James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

He set the brake on the pickup, filled his brier pipe with a wad of Prince Albert, and touched a flame to the fragrant tobacco. The rancher took a deep draw, then pursed his lips to blow a puff of gray smoke toward the windshield.

Benita put on her stern face; little wrinkles rippled across her forehead. "You ought to give up smoking." Unconsciously, she imitated her mother's tone.

"I'm trying to get used to the pipe again, it's not so bad as the cigarettes. Anyhow," he added with an air of self-righteousness, "I don't impale."

Lately, he was having trouble finding just the right word. "You don't inhale ," she corrected gently.

"That," her father said, "is why it don't hurt me none." Gorman exhaled smoke from deep within his lungs. Benita studied her father's profile; when she wasn't around to keep an eye on him, did he roll a new cigarette every ten minutes?

Gorman was considering how much he had to be thankful for when he heard the sound. It was something between a howl and a hoot, from somewhere on the cliff above the canyon. Was it a cougar… or another type of beast altogether? The rancher put his pipe on the dashboard and lifted an old 30–30 caliber carbine off the rack over the rear window.

"Stay put," he said. It would not have occurred to Benita to question this solemn instruction. Gorman slid from the pickup seat and planted his big feet on the sand of the canyon floor. He tried to remember a prayer. When he was younger, he had memorized a half dozen of the prayers in the tiny black book he found in his uncle's medicine bag. Gorman's memory was fading; he reverently repeated the one prayer that he could remember. He was whispering "… deliver us from evil" as he moved toward the pinon grove. He squinted at the mesa ridge, more than a hundred feet above the canyon floor. "For thine is the power. And the glory…" The old man could see nothing unusual on the rim, but he felt it. Watching him. "… for ever and ever." He gritted his teeth and cocked the lever-action carbine. "Amen," he grunted.

From the edge of his visual field, he thought he saw something move above him, on the edge of the cliff. It could have been imagination. Probably something ordinary, like a coyote or a wandering uru-ci; there were many ghosts in this place. He moved along the path in the sage. There was fresh manure on the sand by a Gambel oak, and other signs that the Herefords had slept in the pinon grove. He moved closer to the canyon wall, brushing aside the freshly bloomed Apache Plumes. Then, there was an odor that penetrated the chill morning air. Blood. Freshly spilled blood! Gorman rested his finger on the trigger and moved against the light breeze that drifted down Canon del Espiritu . He saw the carcass as he rounded the face of a squat sandstone pillar. The big animal was on its side, legs protruding stiffly, belly beginning to bloat with gas.

"No, no," he pleaded, "Please, God, don't let it be my bull." He stopped and closed his eyes, hoping the dreadful apparition would vanish. "God, listen to me. I can do without a cow or a steer, but I need my bull!" He opened his eyes. The animal was still there. Gorman's feet were like lead as he forced himself close enough to inspect the carcass. "Oh… no. Oh, please, no." It was the bull. Or had been. The mouth was open, tongue lolling out, as if the animal had bellowed. The ears had been removed. There was something terribly familiar about this. Yes. That bull elk up in the Never Summer range. Gorman's legs wobbled; he forced himself to move close to the carcass. He used the carbine as a staff to steady himself as he squatted to discover the final horror. Before he looked, he was virtually certain of what he would see. He looked, then closed his eyes and swore. The butcher had also removed the bull's testicles!

There was a wailing howl from atop the mesa. Gorman wheeled, set the carbine stock firmly against his shoulder and fired in the direction of the sound. "Damn you!" He cocked the carbine and fired again. And again. The cracks of the shots echoed back and forth between the canyon walls until the sounds dissipated into the morning mists. Then, total silence. Gorman squatted by the dead animal and leaned his old carbine on a pifion snag. And wept.

Daisy Perika was frying a thick slice of ham in the iron skillet when she heard the faint echo of distant rifle shots. Was her cousin taking a deer out of season? If so, she knew she would get a share. She imagined sliced deer-liver with diced onion in her skillet and the vision made her mouth water. No, more likely Gorman was shooting at a cougar. Not likely he'd hit anything; the cataracts in his eyes were gradually dropping a milky curtain over his world.

Only minutes earlier, she had heard her cousin entering the canyon. There was no mistaking the old GMC pickup; it had a loose tail pipe that rattled against the frame when

Gorman jolted over ruts in the dirt road. Even without that clue, it had to be Gorman. Who else visited Canon del Es-piritu at the crack of dawn? Then, in the stillness of the morning, she heard the truck engine start. This morning, he'd cut his visit short. Gorman was usually in Spirit Canyon for at least an hour, gloating over those fat cattle. But wait-the truck wasn't lurching over the bumps; someone with a more delicate touch than Gorman was driving. Daisy smiled with satisfaction; Benita was home from Fort Lewis College in Durango. The shaman had already placed an extra plate on her kitchen table for her cousin; she added another plate for Benita. Gorman always stopped to visit on his way out of the canyon. It was invariably the same routine: Daisy offered breakfast, he would refuse. Then after she urged him, he would grudgingly accept. "If you're going to keep after me," he would say, "I might as well have some." Gorman was one of life's constants.

Daisy opened the door of her trailer home as she heard Gorman's heavy step on the wooden porch. He had those dirty rubber boots on; she frowned at his big feet. Gorman leaned on the porch railing while he pulled them off. Daisy moved forward to embrace Benita. "How are you, little girl?"

Benita's eyes were moist. "Fine, Aunt Daisy." Gorman was obviously in a foul mood and Benita was shaken. Daisy waited impatiently to learn what they would tell her. If it was a family dispute, the Sweetwaters would keep it to themselves. It would be bad manners to pry, but if it came to that, Daisy would pry.

Benita noticed the third setting at the table. "But how did you know I'd be here?"

Daisy assumed a solemn expression and touched a forefinger to her temple. "I have my own ways of knowing these things." The shaman was rewarded by a wide-eyed expression of awe from the young woman. It was best to stay a step ahead of these college kids. Kept them in their place.

Gorman sat down heavily at the table. Daisy poured a cup of pitch-black coffee into his favorite mug, the one with the

Nestle bunny that appeared after the cup heated. Benita didn't drink coffee; said it made her nervous. Children nowadays behaved so strangely! Gorman had a tentative sip.

"You two want some breakfast? I'm making a cheese omelet and some ham. Got a jar of maple cream from my friends in New York State. Goes good on the hot biscuits."

Benita glanced at the lard can on the biscuit-board and realized these were old-fashioned biscuits; she nodded her polite rejection of this offer. "Thanks, Aunt Daisy. I don't have much of an appetite this early."

Gorman rested his face in his hands. His voice croaked when he spoke. "Ouray is dead!"

Daisy tilted her round face and raised her eyebrows. Had he been drinking this early in the morning? Who did Gorman think he had shot? "Well, it's a bad thing, I guess, but you ought to be over it by now. Chief Ouray's been dead way over a hundred years."