Coyote Blue

Chapter 34~36

CHAPTER 34

Let Slip the Dogs of Irony

The owl was still perched on the power pole.

Adeline Eats sat in her easy chair reading the Book of Job, trying to keep her dinner down. On the way back from the clinic the kids had elected to have pancakes for dinner and Adeline had eaten a mountainous stack and all the mistakes. Now the matriarchs of breakfast, Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth, were waging a bubbling battle in her stomach while her kids burned with fever and Job suffered boils.

Adeline admired Job for keeping his faith. All she had was a house full of sick kids, a husband with a peyote hangover, an owl out front, and a little difficulty reading small print through her sunglasses, and she was ready to pack it in to her reserved spot in Hell. Old Job was quite a guy, especially with God acting like such a prick. What was that about? When her sisters talked about the Bible it was all the Sermon on the Mount and the Song of Solomon, Proverbs and Psalms; never smitings and plagues. And her sisters had never mentioned that God was a racist. He sure hated those old Philistines. Adeline had a cousin in Philadelphia; she wore a little too much eye shadow, but that didn't seem a sin you should get smote and circumcised for....

Adeline's religious reverie was interrupted by a tidal surge of acid in her stomach. She put the Bible down and went to the kitchen for some Pepto-Bismol. She found the bottle and wrestled with the child-guard cap for five minutes before deciding to smite its head off with the cleaver Milo used for hacking deer joints. She was raising the cleaver when the doorbell rang like a call from the governor.

She waddled to the door and threw it open. An enormously fat white man in a powder-blue suit was standing on the steps, hat in hand, sample case at his side, grinning like a possum eating shit. He looked vaguely familiar.

"Pardon me, ma'am," he said. "I was looking for a Mrs. Adeline Eats, but I have obviously stumbled onto the home of a movie star."

Adeline remembered that she was still wearing sunglasses and her hair was piled up on her head. She lifted her glasses. "I'm Adeline Eats," she said. She peeked over his shoulder and shuddered. The owl was still on the pole.

"Of course you are. And I'm Lloyd Commerce, purveyor of the worlds finest vitamin supplement and herbal remedy: Miracle Medicine. May I come in?"

Adeline eyed him suspiciously. "Didn't you sell me a vacuum cleaner a long time ago?"

"You've got a heck of a memory, Mrs. Eats. I did have the privilege of bringing to people's lives that beam of brightness known as the Miracle. How's it working?"

"I don't know. I don't have any rugs."

"Very shrewd, Mrs. Eats. What better way to avoid dirty carpets than to avoid carpets altogether? The very reason that I have turned my efforts to a product that addresses the number one problem facing families today."

"What's that?"

Lloyd put his hat over his heart. "If you could just afford me a minute of your time, you will reap the benefit of years of research."

"Okay, come on in. But you got to be quiet. My kids are sick and my husband is resting." Adeline stepped out of the doorway and the salesman floated by her to the couch.

Adeline sat in her chair across from him. Her stomach gurgled and rolled. She stifled a belch. "Excuse me."

"Indigestion!" Lloyd exclaimed as if he had discovered the cure for cancer. "Fortune has smiled on you, Mrs. Eats. I have in my case the bee's knees of indigestion remedies." He pulled a brown bottle from his case and held it out reverentially. "Mrs. Eats, may I present Miracle Medicine."

Adeline fidgeted. "I don't know if I can afford it. I've been off work for a couple of days taking care of my kids."

"In that case, you can't afford to be without it. And with a house full of illness you can't afford to wait."

"Will this stuff cure the flu?"

"The flu? The flu?" Lloyd shook the bottle at Adeline. "The flu doesn't exist when you have Miracle Medicine. It makes them that's sick well, and them that's well better. This is no backward primitive remedy, ma'am, but the finest product that nature and modern science could come up with. Miracle Medicine cures croup, cramps, cankers, and the creeping crud."

"I don't know...," Adeline said.

"And how could you know until you try it? Why, Miracle Medicine will even raise your self-confidence, as well as doing away with excess mucus, the embarrassment of bad breath, intestinal gas, dandruff, the heartbreak of psoriasis, most mental illness, and the post-peyote dry heaves."

