The Shaman Laughs (5 page)

A small refrigerator still hummed by the back door. Probably needed defrosting. A dual wire basket hung from the ceiling; one section was filled with yellow onions that had sprouted months ago. Another with shriveled potatoes that needed throwing out. Almost enough supplies to feed an old man through the long Colorado winter.

The Ute climbed a ladder and peered into the dusty attic. Pale sunlight filtered in through the single four-pane window; a black mouse scurried for cover under a pile of yellowed newspapers. There was an old cedar chest missing a hinge, odd bits of lumber, stacks of books and magazines. There was also another iron bed, but this one had no mattress on the sagging springs. The policeman made his way down the creaking ladder.

Armilda Esquibel was watching him and wondering what this silent Ute might be thinking about. Most likely, nothing at all. He was a man, so he probably had about as much brains as a peckerwood.

Moon turned for one last look. There was nothing he had not seen before. Most of the old man's belongings were here. But not all. Nahum's gray felt hat with the band of half-dollar sized silver conchos was not hanging on the wooden peg by the front door. Neither was his blue wool coat. There was no sign of his rawhide boots. Wherever he had gone, Nahum had been fully dressed.

Nahum Yacüti's saddle hung from a stout oak peg by the rear door. This Christmas gift from his wife was a special treasure. The old shepherd had oiled and saddle-soaped the leather every Saturday night. Moon rubbed a fingertip along the dusty leather. Tiny cracks were opening in the shiny surface of the polished cowhide; it hadn't been oiled in a month of Saturdays. It didn't look like Nahum had been back. Or would be.

Charlie Moon stared at the old saddle and whispered to himself. "Well, old man… where do you ride tonight?"

CaRon del Espiritv

Oblivious to the stark beauty of the crisp, deep shadows cast by creamy moonlight, the tiny deer mouse paused to sniff tentatively, interrupting its nibbling on a pungent juniper seed. The rodent tilted her furry head and oriented oversized ears toward the source of the barely audible sounds. Scuff-scuff, the sounds said. After a brief silence, the peculiar sound would repeat. Scuff-scuff. The wee creature, long acquainted with the threat of the heat-sensing rattler and sharp-taloned pygmy owl, sensed that something even more sinister approached along the floor of the canyon. The mouse scampered up the trunk of a venerable püion. It slipped into its nest of shredded bark, which was expertly wedged into the crotch of a forked branch. Emboldened by the relative security of this hideaway barely a yard above the earth, the rodent watched with mesmerized apprehension as the source of the scuffing sounds approached. The little creature blinked its luminous black eyes in puzzlement at first sight of the
thing;
this unnatural apparition that moved in undulating motion like a shadowy wave over the moonlit sand of the canyon floor. At first, the shape of the intruder was indistinct, an amorphous patch of dark fog floating over the ground. Then, as if it could change its shape at will, the presence seemed to take on substance and form. The thing paused, raised itself to a standing position… like a great bear. But it was not a bear… This shaggy-haired creature had broad shoulders, no neck, and a peculiar, flattened head. The head had horns. And a single red eye. Now it would glow brightly, like an ember in a fire. Then it would dim, as if the creature had blinked. The mouse could not deal with abstract concepts, like Good and Evil. But there were primitive instincts deep within its breast that drummed an urgent warning: Be still, be still!

A mosquito whined lazily around the dark form, confused by a peculiar mixture of scents that was alien, yet strangely inviting. The insect lit and immediately drove her long proboscis deep into the surface of the creature. There was no hint of blood… no evidence that the phantom was alive; the mosquito departed to search for a prey whose heart pumped the warm, nourishing substance of life.

Something rippled underneath its fur, then the apparition moved away ghostlike through the fringed sage and Apache plume toward the dusty wallow under the old juniper where the great spotted animal slept. To the deer mouse, this choice seemed reckless. The great bellowing animal who ruled over this canyon would be annoyed if awakened; its great, sweeping horns would make short work of this mysterious intruder.

A pygmy owl in a crevice on the canyon wall stopped its whoop-whoop call; even the leg-scraping chirp of the fat black crickets fell silent. The night creatures were unnaturally quiet, as if all the canyon's life had felt the approaching shadow of death. For a moment there was total silence, as if the mouse had gone deaf.

When the terrible shriek filled the sinuous canyon and echoed off its towering sandstone walls, the deer mouse jerked its little head inside the bark nest and trembled spasmodically in elemental terror. The rich, sweet aroma of fresh blood slipped over the moonlit landscape like a heavy fog.

* * *

The soft glow of the morning sun was barely touching the horizon when Gorman Sweetwater shifted the pickup down to second gear, then glanced sideways at his daughter. Ben-ita was almost as pretty as her mother, and she was the only close family left since his wife had died. He dreaded the thought that she would meet some young man at the college in Durango, get married, and move far away. Then he'd be alone.

Gorman grunted to get his daughter's attention; he jerked a thumb toward Daisy Perika's trailer home.

"Kitchen light's on, Daddy. That means coffee's perking." Benita patted him on the arm. "You intend to stop and gossip with Aunt Daisy?"

"Business before gossip. We'll check on the stock first."

He continued for another hundred yards, then braked his pickup to a stop at the mouth of
Canon del Espiritu;
Benita got out and opened the flimsy barbed-wire gate that blocked the dirt road. After his daughter was beside him again, the Ute rancher shifted into low and released the clutch. He chugged along the rutted lane, blinking into the morning haze as he searched the brush for a glimpse of his small herd of purebred Herefords. It was not that they needed checking on, but the animals were a source of joy to the rancher. Several times every week he would leave his home before dawn and drive to the canyon to admire their handsome forms. And talk to them. Gorman knew every animal; each had its own personality. He had loaded three bales of alfalfa hay into the pickup, but this was just an excuse to make the trip.

The rancher was familiar with their habits. On cold nights, the Herefords usually slept in the pinon grove along the sandstone shelf on the north side of the canyon. It was a good place; the sandstone was covered with petroglyphs, the sacred markings of the Old Ones whose spirits rested peacefully within these towering walls. There was, of course, the
pitukupf
as well, but the dwarf had not done any real harm for many years. Not since Gorman's horse had grazed too close to his underground home. The rancher pushed this unpleasant memory from his mind. The Ute wondered if the
pitukupf
was, like himself, getting too old to cause any serious trouble. He smiled at the thought; Daisy Perika claimed that the
pitukupf
was full of years beyond counting, and Daisy knew something about this subject. Daisy had the Power. The Old Power. She was probably the only Ute left who could hear the voice of the
pitukupf
. Most of the younger generation didn't believe in the dwarf's existence. Many of the youngsters, unlike Benita, couldn't even speak the language of the People. But with the new Ute language program in the Ignacio public schools, that would change. A few went away to Fort Lewis College and learned the
matukach
view of Native American history. What else did they learn from the whites? The thought troubled him; what would come to pass in another twenty years? There were barely more than a thousand Utes on the southern reservation, fewer still on the Ute Mountain enclave. Would anyone be left who understood the ways of the People? Daisy Perika was very old; after she departed for the next world, who would talk to the dwarf-spirit? The rancher wondered if the
pitukupf was
ever lonely. Gorman was lonely every day Benita spent at Fort Lewis College; this was another reason he visited his cattle and stopped by to visit with Daisy.

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