Betrayal at the Buffalo Ranch Page 10

  mother encouraged it and the calf tried again. Gaining its bearing, it

  finally stood and nosed its way to its mother’s milk.

  Sadie couldn’t believe her eyes. It was white. She’d just witnessed

  the birth of a white buffalo. Trying to contain her excitement, she fum-

  bled for her phone to call Lance, but it slipped from her grasp and fell.

  After fishing it from between the driver’s seat and the console, she di-

  aled. Nothing. She looked at her phone and realized the battery was

  dead. Dropping the phone on the seat next to her, she pulled her vehicle

  out onto the road and continued toward town and Paradise Travel.

  As she drove, she couldn’t stop thinking about the white buffalo calf.

  What would happen to it? It would generate a lot of interest among

  American Indians across the nation. Angus would never understand

  how important the birth of this calf was to Indians who considered the

  white buffalo calf sacred. Knowing Angus and his arrogance about life

  in general, things were going to get complicated at the Buffalo Ranch.

  ★

  That afternoon, Eugene Hawk guided his Lexus through the entrance to

  the Buffalo Ranch and parked in front of the house. Angus was sitting

  on the porch with a beer in one hand and his trademark cigar in the

  other, looking as if he had won the lottery.

  “I thought you were on the wagon, Angus.” Hawk nodded toward

  the beer in Angus’s hand.

  “I am,” Angus retorted. “I gave up whiskey because the court said I

  had to, but this is beer. It doesn’t count.”

  “You might want to do some more research on that, Angus. I think

  alcohol is alcohol regardless of what form it takes.” Hawk climbed onto

  the porch and took a seat in one of the teak deck chairs.

  “We’ve just hit the jackpot, Gene.” Angus threw his head back and

  snorted. “Can you imagine how much someone’s going to pay to kill a

  full- grown white buffalo? Why, we’ll have to stuff the whole animal in-

  stead of mounting its head. Hell, we might as well put it on display and

  let people pay to see it.”

  77

  Hawk sat forward in his chair and stared at Angus. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing; his stomach muscles tightened.

  “Do you know what the odds are of having a white buffalo?” Angus

  emptied his beer bottle and tossed it into the yard.

  Hawk didn’t respond.

  “One in ten million,” Angus said. “You want to see it?” He sounded

  excited. “I put them up in the back pasture to keep it out of sight. I’m

  keeping it a secret. Don’t need no gawkers, just yet. At least not until I can figure out what to do.”

  Hawk swallowed hard to keep the acid from climbing into his throat,

  struggling to grasp what Angus had just said. “Hold on, Angus. We need

  to talk about this. Do you have any idea what a white buffalo means to

  Indian people?”

  “No, and I don’t rightly care. It doesn’t belong to the Indian people,

  it belongs to me. I can’t help that it was born to one of my cows.”

  Hawk spoke louder, as if that would help Angus understand. “Wait,

  Angus. Listen to me,” he said. “White buffalo are sacred to all Indian

  people. As soon as word gets out that there’s a white buffalo on this

  ranch, you’re going to have Indian people from all over the country com-

  ing here to pay homage. Do you really want that kind of attention?”

  “Well, word isn’t going to get out just yet,” Angus said. “I’m going

  to start the bidding at $50,000.”

  “For what?” Hawk struggled to keep his voice under control. He

  couldn’t believe his ears. How on earth was he going to explain to this

  yonega the consequences for his proposal to hunt down and kill a white buffalo. Angus wasn’t just white. He was white and stupid. The weight

  of their business arrangement began to bear down on Hawk’s shoulders.

  “The highest bidder, Hawk.” Angus raised his voice. “The highest

  bidder gets to kill the white buffalo. It will be a few years before he’s full grown, so we’ll have plenty of time to get ready. We’ll call it the ‘Buffalo Hunt of the Century.’”

  Hawk could feel the heat rising to his face. “No, Angus. You can’t

  do that.” He rose and walked to the edge of the porch. “You need to un-

  derstand something, Angus. If you put a price on the head of this white

  buffalo, there will be an even bigger price on your own head.” Hawk

  jumped off the porch and opened the car door. “Think with your brain

  for a change, Angus, instead of your greedy ass.”

  78

  Angus stood up and spit into the grass. Hawk got in his Lexus and roared down the driveway and out of the Buffalo Ranch.

  ★

  Angus could hear the phone ringing inside the house. When it stopped,

  he listened for Camilla to call his name, which she did. He walked into

  the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Angus Clyborn here,” he said. “Yes, ma’am. Do you have any ex-

  perience working as a housekeeper?” Angus listened to the woman on

  the other end of the line. “Well, that sounds good. Come on out. Do you

  know where the ranch is?” He gave the caller directions, hung up, and

  then reached into the refrigerator for another beer.

  ★

  Becky nosed her car out of Grover’s driveway and headed toward Eucha

  Dam. The man she’d talked to on the phone when she called the number

  in the newspaper ad had told her how to get there. You can’t miss the

  sign for the Buffalo Ranch, he’d said. He would meet her at the main

  house.

