James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

The Ute turned to grin at Scott Parris. "Looks like you handled him pretty well in the second round. Of course, you got about thirty pounds and a foot reach on this kid."

"I didn't hit him," Parris said with a rueful grin, "but I must admit he looked a helluva lot bigger… when he showed up the first time."

"Well," Moon said soothingly, "guess I'd be scared too if I met up with someone decked out in war paint and chicken feathers." He paused thoughtfully. "If it was in the dark. And if I was a white man." He cleared his throat. "From the big city."

Parris was about to reply when he heard a low moan. Ecker was on one knee, then crawling on all fours toward the edge of the kiva. Before the lawmen could react, he disappeared over the edge into the near-darkness below.

Parris sprinted forward. "I'll handle this. He's my prisoner."

"Go to it," Moon said, "but take it easy this time, don't hit him so hard. You can't use that story about him falling on a rock more'n once."

Parris slipped over the edge of the kiva. Ecker, still on all fours, scurried sideways across the subterranean floor in crablike fashion, then turned to face his pursuers. Moon, standing above them at ground level, directed the flashlight into Ecker's face. The young man had a wild, terrified look in his eyes. He also had a snub-nose revolver in his hand. Ecker pointed the pistol toward Moon's flashlight.

"Now, Herbie," Moon said calmly, "it's me. Charlie. Put the gun down." Moon slowly withdrew his own revolver from its rawhide holster.

"No problem," Parris said, "I can handle this…"

Ecker, hearing the voice, turned the.38 toward Parris.

The Ute raised his heavy revolver and aimed it toward the crouching man. "Drop it-right now!"

Ecker muttered incoherently; Moon saw the muscles in Ecker's arm grow taut as his finger squeezed the trigger. Parris screamed at Moon: "No, don't shoot… it's not-" There was a booming report from Moon's revolver. Ecker's body slammed against the crumbling kiva wall. "… it's not… loaded," Parris whispered.

They kneeled over the pale body, now painted with streams of warm blood that appeared jet black in the harsh, silver moonlight. "Damn," Moon said, "where'd he get the gun!" The Ute was trembling.

"It's mine," Parris admitted.

"He was gonna shoot you," Moon said in a stunned whisper, as if the very idea of anyone shooting his pardner was unthinkable.

"I know," Parris said. He put his hand on Moon's shoulder. "Thanks, Charlie."

The Ute policeman shook his head mournfully. He looked at Parris with moist eyes. "I never shot anyone while I've worn this badge."

"You had no choice," Parris said. "You saved my hide, pardner." It was an absolutely necessary lie.

Moon stood up and swallowed hard several times before he could speak. "I'll climb back to the mesa top and radio for some help."

"Sure," Parrifc said blankly, "I'll stay with him." Now he knew the soul loss JoJo Tonompicket had felt. Hollow inside. His spirit was gone.

A heavy cloud slipped over the canyon, but it did not block the pale amber light of the moon that now hovered low in the west. A new storm was rumbling over the San Juans. Moon turned away. "At least, it's all over now." The Ute's words were punctuated with a flash of lightning, then a sharp crack of thunder that echoed off the sandstone cliffs. He disappeared over the kiva wall and was swallowed up by the night.

Parris knew better. It was never over.

Herb Ecker rolled his eyes and coughed. A foam of blood erupted in pulsating gushes from the chest wound where a splintered rib protruded from his flesh. The young man's eyes had lost their glaze. Ecker, now perfectly lucid, whispered. Parris leaned over to listen. "What is it, kid?"

"I am… dying."

"I know." Parris pressed his handkerchief against Ecker's chest in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The warm liquid had a sickening, sweet aroma; the policeman fought an urge to vomit.

Ecker grimaced with pain. He cried out sharply: "I came to dance…" He sucked in a lungful of air that immediately bubbled out his chest wound. "… to dance with"-Ecker gasped for air-"… a shadow… dance… and then there came a shadow, swift and sullen, dark and drear-"

Parris tried to speak. There were no words.

The pitiful youth grasped at the policeman's sleeve, his eyes full of terror. "I am going away to… I do not know… Oh God… do not forget me." Ecker's jaw dropped as a final breath rattled in his punctured lung. His face was a cold mask, his eyes like stones.

Scott Parris wanted, above all else, to flee from this awful place. To hide. And forget. But there was one last task that must be done. The lawman worked the empty revolver free from Herb Ecker's death grasp. He filled the chambers with cartridges from his pocket. As he returned the weapon to Ecker's cold hand, the policeman shivered. But not from the frigid rain that had begun to fall in great sheets. He stared helplessly at the lifeless face. The death of this foolish young man was his responsibility. No. Worse than that. His fault . The lawman, on his knees, wept. His tears dropped onto Ecker's chest, mixing with the poet's blood.

The horned figure stood on a sandstone ledge jutting out from Paiute Mesa, across Canon del Serpiente from the squat, brooding forms of the Three Sisters. Filled with a consuming hate, the hairy form shook a heavy staff at the dark heavens and mouthed obscene curses that were immediately covered by the cleansing ramble of thunder. For this small Man of the Book, the horned one had made his own plans for a painful death… and ritual mutilation. And, he licked his lips, delectable cannibalism. Now this precious celebration, this sacred ode to the Dark Angel, was an opportunity forever lost. The large Man of the Crescent Moon was to have been next. But he would have to wait… for a time. With renewed hatred, the strange figure glared down-ward into the canyon at the tiny figure of Scott Parris. The policeman was foolishly guarding the pale corpse of the poet as if it had some worth. The Kneeling Man lived. But that could be remedied.

FBI Field Office, Durango

James Hoover searched the glum faces of the lawmen and wondered, What's wrong with this picture? These bum-blers get lucky… they nail the mutilator. Should be ecstatic. Bragging about their success. Rubbing my nose in it. But they act like their favorite hound dog just croaked. These sneaky bastards are hiding something! But what?

He cleared his throat and tapped the glass top of his desk with the blade of Ecker's Buck knife. Forensics hadn't found any blood on the blade. So Ecker's a neat freak. He cleaned the blade. He coughed lightly to get their attention. "You want to know what I think?"

No response.

"My money says Ecker was responsible for Sweetwater's mutilated bull. And," Hoover added firmly, "for the murder and mutilation of Mr. Arlo Nightbird."

Scott Parris allowed himself a bitter smile.

"Ecker," Hoover continued, "was obviously Mr. JoJo Tonompicket's dancing demon." He turned toward the Ute. "We've examined the little bag of junk you found on the kid's belt."

Moon spoke softly, as if to himself. "Must have been Ecker's notion of a medicine bag."

Hoover emptied the contents of the leather bag onto his desk. A small ceramic pipe with a sooty bowl. Dried plant leaves wrapped in tissue paper. A half dozen pink quartzite pebbles, a piece of charcoal. He used the blade of the hunting knife to sort the parts. "Pipe bowl had traces of crack. And there were these… dried weeds. Snake-weed. Golden banner. Both poisonous. I expect he was smoking this stuff along with the cocaine."

"He was pretty high on something when we found him," Parris said.