Betrayal at the Buffalo Ranch Read online

  “Yes— I’m going to go out on a limb and say if your dad is like most of

  the men I know around here, he probably doesn’t eat too much Greek

  yogurt.” They laughed together.

  “We’re having wild onions for dinner,” Becky said with a smile. “I

  thought I might need something to balance it out.”

  “What’s your dad’s name?” Sadie asked.

  “Grover. Grover Chuculate.”

  “I think your family used to have land next to mine. Is that right?”

  “I really don’t know. I’ve been gone a long time. I have no idea about

  Daddy’s land.”

  “How long are you going to be here?” Sadie asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Becky said.

  Sadie reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “If you

  would like to have coffee or lunch before you go back to California, give me a call. I’d love to visit with you.”

  Becky looked at the card before dropping it into her purse. “I will,”

  she said. “It was nice seeing you again.”

  “You, too.”

  Sadie watched as Rebecca Silver, or Becky Chuculate as she had

  known her, pushed her cart toward the checkout counter. She had a gut

  feeling that the woman walking away from her had a story to tell. She

  hoped she’d get to hear it, and she wanted to find out more about how

  her father’s land had turned into Buffalo Ranch land.

  Sadie gathered a half- gallon carton of milk, a six- pack of Pepsi, a

  nice bunch of bananas, a freshly baked loaf of bread from the bakery,

  and some sliced ham and turkey for sandwiches. As she headed toward

  the front of the store, she compulsively grabbed a bag of potato chips

  and dropped them on top of her other items, rationalizing that she could

  walk off the extra calories tomorrow.

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  She lined her cart up to check out, and while waiting her turn, she picked up a copy of the Delaware County Journal, the weekly local paper.

  A headline on the front page caught her attention: “Cherokee Nation

  Acquires Buffs, see page 3.” She let the paper drop open to reveal a photo of a man with short, jet- black hair and bulldog jowls she thought to be

  the Cherokee Nation tribal councilor, Eugene Hawk, and two other men

  she didn’t recognize standing in front of a tall fence with several buffalo in the background.

  “Are you ready, Sadie?” The young cashier flashed a pleasant smile.

  “Oh, yes.” Sadie refolded the paper and pushed her cart through the

  checkout. The article would have to wait.

  In no time, Sadie had paid the cashier, offered her shopping cart to

  another shopper, and carried her groceries through the automatic slid-

  ing doors and into the parking lot. She placed her bags in the back seat

  of her car, and as she opened the driver’s door to get in, she noticed a

  huge cattle truck flying down the highway. At first, the truck didn’t seem unusual, until three more followed closely behind. When Sadie looked

  closer, she realized the trucks weren’t hauling cattle at all. They were full of buffalo.

  She jumped in her car and pulled out onto the highway not far be-

  hind the caravan of trucks. “Please,” she whispered to herself. “Please

  don’t let the yanasi be on their way to the Buffalo Ranch.”

  When she reached the place where Highway 20 veered west toward

  Eucha, she watched the trucks continue to speed south on Highway 10.

  Relief flooded Sadie’s mind. If they were going to Angus’s place, they

  would have turned west, not south.

  “You’ve got buffalo overload on the brain,” she said to herself.

  She dismissed the trucks from her mind, turned west, and headed

  toward home.

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  Chapter 11

  After Roy Carter and his son left the sheriff ’s office, Lance spent an hour in conversation with Sheriff Buddy Long and Deputy Drew Jennings

  about the conundrum Angus Clyborn had begun to create with the local

  ranchers and COWA.

  The sheriff sat comfortably reclined in his chair behind an oversized

  desk, his short legs crossed and propped on its corner. His round pink face and partially bald head made him look like he had a permanent sunburn. “I don’t think it’s illegal to shoot buffalo, or whatever else, on your own land,”

  Sheriff Long said, “supposing you own whatever it is you’re shooting.”

  Deputy Jennings, dressed in his usual attire of worn jeans and

  boots, offset with a starched shirt, stood casually next to the window,

  staring into the world as if someone had put him in charge of observing

  everything taking place in the street. He shifted his weight and crossed

  his arms. “Wouldn’t it be just like butchering a cow?” he offered. It was more of a stated opinion rather than a question.

  Lance stood leaning against the wall. “I don’t know. But I think

  we’re sitting on a powder keg that’s about to explode. I’ve got a feeling something isn’t right out there, and I think it starts with the connection between Angus and the dead man found next to the Walela ranch.”

  The sheriff lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward in his

  chair. “Are you saying Angus Clyborn had something to do with the

  murder of that Kenny Wayne Sanders fellow?”

  “No, I don’t have any proof of that, Sheriff,” Lance said. “I was on

  my way out there to ask him some questions when the Carters showed

  up complaining, afraid his buffalo might be carrying brucellosis.”

  “Well, let me know what you find out,” the sheriff said, relaxing

  again, “but I think old Angus is just looking for a way to make a buck,

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  and it wouldn’t exactly be in his best interest to be importing a cow disease . . . or for that matter, committing murder.”

