Owl Dance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Owl Dance

  David Lee Summers

  Sky Warrior Book Publishing, LLC

  © 2014 by David Lee Summers, Second Edition

  Published by Sky Warrior Book Publishing, LLC.

  PO Box 99

  Clinton, MT 59825

  www.skywarriorbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Laura Givens.

  Editor: Carol Hightshoe.

  Publisher: M. H. Bonham.

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Acknowledgements

  “The Persian Witch” first published in Trails: Intriguing Stories of the Wild West in 2006 in a different form. Copyright ©2006 David Lee Summers.

  “Electric Kachinas” first published in Science Fiction Trails in 2007 in a different form. Copyright ©2007 David Lee Summers.

  “The Pirates of Baja” first published in Science Fiction Trails in 2010. Copyright ©2010 David Lee Summers.

  “The Clockwork Lobo” first published in WolfSongs - Volume 2 in 2011 in a different form. Copyright ©2011 David Lee Summers.

  To

  Rebecca Petithory-Hayes

  and

  Gary Hayes

  Whether traveling back in time to the Wild West

  or forward in time to an optimistic future,

  you are great companions to have on the journey.

  Chapter One

  The Persian Witch

  “Sheriff, I hate to spread rumors…”

  Ramon Morales tipped his hat back on his head. The blurred form of a small, hunched-over woman silhouetted by the light of the setting sun was in the door of his office. “Rumors? What…?”

  The woman inclined her head and planted her hands on her hips. “I’m talking about the curandera who rode into town last month in her fancy wagon.” She looked from one side to the other, then stepped close to the desk. Mrs. Chavez’s face became clear then. “I think she may be practicing black magic,” she said in hushed tones. “She might be a bruja.”

  The sheriff sat upright and put on a pair of wire-frame, round-lensed spectacles. “What makes you think that?”

  “That wagon of hers is full of strange potions and powders.” Mrs. Chavez’s breath smelled of garlic and onions. Ramon scooted back, putting a few inches between himself and the irate woman. “She gave Mr. Garcia a potion that cured his liver and he took up drinking again. She told Mrs. Johnson there wasn’t anything she could do about her straying husband.”

  Ramon shrugged. “Alfredo Garcia’s a drunk. Of course he started drinking again when he felt better.” The sheriff inclined his head, confused about the second point. “I’d think you’d be happy she couldn’t help Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. You’re a curandera, too. That’s more business for you.”

  Mrs. Chavez heaved an exasperated sigh. “That’s not the point. They went to her first, even though she’s not a local. She doesn’t even go to Mass.” She straightened and pointed a long, gnarled finger at the sheriff. “But that’s not the worst of it. You should see the owls. They’re her familiars.”

  Ramon stood. This nonsense had gone on for long enough. “She lives out by Old Man Seaton’s farm.” He firmly took hold of Mrs. Chavez’s elbow. She tensed and her eyes narrowed, but she did nothing else to resist as he escorted her toward the door. “There are always owls out there. They aren’t a bad omen. They just hunt the mice in the field.”

  “You would sympathize with those creatures—with a name like Búho Morales.” She clucked her tongue. Ramon rolled his eyes at the use of his nickname. “Mark my words, Sheriff. She’s trouble.”

  Ramon didn’t like the sound of that. He’d heard rumors of witch hunts in other parts of New Mexico Territory. Some had turned very ugly. Still, he wanted Mrs. Chavez out of there so he could focus on more immediate concerns. “I’ll go talk to her soon,” he said.

  She pursed her lips and seemed to consider that. Finally, her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  Ramon sighed and gently closed the door behind the old woman. Socorro, New Mexico had been part of the United States for less than twenty years. In that time, it had swollen from a population of about 400 to nearly 4000. Many of the settlers came to work the silver and lead mines in the surrounding mountains. Others were ranchers who had moved in from Texas after the Civil War, looking for new land to feed their cattle. Meanwhile, farmers did their best to hold onto prize soil near the valuable waters of the Rio Grande. It was a rough and tumble town that failed to attract many educated folks like doctors. Ramon was pleased at the prospect of a new healer in the town, but frustrated others would not welcome her.

