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  BETRAYAL AT THE BUFFALO RANCH

  BETRAYAL AT THE BUFFALO RANCH

  ★

  Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  The University of Arizona Press

  www.uapress.arizona.edu

  © 2018 by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  All rights reserved. Published 2018

  ISBN- 13: 978- 0- 8165- 3727- 3 (paper)

  Cover design by Leigh McDonald

  Cover photo: The American Bison by Adam Cocke

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and locations portrayed and the names herein are fiction, and any similarity to or identifications with location, names, character, or history of any person, product, or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  Publication of this book is made possible in part by the proceeds of a permanent endowment created with the assistance of a Challenge Grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, a federal agency.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hoklotubbe, Sara Sue, 1952– author. | Hoklotubbe, Sara Sue, 1952– Sadie Walela mystery.

  Title: Betrayal at the Buffalo Ranch / Sara Sue Hoklotubbe.

  Description: Tucson : The University of Arizona Press, 2018. | Series: A Sadie Walela mystery | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017042839 | ISBN 9780816537273 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Women detectives—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. |

  LCGFT: Novels. | Detective and mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.O4828 B48 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017042839

  Printed in the United States of America

  ♾ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48– 1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  For Eddie,

  The love of my life, my Anam Cara,

  With love

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to three remarkable women who graciously gave their

  time to read my manuscript and offer helpful suggestions: Judy Soriano,

  English teacher extraordinaire, for her knowledge of literature and

  writing; Pam Daoust, author and sister- friend, for her insight into char-acterization and voice; and Linda Boyden, author and friend, for her

  understanding of Native characters. Many thanks to Chery F. Kendrick,

  DVM, for her kind help in understanding animal behavior, and Mark S.

  Newman, who patiently fielded my many questions regarding all things

  buffalo.

  I am thankful for the candid advice I received from the late Larry

  Hoklotubbe, my brother- in- law, retired Bureau of Indian Affairs law of-

  ficer and weapons expert, for the extensive knowledge of firearms he so

  freely shared with me. Miss you, White Buffalo.

  I extend my appreciation to Kathryn Conrad, director, and Kristen

  Buckles, editor- in- chief, at the University of Arizona Press, for giving me the opportunity to share Sadie’s adventures with readers everywhere,

  and to Susan Campbell, copyeditor, who worked magic with my manu-

  script. And finally, words cannot express how grateful I am to my hus-

  band and first reader, Eddie, for his endless love and support. Wado.

  BETRAYAL AT THE BUFFALO RANCH

  Prologue

  Angus Clyborn pulled his Dodge truck into the deserted park that the lo-

  cals called Old Eucha, killed the engine, and belched. Through his open

  window, he could hear the waters of Lake Eucha lapping against the

  shoreline. The town of Eucha, Oklahoma, had once stood there, before

  being moved to higher ground a half century earlier to make way for the

  man- made lake that supplied Tulsa with fresh drinking water.

  Now, the site of the old town had been reduced to boat launches,

  permanent picnic tables, and outdoor toilets. Rock walls of the original

  one- room schoolhouse, partly destroyed by weather and time, rose like a

  monolith in the shadowy moonlight.

  Resting his head against the driver’s door, Angus hiccupped. He

  hoped the night air would help clear his fuzzy thinking and dissipate

  the odor of alcohol swirling in the air around him. He was already in

  trouble. His wife, Camilla, would give him all kinds of hell when she got a whiff of the Jack Daniels he’d spilled on his shirt.

  He’d tried, promised her he’d never take another drink after the acci-

  dent three years ago that took the life of a three- year- old girl and left the girl’s mother in intensive care for two months. After Angus had made a

  sizable contribution to the district attorney’s reelection campaign, a trick he’d learned from his father, Angus had received a lenient suspended

  sentence. The judge had also ordered him to get treatment for his drink-

  ing and keep his nose clean, which he had done, but the demon of al-

  cohol addiction had been harder to beat than he had originally thought.

  The news that his son had been killed fighting in a useless war in

  Afghanistan had turned his world upside down, throwing him into a

  desperate search for solace at the bottom of a bottle of Gentleman Jack.

  Blue on green, they’d said. Slang to describe the treachery carried

  out by Afghan troops who, their loyalty turning on a dime, killed their

  3

  American trainers. It was unspeakable, incomprehensible, and tomorrow he’d bury his only son, Jason, because of it. But first he would sit in his truck in Old Eucha Park and drench his grief with Tennessee whiskey. To hell with everything else.

  Without warning, a blinding light came out of nowhere. The barrel

  of a gun came through the window of the truck and dug into his neck.

  The cold metal startled him, and he jerked his head away from the win-

  dow. Then he felt the end of the barrel press against his cheek.

  “Don’t move,” said a raspy voice. “If you do, I’ll finish you off right

  here.”