"I don't think so," Adeline said.

"You don't think so? Mrs. Eats, may I see your medicine cabinet?" Lloyd pulled a plastic garbage bag out of his sample case.

"I suppose so," Adeline said. "The bathrom is in there."

"Come with me," Lloyd said. He got up and led Adeline into the bathroom, where he threw open the medicine cabinet. He took a bottle of aspirin from the shelf and held it up. "What is this for, Mrs. Eats?"

"Headaches."

"Don't need it." Lloyd threw the aspirin in the garbage bag.

"Hey," Adeline said.

"Miracle Medicine makes headaches a thing of the past." He grabbed the tube of Preparation H and tossed it in the garbage bag. "Hemorrhoids are behind you, Mrs. Eats." Next went the cough medicine, the Band-Aids, some Neosporin ointment, and an old prescription for bladder infections.

"Hey, I need that stuff."

"Not anymore," Lloyd said. "Not with Miracle Medicine."

Adeline was starting to get angry. "Put that stuff back."

Lloyd lifted Adeline's sunglasses and looked her in the eye. "Mrs. Eats, you say you have a house full of sick kids. What exactly have you done to make them better?"

"I took them to the clinic but we couldn't get in. I've been praying."

Lloyd nodded knowingly. "Well you can say good-bye to prayer." He stormed back into the living room, picked up the Bible, and threw it in the garbage bag. "You don't need prayer when you have a medicine that reduces swelling, increases sex drive, and directly addresses the national debt."

"No," Adeline said, following him. "I don't want any."

He went to the crucifix on the wall, tore it off, and threw it in the bag. "Quiets coughs, promotes regularity, increases energy..."

"No!" Adeline said.

Lloyd took the 3-D picture of Jesus off the television and threw it in the bag.

"Calms nerves."

"No!"

"Cures acne."

"No!"

"Cures crabs, spiritual indecision, poison sumac, rabies, and-"

"No!"

"Gets rid of unwanted owls."

"How much is it?" Adeline said.

"Cash or check?" Lloyd said. He sat back down on the couch.

Adeline heard the bedroom door open. She turned and saw Milo coming into the living room, wearing sunglasses. He couldn't tolerate bright light for a day or two after a peyote ceremony. "What in the hell is going on out here?"

"I was just talking to this salesman," Adeline said.

"What salesman?"

Adeline turned around. The salesman, his sample case, and the garbage bag full of over-the-counter icons were gone. The brown bottle of Miracle Medicine sat on the table.

"Here honey, take some of this," she said. "You'll feel better."

She felt better already.

Sam felt as if he were passing out, then the vertigo of falling. The sounds around him faded; Pokey's voice became distant, then silent. He felt his stomach lurch, as if he had just gone into the big drop of a roller coaster, then an impact that flattened him on the ground. He looked up, expecting to see the others around him in the sweat lodge. The lodge, and everyone in it, was gone. There was nothing but blackness and the sound of his own breathing.

A thousand questions raced through his brain, but he realized that each one led to another and the best strategy was to maintain a state of automatic action and remember why he was here. He stood and squinted into the darkness. Two golden eyes were floating in front of him. He heard the sound of an animal breathing.

Suddenly a stone platform started to glow. On it stood a figure: a man's body with a dog's head, wearing an Egyptian kilt. Except for the golden eyes, he was black, so black he appeared to absorb light. He carried a golden staff tipped with the effigy of a falcon. Beside him on the platform was the source of the breathing sounds: a beast the size of a hippo, with the jaws of a crocodile on the body of a lion. It snorted and snapped at the air, flicking foam from its jaws. Behind them both stood a giant balance scale.

Despite all he had been through, Sam felt a wave of mind-blanking terror pass through him. He wanted to run, but couldn't move. With the light coming off the pedestal he could see human bones scattered around him. He realized that he was standing on his toes, every muscle in his body rigid.

The black dog man snapped his staff on the platform. "Okay, up on the scale," he said. Then he narrowed his gaze and stepped down from the platform. "Wait a minute, you're alive. Go away. We only do the dead. Out, out, out."

