Dead Soul (2 page)

Chapter Two

THE SHAMAN SLEEPS

EVENING HAS COME TO THE HIGH COUNTRY
.
THE OVERWORKED
winds heave a last sigh before settling into the canyons for a night’s rest. Dust and sand drift slowly down to earth. Twilight grows old, dusky gray…withers into inky blackness. One by one, sharp prickles of starlight burn holes through the outer darkness. A yellow-eyed owl calls once, twice, thrice. She leaves her lookout on a piñon’s gnarly shoulder, wings hopefully toward a perch on the pale crescent moon. Night after night she does this.

Now a taut stillness occupies the land. The unseen audience is hushed, expectant. Waiting for the velvet curtain to be drawn, the darkling players to appear onstage and prance before the backdrop of mesa, mist, and cloud.

WEARY AS
she was, the old woman was also restless. Daisy Perika turned onto one side, found no comfort there, rolled onto the other. She tried lying on her back, staring at an invisible ceiling. The tired old soul listened to the clock’s metallic tickety-tick. She heard the recurring call of a distant owl, the sound of something small scurrying across the roof of the trailer. A squirrel, she thought. The elder closed her eyes, tried hard to find sleep. She could not, and finally gave up the search.

Moments later, Sleep found her.

A LUMINOUS
balloon inflated with soul-stuff, the dreamer felt herself floating upward, passing through the roof of her trailer home. Over there, jutting up between Snake Canyon and
Cañon del Espiritu,
were the familiar stone formations on Three Sisters Mesa. She was drifting higher now, above the snowy peaks of the San Juans, moving rapidly toward that distant place where the sun would appear to bring a new day. As if covered by a multitude of unblinking eyes, the shaman saw everything—above and below, toward all four points of the compass. A thin sliver of moon hung over the earth, as if suspended on an invisible cord. There was a lake to the south; it was shaped like a leg bent at the knee. Starlight reflected off the glassy waters. There were headlights of automobiles, inching ever so slowly along unseen highways. And then, in a twinkling, the mountains were far behind her. A flash of blue-green light, and the sun was well above the horizon—but not as she had seen it appear on thirty thousand mornings. The incandescent sphere was just
there.
Not moving. As if time itself had frozen.

The dreamer felt herself falling, falling.

Daisy Perika was on her back. The shaman felt a thick carpet of grass under her bare legs. She pushed herself up on elbows, inspected the backs of her hands. As she had expected, there were no wrinkles in the skin. No pain in her joints. The elder was young. Her eyes searched for the sun but could not find that bright orb. The sky was thick with gauzy clouds, the air moist and heavy with the perfume of wild roses. She was in the center of a great meadow, dotted here and there by an isolated oak, maple, or elm. But mostly there was thick grass and fragrant wildflowers. Daisy got to her feet, brushed off her nightgown. The great field was bordered on one side by low, wooded hills, on another by a wide river. This place was not real like Middle World, where her aged body slept. It was real in a completely different way.

And it was very still.
Something is wrong here.
But what? Like a hound on a scent, she sniffed.

The atmosphere fairly crackled with the expectation of some awful calamity. Having had a thousand visions, Daisy Perika was not unduly alarmed. Morning would find her safely back in her bed near the mouth of
Cañon del Espiritu.
Knowing that these visions always had a purpose and that something would certainly happen, she waited.

It was not necessary to wait long.

Daisy felt a slight tug at her skirt. She looked down at the elfin creature whose head barely reached above her knee. It was the Little Man. The
pitukupf
was dressed in a green cotton shirt, buckskin breeches, beaded moccasins. He also wore a floppy black hat and a dark expression.

The shaman stared at her power spirit, waiting for him to speak.

He uttered not a word. But the dwarf did raise his arm. Point.

Daisy looked up, saw something approaching through the mists. The intense silence was penetrated by the rhythmic beating of hooves on turf. Appearing over a low ridge, there it was—a magnificent white horse. Upon the great beast, a rider. She felt a surge of joy to behold this marvelous sight. To own such a fine mount, this one must surely be an important chief. But as horse and rider came near, she realized that this was not a man of the People. This was a white—a
matukach
. More from prudence than alarm, the Ute woman took a step backward. She watched him rein in the horse, dismount. The tall man wore tightly fitted white breeches, a pale yellow silk shirt with lace at the collar, a long blue cloak. His knee-high black boots glistened like polished midnight.

She stared.
Should I know this man?

The stranger took note of the Ute woman and the dwarf; a wry half-smile passed across his face. He made a slight, formal bow to the visitors from the West.

The shaman returned the bow, smiled. This was a good-looking fellow. And quite the gentleman. Daisy brushed a wisp of hair from her face, hoped she didn’t look too frowzy in the patched nightgown.

The muscular horse snorted, stamped a hoof against the earth. Three times.

