“I’ll find him and make that right with him.” Charlie said this knowing the finding of Harley Ponyboy might be a job in itself, but since Harley commonly took many of his meals either at the Yazzie or Begay house, Charlie was not overly concerned with this little incursion into the Ponyboy larder. “I’m sure one or the other of us will hear from Harley at some point today and can make it up to him.”
Thomas hoped so. He didn’t like to think of his little friend going hungry just so strangers even remotely related to Luca Tarango could fill their bellies.
16
Resurrection
Old Man Paul T’Sosi dreamed again the ancient dream of those who came before.
The next day he gave away his saddle.
It was time.
Paul never intended to have a curing ceremony. It was clear as rainwater what he needed to do. Henry Bill and his Blessing Way hadn’t been his idea in the first place. Henry, himself, after the barest of consultations, had agreed—he didn’t think there was need of a ceremony either—telling Paul’s daughter that, however, would only have made things harder. There would be more tearful pleas for Paul to go to the clinic or see an old people’s specialist in Farmington.
The venerable Singer had led a full life, and for the most part, was satisfied with the way it had played out. He didn’t intend being remembered as a doddering old fool. He’d had all night to rethink his decision, but in the morning was more determined than ever not to have a curing ceremony; there was no cure for old age. He was tired and he was sick; and he was sick and tired of people who didn’t understand—insisted on trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed.
They would look for him a while, of course, but would finally realize he wasn’t coming back—then they would give up looking—there wouldn’t be any point in it after that. No one wants to find a dead person…at least not any who have kept the old ways.
~~~~~~
A man and wife from New York stopped for Paul T’Sosi that morning, thinking it would be interesting to meet a real Indian. Paul was a good talker when he wanted to be, and knew what white people liked to hear. He told them he was on his way to attend a burial ceremony but didn’t mention it was for himself. The couple became caught up in his stories and would gladly have taken him even farther just to hear more. The old Singer insisted, however, he needed to get off at Mexican Water.
It took him a while, but he finally hitched another ride, this time with a one-eyed man taking a load of bucks to that rough country just south of the San Juan. The ewes, the man allowed, were a little early coming into season this year, and if he intended to have spring lambs time was growing short.
When Paul mentioned where he was headed, the man glanced down at the little bundle wrapped in a blanket and tied with a rope.
“That’s not much camp to take back into that rough country.” The man looked to be Piute and had a pretty good idea what this old Navajo was up to. The sheepman had spent a lifetime cheek by jowl with the Diné and knew very well what was on the old man’s mind.
“No,” Paul agreed, “But I won’t need much camp…I expect this will be plenty.”
“Not many people up that way anymore,” the man cautioned. “What few ever lived there are mostly gone now…moved closer to town to be by the schools and the stores. My wife is Navajo and she and I are about the last ones left on the lower Chinle…at least as far as I know…and we won’t be here either, come winter.”
Paul nodded. “Is it running water? The Chinle I mean, is it running water now?” It really didn’t matter, but water would be pleasant to look at he thought.
“I believe it is…but not too much… I crossed it horseback a few days back; we’ve had some rain since then, so it could be more.” Water and the exact amount of it was an important topic of conversation in that country and it was important to report it exactly right. “Are you headed back in that far? A little late in the day for it…don’t you think?”
“Maybe…” Paul turned and for the first time looked the Piute over more carefully. It was said, in olden times, many of the Great Basin Piutes were barely over four and a half feet tall. It was poor land for a poor people and didn’t encourage growth of any kind. This one-eyed Piute had gone some better though, nearly as tall as Paul, who being old himself was not as tall as he once had been. When the Diné finally answered the man’s question, it was with a hint of frustration, “Yes, I’m a little later than I planned. It took me a while to catch a ride this morning.”
The Navajo have generally gotten along with what few Piutes lived along the northern reaches of the San Juan. Those people were never so warlike as their Shoshoni and Ute cousins. And they didn’t join Kit Carson as scouts in that great purge of the Navajo people—leading eventually to the Long Walk across New Mexico to the reviled Bosque Redondo.
“Well, I guess you were lucky I came along then.” The sheepman noticed Paul watching the bucks in the rearview mirror. They were big rangy Suffolk; the kind Indian stockmen could only afford to lease from a tribal-sanctioned breeder of terminal sires. The Tribe occasionally offered help to local sheep men who wanted to increase the quality of their flocks. “Are you a sheepman?”
“We run a few Churros,” the old man’s reply was noncommittal, as though uncertain of the exact number of sheep his family might have on hand. “My daughter is a weaver.” He said, thinking that might explain them having the ancient breed.
“Ah, not many have that old kind of sheep no more. I guess it was up to the weavers to keep them going.”
“Yes, they are getting hard to come by now.” Thinking about the sheep had confused Paul—who was taking care of them today?
The two jounced along in silence to the top of a rise, where the driver slowed the truck to a crawl and pointed down to a thatched shelter alongside a mud and wattle dwelling. There was a rickety set of corrals to one side of the structures and a woman appeared to be sorting a band of ewes. “That’s our place down there; we’re only here till the pasture gives out and then we go too. We’ve had a good summer as far as rain goes, ordinarily we would be gone by now. There’s still good feed here though, and I don’t see no point feeding these bucks what little hay we have put by at home. In another two weeks the ewes should be covered. Then we’ll take them all back down to the home place for the winter.”
