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Authors: James D. Doss
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"That's what happens when you drop off to sleep and you don't wake up no more." He was disappointed when the young man showed no sign of being offended. "You oughta remember him: Big Ouray. Registered Hereford. You sold me the policy, even came out to take them pictures of my animals."
Herb nodded and smiled politely. "Of course, I do remember now. I am very sorry about your loss, Mr. Sweet-water." Herb clasped his hands in the manner of a mortician comforting the bereaved. The blond kid had bounced from job to job to earn his tuition and a meager living. Part-time tutor in German and mathematics, veterinary assistant to Dr. Schaid, now peddler of insurance. Maybe, Gorman mused, Herb had put in a stint with a funeral parlor.
Gorman suddenly lost interest in baiting this sickly-pale foreigner; he was eager to finish his business and leave. "I'm here to file a claim."
"Certainly. I do not handle that part of the business, you understand. I sell the policies. Mr. Nightbird, he processes the claims."
This sounded like a run-around. "Arlo does that? I thought he spent all of his time working up big moneymak-ing deals for the tribe. Where in hell is that little crook?"
Herb glanced uneasily at a closed door. "Mr. Nightbird is busy. I'll tell him that you—"
Gorman marched toward the closed door. "He'll see me right now. Benita, you wait here." Herb was frantically pressing the intercom button when Gorman stomped into Arlo Nightbird's office.
Arlo had his immaculate ostrich-hide boots propped on his desk. He was watching a pornographic video while, between puffs on an oversized cigar, he sucked on a silver flask of expensive bourbon. Arlo pressed the pause button on his remote control and glared at his visitor. "Can't you read English, Gorman? It says private on that door, and that's damn well what it means."
Gorman nodded toward the naked figures frozen on the television screen. "From the looks of
that
, it should say
PRIVATES."
Arlo scowled and pointed his cigar at Gorman's feet. "And your boots, your big damn rubber boots! What'd you do, wade the river? You're tracking mud all over my brand-new antique Persian rug!"
Gorman dropped his lanky form into a chair and removed his hat to reveal long, unkempt wisps of iron-gray hair. He scratched at his scalp. "My bull. Big Ouray. He died last night."
"Well, hell, Gorman, I'm just
heartbroken
." Arlo switched off the television. "We'll have to round up some Irishmen and throw us a wake. Maybe we can invite a few cows, some that was mounted by your bull." Arlo rubbed the turquoise stud in his left earlobe and waited for a reply that didn't come. Gorman's silence unnerved him. "What do I care if your damn bull croaked? Go tell your blackbird priest; it's none of my business."
"Don't bad-mouth Father Raes. And it is your business. I'm here to file a claim."
Arlo was wide-eyed. "You're kiddin' me. We wrote a policy on your damn cattle? I don't believe it."
"Believe it, piss-ant." Gorman pitched a scuffed blue envelope on the oak desk.
Arlo opened the envelope, eyed the policy suspiciously, then bellowed. "Ecker, you write this big ass-hole a policy on his swayback cows?" Under his breath: "Dumb Kraut son-of-a-bitch."
Herb appeared at the office doors. "Yes I did, Mr. Nightbird."
Nightbird muttered to Gorman. "Damn Europeans been nothin' but trouble since Christopher rowed his boat ashore." Arlo buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Why'd I go hire a foreigner?"
Gorman imitated that superior air he had often seen on his daughter's face since she had become a college student. "Probably 'cause he came cheap." You get what you pay for.
Arlo was practically pulling the turquoise stud from his earlobe. "Damn, I feel heartburn coming on!" A ray of hope flashed across his face. "Is the policy paid up?"
Ecker approached somewhat uncertainly; he offered his boss a folded computer printout from a legal-size file folder. "Yes sir. In effect through next December for twenty-four
Herb nodded and smiled politely. "Of course, I do remember now. I am very sorry about your loss, Mr. Sweet-water." Herb clasped his hands in the manner of a mortician comforting the bereaved. The blond kid had bounced from job to job to earn his tuition and a meager living. Part-time tutor in German and mathematics, veterinary assistant to Dr. Schaid, now peddler of insurance. Maybe, Gorman mused, Herb had put in a stint with a funeral parlor.
Gorman suddenly lost interest in baiting this sickly-pale foreigner; he was eager to finish his business and leave. "I'm here to file a claim."
"Certainly. I do not handle that part of the business, you understand. I sell the policies. Mr. Nightbird, he processes the claims."
This sounded like a run-around. "Arlo does that? I thought he spent all of his time working up big moneymak-ing deals for the tribe. Where in hell is that little crook?"
Herb glanced uneasily at a closed door. "Mr. Nightbird is busy. I'll tell him that you—"
Gorman marched toward the closed door. "He'll see me right now. Benita, you wait here." Herb was frantically pressing the intercom button when Gorman stomped into Arlo Nightbird's office.
Arlo had his immaculate ostrich-hide boots propped on his desk. He was watching a pornographic video while, between puffs on an oversized cigar, he sucked on a silver flask of expensive bourbon. Arlo pressed the pause button on his remote control and glared at his visitor. "Can't you read English, Gorman? It says private on that door, and that's damn well what it means."
Gorman nodded toward the naked figures frozen on the television screen. "From the looks of
that
, it should say
PRIVATES."
Arlo scowled and pointed his cigar at Gorman's feet. "And your boots, your big damn rubber boots! What'd you do, wade the river? You're tracking mud all over my brand-new antique Persian rug!"
Gorman dropped his lanky form into a chair and removed his hat to reveal long, unkempt wisps of iron-gray hair. He scratched at his scalp. "My bull. Big Ouray. He died last night."
"Well, hell, Gorman, I'm just
heartbroken
." Arlo switched off the television. "We'll have to round up some Irishmen and throw us a wake. Maybe we can invite a few cows, some that was mounted by your bull." Arlo rubbed the turquoise stud in his left earlobe and waited for a reply that didn't come. Gorman's silence unnerved him. "What do I care if your damn bull croaked? Go tell your blackbird priest; it's none of my business."
"Don't bad-mouth Father Raes. And it is your business. I'm here to file a claim."
Arlo was wide-eyed. "You're kiddin' me. We wrote a policy on your damn cattle? I don't believe it."
"Believe it, piss-ant." Gorman pitched a scuffed blue envelope on the oak desk.
Arlo opened the envelope, eyed the policy suspiciously, then bellowed. "Ecker, you write this big ass-hole a policy on his swayback cows?" Under his breath: "Dumb Kraut son-of-a-bitch."
Herb appeared at the office doors. "Yes I did, Mr. Nightbird."
Nightbird muttered to Gorman. "Damn Europeans been nothin' but trouble since Christopher rowed his boat ashore." Arlo buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Why'd I go hire a foreigner?"
Gorman imitated that superior air he had often seen on his daughter's face since she had become a college student. "Probably 'cause he came cheap." You get what you pay for.
Arlo was practically pulling the turquoise stud from his earlobe. "Damn, I feel heartburn coming on!" A ray of hope flashed across his face. "Is the policy paid up?"
Ecker approached somewhat uncertainly; he offered his boss a folded computer printout from a legal-size file folder. "Yes sir. In effect through next December for twenty-four
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