  Still blinded by the light and dizzy from the booze, Angus swal-

  lowed hard before he spoke. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Stop stealing land,” the voice demanded, “and give back the land

  you’ve already stolen, or I’ll come back and erase your drunken ass from

  the face of the planet. Got it?”

  Angus closed his eyes and slowly nodded his head, afraid to move

  any other part of his body. He tried unsuccessfully to process the voice.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Angus begged. He opened his eyes and

  slowly turned his head, but the light and the gun barrel had disappeared.

  He opened the truck door and fell out onto the ground. Forcing

  himself to his feet, he steadied his body against the truck and stared into the darkness. His labored breathing overtook the silence. In the distance, he could hear a dog barking and the call of a hoot owl.

  He must be hallucinating from too much alcohol, he thought. No

  one would dare talk to Angus Clyborn like that.

  He pulled himself back into the truck, closed the door, and threw

  the half- empty fifth of Jack Daniels out the window, the glass bottle shattering on a nearby rock. After fumbling with his keys for a few seconds,

  he started the truck and flipped on the headlights. He searched first in

  front of the vehicle and then slammed the shifter in reverse, causin
g the backup lights to illuminate the area behind the truck. He quickly raised

  the windows and locked the doors while he frantically scanned his rear-

  view mirrors for movement. Nothing.

  Fear penetrated his drunken stupor as he drove out of the park and

  into the night.

  ★

  4

  Angus awoke the next morning with a start. He rubbed his face and tried to remember how he had managed to end up in his own bed. Bright sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains as he fumbled at the bedside

  clock. Nine fifteen, it read. He turned over to confirm what he already

  knew. Camilla had left to go shopping in Tulsa, a daily ritual that had

  begun the day they’d gotten word about Jason. At least it got her out of

  the house, and they didn’t have to share the same space for several hours.

  Adrenaline shot through his aching body and words of warning

  echoed in his head . . . stop stealing land . . .

  His gaze darted around the room as he sat up. His dirty clothes from

  the night before lay in a heap on the floor next to the bed. Why couldn’t Camilla take care of his clothes the way his mother had? There was no

  question that his dad was in control in that household. He needed to get

  Camilla straightened out, he thought, before she got completely out of

  control.

  As he stepped into a clean pair of trousers, his thoughts circled back

  around to the night before. Who would threaten him like that? Whoever

  it was obviously didn’t know who they were dealing with. Maybe it had

  been a bad nightmare. Then he remembered what else the voice had

  said . . . or I’ll come back and erase your drunken ass.

  Grabbing a shirt, he headed downstairs in search of some strong

  coffee.

  5

  Chapter 1

  The crack of gunshots caused Sadie to jump. She turned and braced

  herself for two more volleys from the seven- man honor guard as they

  fired a twenty- one- gun salute. Afterward, the sound of taps sent a shiver up her spine, bringing up old memories of her father’s burial held in the same Eucha cemetery several years before. She pushed loose strands of

  her long, straight hair away from her face as a tear fell from her cheek, an involuntary response to the death not only of a soldier she didn’t know,

  but of her father, as well.

  She and Lance Smith had come to the graveside service of Jason

  Clyborn out of respect for his wife, Lucy, and her Cherokee family, the

  Walkingsticks. Sadie had known the Walkingstick family all of her life.

  They were good people.

  As a veteran, Lance had volunteered to take part in the local

  American Legion Post’s honor guard for the twenty- one- gun salute. The

  riflemen and bugler stood away from the grave under an old oak tree.

  Even on this sad occasion, Sadie gazed at Lance with pride. He looked

  so handsome holding his rifle and standing at attention with the other

  men, his taut, muscular body apparent beneath his deputy sheriff ’s uni-

  form, and his neatly trimmed coal- black hair peeking from under his

  Stetson. The vision was enough to make her heart flutter.

  Lucy Clyborn looked small and cold, wrapped in a short raincoat

  as she sat in a metal folding chair and sobbed while members of the

  American Legion removed the American flag that had been draped on

  her husband’s casket, folded it with great precision, and presented it to her with a salute. She took the flag, held it to her chest, and then placed it in her lap.

  Sitting next to Lucy, her mother- in- law, Camilla Clyborn, wore a

  black trench coat and hat, her face obscured by large sunglasses. Camilla 6

  grabbed the flag from Lucy and buried her face in it, wailing loudly.

  Sadie couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Wanda Walkingstick reached down and placed a hand on her

  daughter’s shoulder, a calming motherly gesture, while glancing disap-

  provingly at Camilla’s tight grip on the flag. Sadie wondered if Lucy

  would ever get to touch that flag again. Angus Clyborn, the dead sol-

  dier’s father, snatched the flag away from his wife and shoved it back

  onto Lucy’s lap, almost losing his ten- gallon hat in the act.

