Alexandre’s Postings
From there it was on to Beecher’s Island in Colorado, where, according to one of the journals, Alexandre was recruited to be on a specially selected force of fifty troopers who had participated in a pitched battle against Cheyenne and Sioux warriors. They were only able to survive due to their Spencer repeating rifles, and a relief expedition eventually sent from Fort Wallace. Nick then went to Summit Springs, where Alexandre had his second blooding, again against the Cheyenne, but this was more of a massacre than a battle, with the Pawnee Scouts doing most of the killing. From copies of his letters home in the journal, it seemed something in Alexandre changed after this, that he didn’t quite agree with Philip Sheridan’s philosophy that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian.” It was an unpopular stance to take given the times and his chosen profession, but it was evident that his moral compass was inexorably shifting.
Alexandre had then been posted to Fort Garland in the New Mexico Territory, which was eventually abandoned after the natives were forced onto scattered reservations. As Nick drove through, it was gearing up for the annual Jam Band Music Festival. And judging from the crowds around the recreational marijuana shops, it was going to attract a bit of a psychedelic crowd. One brightly colored t-shirt in particular caught his eye, and proudly proclaimed Long Live the Dead. While there were a couple of preserved buildings from the fort on the outskirts of town, there were no records he could dig into, so he motored over to a much more substantial and interesting site, Mesa Verde, located in the southwest corner of Colorado. This is where the journal cut off, having ended at Fort Wingate, and Nick was now going by memory in recreating the places he had been on those hot summer trips, so long ago. It wasn’t hard to remember Mesa Verde, it being so indelible that he reflected his passion for archeology very well may have started there.
Its stunning pueblos were sheltered under the lips of imposing cliffs, and the main settlements and the surrounding scattered dwellings had influenced a large area until abandoned sometime in the late thirteenth century. It was speculated that drought and overpopulation had forced their abandonment and the inhabitant’s migration south to locations in Arizona and New Mexico.
Dad had visited it several times over the years with the boys and Josie, as if something there was reaching out to him, somehow drawing him back. But one trip to the magnificent ruins seemed more significant than the others, more time had been spent there, Dad immersed in it more deeply. That was the trip detailed in the missing journal, its secrets now beyond Nick’s reach and memory.
After driving up the plateau to 8,500 feet, he paid his entrance fee and arranged with the park rangers—who were happy to accommodate a professional archeologist—to camp out in a restricted area and see a sunset and sunrise in the astonishing vista it afforded.
Appropriately named, Nick thought as he surveyed the plateau and surrounding area. On the ride up he had seen a variety of vegetation, much of it sun-scorched and stunted. Here up on the flat top there was more virility and wildlife. The Spanish translation of Mesa Verde literally meant green table.
Sequestered that night in an out of the way place with an outstanding vantage point, he crawled out of his sleeping bag to look at the stars, reflecting this would have been a great place to have a dog for a companion. You would have loved this Topaz, he thought. He blew in his hands to warm them, and carefully screwed his camera onto a tripod, set the image to wide screen, cranked the aperture setting, and coded in a long exposure. Photos of the nighttime sky, with no ambient light interfering and the pinpoints of the stars rotating as the earth revolved, never ceased to provoke a sense of awe in him, somehow making him feel very small in the universe. Tonight in this setting he wanted one for posterity.
Nick awoke early the next morning to the sweet and bitter scent of the creosote bushes, feeling refreshed and invigorated, relishing having had the chance to spend some unrushed time in such a transcendent place. “Food for the soul, exercise for the mind,” as his dad would have said. The view of the iconic Cliff Palace and the Montezuma Valley to the north took his breath away. He spent the cooler early morning hours playing tourist, crawling up ladders and squeezing through small openings on both guided and unguided tours. As the heat rose and the tourists started multiplying, he decided it was time to hit the road. He had only one more stop before meeting Charlie, in what was Alexandre’s last real posting, at Fort Wingate in New Mexico.
The drive was pleasant, unhurried, and when the Eagles happened to come on and play Take It Easy, he found himself belting out the lyrics along with them.
“Well I’m a-standin’ on a corner in Winslow Arizona, such a fine sight to see, it’s a girl my lord in a flatbed Ford slowin’ down to take a look at me.”
He laughed at himself and continued singing as he spied a roadrunner skittering off in the distance. Wile E. Coyote and an Acme anvil can’t be far off, he thought.
Nostalgia of the places he had been with his family, of a younger and more innocent time he missed, of the loss of his parents, and of the anticipation of seeing his brother, all conspired to make him start to feel a bit lonely, almost melancholy.
Yeah, one of these days I’m going to take someone special on a real road trip to this part of the beautiful earth. But first I have to find her, he mused.
He glanced out the window at a passing convertible with a beautiful young woman driving, her golden hair flowing in the breeze, her hand out the window, dipping with the wind.
“Any volunteers?” he asked as she zoomed past.
