd seen the Devil dancing."

"Well," Moon said, "seems like the awful sight made you pucker your rectum a little bit too."

Parris grinned. "Lucky thing it did, or I'd be needing some clean underwear."

"Sit tight, pardner." Moon turned away. "I'll have a look around."

"Wait a minute-" But his friend had vanished, enveloped by the shadows. Parris cursed silently at the stubborn Ute. And at his own wobbly legs. He blinked at the Three Sisters to get his bearings. The restored kiva was only yards to his right; that was a good place to start looking. Caring nothing now about stealth, Parris stomped through the sage toward the edge of the ruined structure, tripping over a small boulder, brushing aside a juniper branch. There it was. He blinked into the depths of the circular structure. Nothing there. At least nothing that a man could see. But there was a sound. Behind him. A slow, rhythmic sound. Sounds of feet that danced. He reached for his revolver, then remembered the empty chambers. He pushed his hand into his pocket, frantically searching for the five.38 cartridges among the tangle of coins and keys. His fingers had located two hollow-points when the figure appeared, barely two paces away. It didn't look nearly so large this time. There was no red eye. This was a man with matted, unkempt hair decorated with a pair of feathers tucked under a headband. But only a man. Something he could deal with. Parris leveled the empty.38 at the figure. "Don't you move a whisker!"

"I am… come to dance," the man muttered as he raised his left leg, balancing himself on the ball of his foot. He began, very deliberately, to execute a simple running-in-place step. His grunting chant sounded vaguely like something Parris had heard at a Ute Buffalo Dance.

He was about to call for Moon when the dancing man reeled drunkenly. He stumbled into Parris, instinctively grabbing the policeman's wrist for support. As the.38 went flying from his grasp, Parris attempted a hammer lock. The dancing man struggled and broke free. Parris threw his weight onto the smaller man; they tumbled over a clump of bitterbrush. He landed squarely on top of the wriggling figure, whose head made a popping sound as it landed on a flat stone. The man's body went limp, as if a circuit in his brain had been interrupted. Parris put a finger under the man's jaw; there was a strong pulse.

When Moon appeared, Parris was standing triumphantly over his quarry. "Got the sneaky bastard this time."

"You must've hit him pretty hard," Moon said. "Is he alive?"

"He's alive. And he hit his head on a rock."

The Ute switched a penlight beam onto the unconscious man's face, a pale mask with three red chevrons painted on each cheek. Moon squatted; he touched a white feather. "Looks like he plucked a chicken's wing," he said with a wide grin. "I guess these hen feathers looked like horns."

Parris bristled. "Look, Charlie, nobody likes a smartass…"

"Hey, pardner, if you're scared of chicken feathers, it's okay by me. Maybe," he said with exaggerated gentleness, "when your momma was carryin' you, she got spooked by a rooster." Moon leaned close to examine the man's face. "You know who this is?"

Parris leaned over to look. "That poet who sells insurance? Sure… the hustler who conned me into that sucker memory bet."

"Right on both counts," Moon said. "Herb Ecker." He lifted the unconscious man's eyelid. "Pupils size of dimes. Kid's high on something." He directed the penlight beam onto a leather pouch strapped to Ecker's belt loop, then pulled a razor-sharp Buck knife from a beaded leather sheath. "Suppose he intended to use this blade on you?"

"Didn't notice he had a knife," Parris muttered. This had not been a textbook example of recommended police procedure. Parris got to his feet. "So. Looks like this kid's our ball-cutter. Maybe the blade's got Nightbird's blood on it."