Of all the strange things Sam had seen in the last week, watching the dog mouth forming human speech was the strangest. It looked like the creature was trying to yak up a chicken bone. Suddenly the fear was gone. This was too goofy, like an Alpo commercial filmed in Hell.

"Are you the one I'm supposed to talk to about  -  about getting some help?"

"Look, I tried to warn you that my brother was going to cause you problems. I sent my agent to help you."

"Your brother?"

"Coyote is my brother. He didn't tell you?"

"No, he never mentioned a brother. He said I had to find the one that weighs the souls."

The dog man scoffed. "Well there's the scale. And here I am. Take a wild guess. Go ahead, Einstein, figure it out. I can't believe he didn't mention me." He sat down, hung his head and began scratching himself behind the ears. "He's an ingrate."

The monster growled and Sam jumped back.

"That's Ammut," the dog man said. "He wants to eat you."

Sam shuddered. "Maybe later. I'm here to ask a favor."

"You don't even know who I am, do you? That hurts. You think I don't have feelings?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I'm a little preoccupied. I didn't mean to be rude." Preoccupied? Naked, in a supernatural world, talking to the dog-food god, trying to get back the woman he loved. Excuse my manners, he thought. "I'm Sam Hunter, and you are?"

"Anubis, son of Osiris. God of the Underworld." He scratched behind his ears harder and his leg began to bounce with pleasure.

"Osiris? You're Egyptian?"

"My people lived in the Nile Valley, yes."

"But you said that you were Coyote's brother."

"He didn't tell you that story either?" Anubis was irritated.

"No, sorry," Sam said. How could Calliope's life be in the hands of this neurotic canine? He decided to try to placate the god. "But I'd love to hear it."

Anubis pricked up his long ears. "It was long ago," he began. "And the god Osiris brought to the people of the Nile Valley the knowledge to plant grain, and he brought great floods to nourish the grains. With his queen, Isis, he ruled all of civilization, until his brother Set, the dark one, became jealous and killed Osiris, tearing his body into fourteen pieces and scattering them over the valley.

"But Osiris had consorted with Set's wife, Nephthys, and she gave birth to two dog-headed sons, Anubis and Aputet. When Set found the boys he put them into baskets and set them afloat in the Nile. Later, Isis found Anubis and adopted him. But Aputet floated out to sea and across the ocean to another land in the West."

Here the dog-headed god puffed himself up with pride. "Anubis was always the one bound to duty, the faithful. He found the pieces of our father and bound them together so that Osiris lived again. For that he was given the job of weighing human souls against truth, and taking people to the Underworld.

"And my brother," Anubis said, "grew up in a wild land, with the powers of a god and no sense of duty or justice. All he cares about is the stories people tell about him. And he never remembers his brother, who has saved him so many times. He never visits. You're sure Coyote never told you this?"

Sam didn't know what to say. He thought of the Coyote tales he had heard as a child, and how this seemed to fit.

"No, I was told he brought my people the buffalo and taught us how to live off the land."

"He did those things to serve himself. Without a way to live, how could they tell stories about him? He has used me for years to make his stories. Now he has returned to Earth and used you."

It all fit. "He fucked up my life and got Calliope killed for the stories." Sam was trying to control his anger. "I'm here because he wants people to tell stories about him?"

"He had to or he would end up like me." Anubis lowered his voice. "Your people don't have a word in their language for «computer» or «VCR» or "television." The children are losing the old stories, the stories of hunting buffalo and counting coup. That's not their world. Coyote was afraid he would be forgotten, like me. With the new stories he's real again. You lived the stories that will bring him back. He doesn't care about the people, only that they are talking about him. I tried. I sent my agent to help you."

Sam looked at Anubis. "The big black guy, Minty? You sent him?"

"He's mine, a dutiful son, but he doesn't know it," Anubis said. "I can no longer walk in your world because I am a dead god. I died of change. So I sent the black one to help you. He is mine like you are Aputet's."

"I'm his? What does that mean?"

"You were born for his stories. To live them, to carry them on."

"He wants little kids to hear stories about killing innocent women? That's supposed to be good for a people?"