  Becky knew the back roads around Eucha. Growing up as a teen-

  ager in Delaware County meant you burned a lot of gasoline in an at-

  tempt to kill time. During the school year, there was always a sporting

  event— football, basketball, or baseball— to attend. Shopping malls,

  movie theaters, bowling allies, and skating rinks were a couple of hours

  away. The rest of the time, kids had to create their own entertainment.

  As a result, a lot of girls ended up pregnant after an evening spent in the back seat of their boyfriend’s car. Feeling extremely lucky that she hadn’t been one of those girls, Becky pushed memories of her teenage years out

  of her mind as she drove.

  The countryside had changed very little since she’d left Oklahoma

  and moved to California. She recognized a house where one of her

  former classmates lived. The same tired, rusty vehicle sat propped up

  on cement blocks, a symbol of perpetuity that spoke volumes about

  her decision to move away. She was convinced that if she stopped

  and knocked on the front door, an older version of the boy she’d

  79

  known twenty years ago would appear. She nudged the accelerator and sped past the house as if he might in some way know it was her

  driving by.

  The man on the phone had been right. The entry and sign were

  unmistakable. She drove up the long driveway and parked in front of

  the house. A man smoking a cigar walked out onto the porch and intro-

  duced himself as Angus Clyborn, the owner of the Buffalo Ranch.

  “Come on in, little lady,” he said, “and let’s talk about cooking and

  housekeeping.”

  Becky r
eluctantly followed him around the house toward another

  building, wondering why her father had described him as evil. When

  they got closer, she could see a sign above the full- length concrete porch that read, “Bunkhouse.” Angus held the door for her and then followed

  her inside. The wooden floor creaked under their footsteps.

  Angus walked to one end of the huge open room and motioned for

  Becky to follow. “This is the kitchen,” he said.

  Becky peered through the doorway into a large kitchen filled with

  commercial appliances and fixtures. Everything looked brand new.

  Angus walked through the kitchen to another doorway and Becky

  followed. “This will be your quarters,” he said.

  Intrigued, Becky walked into a small one- room apartment with a

  twin- sized bed, nightstand, a wooden rocking chair, and a flat- screen

  television attached to the wall.

  “You can have visitors after all your chores are done. What you do

  in your off time is of no concern to me. There’s no phone, but there’s

  one in the main room of the bunkhouse. You’ll have to pay for any

  long-distance calls you make.”

  Angus retreated back through the kitchen into the open room.

  Silently, Becky followed.

  “When the hunters arrive, we’ll set up a cot for each one of them in

  here. There’s a large bathroom with showers at the other end.” He took

  an unlit cigar out of his mouth and pointed with it. “Now, your job will

  be to cook breakfast and dinner for the hunters, clean the bathrooms,

  and wash the towels and sheets after they leave, to get ready for the next bunch of hunters. I hope you can cook.” Angus put the cigar back in his

  mouth. “What’d you say your name was?”

  Becky felt small in the large empty room. “Becky Silver,” she said.

  80

  “Well, Becky, can you cook? It won’t need to be anything fancy.

  We’ll probably feed beans and cornbread, stew, chili, stuff like that. You know, food that makes them feel like hunters. You’ll have to do the shopping and make sure you have what you need. I’ll give you a company

  credit card to use.”

  Becky licked her lips. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. Was this

  something she could do? Wanted to do?

  “I’ll pay you $500 a week to start, and if it works out for both of us

  we can talk about a raise after about three months. I don’t pay the gov-

  ernment. You’ll have to figure out the taxes on your own.”

  Becky quickly did the math in her head. Two thousand a month

  with no expenses for rent would add up in no time. She could work

  here for a while and if she didn’t like it, she’d have time to look for

  something else.

  “Well, what do you say, little lady?”

  Becky thought for a moment. He hadn’t asked for any references,

  where she came from, or anything. Should she ask for the offer in writ-

  ing? What if he refused to pay her? Then she looked at her surround-

  ings. Everything screamed money. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a try, she

  thought. Then her father’s words echoed in the back of her head— You

  do not want to work for that man. He is evil.

  “Well?”

  Make a decision, she told herself. “Okay,” she said, and held out her

  hand. “When do I start?”

  Angus’s belly jiggled when he laughed. “First thing in the morning.

  Bring your things and we’ll get you settled. We don’t have any hunters

  scheduled for a few days. That’ll give you time to get situated.”

  Becky shook hands with Angus and retreated to her car. “What have

  I done?” she said aloud as she drove out of the Buffalo Ranch and onto

  the road. Her gut was full of excitement and apprehension at the same

  time. She felt good that she had made a decision for herself, yet some-

  thing gnawed at the edges of her psyche. It was that feeling she had when her head said “yes” and her heart said “no.” She hoped she hadn’t made

  a mistake.