The tall man comforted the animal with words that Daisy could not hear. The shaman looked down to consult with her power spirit. The dwarf had vanished.

This was, as visions went, a rather pleasant one. She waited for the white man to speak to her, but the handsome stranger remained silent. Indeed, he now took no notice of the Indian woman’s presence. He gazed off into the distance, toward the great river. His eyes turned glassy. He was as one whose vision penetrates things present—to see another, more distant world.

There was a slight puff of wind that dried her eyes. Daisy blinked.

The white man was standing by a tripod-mounted surveyor’s transit. He waited until the suspended plumb bob had damped its pendulumous motions, then checked the compass and the leveling bubble. Apparently satisfied with the instrument, he squinted through the eyepiece. Marveled at what he saw so many years hence. The sighting done, vertical and horizontal verniers were consulted, angles and bearings duly noted. He consulted a map, inked numbers and symbols onto the lined pages of a small ledger.

Again, the shaman blinked.

The man was on his knees with a triangular trowel. He had already laid a sure foundation that rested on bedrock. Now he was setting the massive cornerstone.

Daisy blinked a third time.

Now the man was old and frail, his thinning hair white like lambs’ wool. He rested in a rocking chair, under the pleasant shade of a hawthorn tree. The
matukach
elder watched a great number of workers—far more than the Ute woman could count. They were raising many fine buildings. A great city of milky marble, black-peppered granite, fine red brick. Though weary from all his labors, the elderly man seemed pleased with the work on the foundation he had so carefully laid.

This was, the shaman thought, a most pleasant thing to see.

But in an instant, the air around her lost its fragrance. Wildflowers wilted, drooped their heads. There was a rumble of distant thunder, a flash of electric fire.

The old woman felt a thrilling chill pass through her.

The clouds turn coal-black. A cold mist of rain begins to fall. Not so far away, a crooked finger of lightning reaches out to touch an oak perched on a grassy knoll. Woody limbs explode with a flash of blue- white fire. Thunder shakes the earth. A white dove flutters in flight…falls from the sky.

Daisy Perika heard herself whisper, “What does this mean?”

Something is drawing near. Something wicked. A great horse appears, iron-shod hooves striking sparks on flinty stones, eyes demon-wild, insane with fury. The animal is the hot color of flames. It is mounted by a presence composed of sulfurous smoke. The sinister rider carries a heavy sword—the weapon is two-edged, and longer than a man is tall.

The shaman watched in horror as horse and rider approached the old gentleman in the rocking chair. “Look out,” she croaked. “Look out….” She lost her voice.

The fiery red horse—now within yards of the
matukach
elder—comes on at a hard gallop. The dark rider raises the edged weapon like a scythe.

Daisy tried to rush forward to prevent the attack, but like the lightning-struck oak, her feet were rooted to the earth. And so she stood on the grass, mute and paralyzed. The seer tried to close her eyes, but could not. Neither could she turn her face away. The elderly white man remained in his chair, seemingly unaware of the approaching peril.

The shaman tried to cry out. Again, the scream was smothered in her breast.

The dark figure swings the blade in a long, flashing arc, severing human flesh and bone as if the tissues are warm butter. There is a guttural shout of victory from the shadowy assassin. With a final flash of lightning, blazing horse and murderous rider are gone.

The decapitated head rolled across the wet grass, leaving a smearing trail of blood. The horrendous object stopped at the shaman’s feet; the pale face looked up at the woman. Tears flowed from the eyes. The lips moved. She could not hear his words. Neither did she know how to help him. Still unable to speak, she thought,
Who are you?
For a fleeting moment, something flickered in that dark closet where her memories were kept. She tried hard to remember, but it was like trying to recall a dream upon awakening. A hint of recognition was swept away like old cobwebs before a broom.

But the shaman did know something about the rider on the fieryred horse. The sword-wielding phantom who had decapitated the distinguished elder was a hollow, empty spirit. A dead soul.

Chapter Three

TWO-TOES

THE SUN WOULD NOT SHOW ITS WARM FACE FOR ANOTHER HOUR
, but Charlie Moon was already in the spacious kitchen, appreciating the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He cracked three brown-shelled eggs into a cast-iron skillet where plump patties of pork sausage sizzled in hot grease. The radio was blaring a tearfully sad Hank Williams ballad.
That fella could yodel a man to a pleasant death.
He removed a pan of biscuits from the oven.
Yes, sir—this will be a fine breakfast. And a fine day
.

The cattle rancher heard a booming knock on the parlor door. It had to be Pete Bushman. An ordinary cowhand who wanted an audience with the boss would not show up before first light, or bang so hard on the door. Moon frowned at the skillet. From the sound of it, Pete had something urgent on his mind. The Ute, still in his sock feet, padded out of the kitchen, across the dining room, through the parlor.

Another heavy knock.

“Hold on—I’m coming.” He opened the door to see his bewhiskered, bleary-eyed foreman. “Good morning, Pete.”