  Ramon shook his head and tried to put thoughts of Mrs. Chavez behind him. It was Friday night of a warm spring day. That meant there would be bigger trouble than squabbling curanderas. The miners would be coming in from the hills and the cowboys would be coming in from the ranches. They would collide in the saloons that night. The sheriff turned around and resumed his place at the desk. Just as he removed his glasses and tipped his hat over his eyes to get a little more rest, the door burst open.

  “Sheriff!” Deputy Ray Hillerman was breathing hard. “We already got our first fight down at the Cap!”

  Ramon returned his glasses to his nose and pulled the pocket watch from his vest. “It’s not even 6 o’clock,” he grumbled. “It’s going to be a long night.” He closed the watch’s lid, placed it back in his vest pocket, then strapped his six-gun around his waist. He followed Ray out the door. It was a short, brisk walk around the corner to the Capitol Saloon. Socorro might have been the second largest town in New Mexico Territory after Santa Fe, but it was hardly a huge city like San Francisco. Ramon and Ray met one of the other deputies, Juan Gomez, at the door. Just as they stepped inside, a gun went off and the big mirror behind the bar shattered.

  Ramon gritted his teeth. He would much rather go home for a quiet dinner than break up a bar fight between the miners and ranchers who had taken over his town. He drew his gun and fired a couple of shots at the ceiling. “All right, everyone!” he shouted. “Drop your weapons real peaceable-like.” A couple of guns clattered to the ground and a cowboy flew in the sheriff’s direction. He stepped aside and the cowboy continued on out the door. The heart of the fight was still going on in the back corner. A cowboy cracked a miner over the head with a pool cue. Ramon sighed and holstered his gun. The sheriff and his deputies waded into the fray. Juan hurled three of the cowboys toward the bar. The sheriff pulled one guy off another while Ray pushed a miner into the wall.

  A miner had a cowboy pinned to the top of a pool table, beating him senseless. Ramon motioned to Juan who grabbed the miner’s arms and pinned them behind his back. The sheriff drew his pistol again and looked around. “Now boys, this is not the way to start the weekend.”

  One of the miners with grungy clothes and dirt-encrusted eyebrows stepped forward. “One o’ them thar cowboys said we’s nothing but a bunch o’ earthworms.”

  “I don’t care who started it.” Ramon was startled to realize that he really didn’t care. The only person in the room who actually grew up in Socorro with him was Juan. “Everyone who has a weap
on, drop it now. We’ll take ’em over to my office and you can pick ’em up tomorrow when you’ve sobered up enough.” Several pistols clattered to the floor. As one of them hit the ground, it discharged and the bullet caught Ramon in the shoulder. He spun around and fell back onto the pool table, landing on top of the cowboy the miner had been beating. Juan and Ray ran to the sheriff’s side. “I’m all right,” grunted Ramon. “It’s just a graze.”

  “You better go see the doc,” said Ray. “Get that cleaned up, anyway.”

  The sheriff struggled to climb off the pool table, then looked at the fellow lying there. “I think Doc Corbin’s going to be busy with this guy. Ray, you better get him over there while Juan rounds up the guns.”

  “But what about you?” asked Juan.

  The sheriff looked around at the miners and cowboys. They seemed to have calmed down somewhat. Some were packing up to head off to other saloons while a few were going to the bar. One cowboy even bought a miner a drink. The sheriff thought that was a good sign. He looked down at his shoulder, and gritted his teeth. The wound needed treatment, but he wasn’t in the mood to see either Doc Corbin or the curandera, Mrs. Chavez, just at the moment. “I think I can tend to this myself.”

  “I hear that new curandera is pretty good,” said Juan. “I bet she could fix you up right quick.”