Route 66 took him right to Fort Wingate, which back in the day had played a role in the pacification of the Indians in the area, mainly Navajo. As later efforts against the Apache to the south increased, many found themselves incarcerated at the fort. Two notable figures from history who had been here included Douglas McArthur, who lived here as an infant, and Black Jack Pershing, who served as a lieutenant at the fort. “And Alexandre LaBounty,” Nick added, “Though in what capacity I know not.” What he did know was this area was a favorite haunt of his dad’s, and the kids had been to the fort, and to the nearby Canyon De Chelly and Chaco Canyon, on multiple summer trips. Nick did his usual thorough checking out of the fort, but there wasn’t much there to see, and he remembered his dad being much more interested in the nearby canyons.
His road supplies nearly exhausted, Nick decided to dine at the aptly named Badlands Grill, which was as good as billed, with good food cheap. As he ate, he flipped between the two journals in front of him, those that bookended the one that was missing. Nothing indicative of anything that seemed consequential in either of them, no meaningful threads he could pull on, no hints as to why the one journal was gone. He then opened Grandma Ingrid’s well-worn family reunion booklet, and a small piece of paper fluttered out of the back of it, narrowly missing his almost finished meal.
It was the corner of an old envelope, with a stamp and faded postmark dated September 20, 1870, from Fort Wingate in New Mexico. His pulse quickening and intrigued as to where it could have come from, Nick thoroughly examined the entire booklet and found a small, thin pocket attached to the inside back cover, something that an old 5¼” computer floppy disc would have gone in. He had never noticed it inside his own booklet and guessed Grandma had put it in her copy to put random thoughts, ideas, and missing information into. Within the pocket were several notes with Grandma’s distinctive cursive writing on them, notes to herself of various forgotten facts to weave into her booklet. There was also a well-worn, faded sheet of paper inside, which he unfolded carefully. Seeing its contents, he shoved his plate and silverware away, wiped down the table in front of him, and carefully laid it out. It was a letter addressed to Alexandre’s Mother and Father, written by a very rough hand on the front and back:
Dearest Parents,
I writ you today from a vry hot and dry place called the Teritory of New Mexica. Finnly got promotd to Sargent, now in carge of a bunch of the men. I bin posted to Ft. Wingate these pa
st 4 months, seems the werst of the heat is finly breakin. My helth is gud, cept I keep gittin the trots. Seems most do round here, spect it is the food and watter. Things ben setlin down at the fort but let me tell you board solders sur makin for dangerus solders. Like I wrot befor, I caint get over how badly we treet the injuns here. Most my unit ratter shoot em as look at em, supose sum of the batles we had makes the men bitter, but the injuns aint no more cruul den us hve ben to them.
I stoped anothur bad beeting the uther day, and hve tried keepin ur solders offin ther womn folk. Just taint right, tretin em like dogs we do, or wors. Well dis old medisin man sees wat I bin doin, n he culdnt do enuff for me. Gave me a litle necklace wit wat he sed was made frm the sun, was part of n old tresure of the Mixica, sumthing hid fur yeers frm the conqurors. Sed ifin I ever git back ere, to look fur the sign of the outsa nd a taleys nd eyeteden in the peeblo. Not sur whatin hell they all is, but he was dam spfic I undrstaand it. Sed many yeers from now, whn dar is peece twixt us all, hav gud peeple put the Mixica soles in a saf place forevr. He was so pleedin to me wit teers in is gureen eyes I sed coursin I wud, or my kin folk ventully wud.
The letter went on about more mundane things, how little he could wash, the quality of the food, wishing his brother and sister well, when he hoped to get out of the cavalry and get home, but Nick’s mind was already locked on that one key paragraph, re-reading into it, deciphering it. This letter was the little Rosetta Stone into his family history that had been handed down to his dad and probably was copied in the missing journal. It explained the whispered conversation between him and Grandma Ingrid, his obsession with an unknown mystery, made it tangible, and perhaps provided the solution to finish fulfilling his quest. It didn’t all make sense, at least not yet, but as Churchill had said, “It was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, but perhaps there is a key.” And he felt like he had at last finally found the elusive key.
Instinctively Nick looked around the restaurant to see if anyone was observing him and felt foolish when it became obvious no one gave him a second thought. Since his dad died, he had a case of paranoia. Which can be a healthy thing if properly deployed, Nick thought. An idea struck him, and he went out to the truck, grabbed his camera, and carefully laid the letter out on the front seat, adjusted his flash, and took a series of photos of both the front and the back, as well as of the stamp and postmark. He then cut off a small piece of a loose end of the rope of the necklace he wore. Nick grabbed the small digital card out of his camera, wrapped the cut piece of rope and some of the scrapings from the pendant in acid free paper, and put it in a pre-stamped envelope he had in his backpack. He addressed it and walked across the street to a mailbox he had spotted, and dropped it in.
Can’t be too careful, not now that I finally have a real thread to pull on, Nick thought as his heart rate increased. Let’s see what some real professionals make of all this.
Part II
The God of the Hunt
Mixcoatl, the god of hunting
and lord of the chase,
was father of seven sons who were
the founders of the seven cities
speaking the Nahuatl language.
Human sacrifices were made
to him to ensure a successful
hunt of whatever was
being pursued.
