Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery by Margaret Coel Page B
Authors: Margaret Coel
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âBut if itâs true, it will be quite wonderful. You have to wonder, why us? Why would we be blessed?â
âWe donât know if itâs true.â My God, Vicky was thinking. A white buffalo calf. The rarest of creatures, a sacred animal come to help the people in time of need. There was always a time of need, but the white buffalo had never come to the rez. Maybe the needs had accumulated, grown so great that the Creator decided the time was right. She tried to shrug away that line of thought. Rumors were always blowing about. Some turned out to be true, but most died away like the wind. âWeâll have to wait and see,â she said. Still the image of a white buffalo calf on the rez, a sign that the Creator had not forgotten the people, sent a chill through her.
Annie nodded, but hope and excitement flared like firelight in her black eyes. âYouâre right. Weâll just have to wait. You have an appointment in fifteen minutes. Lucy Murphy. She said she met you yesterday. She called first thing this morning. I was coming through the front door when the phone started ringing.â
Vicky took a sip of the black coffee. Lucy Murphy, the girl hovering around Arnie Walksfast in the parking lot outside the court building. White girl, blond hair. She wasnât sure she could pick the girl out of a police lineup. Annie had gone back into the outer office and closed the beveled-glass doors behind her. Through the glass, Vicky could see the distorted image of the secretary settling behind the distorted image of her desk, leaning into a computer that resembled a flying alien ship. She turned on her own computer and checked the dayâs calendar. Lucy Murphy, 9:00 a.m. Howard Black Cloud, 10:00 a.m. Howard wanting to sue the mechanic shop that had fired him. Nancy Savage, 11:00 a.m. Nancy sure this time she wants to file for a divorce from Fred. Vicky had no idea what Lucy Murphy wanted. The afternoon looked free, but things always popped up, clients called or strolled into the office.
Vicky brought up her e-mail. Thank-you notes from members of the womenâs club at the tribal college, an invitation to speak about Indian law from the Riverton Lions Club, an invitation to lunch from a woman she didnât know who was thinking about opening a law office in Lander. She closed the e-mail, took another drink of coffee, warm now and almost chewy, and allowed last nightâs dinner with Adam to work its way to the front of her thoughts, the place it had been demanding all the previous night. Adam, seated across from her, steak and baked potato in front of him, and she with her own steak, both of them talking around the subject, observing the polite preliminaries: the weather, next weekâs powwow.
Finally Adam had apologized for wanting to leave the murder scene. He had been worried about their safety, the two of them standing out in the highway, prime targets if the shooter had happened by, or if the killer had come back. Maybe the same man, who really knew? Not the fed or the tribal cops. A murder on a dark highway, it would probably never be solved.
She remembered hardly listening. His voice blended into the background noise in the restaurant, the clinking of dishes and swooshing of the steel door to the kitchen. She wondered who he was, the Lakota across from her with black hair streaked with silver, the little scar that ran across his cheek, the black eyes and intelligent face, and something about himâthe confidence, like that of a warrior in the Old Timeâso handsome that the two women at the adjacent table kept glancing his way, trying to catch his eye. So many years they had been lovers, with occasional breaks while he handled natural-resource cases for other tribes, but always he had come back. Always saying he wanted her, when he could have practically any other woman. Always finding a way to let her know that was the case, slyly, not reluctantly. Always hinting to
âWe donât know if itâs true.â My God, Vicky was thinking. A white buffalo calf. The rarest of creatures, a sacred animal come to help the people in time of need. There was always a time of need, but the white buffalo had never come to the rez. Maybe the needs had accumulated, grown so great that the Creator decided the time was right. She tried to shrug away that line of thought. Rumors were always blowing about. Some turned out to be true, but most died away like the wind. âWeâll have to wait and see,â she said. Still the image of a white buffalo calf on the rez, a sign that the Creator had not forgotten the people, sent a chill through her.
Annie nodded, but hope and excitement flared like firelight in her black eyes. âYouâre right. Weâll just have to wait. You have an appointment in fifteen minutes. Lucy Murphy. She said she met you yesterday. She called first thing this morning. I was coming through the front door when the phone started ringing.â
Vicky took a sip of the black coffee. Lucy Murphy, the girl hovering around Arnie Walksfast in the parking lot outside the court building. White girl, blond hair. She wasnât sure she could pick the girl out of a police lineup. Annie had gone back into the outer office and closed the beveled-glass doors behind her. Through the glass, Vicky could see the distorted image of the secretary settling behind the distorted image of her desk, leaning into a computer that resembled a flying alien ship. She turned on her own computer and checked the dayâs calendar. Lucy Murphy, 9:00 a.m. Howard Black Cloud, 10:00 a.m. Howard wanting to sue the mechanic shop that had fired him. Nancy Savage, 11:00 a.m. Nancy sure this time she wants to file for a divorce from Fred. Vicky had no idea what Lucy Murphy wanted. The afternoon looked free, but things always popped up, clients called or strolled into the office.
Vicky brought up her e-mail. Thank-you notes from members of the womenâs club at the tribal college, an invitation to speak about Indian law from the Riverton Lions Club, an invitation to lunch from a woman she didnât know who was thinking about opening a law office in Lander. She closed the e-mail, took another drink of coffee, warm now and almost chewy, and allowed last nightâs dinner with Adam to work its way to the front of her thoughts, the place it had been demanding all the previous night. Adam, seated across from her, steak and baked potato in front of him, and she with her own steak, both of them talking around the subject, observing the polite preliminaries: the weather, next weekâs powwow.
Finally Adam had apologized for wanting to leave the murder scene. He had been worried about their safety, the two of them standing out in the highway, prime targets if the shooter had happened by, or if the killer had come back. Maybe the same man, who really knew? Not the fed or the tribal cops. A murder on a dark highway, it would probably never be solved.
She remembered hardly listening. His voice blended into the background noise in the restaurant, the clinking of dishes and swooshing of the steel door to the kitchen. She wondered who he was, the Lakota across from her with black hair streaked with silver, the little scar that ran across his cheek, the black eyes and intelligent face, and something about himâthe confidence, like that of a warrior in the Old Timeâso handsome that the two women at the adjacent table kept glancing his way, trying to catch his eye. So many years they had been lovers, with occasional breaks while he handled natural-resource cases for other tribes, but always he had come back. Always saying he wanted her, when he could have practically any other woman. Always finding a way to let her know that was the case, slyly, not reluctantly. Always hinting to
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