“Your people… they been in this country a long time, haven’t they?” It was more a statement of fact than question, and Paul smiled as he watched the man consider how he should answer. The Navajo had always maintained this strip along the San Juan was rightfully theirs—but seldom begrudged the few Piutes a place here; it was hard country and few Diné ever called it home for very long. Besides, this man was married to a Diné and thus had Tribal rights by marriage. Paul idly wondered what clan the man’s wife was but didn’t bother to ask.
The sheepherder, seeing the look on his face, finally chuckled. “We Piutes been here since time began, according to my grandfather. He said we always been here.” The man knew that’s how the Navajo thought, too, and expected he might get a rise out of the old man. The one-eyed man grinned as he wrestled the truck over a rough spot. “I guess it’s good to have a country no one else wants.” He turned his one good eye on Paul and nodded as though making up his mind to something. “You’re welcome to roll out your blanket in the brush shelter for the night. I’m going a ways up into that same country in the morning to get a load of firewood; I could take you back in a little farther, if that would suit you?”
Paul T’Sosi was worn out and doubted he could make it much farther on foot this day anyway. He nodded and smiled his appreciation before looking away.
The next morning, the man’s wife brought the two men coffee and fry-bread with slices of bacon on top. The Piute said goodbye to the woman with a glance in Paul’s direction. The woman seemed sad as she stood watching them go. When they were well above camp she waved goodbye, even knowing they wouldn’t see it. Her own father had chosen to end his life in ju
st such a way. She shook her head and called up the dogs before opening the corrals to turn the bucks in with the ewes. Life went on.
The truck clawed its way nearly to the rim above the San Juan before grinding to a stop. Chinle Creek was just over a slight rise to their left. When Paul got down from the pickup the two men barely looked at one another.
Shouldering his bedroll, the old Singer thanked the Piute for his trouble and when asked, assured the man he didn’t have far to go. It was a place, he said, that could only be reached by foot but close enough it wouldn’t take him long. Paul mouthed a brief goodbye and turned his face west, searching with rheumy eyes for the little feeder canyon that would take him cliff-side and the hidden ledge still so clear in the far reaches of his mind. In less than an hour more he had reached the trail down and given his muddled state of mind, was somewhat surprised it hadn’t been harder to find. Elmore Shining Horse had shown him this place when the aged Hataalii was still strong enough to get around in such country. Paul had been back only one other time in all those years…he remembered it all right.
One would think twenty-five thousand square miles of reservation would afford plenty of places for an old man to leave his bones. Maybe…he thought, but not good places like this one. Many of the best places he knew already had bones in them…some bones on top of bones. That’s no way to spend eternity. He didn’t want that.
The entire Four Corners area was little more than a vast burying ground. Paleo-Indians were likely first to migrate into the country—more than ten or even twenty thousand years ago. Their posterity may have slowly evolved there, culturally speaking, eventually taking up residence under the tribal names of Ute, Piute, and maybe a few other isolated bands of Great Basin Shoshonian rootstock. Then the Anasazi came, and later when drought forced them out, they resettled in other places to become what is believed to be the Puebloan people, the Zuni, Hopi, and others. And then the Navajo and their Apache cousins began filtering down from the North Country in yet another wave of those hardy adventurers who crossed the land bridge now known as the Bering Straits. They didn’t come all at once, of course they trickled down in ragged little groups, some interacting with different peoples along the way. By the time the Diné finally reached the Four Corners they had only a few hundred years to settle in before the Spaniards came exploring—and the Mexicans up from the south, determined to carve out a place for themselves in that harsh land. Later, the Mormons, and other white settlers began flooding through. They all came, died, and were buried here.
Now, in a more modern and diverse society, they fenced their dead into little dead-people villages with only stone markers to remember them by. At least, some said, they did not leave them lying about some isolated nook or cranny where honest folk could run afoul of those spirits left in their wake.
Paul wondered how many of his own people’s bones lay hidden…forgotten over the centuries. That was the old culture—all about survival of the fittest, and sad though it might be, there was neither time nor resources to be spared for those too weak, old or disabled to keep up. There eventually came a time when those unfortunates must, of necessity, be abandoned and left to their own devices. Many were the taboos to forbid, or at least discourage dwelling on their memories.
Those left to carry on did their best to forget the ones they’d left behind. It must have been hard trying to erase memories, or visions of loved ones appearing in dreams. There was no way around that, of course, and recurring dreams came to be considered omens—and not always good ones, either. There are traditionalists who think it best to disconnect from their people when that time has come. They feel loved ones should move forward unburdened. It was not so long ago families still had to make that hard choice; the stories are not unknown. Paul wouldn’t want it to come to that. Although he knew his own family would never go so far as to abandon him in such a way.
