Messenger: A Walt Longmire Story Read Online Free

the broken end. “Yikes.”
    Vic peered into the darkness of the vault. “I’m not sticking my hand or anything else in there where that damn thing can get at it.”
    I turned to see the Cheyenne Nation approaching from the willows near the creek with the now empty plastic tray in his hand. “What is going on?”
    “There’s an owl in there.”
    He tossed the tray onto the hood of his truck and continued toward us. “What kind?”
    “An angry one.” Vic looked past him. “Where are the bears?”
    “Up the creek; I took them past where the water is more swift and then climbed across on a fallen tree. I do not think they will go to the trouble of doubling back—they are pretty full of fish.”
    I glanced in the hole. “We’re trying to figure out how to get him out of here.”
    He looked at my shoulder. “Nice scarf.” I’d forgotten to give the costumer back her accessory.
    “
Who-who-who-whoo-whoo-whooo . . .”
    Henry leaned over the throne, and I clicked on the Mag-Lite, giving him a clearer view. He breathed out a breath through puckered lips. “Whew . . . great horned owl, princess of the Camp of the Dead.”
    “Princess?”
    He nodded. “It is a juvenile female.”
    Vic leaned in. “Now how the hell do you know that?”
    The Cheyenne Nation smiled. “The call, it is distinctively feminine.”
    My undersheriff shook her head. “Distinctively screwed is what she is.”
    Henry looked at me, and I filled him in. “The sewage people are going to be here any minute, and they’re going to pump the vault out, owl and all.”
    The Bear straightened, and it was not unlike the other bear on-the-fight that we’d just confronted. “You cannot do that.”
    “Henry . . .”
    “This may not simply be an owl.”
    I shook my head at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Henry, nobody wants to see this owl killed, but . . .”
    “She may simply be a Messenger from the Camp of the Dead, but she may be something else as well.” He took a deep breath and tried to explain. “Within my nation there are traditional beliefs that certain people, both male and female, who practice Medicine are believed to have the ability to shape-shift, and the form they choose most is that of an owl so that they might move silently through the night and cast spells on people while they are asleep and vulnerable to spiritual forces.”
    Vic looked at the Bear, then at me, and then back to the big Cheyenne. “If that’s the way you’re trying to convince us to save her, it isn’t working.”
    “Among my people there is only one owl even considered to be a bird and that is the short-eared owl or snake-eating-owl, an important source of medicinal power for shamans.” He pointed toward the toilet. “But this is not that type of owl, so it is
Mista
, or a spirit-of-the-night. Even the
Hohnuhke
, the Cheyenne Contraries of the buffalo days, wore the feathers of the owl but never that of the great horned or the screech—their power is too strong. So it was lesser owl feathers that were attached to the warrior’s shield, lance, or headdress to protect them, help them to see in the dark and make them deadly silent.”
    Vic shrugged. “Well, this one’s going to be silent but deadly here in a few minutes.”
    Henry held up a hand. “I am not a shaman and cannot tell the difference between the Messenger and an ordinary owl, but the holy men and women frequently seek spiritual help from these owls in conjunction with healing practices. It is believed that the owl has medicinal powers, soft and gentle, similar to their feathers.”
    I held up the stick and showed him the broken end. “Soft and gentle? She did this.”
    He shook his head in dismissal. “This is a young great horned owl and most likely the spirit of a transformed holy person, the unquiet spirit of the dead. The tufts on their heads are symbolic of horns, the signs of spiritual beings like the horned water serpents or chiefs of the underworld.” He