  Angus straightened his hat, then stood and caught the arm of the

  man who had presented the flag to Lucy. “Son, can you get us another

  one of those flags?” he said, his voice dripping in a strong Texas accent.

  “His mother wants one.”

  The man stoically nodded and returned to his place. The service

  didn’t last long, and Sadie felt relieved when it ended.

  The cloudy April sky looked threatening and Sadie could smell rain,

  so as soon as she had offered condolences to the family, she wrapped

  her sweater tightly around her and walked across the cemetery to her fa-

  ther’s grave. She bent down and ran her fingers over his name, Jim “Bird”

  Walela, engraved in both the Cherokee syllabary and English. His friends

  had called him Bird, shortened from the English version of the Walela

  name— Hummingbird. She missed him terribly— his easygoing ways, his

  quiet words of wisdom, and his no- nonsense philosophy of life.

  Sadie glanced at the empty plot next to her dad’s grave that had been

  reserved for her mother, and a mental image of her intruded into Sadie’s

  thoughts. Sadie doubted the woman would ever return to Delaware

  County again, dead or alive. As a white woman in an Indian commu-

  nity, her mother had never fit in, not because she hadn’t been welcome,

  but because she thought she was better than everyone else. Her abusive

  words still stung Sadie’s heart, and the thought of never seeing her again suited Sadie fine.

  Sadie removed the weathered fake flowers from the bronze vase at-

  tached to her father’s headstone and carried them to her car. When she

  got in, she placed the flowers on the floorboard and waited for Lance.

  She tilted the rearview mirror toward her face and used her fingers to

  comb her bangs and smooth her hair. Removing a beaded hair clip, she

  held it in her mouth while she straightened her hair behind her neck and

  clamped it back into position. Before moving the mirror back into place,

  7

  she checked the rest of her face, admiring her new beaded earrings, a gift from her Kickapoo friend, Leslie. The circular design and bright

  colors— lime green, brown, red, and yellow— contrasted nicely with her

  black hair and complemented the oval shape of her face. She smiled and

  thought of Lance. He loved looking into her blue eyes; he’d told her this so many times she’d lost count.

  She watched the people slowly migrate away from the grave and

  thought the crowd could have been easily divided between two distinct

  groups— Indian friends of the Walkingsticks and the white folks who

  had come for the Clyborn side of the family. Even in the middle of the

  Cherokee Nation, the same cultural divide remained that had been there

  for centuries: Indian and white, those who lived by modest means and

  those wearing gold jewelry and expensive clothes.

  Angus stopped walking and waved the rest of the family on as he

  pulled a half- smoked cigar from his pocket and lit it. A man approached

  Angus and they began to talk. He had gray hair and light skin, and he

  shook Angus’s hand with a
nimation. Sadie could see Angus’s hat bob-

  bing affirmatively now and then as he listened.

  Sadie scrunched her nose in disgust and strained to see the man as

  he pulled a can of dipping tobacco out of his pocket and pushed a pinch

  into his lower lip. She whistled silently to herself when she recognized

  him as the Cherokee chief, John Henry Greenleaf. It certainly appeared

  kind of him, she thought, to support Lucy and her family by attending

  Jason’s funeral, but she knew it was simply a public display, appearing

  to care for Cherokees he didn’t even know. He was always the quintes-

  sential politician.

  Sadie dismissed Angus and the chief from her thoughts when Lance

  approached her car, his cell phone jammed up against his left ear. She

  lowered her window and waited for him to finish talking.

  He dropped his phone into his pocket, removed his hat, and bent

  down so he could kiss her through the window. “I’ve got to run. The

  sheriff needs me,” he said. “I’ll call you later.” He kissed her again, replaced his hat, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “The sheriff always needs you.” Her words disintegrated into the

  damp air.

  Lance had recently given up his job as the police chief of Liberty,

  Oklahoma, to become the deputy sheriff for the Delaware County

  8

  Sheriff ’s Department. Sadie thought it was a good fit for Lance. Being the deputy sheriff meant he was second in command. He supervised two

  deputies and managed the law enforcement side of the office, leaving the

  administrative and political part of the job to the newly elected sheriff, Buddy Long. Long was a good politician but knew very little about the

  day- to- day operations of enforcing the law.

  When Buddy Long asked Lance to take the job of deputy sheriff,

  Lance didn’t hesitate. The job carried less responsibility than his former position as the chief of police in Liberty, and he could leave the budget maneuvering and political wrangling behind. The pay was about the

  same, he’d said, and this job gave him more time for fishing.

  But Sadie knew the truth. It also gave him a chance to live closer to

  her. He’d moved back to Kenwood, the community where he’d grown

  up, about eight miles as the crow flies across Lake Eucha from her place