Charlie Moon is no stranger to the mysterious ways of the spirit world. But why is prize livestock being ritualistically butchered in the Canyon of the Spirit? That's what Granite Creek's chief of police Scott Parish wants to find out…before human blood begins to spill. Enter Moon's aunt and aging Ute shaman Daisy Perika. For only she who communes with the ancient spirits can truly comprehend the events that have happened upon Native American lands―and the even greater evil that is yet to be unleashed… In The Shaman Laughs , James D. Doss delivers another fascinating Charlie Moon mystery. “Doss does for the Utes what Tony Hillerman has done for the Navajo.” ― The Denver Post “A mystery that combines the ancient and the modern, the sacred and the profane, with grace and suspense.” ― Publishers Weekly “This is Hillerman country…but Doss is gaining…I hope these shaman activities go on for a long time.” ― Boston Globe “HARROWING…SUSPENSEFUL.” ― New York Times Book Review James D. Doss is the author of the Charlie Moon mysteries, including A Dead Man’s Tale and The Widow’s Revenge . Two of the Moon books were named one of the best books of the year by Publishers Weekly . The Shaman Laughs By James D. Doss St. Martin's Press Copyright © 1995 James D. Doss All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-250-10211-9 CHAPTER 1 Colorado, Southern Ute Reservation Cañon del Serpiente From a distance, the lone monolith has the sinister appearance of a peglike tooth, set firmly in the mouth of the Canyon of the Snake. A close examination reveals that the top of the sandstone projection is remarkably flat. Suitable, perhaps, for a table. Or an altar. Near the center of this surface, there is a cavity. In the age of the woolly mammoth and giant ground sloth, it was only a shallow depression that caught a few drops of rainwater; barely enough for a sparrow's bath. But that was then. Now it is larger. Deeper. But the sparrow no longer comes to bathe in this place. In a time known only to lingering ghosts, the basin was put to practical use by resourceful women of the Anasazi. They would fill the natural metate with hard grains of blue and yellow corn, then grind the maize into a coarse meal with heavy granite manos. Over a score of generations, their labors gradually enlarged the cavity and gave it a measure of symmetry. These were the fat years, before the great thirst visited the land. Drought did not travel alone; Hunger and Sickness strode along hand-in-hand, only a few faltering steps behind. At the appointed time, Death would come in the form of a small gray owl and sit on the heads of those who were called away to the world of shadows. Many were called. During the centuries after the Anasazi had passed into the whispers of romantic myth, the bowl-shaped cavity reverted to its original function as temporary home to the occasional goat-faced spider or silverwing cricket. But that was during the dry season. When booming thunderstorms rumbled over the sinuous canyon, the cavity would catch a precious store of water. Flittering yucca moths, even sleek ravens would come to drink. It might have remained so for a thousand millennia until the sand-laden winds finally eroded the monolith to dust. It did not remain so. On this day, the cavity in the stone is filled with a warm liquid. It is thicker than water. The long finger dips into the viscous fluid, then touches the tip of the tongue. Yes ... delicious. The finger dips once more, then moves in slow, deliberate strokes over the grainy canvas. The drawings on the sandstone table in Snake Canyon are simple, but the subjects are unmistakable. The original figure was a bull elk. There are also mule deer, a few horses, a scattering of domestic cattle. But the slaying of animals has never been more than a preparation for the ultimate goal ... and the incomparable delicacy. These new sketches in scarlet represent human beings, the second much larger than the first. The left hand of the smaller figure grasps a rectangular object. To the casual observer, it might be a purse. Or a book. To identify the larger of the intended victims, the stained finger executes a short arc over the stick-man's shoulder. Among those who possess knowledge of such matters, there will be no misunderstanding of this archaic sign. It is a crescent moon. The Shaman's Home: Cañon del Espiritu Daisy Perika leaned on the aluminum sill of her kitchen window. She stared at the stark outlines of the great stone women perched on Three Sisters Mesa, that five-mile finger of sandstone that separates the Canyon of the Snake from the Canyon of the Spirit. The old woman did this whenever she was troubled; it helped to calm her spirit. But something moved. She blinked at the ghostly figure of mist descending the mesa's crumbling talus slope. The vaporous Whatever It Was took each step with exaggerated care, as if a fall might cause serious injury. How curious; this comic behavior brought a slight s