The Shaman Laughs by James D. Doss Read Free Book Online

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