  81

  Chapter 14

  Angus stopped on the road and looked left toward the hills. There were

  still two parcels of land that he wanted, situated in the middle of the

  massive area that would eventually make up all of the Buffalo Ranch.

  He unfolded the tattered map and laid it across his steering wheel. The

  Indian woman in town had been stubborn about selling, but he could

  wear her down, like he did every other woman he’d ever had to deal

  with. This one, however, might just be a little harder.

  The mailbox bore no name, just a number, but the records at the

  courthouse had listed the owners as Eli and Mary Walela, relatives, he

  presumed, to the obstinate woman at the travel agency. He drove his

  massive truck across the cattle guard and parked in front of the modest

  home. He got out of the truck and walked into the yard. Beyond the

  house he could see a barn and an empty corral.

  When no one appeared, he reached through the open truck window

  and sounded the horn for a few seconds. On the hillside behind the barn,

  at least a dozen horses raised their heads and stared in his direction. The door opened and an older Indian man stepped onto the wooden porch.

  He wasn’t a big man, but stood straight as an oak tree in work jeans,

  boots, and a plaid shirt, projecting an air of confidence Angus hadn’t

  seen in a while. “Can I help you?” the man finally said.

  “Yes, sir,” Angus said as he introduced himself. “Are you Eli?”

  Eli nodded his head once but did not invite the man to come closer.

  “Well, Eli, I’d like to buy this place. How much would you take for it?”

  Eli stared at Angus. “You must be lost. This place is not for sale.”

  “Aw, of course it is.” Angus spoke louder, thinking it might add a bit

  of needed intimidation. “Everything can be bought for the right price.

  What do you say we sit down and talk about how much it’d take?”

  “No, sir. You need to leave my property now.”

  82

  Angus gazed into the pasture and then turned back to Eli. “I’ll even give you extra for those mangy horses you got. I’m sure you could use

  the money, looking at how old your house is and all.”

  Eli spewed a string of Cherokee words at Angus.

  Taken aback by his reception, Angus decided to use another tactic.

  “I don’t know what you just said, but it didn’t sound too friendly. It’s just a business proposition. That’s all.”

  A woman appeared in the doorway behind Eli and handed him a

  rifle. Eli slid the lever back as if checking to make sure it was loaded, and then he stuck the butt of the gun against his side and under his elbow,

  with the barrel pointed straight at Angus.

  “You need to leave my property now,” Eli said again.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Take it how you want. Get off my property.” Eli’s voice remained

  calm.

  Angus climbed back into his truck. “We’ll see about that,” he said,

  as he started the engine and drove down the lane and away from the

  house.

  When Angus reached the road, he got out, pulled a knuckle- busting

  lug wrench from behind his seat, and walked around his truck to Eli’s

  red mailbox. “Nobody talks like that to Angus Clyborn,” he said aloud

  as he took
the tool with both hands and swung at the mailbox like he

  was a baseball player aiming for a fastball. When he made contact, the

  metal receptacle and the wooden post flew in different directions, both

  landing in the nearby ditch. He walked over and smashed the mailbox

  again before throwing the tire tool in the bed of his truck.

  Angus laughed, turned toward the house, and caught a glimpse

  of Eli aiming his rifle in his direction just as the taillight on his truck exploded, throwing tiny pieces of red plastic in the air. The sound of

  the second rifle shot came quickly, and when the bullet made contact

  with its target, the back window of the truck shattered into a thousand

  pieces. Angus, too scared to make a sound, threw open the truck door

  and jumped in, keeping his head low in case the next shot happened to

  be aimed at him.

  His hands were shaking in such a way that he could hardly turn the

  key in the ignition, but when the engine roared to life, he shoved the

  gearshift in drive and took off, the tires throwing gravel as he sped away.

  83

  By the time Angus arrived at the sheriff ’s office, his hands had quit shaking, but he was livid. Who the hell did that old Indian think he was, shooting at Angus Clyborn? His classmates might’ve bullied him in high

  school and on the varsity football field, but no one would do that now.

  His daddy had taken him into the woods and beat him until he fought

  back. That’s when he vowed never to be beaten again— physically or oth-

  erwise. He learned how to come out on top no matter what it took. His

  daddy taught him to be a winner, and he’d never forgotten that lesson.

  He’d show that country Indian who had the most clout in this county,

  and it wasn’t going to be Eli Walela.

  Angus threw open the door to the sheriff ’s office and almost tripped

  over the threshold. He caught himself and stomped up to the sheriff,

  pushing his nose so close to Buddy Long’s face that the sheriff immedi-

  ately backed away.

  “What’s wrong, Angus?” Long said.

  “Buddy Long, I’m mad as hell, and I want to file charges against a

  man who just tried to kill me.” Angus couldn’t contain the anger rever-

  berating in his voice.

  Deputy Jennings came from behind his desk with a worried look on

  his face.

  “It’s okay, Jennings,” Long said. “Where’s Smith?”