Stomping past his employer, Pete Bushman grumbled that he was barely able to stomach these “Mr. Sunshines, who is filled to the gills with goodwill before they’s had a bite a breakfast” and made a beeline for the kitchen.

Pete poured himself a half-pint of coffee, threw his head back, swallowed half the scalding brew in one gulp. He set the cup aside, wiped his whiskers on the sleeve of a denim jacket. Belched.

Moon tended the eggs in the skillet, which were burning brown and brittle around the edges.

The foreman helped himself to a biscuit, which he buttered. After consuming this delicacy, Pete began to drum his fingers on the kitchen table. This was a signal that he was ready to have his say.

The boss pretended not to notice.

The foreman drummed harder.

Moon salted his eggs. Peppered them. “You want something to eat, there’s eggs and sausage.”

“I suppose those as who don’t have to bother themselves about the bad troubles all around us can feed their faces. Me, I got to do the worryin’. So I’m not in the mood for grub.” He had another biscuit. With a large dab of butter, a generous helping of blackberry jam.

Moon scooped eggs and sausage onto a platter, seated himself across the table from his employee.

Pete Bushman realized that the boss was not going to ask what was wrong. “I hardly got me a wink a sleep last night.”

“Sorry to hear it.” Moon didn’t look up from his breakfast. “A working man needs a good night’s rest.”

Pete clicked his teeth. Like a hard case cocking his pistol.

Uh-oh. Here it comes.
Moon selected a biscuit.

“Boss, we got troubles.”

“All of God’s children have troubles.”

“Not the kind that comes with a mouth fulla sharp teeth.” Like one about to announce the first installment of six kinds of apocalypse, the foreman affected a dramatic pause. “It’s ol’ Two-Toes.”

The Ute speared a sausage with his fork.

Pete sniffed. “I reckon you don’t know about him.”

The rancher did know. According to cowboy gossip, the fabled mountain lion had chewed his paw free from a bear trap. Taking the foreman’s gravity lightly, Moon frowned, as if puzzled. “This Two-Toes, he that new cowhand—the gimpy one from Carson City who can’t see good out of his left eye?”

Pete went wide-eyed with astonishment. “Cowhand—Lord no!”
How ignernt can a grown man get?
“The new hire you’re thinkin’ of is Ben Schaumberg from down in New Mexico. He’s an ironsmith. Good man.”

“Oh, yeah. Schaumberg.” Moon eyed his foreman. “I understand you’ve got him shoeing some quarter horses.”

“He’s been welding a new drive rod on the Farmall tractor.” Bushman scowled at the absentminded Indian. “Two-Toes, he’s a full-size daddy mountain lion.”

Moon took a sip of heavily sugared coffee. Enjoyed it.

The gloomy foreman propped his elbows on the table, leaned forward. “When that cougar was young and fulla piss and vinegar, he used to do his killin’ next door on the BoxCar range. That was when the BoxCar was a workin’ ranch and had some stock for the big cat to pull down.” Bushman snorted. Senator Davidson had ruined a perfectly good cow operation. Turned it into a sissy tinhorn spread. “But nowadays I guess Two-Toes figgers the pickin’s is better on the Columbine.”

The Ute looked across the table. “He killed any of our stock?”

Pete reached for another biscuit. “Not that I know of. But he’s been a-slinkin’ around.”

Moon’s eyes twinkled merrily. “A-slinking around where?”

“Over by the Misery range. Mostly at the bottom end of Dead Mule Notch.”

“As long as this cougar don’t bother the stock, we’ll leave him alone.”

Bushman buttered the biscuit, eyed several jars of sweet stuff, selected a spoonful of apricot preserves. “That might be a mistake.”

“How so?”

“Some of our cowhands say Two-Toes has been stalkin’ ’em. And there’s those two horses we lost last year.”

Moon thought about it. The carcasses had never been found. It was most likely sickness. Or some trespassing city hunter had mistaken the horses for elk. But it could have been the mountain lion. “You figure that big cat has developed a taste for our riding stock?”

“I expect Two-Toes is pickin’ his teeth on whinny-bones and belchin’ up horseshoes.” The foreman shot a grim look across the table at his boss. “And maybe for dessert, he’ll swaller a couple of our cowboys whole.”

A decision was necessary. “Till we can sort out this cougar business, issue these orders. Nobody works by himself.”

Pete’s head bobbed in agreement. “Right.”

“The best marksman in every work crew will carry a rifle—and I don’t mean a twenty-two.”

The foreman wiped at his mouth with the edge of the cotton tablecloth, got up from the chair. “I’ll see to it.”

“And one more thing. I don’t want anybody taking potshots at mountain lions for sport. First cowboy who does can find himself a job with another outfit.”

Pete Bushman made a halfhearted salute. “I’ll tell ’em.”