  “Were we able to get any prints off of the arrow?” Lance asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “Do we know where the arrow came from?” Lance continued.

  “Like, a brand name?” Jennings asked.

  “There was no way to trace where it came from,” the sheriff ex-

  plained. “It was handmade.”

  “Handmade?” Jennings sounded surprised. “Nobody makes their

  own arrows, do they?”

  “Evidently, they do,” Lance said.

  Jennings shifted away from his station at the window. “Doesn’t that

  mean it was an Indian?”

  Lance shot an unfriendly glance at the deputy. “Not necessarily.

  Arrow- making is a talent not many people have anymore, but I’m sure

  anyone could learn how to do it, regardless of ethnicity. And judging by

  the number of hunters who take part in bow season every year, there’s

  a good amount of people who might make their own arrows.” Silently

  dismissing the deputy with his eyes, Lance adjusted his hat and ad-

  dressed the sheriff. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.” He nodded

  and walked out of the office and into a sunny spring day in Sycamore

  Springs, Oklahoma.

  ★

  When Lance reached the entrance to the Buffalo Ranch, he let his vehi-

  cle roll to a stop. There would be no hiding his identity with the freshly applied law enforcement logo emblazoned across the door of the truck

  he was driving. He preferred to move through the community with less

  fanfare, but he hadn’t had a choice. The sheriff didn’t like him d
riving

  his personal vehicle, so Lance reluctantly gave in to the new protocol.

  He drove on toward a two- story house, a giant barn, and a structure

  that appeared to be a hunting lodge. A small herd of bison grazed in the

  distance behind a tall fence that divided the pasture from the buildings.

  Lance parked behind a black Lexus displaying Cherokee Nation plates,

  got out, and approached the front door of the house.

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  The door opened and two men walked out, but their conversation immediately stopped when they saw Lance. Lance recognized both

  Angus Clyborn and Eugene Hawk. Angus looked different without his

  western hat, his thin black hair clinging to his balding head.

  Hawk, a lawyer and Cherokee Nation tribal councilor, wore his

  short, coal- black hair slicked away from his pockmarked face and sported ostrich boots, gray slacks, a white tailored shirt, and an expensive-looking watch. Lance knew the man had law offices in both Tahlequah

  and Sycamore Springs, and from what Lance had heard, the unscrupu-

  lous man spent most of his time trying to finagle money out of anyone

  he could.

  Hawk transferred his briefcase and black leather jacket to his left

  hand so he could shake hands with Lance. Lance introduced himself as

  deputy sheriff to both men.

  Angus shook hands with Lance and then removed the cigar from his

  mouth. “What can I do for you, Deputy?” he asked.

  “I was looking for the owner of this place. Would that be you?”

  asked Lance, knowing the answer before Angus spoke.

  “Angus Clyborn,” he said. “The one and only.”

  Eugene Hawk backed away. “I see you have business to tend to,

  Angus. I’ll be in touch.”

  Lance quickly spoke. “If you don’t mind, could you wait a second,

  Mr. Hawk?”

  Hawk hesitated.

  “Now, what’s this all about, Deputy?” Angus asked.

  “We’re checking with everyone in the area, trying to identify a body

  we found two days ago not far from here.”

  Angus replaced the cigar in his mouth and took a drag. “Yeah, I

  heard about that,” he said. “Who was the unlucky bum?”

  “Well, we’re not sure. I’d appreciate it if you could both take a look at this photo and tell me if you’ve ever seen him around here?” Lance pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Eugene Hawk first.

  Hawk stared at the photo for a second and, without so much as a

  blink, passed it to Angus. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know this man. I can’t help you.”

  Angus took the photo, glanced at it, and held out for Lance to take

  back. “No, I’ve never seen him, either.”

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  “It was nice to meet you, Deputy.” Hawk nodded, walked past Lance, got into the Lexus, and drove off.

  Lance waited to take the picture back from Angus. “He’s a white

  male, we think about six foot. But we don’t think he’s from around here.

  We don’t have any reports of missing people.” Lance nodded at the

  photo still in Angus’s hand. “Are you sure you’ve never seen him? Can

  you take another look?”

  Lance tried to make eye contact with Angus, but Angus looked

  away, contracting his jaw muscle.

  “No, I have no idea who he is,” Angus said. “Now, if that’s all you

  want, I’m kind of busy.”

  Lance glanced past Angus’s shoulder through the wide open front

  door. He could see several animal- head trophies hanging on the wall

  above a large rock fireplace. “That looks like quite a collection of hunting trophies you’ve got on display.”

  Angus turned and looked inside the house as if he didn’t know what

  Lance was talking about, and then turned back around. “I like to hunt,”

  he said.

  “That’s fascinating,” Lance said. “Do you ever hunt with a bow and

  arrow or a crossbow?”

  Lance continued to gaze into the house, but he could feel Angus’s

  penetrating stare.

  “I prefer a large- caliber hunting rifle for most kills,” Angus said.

  “It’s not quite so messy.”