"He doesn't care. As long as the stories are told they will hold his people together. He says people need a good bad example. It gives them pride in doing the right thing. I have always done the right thing and my people are gone because of it, swallowed up by the Christian god."

"So how does the story end?" Sam asked. "Can I bring back Calliope? She didn't do anything wrong."

"I weigh the souls of the dead against truth. If there is balance, then the soul passes on. If not, I feed it to Ammut."

The monster snarled at the mention of his name. "I'm stuck here doing this tedious work while my brother roams the world having fun. It's not fair."

Sam kept pressing. "Let me take the girl back. It's not her fault that Coyote is a jerk."

"No," Anubis said. "My brother needs to learn a lesson. He has never had to sacrifice anything."

"Let her live and I'll tell your story. You'll be remembered again. People will believe." Sam had to keep pressing.

"Like the other stories?" The god affected a whiny, mocking tone. "'Then along came Coyote's brother, who jumped over him four times, and he came back to life. I never even get my name mentioned."

"Please," Sam pleaded.

Anubis shook his head slowly. "No. Tell my brother he needs to learn to sacrifice for his people. I have done what I can do." The jackal-headed god stood and walked off the pedestal into the darkness, the monster at his heels.

"Wait!" Sam started to run after him. The pedestal went dark and he felt the loss of his love even as the ground dropped out from under him.

Just before dawn Coyote climbed into the sweat lodge and sat beside Pokey. Sam's body was shaking, his eyes still rolled back in his head. "Wait!" he screamed. He jerked, as if someone had applied a current to his body, and his eyes rolled down. The door flap of the sweat lodge was thrown open and the first light of dawn was spilling through.

"How's my brother?" Coyote asked.

Sam lunged for Coyote's throat. "You killed her for stories!" Pokey caught him from behind in a bear hug.

"No, Samson." Pokey struggled to hold Sam. "You were gone all night. Harlan and his boys left. Someone named Minty Fresh called the house for you. He said to tell you that some bikers are coming here to take the child. He said they would be here about dawn."

CHAPTER 35

Crazy Dogs Wishing to Die

The Underworld made Calliope's death real, stripping Sam of the last of his hope, leaving him like a raw, screaming nerve. He ran naked out of the sweat lodge and dove into the cooling fire pit.

"Samson, stop it!" Pokey shouted.

Sam grabbed handfuls of ashes and rubbed them on his face and chest, then ran through the yard and into the house, Coyote and Pokey close behind him.

They found him in the living room, pulling the buffalo lance off the wall. The women had taken the children and retreated to the bedrooms. Pokey could hear them crying. Coyote grabbed Sam by the shoulder. "Stop this."

Sam shrieked and swung around with the lance, slashing Coyote across the chest with the long obsidian point. The trickster fell back bleeding. Sam ran out of the house.

"Go get him," Pokey said to Coyote.

Coyote got up and ran out the front door in time to see Sam vaulting the fence into the side field. Sam jumped on the back of a buckskin horse and wrapped a hand in its long mane, then dug his heels in and smacked the lance across its hindquarters. The horse shot forward and over the fence into the road, taking a line of barbed wire out with its front legs.

"Sam, wait!" Coyote shouted. Sam pulled the horse up and looked back at the trickster. Pokey joined Coyote on the porch.

"Samson, don't do this," Pokey said.

"I'm tired of being afraid, Pokey. This is a good day to die." Sam slapped the horse's flank with the lance and galloped down the road.

"Get the gate," Coyote shouted to Pokey. He ran to the field, scooping up a handful of mud from some tire tracks as he ran and rubbing it on his face and chest. He vaulted the fence and the paint horse, spooked by the commotion, ran to the other side of the pasture. "Come," Coyote commanded.

The paint horse stopped as if it had been jerked back by an invisible rope, then turned and galloped back to the trickster. Coyote calmed it, then climbed the fence and jumped on its back.

Pokey swung the gate open and Coyote rode the horse through, up the driveway, and down the road after Sam.