  One look out the window told Ramon it was early yet. The sun was still shining. There was a barstool in Socorro for every man, woman and child living in town. That meant there could be plenty more fights to break up before the night ended. The sheriff realized if he tried to treat himself, he could be out of action for a while. Looking at Juan, he nodded. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll go see what she can do for me.”

  Sucking in his breath, Ramon followed Ray out the door. Meanwhile, Juan began collecting the pistols and the barkeep swept up glass from the floor. Ramon frowned as he walked back toward the office. Every Friday night he seemed to understand a little more why his mother and cousins had left Socorro.

  Back at the sheriff’s office, Ramon collected his horse and rode down toward the Rio Grande, past Old Man Seaton’s farm and up a slight rise to where the new curandera had moved into an old adobe. Next to the house was the fancy wagon Mrs. Chavez had mentioned. It was painted and built all of wood, not covered with a canvas tarp like so many others. It reminded the sheriff more of a chuck wagon or a gypsy wagon from Europe than a Conestoga.

  As Ramon climbed off his horse, he heard odd little whistling sounds. When the whistling stopped, he heard the chirping of a burrowing owl. Stepping around the wagon, the sheriff saw a woman dressed in black, sitting on an old crate near a fencepost. Atop the fencepost was a small owl. The woman whistled and then paused. The owl would move from one foot to the other—almost like it was dancing—then it would chirp. Enchanted, Ramon watched this for a few minutes, but the orange glow of the setting sun reminded him time was short. He had probably not seen the last fight of the evening. The sheriff cleared his throat. Startled, the woman looked up and the owl flew away.

  Ramon was struck by the woman’s bright green eyes and lovely, smooth features, which quickly shifted from astonishment to impatience and finally to concern as her eyes settled on the wound. Noticing the direction of her gaze, Ramon realized he should say something. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I heard that you’re a curandera.”

  Without a word, she stood and stepped close. Carefully, she extracted the fabric of Ramon’s shirt from the wound so she could see better. At last, she nodded without taking her eyes off the injury. “Come this way,” she said. She led Ramon toward the house and paused to light a lantern that hung outside the door before taking it down and going inside. She reappeared a few minutes later with a black bag, like a doctor’s.

  She opened a door on the back of her wagon and instructed Ramon to sit down. He could smell assorted herbs from within and wondered what all she had in there. Opening the bag, she retrieved a bottle and some cotton. Far more gently than Doc Corbin would have done, she cleaned and dressed the sheriff’s wound. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” Ramon asked as she worked. “What’s your name?”

  “Fatemeh Karimi,” she said. “I’m from Persia.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He watched her climb into the wagon. She might not be a local, but somehow her gentleness and concern for a stranger reminded him of many good people from his youth, who had since moved on. She searched through a few drawers and finally climbed down next to the sheriff. She handed him a small bottle.

  “Drink this, it will help ease the pain but it won’t cloud your mind.”

  Ramon sniffed at the contents of the bottle and made a face, but he did as she instructed. “That was quite some trick you were doing—whistling at that ol’ hooty owl,” he croaked, trying to hide the tears that came unbidden to his eyes from the potent flavor of the herbs. “It was almost like you were talking to it.”

  She smiled. Ramon wasn’t sure whether she was amused by his reaction to the herbs or by the question. “That was no trick.” She stepped over to the well and retrieved a ladle full of water. “I am Bahá’í. We believe all humanity is one family and that family should live in harmony with the world. The owls are my neighbors. As you’d say, I’m doing my best to be neighborly.”

  Ramon took the ladle and drank the water. He was grateful it cleared the taste from his mouth. “Why did you come to America?” He handed the ladle back to Fatemeh.

  “In Persia, women must wear veils in public. A friend of mine resisted.” She looked down to the ground and moved a few pebbles with her boot. “She was arrested, and strangled with a silk scarf. When she was dead, they hurled her down a well and piled rocks on top of her.” She looked up and a tear ran down her cheek. She reached up and wiped it angrily away.

  “It would be a shame to cover such a lovely face.”