  Lance nodded. “I know what you mean. If you don’t hit them

  squarely in the heart with an arrow, it can take them a while to go down.”

  “So you’re a hunter?” Angus immediately changed to a friendlier

  tone. “We’re going to be offering guided hunts for some trophy wildlife,

  if you’d be interested.”

  “Really?” Lance tried to sound surprised. “I saw some buffalo when

  I drove in. Is that part of the program?”

  “We’ve got elk, white- tailed deer, and buffalo.” Angus stuck out his

  chest. “It’s a lot of fun. We guarantee a kill or you don’t have to pay.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Lance said.

  Suddenly, Angus’s defensive tone returned. “Is that all?”

  Lance took the photo and returned it to his pocket. “Thanks for

  your help,” he said.

  65

  Angus turned and walked back inside, quickly closing the door behind him.

  Lance grinned when he climbed back in his truck. “You’re a terrible

  liar, Angus.”

  As he drove out of the Buffalo Ranch, Lance let his truck slow to

  a stop so he could appreciate the grandeur of several bison and a calf

  grazing in the distance. Lance thought the magnificent animals embod-

  ied the struggle for survival of all American Indians. The people had

  used every inch of the buffalo for something— from the hide, the meat,

  and the bones to the hair, the horns, and the innards. When Indians har-

  vested a buffalo, absolutely nothing went to waste.

  When the white man moved west, they slaughtered buffalo to the

  point of extinction simply for the thrill of the kill, allowing the majestic animals to decay where they fell. Sadly, many Indians met the same

  fate. The buffalo had survived it all, and so had the Indians. The sacred connection between buffalo and Native people would never be broken.

  Obviously, Angus didn’t know that.

  Lance drove northeast toward Eucha, where he hoped to talk

  to Grover Chuculate. According to Sadie, Grover’s father, George

  Washington Chuculate, had owned the land behind her house where

  Kenny Wayne Sanders had met a violent death at the hands of someone

  wielding either a crossbow or a bow and arrow, and Lance wanted to

  know if Grover knew anything about it.

  As he drove, Lance thought about when he’d met Grover at a gourd

  dance to honor veterans a few years back. A Vietnam veteran, Grover

  wore with pride the badge of the Electric Strawberry, a strawberry- shaped emblem with a lightning bolt through it representing the 25th U.S. Army

  Division. Vietnam was an experience they had in common, and they had

  talked for a short time about where they’d been “in country.” The con-

  versation had given Lance a special appreciation for the man. Anyone

  who had survived the battles Grover had in Southeast Asia had to be an

  honorable man. He hoped Grover had the right answers to the questions

  he was about to ask.

  Lance stopped at the mailbox that read “Chuculate” and turned into

  the long driveway. He parked and waited. A dog appeared and announced

  Lance’s arrival as only a hound dog could. Lance lowered his window. He

  could see Grover sitting
in front of a mobile home, working on a project

  66

  with two buckets. After a minute, Grover called his dog to his side and motioned with his head that it was okay for Lance to get out.

  Lance slowly rolled out of his truck and approached Grover. “O’siyo,

  tohitsu.” He spoke the Cherokee words of greeting, secretly hoping Grover wouldn’t want to converse in Cherokee. If he did, Lance would

  have to admit his limited knowledge of the language.

  “Osda. Good.” Grover nodded and continued in English as if they

  were good friends who had just seen each other earlier in the day. “Pull

  up a chair,” he said. “You like wild onions?”

  Lance grinned, introduced himself, and offered his hand to Grover.

  “Yes, I remember you,” Grover said.

  Grover looked older than Lance recalled. He had lost weight and

  looked tired. They shook hands, and Lance retrieved a lawn chair from

  a nearby tree and sat down facing Grover. Grover nodded as if giving

  his approval of his guest and then continued working with his arthritic-

  looking hands, separating the wild onions, dipping them in a bucket of

  clean water before transferring them to a plate on a small wooden table.

  “These are some good onions,” he said, “and I’ve got plenty.”

  He leaned over and lit a well- used campfire with a wooden kitchen

  match and allowed the fire to grow. After a few minutes, he balanced the

  skillet on a couple of rocks at the edge of the fire and spooned grease

  from a nearby can. “Can you get me some eggs out of the refrigerator

  in there?” Grover pointed with his chin at the open door of his trailer.

  Lance obliged and retrieved a small bowl of eggs and handed them

  to Grover. He could smell the bacon grease heating in the skillet and suddenly his stomach growled. Grover broke six eggs, one by one, into the

  skillet and added the onions while Lance returned the rest of the eggs to the refrigerator. He was beginning to really like Grover Chuculate.

  Grover scooped wild onions and eggs onto paper plates, and the

  two men ate with plastic forks in silence. After they had finished, they

  laughed and talked about digging wild onions next to the creek, hunting

  deer on the wildlife refuge, and fishing in Lake Eucha. Finally, Lance

  began to ask the questions he’d come to ask.

  “Can you tell me about your father’s land?” Lance asked. “It’s the