Rarely does one encounter a combination of human traits quite so frightening as a psychopath with a purpose. Yet, as dawn broke in Crow Agency, forty examples of that particular perversion cruised, in a double column of Harley-Davidsons, off the ramp from Highway 90, under the overpass by Wiley's Food and Gas, and down the main street of town. Lonnie Ray Inman rode at the head of the column, followed closely by Bonner Newton on one side and Tinker on the other. Behind them were the other members of the Guild's Santa Barbara chapter, and behind them joiners from other Guild chapters who, pumped with the mere idea of self-righteous vengeance, had volunteered to come along.

Pulling into town, they were losing some of their resolve, and confused glances passed from one biker to another. They knew they were coming to the Crow reservation to get a kid who had been stolen, but now that they were here, what were they supposed to do? No one was out on the street at this hour to observe their fierce show of unity and force. It was rapidly turing into an unsatisfying experience, especially for those who were not used to wearing shoulder holsters and were a little chafed under the arms.

Lonnie slowed the column to a creep as he looked down the side streets of Crow Agency for signs of the orange Z. At the edge of town, near the tobacco shop, he signaled the column to stop. It was obvious they were about to head into open ranchland. The big bikes thundered out iron flatulence as they idled, putting up a din that rattled the windows of Crow Agency. A few lights went on in town; a few faces appeared in windows. Lonnie Ray signaled Bonner to join him for a conference. Bonner Newton was moving to his side when they heard the war cry.

Lonnie and Bonner looked down the road to see two men on horses charging them, one waving a spear over his head and screaming. Bonner was the first to recover from the shock and started to draw his pistol when a shot went off to his left and the speedometer on his bike exploded, peppering him with splinters of glass and metal.

"I wouldn't draw that." The voice came from the rooftops. "I wouldn't fucking move." Bonner looked up to see someone holding a scoped hunting rifle on them. The horsemen were still bearing down on them. One of the bikers in the column started to draw and a shot came from the other direction, taking the light off his bike. There was another one on the roof across the street. The bikers looked around. There were four men with scoped high-powered rifles pointing down on them from different rooftops.

"I can take a flea off a gnat's ass at two hundred yards with this," Harlan shouted over his rifle. "You let them popguns stay where they are."

Sam screamed again, a long rasping wail.

"He's not fucking stopping," Tinker said. He drew his Magnum and fired before Harlan put a bullet in his shoulder, spinning him off his bike to the pavement. Coyote grabbed his chest and rolled off his horse, bouncing into the ditch. Seeing that Sam wasn't going to stop, Bonner Newton dropped his bike and dove into the gutter, covering his head.

Lonnie watched the crazed horseman, streaked with ashes and sweat, bearing down on him. Sam was only a few yards away, raising his lance for the kill, when Lonnie went for his gun. Sam yanked on the horse's mane, jumping it over the front of the bike. One hoof hit Lonnie in the chest; another took off a piece of his right ear before the horse stumbled into the bikers behind him. Sam rolled free and up to his feet. He ran back to where Lonnie lay and raised the lance above his head as Lonnie's eyes went wide and he screamed.

"Samson!" Harlan shouted.

Sam put all his weight behind the lance and came down with it, screaming at the top of his lungs. At the last second he spun the lance and touched Lonnie on the chest with the butt end. "Go away," he said.

Sam stumbled away and dropped the lance.

"That's it," Harlan shouted. "Everybody just turn your bikes around and go back the way you came. We'll drop the first one that looks like he's doing the wrong thing."

The bikers looked around in confusion. Festus, Harry, and Billy Two Irons kept their rifles shouldered and trained on the column. Bonner Newton climbed to his feet. "Turn around," he said, waving his hand in the air. He looked at Lonnie. "See if Tink can ride. Let's get the fuck out of here."

Sam walked back down the road to where Coyote had fallen. The trickster was lying naked in the ditch, covered with mud, his leg bent under him. Blood was coursing from a hole in his chest and he was breathing in short, rattling pants. Sam bent over him and held his head. Coyote's eyes slowly opened. "That's the last coup," Coyote said. "You counted the last coup. It's a new world now." The trickster coughed; foamy blood covered his lips.

Sam had no anger left, no thoughts, no words. A minute passed. He heard someone blowing a car horn somewhere, and Harlan saying, "Let him through."

Finally Sam said, "What can I do?"