  She laughed bitterly. “I didn’t come to America to escape the veil. I came to America to escape what the veil represents—that women should remain hidden and unheard.”

  The sheriff sighed, thinking about Mrs. Chavez and some of the others he knew around Socorro County, like Bishop Ramirez. Then, he looked into Fatemeh’s eyes and smiled. “I’ve never liked it when one person says they’re better than another. I suppose that’s why I stayed in Socorro when so many in my family left. It’s why I became a sheriff.” He looked down at the badge pinned to his vest. “Still, it pays to be a little prudent,” he cautioned. “You may have freedom of speech here, but that doesn’t keep some people from spreading rumors…like Mrs. Chavez.”

  “Why should I be afraid of her?” She folded her arms across her stomach and snorted. “She only pretends to be a healer while she charges people huge fees to read cards and make phony love potions.”

  “I’m afraid she does have some powerful friends.” The sheriff suddenly realized his shoulder was no longer in pain. He touched the bandage, but pulled his finger away when it still stung. He snorted thinking Fatemeh had done a better job than Old Doc Corbin and certainly a lot better than Mrs. Chavez could have done. “I’m impressed,” he said, tipping his hat. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing today. In your line of work, I suspect you’ll be back. You’ll also meet others needing a healer.”

  “Fair enough.” Ramon started toward his horse. “You let me know if Mrs. Chavez or any of her friends come around here and bother you.”

  She inclined her head and narrowed her eyes. “Why would they do that?”

  “This is a good country with good laws, ma’am, but sometimes people forget those laws.” He pulled himself into the saddle. “It’s my job to refresh their memories.”

  She smiled slightly at that and looked the sheriff up and down. Although Ramon was flattered by her attention, a shiver traveled down his spine at the intensity of her gaze. “I think I’m going to like it here, Sheriff...”

  “Sheriff Ramon Morales, ma’am. My friends call me Búho.” He gathered the reins and spurred his horse down t
he trail before it got too dark to see. As he rode, he reflected on his nickname which meant “owl,” and like the owl on the fencepost, he supposed he was falling under Fatemeh’s spell.

  << >>

  Ramon found the rest of Friday night surprisingly quiet. He suspected the cowboys and the miners got all the fighting out of their systems early. He slept in late on Saturday. Mrs. Gilson, who owned the rooming house where he stayed, helped him change his bandages the next day. The wound still stung, but it could have been a lot worse. Things remained calm on Saturday night and Ramon decided to go to Mass at San Miguel. He hoped Father Esteban would be saying Mass, but was surprised to find Bishop Ramirez behind the pulpit. When he looked around at the pews, he noticed the bishop’s brother-in-law, Mr. Dalton, who owned one of the biggest mines in the area, sat two rows ahead of him. The sheriff slipped out early and made his way behind the church to the little parsonage. He knocked and Father Esteban appeared at the door with a warm smile.

  “I was just about to open a bottle of wine. Would you care to join me?” he said, ushering the sheriff inside.

  “I didn’t know priests drank.”

  “Not often and not to excess,” said the priest, “if we’re behaving ourselves.” He winked

  Ramon dropped into a wooden chair in the main room of the parsonage while Father Esteban poured two glasses of wine. He placed one in front of the sheriff. “What brings you here tonight?”

  “I was wondering if you knew what a buh-High is?” Ramon did his best to pronounce the word Fatemeh had used. Even though Father Esteban was Bishop Ramirez’s junior, he somehow struck Ramon as the one who spent more time with books.

  The Father took a sip of his wine. “I take it you’ve met our new curandera.”

  The sheriff nodded. “She said she’s from Persia. I was wondering if she was saying she was some particular type of Persian, like an Apache is a particular type of Indian.”

  Father Esteban chuckled, then took off his spectacles and placed them carefully in his pocket. “No, it’s more like how you might say you’re a Catholic or how your Deputy, Ray, would say he’s a Baptist. Bahá’í is a religion from Persia.”