The alcove was not much below the rim, hidden by a huge slab of sandstone calved almost vertically from the roof to hide the front of the cave-like interior; it was not an uncommon phenomenon. His uncle, Elmore Shining Horse, on an expedition to gather medicinal plants, had shown him this place and it remained stuck in his mind. The old man first found it as a child chasing a rabbit that sought refuge there. His uncle had grown up in that country and often mentioned what a good place this would be to spend the afterlife. The climb down, while not so steep, was rough with fallen rock and scree tiring for an old man who was not quite himself.
Once inside, Paul T’Sosi found the recess much as he remembered it more than a half-century earlier. Odd how easily those old memories came now, yet how hard it was to recall what happened only the day before. The walls and ceiling here were still free of soot or any other hint of human discovery, the floor clean of any sign, leaving only a layer of sand to record the end of his own story. There was a little space at the end of the alcove where one could lie protected while still looking out over the country, down to the river of shining water, and feast on that vision until he knew no more. Not many could afford such a tomb as this, Paul thought
The west-facing slab, now bathed in the glow of a setting sun, radiated warmth, and allowed a comforting, almost ethereal light to filter in. Being dead, he wagered, was not the hard part. It was the process of dying that remained in doubt…a certain mental fortitude might be required for that. His own father died in his sleep only to be found the next morning with a smile on his face. His father’s brother, Elmore Shining Horse thought this a great blessing, saying, his brother might have been thinking of something…but would never say what he thought that might be.
Paul settled himself on his worn blanket and sorted through the meager pile of dried plants and medicinal herbs beside him. They would make the end easier, or so it was said. The water bottle he set aside, certain it was enough to sustain him through the simple ritual.
He had not meant to eat that morning but the look on the face of the Piute woman was so sad he felt obligated to take at least a few bites when it was offered. He had purposely brought no food; the idea was not to prolong the process, but to allow a natural progression of events to eventually bring things to a close. Maybe, he would at last recall those shadow dancers at the back edge of his mind. It would be good to see those people again.
As the sun sank beyond the river, Paul fell under the spell of a last trickle of light touching him with a final blessing. Truly, he had chosen the right place.
17
The Supposition
Charlie Yazzie had almost convinced himself he had done the best he could by Tressa and Little Abe Garza. They were safe where they were…if they stayed there, but he had no real control over that and it was all he could manage for the present; other duties needed tending. He dropped Thomas off and by the time he reached the office it was nearly time for everyone to shut down for the day. He sat in his chair for a few moments quietly watching the exodus, mentally listing those things yet to be done, so many, he felt guilty and wondered how he would ever catch up. Billy Red Clay had radioed him on his way into town asking if they could meet after work—he had some news, he said.
Charlie watched the clock and guessed Billy was closing his own office about now and probably wouldn’t be long doing it. He looked toward the reception area; Gwen had obviously left early. Charlie made a mental note not to let that pass without comment the next morning. He still hadn’t heard from Bob Freeman at DEA. That was strange he thought Bob seemed so anxious to stay on top of the situation earlier. Charlie knew the agent was probably en route and likely out of radio range. Still it bothered him.
The investigator, to busy his mind, sorted through his in-box thinking Gwen might have left something for him…a note or excuse for her leaving early perhaps…but obviously not. Things had apparently gone well enough without him. Charlie sighed and after glancing out the window to check the parking lot, decided a restroom break was in order. Returning back down the hall he could see Billy Red Clay at the reception desk, looking undecided, as though
waiting for Gwen to appear and check him in.
Catching his eye, Charlie motioned him on back and was already seated behind the desk when Billy came in, frowning up at the clock, and saying, “Your people don’t waste any time clearing out after work, do they?”
“No,” the investigator couldn’t deny that, “but I intend having a little talk with the chief instigator tomorrow morning; She’s been gaining a few minutes on me every day—if I let it go on unchecked she won’t be coming in at all.”
Billy took this to mean Gwen might soon find herself out of a job and nodded his encouragement. Temporary services had sent the woman over to Tribal a couple of times and they hadn’t gotten along. It seemed as though Gwen figured anyone with so small an office as Billy’s probably didn’t deserve much consideration. The young policeman shook those thoughts away and recovered his sense of purpose. He was again focused when he said; “I went out to Emma Bitsii’s place today. She lives a damn long way out there, too, so far, in fact, they used to let her ride the school bus back and forth to work before she retired. She never learned to drive and had very little schooling of any kind. Everyone always thought Captain Beyale had something to do with Emma being hired in the first place…along with a couple of other things no one could figure out.
Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow. “Such as…?”
Billy scratched his jaw and stroked his sparse chin whiskers. “Such as being on the books as Office Manager when all she really did was keep the Captain’s office straightened up and the file room in order—along with being in charge of checking the folders in and out.”
This was the sort of nepotism that went on in every facet of the Tribal hierarchy and Charlie wasn’t surprised. His was one of the few agencies taking an aggressive attitude toward hiring in that regard. So far Charlie had managed to keep a lid on it but was sure there were instances flying under the radar. When his own wife wanted to come back to her old job—after the babies were up and running around—he had to tell her it was no longer possible. “Things have changed at Legal Services,” was all he said, and didn’t mention being the instrument of that change. The sad thing was, Sue was the best Office Manager they’d ever had.
Day of the Dead Page 15