"Tell the stories," Coyote said. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing. Sam gently lowered the trickster's head and lay down in the ditch beside him. He heard a car pull up on the road above, but did not look up. A car door, footsteps, and hands under his body, lifting him. He opened his eyes to see a battered black face with golden eyes.

"Are you okay?" Minty Fresh said. Sam didn't answer. He felt himself being put in a car. "I'll take you home," Minty said.

Sam sat in the limo, the car door open, staring at the dashboard. Someone walked up beside him and said, "Nice outfit, Hunts Alone." Sam looked up to see Billy Two Irons standing over him: older, and just as thin, but unmistakably Billy Two Irons.

Sam managed a weak smile. "Your face cleared up."

"Yeah," Billy said. "I got laid, too. Only last week, but who's counting after thirty-five years?"

Sam looked forward trying to squint back tears. Billy shuffled a bit with discomfort. "This guy's going to take you home. I'll stop by when things settle down a little."

Sam nodded. "It was a good day to die."

"You're always trying to cheer me up," Billy said. "Don't take off again, okay?" He patted Sam's shoulder and opened the back door of the limo for Minty Fresh, who laid Coyote's body on the backseat, then closed the door.

Minty closed Sam's door, then went around and got in on the driver's side. He put the key in the ignition and paused. Without looking at Sam he said, "I'm sorry. Your uncle told me about the girl. They beat on me pretty bad and I told them where you were going. I screwed up. I'm sorry. If I could make it up..."

Sam didn't look up. "How did you get away?"

"They found my casino ID. I think the rumors about the Mafia running the casinos is what stopped them. They were afraid of retribution. I called the casino and got your office number. Your secretary gave me the number here. I called as soon as I got away."

Sam didn't say anything. Minty started the limo and pulled slowly onto the road, headed out of town to the Hunts Alone place.

Sam said, "What are you going to do with his body?"

"I don't know. I guess it will come to me, like everything else I've done in the last two days."

Sam looked at Minty, and for the first time saw the golden eyes, surrounded with bruises. "Do you know what's happened here? Do you know what we are?"

Minty shook his head, "What we are? No. I was a trouble-shooter in a casino until yesterday. Now I guess I'm a car thief."

"You didn't really have any choice. But I think it's over now. You're free now."

"Sure, throw that responsibility on me," Minty said. He grinned.

Sam reached deep down and found he had a smile left, like the last worm in the bait can. They were approaching the Hunts Alone place. Minty turned into the driveway and stopped. "Do you need any help?"

"No, I'll be okay," Sam said automatically, not knowing what he needed. He opened the car door. "Where will you go?"

"Like I said, I guess it will come to me. Maybe San Diego."

"You can stay here if you want."

"No, I don't think so. But thanks. I'm feeling like there's still something I have to do."

"When it comes to you, remember, the sacred number is four. You jump over the body four times."

"Am I supposed to know what that means?"

"You will," Sam said. "Good luck." He got out of the car and stood at the end of the driveway watching Minty drive away. What now? He hadn't died, and he didn't have a life to return to. Nothing. Empty. Dead inside.

He turned and started toward the house. Cindy and another woman appeared at the door, and waited. From the shocked look on their faces Sam realized how crazed he must look: naked, covered with soot, streaked with sweat and tears. He waved to them and headed around the house to wash himself in the barrel back by the sweat lodge.

As he walked by the Airstream he heard the door unlatch and looked up.

Calliope stepped out of the trailer. "Sam?" she said. "I had the strangest dream." She looked around the yard, then at the trailer. "I didn't just land on the Wicked Witch of the East, did I?"

Sam closed his eyes and took her in his arms. He held her there for a long time, laughing, then sobbing, then laughing again, feeling as if he had, at last, come home.

Crazy Dogs Wishing to Die

One day, a long time ago, Coyote was coming along when he saw a cowboy sitting on his horse, rolling a cigarette. Coyote watched the cowboy take a little pouch of tobacco out of his shirt pocket, and then some rolling papers. He poured some tobacco into a paper, then pulled the strings of the pouch tight with his teeth and put it back in his pocket. Then he rolled up the paper, licked it, and stuck the cigarette in his mouth. He lit it with a match.

