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Authors: James D. Doss
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animals."
Arlo squinted uncomprehendingly at the printout; Gorman watched his face and was reminded of a weasel. "How do we know the policy was written on your dead bull? Maybe," he glanced sideways at Gorman, "you got two hundred cows, you only insured two dozen?"
Herb Ecker produced a piece of blue paper. "The photographs and ear-tag numbers are all here, Mr. Nightbird." The young man pointed at a color photo stapled to the list. "That is Big Ouray. Ear tag number 101."
Arlo glared at the color photograph of the sullen bull, then unfolded the policy and read it through the bottom of his bifocals.
Gorman grinned. Arlo was boxed in; maybe he'd get a major case of heartburn. Maybe even one of them coro-whatzits.
Arlo folded the papers and dropped them on his desk. "So how'd your damn old bull die?" He tried hard to sound casual. "Some cityboy hunter mistake him for an elk?" That would void the policy.
"Elk season," Gorman said, "ain't till October." The rancher smelled a trap; he looked down at his muddy boots. "Big Ouray's stone dead; that's all that matters. I want my money."
Arlo sensed a weak spot. "Policy only pays on death by natural cause. Terminal belly ache, lightning strikes, baseball-sized hail stones, predators, that kind of thing."
Gorman looked up quickly. "It was a pred—predabiter."
"What kind of predator? Mountain lion, bear?" Arlo grinned. "Sasquatch?"
"Don't know." Gorman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Whatever it was didn't wait around for me." Or did it? The blood-chilling howl from the mesa top still rang in his ears.
Arlo chewed on his cigar, allowing Gorman time to sweat a bit. "You'll need some evidence. The insurance adjuster, maybe he'll think
you
killed the bull." He saw Gorman's massive fists clench. "Now don't get edgy. I didn't say / believed you'd try to cheat the insurance company, but you know how nit-picking these adjusters can be."
"You tell the adjuster it was a predabiter. Then he'll pay."
"Okay. Tell me what kind of animal killed your bull."
"Don't know for sure."
"There must have been signs, tracks. What the hell kind of Indian are you, Gorman, you can't tell from the signs…"
Gorman raised his big frame from the chair and leaned over the desk, waving his hand as if he might grab Arlo by the throat. "What the hell kind of Indian are
you
, Arlo, trying to cheat one of the People? You little thief, I ought to—"
Arlo backed his chair up against the wall. "Now calm down, I didn't mean to upset you, but I got to go by the rules. Have Doc Schaid examine the animal."
"I called the vet already; he's on his way to the canyon by now."
"If he says it's natural causes, we'll pay. I guarantee it. You have Arlo Nightbird's word."
Gorman grimaced. "I'd sooner have a bad case of the piles."
Arlo let the insult pass. There was a rumor that, in his youth, Gorman Sweetwater had killed a knife-wielding Apache with those huge hands. The cigar hobbled in Arlo's mouth as he talked. "Dammit, Gorman, you ought to retire from this cattle business anyway. Can't make any real money at it, not with the import quotas from Argentina going up every year. Before long, you'll likely have to move them bone-bags out of Spirit Canyon anyhow."
Gorman was stunned. "What do you mean? I've had an allotment in
Canon del Espiritu
for my whole life; my father had it, and my grandfather…"
Arlo hung his thumbs over his alligator-skin belt. "You read the
Drum
, you'd know I'm the new chairman of the Economic Development Board. We're going to shake the federal government's money tree. They need a temporary site to store radioactive wastes from nuclear power plants. We're going to propose using Spirit Canyon. Indian reservations are a natural; the state legislatures don't have much to say about what we do on our own land."
The rancher's doubtful expression annoyed the entrepreneur.
"Listen, Gorman, the Skull Valley Goshutes in Utah and the Mescalero Apache down in New Mexico got a big head start on
Arlo squinted uncomprehendingly at the printout; Gorman watched his face and was reminded of a weasel. "How do we know the policy was written on your dead bull? Maybe," he glanced sideways at Gorman, "you got two hundred cows, you only insured two dozen?"
Herb Ecker produced a piece of blue paper. "The photographs and ear-tag numbers are all here, Mr. Nightbird." The young man pointed at a color photo stapled to the list. "That is Big Ouray. Ear tag number 101."
Arlo glared at the color photograph of the sullen bull, then unfolded the policy and read it through the bottom of his bifocals.
Gorman grinned. Arlo was boxed in; maybe he'd get a major case of heartburn. Maybe even one of them coro-whatzits.
Arlo folded the papers and dropped them on his desk. "So how'd your damn old bull die?" He tried hard to sound casual. "Some cityboy hunter mistake him for an elk?" That would void the policy.
"Elk season," Gorman said, "ain't till October." The rancher smelled a trap; he looked down at his muddy boots. "Big Ouray's stone dead; that's all that matters. I want my money."
Arlo sensed a weak spot. "Policy only pays on death by natural cause. Terminal belly ache, lightning strikes, baseball-sized hail stones, predators, that kind of thing."
Gorman looked up quickly. "It was a pred—predabiter."
"What kind of predator? Mountain lion, bear?" Arlo grinned. "Sasquatch?"
"Don't know." Gorman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Whatever it was didn't wait around for me." Or did it? The blood-chilling howl from the mesa top still rang in his ears.
Arlo chewed on his cigar, allowing Gorman time to sweat a bit. "You'll need some evidence. The insurance adjuster, maybe he'll think
you
killed the bull." He saw Gorman's massive fists clench. "Now don't get edgy. I didn't say / believed you'd try to cheat the insurance company, but you know how nit-picking these adjusters can be."
"You tell the adjuster it was a predabiter. Then he'll pay."
"Okay. Tell me what kind of animal killed your bull."
"Don't know for sure."
"There must have been signs, tracks. What the hell kind of Indian are you, Gorman, you can't tell from the signs…"
Gorman raised his big frame from the chair and leaned over the desk, waving his hand as if he might grab Arlo by the throat. "What the hell kind of Indian are
you
, Arlo, trying to cheat one of the People? You little thief, I ought to—"
Arlo backed his chair up against the wall. "Now calm down, I didn't mean to upset you, but I got to go by the rules. Have Doc Schaid examine the animal."
"I called the vet already; he's on his way to the canyon by now."
"If he says it's natural causes, we'll pay. I guarantee it. You have Arlo Nightbird's word."
Gorman grimaced. "I'd sooner have a bad case of the piles."
Arlo let the insult pass. There was a rumor that, in his youth, Gorman Sweetwater had killed a knife-wielding Apache with those huge hands. The cigar hobbled in Arlo's mouth as he talked. "Dammit, Gorman, you ought to retire from this cattle business anyway. Can't make any real money at it, not with the import quotas from Argentina going up every year. Before long, you'll likely have to move them bone-bags out of Spirit Canyon anyhow."
Gorman was stunned. "What do you mean? I've had an allotment in
Canon del Espiritu
for my whole life; my father had it, and my grandfather…"
Arlo hung his thumbs over his alligator-skin belt. "You read the
Drum
, you'd know I'm the new chairman of the Economic Development Board. We're going to shake the federal government's money tree. They need a temporary site to store radioactive wastes from nuclear power plants. We're going to propose using Spirit Canyon. Indian reservations are a natural; the state legislatures don't have much to say about what we do on our own land."
The rancher's doubtful expression annoyed the entrepreneur.
"Listen, Gorman, the Skull Valley Goshutes in Utah and the Mescalero Apache down in New Mexico got a big head start on
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