Coyote had smoked a pipe many times, but he had never seen anything quite so wonderful as rolling a cigarette. "I want to do that," Coyote said. "Let me do that."

"You can't," the cowboy said.

"Why not?"

"You ain't got a shirt, so you ain't got a shirt pocket for your tobacco pouch."

Coyote didn't wear a shirt in those days. He looked at his bare chest, then at the cowboy's shirt. "I can make a pocket in my chest."

"Well, why don't you do that." The cowboy unfolded his pocketknife and handed it to Coyote. Coyote looked one more time at the cowboy's pocket, to get the size right, then he made a deep cut in his chest. He looked a little surprised, then he fell over dead. The cowboy got back his pocketknife and rode off.

A little while later, Coyote's brother came along and saw the trickster lying dead on the ground. He jumped over Coyote's body four times and Coyote sprang up, good as new.

"You did it again," Coyote's brother said.

"I really wanted to roll a cigarette like the cowboy."

Coyote's brother shook his head. He said, "If you're going to live around these white folks, Coyote, you got to learn. Just because you want something, it don't mean that it's good for you."

"I knew that," Coyote said.

CHAPTER 36

There Ain't No Cure for Coyote Blue

There is a saying that goes back to the buffalo days: there are no orphans among the Crow. Even today, if someone stays for a time on the reservation, he will be adopted by a Crow family, regardless of his race. The idea of a person without family makes the Crow uncomfortable. So when Samuel Hunter became, once again, Samson Hunts Alone, he found that there was family waiting for him, as well as his new white wife and her son. Pokey said, "There ain't near enough blond Indians, if you ask me."

And even as he left his old name behind with his old life, Sam maintained his shape-shifter ways, putting on each face as it was needed. Sometimes he was quick and clever, and other times he was simple, when simple served his purpose. When he spoke for the Crow to the government he wore traditional tribal dress and an eagle feather in his hair. But when he reported to his own people he dug out one of his Armani suits and the Rolex (that had long since stopped running), because that is what they needed to see. He was given the honor of pouring for the sweat, and the responsibility to carry on the old ways, and he programmed a computer to speak Crow, and using it, at the age of eighty, Pokey Medicine Wing learned to speak his own language.

And Sam put on many faces when he told the stories. When he told the old stories, of how Old Man Coyote made the world, of how he got his power to change shapes, of Cottontail and Raven and the other animal people, Sam was like the trickster himself, grinning and laughing, making rude noises, his golden eyes shining like fire. When he told the new stories  -  of the Crow man who had forgotten who he was, of a Japanese businessman who saved the life of an old shaman, of a black man who helped rescue a white child from the enemy, of all the tricks and machines that Coyote used to bring the Crow man home, and of the last coup  -  his voice took on a melancholy sweetness and his eyes went wide and bright, as if life itself was a delightful surprise. And when he told the story of the journey into the Underworld, of how Coyote's brother let Calliope live again because the trickster gave his own life, Sam became grave and dark, and those who doubted were quickly convinced when they saw the scar on Calliope's back from the bullet that had killed her. But even as Sam put on these faces and wore these personalities, he knew exactly who he was. He was happy.

After a while Calliope became pregnant and Sam's peace was again thrown out of balance. He was jumpy and nervous until the day the little girl was born and he saw that she had Calliope's deep brown eyes, not the golden eyes of a trickster. And meanwhile, as Grubb grew, he found that he could frighten his adopted father by hiding and making the sound of a coyote howling, and for this he suffered long lectures from his old Uncle Pokey about respecting his elders.

When Grubb was nine, in the time of the new grass, Sam took him to the great medicine wheel for his first fast. During the ride, in Pokey's ancient pickup truck, Sam instructed Grubb on how to enter the Spirit World and prepared him for what to expect there. "And one last thing," Sam said as he left the boy on the mountain. "If a fat guy in a big blue car comes along and offers you a ride, don't get in."

What Grubb saw on his vision, and what happened when he grew up, is a story for another time. But it should be noted here that over the years, as he grew into manhood, his eyes faded gradually from dark brown to a bright, shining gold.

"Coyote medicine will do them white folks some good," Pokey said with a grin.

END

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