Be it man or beast.
Chapter 13 – June 18, Present Day
It had been a while since Nick had slept in a real bed, but more importantly had a real shower. Biting the bullet, he checked into an Econo Lodge outside of Albuquerque that was running a $39 special. Clean sheets and hot water, life is good, Nick thought as he stretched out in bed after taking an extra-long hot and steamy shower, washing off and sweating out the accumulated dirt and grime, and then falling asleep so quickly he wore only the necklace.
Nick awoke the next morning with a start, excited to see his brother, to be reunited with him, to download him on all he had so recently learned. While he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to spreading his parent’s ashes at Chaco Canyon in fulfilling his dad’s final wishes, he did have a sense that it would provide some of the closure he had been so desperately seeking. Nick turned in his room key and grabbed a cup of coffee in the lobby and headed off into the traffic to the airport. He sat in the long-term parking lot, sipping on the tepid brew, looking over everything he had discovered on his road trip out.
His cell phone buzzed, and Charlie cheerfully greeted him. “The eagle has landed. I didn’t check any luggage, so see you out front in ten.” Nick pulled up among all the double-parked cars frantically picking up people. Charlie hopped in and leaned over and gave him a sincere bear hug. “Missed you little brother, so what mischief you been up to?” he inquired with a wide grin.
“Plenty, we’ll catch up on the drive out to Chaco Canyon,” Nick replied seriously as he dangled the necklace in front of him and then handed it over.
There were no hotels anywhere near the canyon, and the only way to stay close to there would be to sleep in the pickup or pitch a tent. The boys instead opted for the Rim Rock Lodge, which was about a 40 mile drive out. They still had over two hours to reach the hotel, and Nick brought Charlie up to speed on both his recent discoveries and the trip out.
“So there it was, in front of us all this time, hanging in Grandma Ingrid’s window. The pendant was covered in something black and tacky, so none of us ever really noticed it, with the rope blending in perfectly with the dream catcher. I’m not sure what it was on it, but am guessing some type of tar, probably to keep it from catching the wrong person’s eye. Just before I left, Gram was about to tell me the story of Dad’s obsession, and then I lost her again before she could get it out. For a moment she had perfect clarity—you know, like she does sometimes, so very close, and yet so far. But hey, the pendant is undoubtedly gold, and from the clasp and the wear marks, I think it was a piece of something larger,” Nick excitedly disclosed.
Charlie grabbed the magnifier Nick offered and squinted as he took in the fine detail of it. “Whoa, this is so intricate. I see what you mean about the wear marks. And what did you say it was inlaid with, emerald, jade, and obsidian? What is that, like amber? Maybe that means we have Aztec DNA in here, you know, like in Jurassic Park?” Charlie joked.
“Ha ha, spoken like a true actuary Chuckles, or at least a hedge fund manager. No, it’s not amber, although they used that for ornamentation too. Its obsidian, a volcanic glass-like rock, which while decorative could also be used in weapons. Some used to call it Apache tears. Chip it just right, and you have the sixteenth century equivalent of a razor blade. Sharp as anything, but brittle against the steel the Spanish brought over with them,” Nick said.
Charlie let out a little whistle, examining it closer. “Unbelievable. So intricate.”
“I know, right? Before I forget, I had this wild dream that jogged my memory, and I finally remembered a conversation I overheard Gram and Dad have a few years after Grandpa Jacques died,” Nick continued. “She was imploring him to take up the quest, that it was up to him to not let it die with Grandpa, to do it for his sake. And Dad obviously took it to heart, I think he was grooming us to follow in his footsteps if he didn’t solve it, but he never got the chance to pass it on. Not only is that why we spent our summers chasing the footsteps of a dead relative, it is why he was so meticulous in recording it in his journals. And I think it is no coincidence that the most important journal is the one that came up missing. But you won’t believe what I just found!”
Nick now had Charlie’s full attention, and he was expectantly waiting for Nick to finish the thought and tell him more. Instead Nick reached down into a cubby hole in the pickup, grabbed the old letter from September 20, 1870, and gently put it on Charlie’s lap. They drove on in silence, Nick giving Charlie time to read and reread the letter and discern the significance of what it implied and disclosed.
“Wow, that’s unbelievable bro. That’s what we were doing, every summer, following
Alexandre’s wanderings, eliminating the dead ends, looking for the clue that he had been given with the necklace. Dad was working his way through it, with us in tow, getting ever closer to it. But why the hell didn’t you call me when you found all this out?”
Nick turned and held him with an intense gaze for a moment. “Do you remember when he stopped taking us along, and started going by himself? I know I thought it was just the timing of things, with you well out of the house by then, and I had just started college. But the more I think about this, I think he was getting close to something, something dangerous, or maybe something desirable to others, which could be the same thing. I tell you I think he was killed back home, that somebody grabbed his journal, and we have some competition in finding the sign Alexandre tells of in that letter you are holding. I suspect that if we find what Dad was looking for, we find his killer too.”
They drove on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, the mood having completely changed, with the initial joy of seeing each other having turned to anger as the reality of events settled upon them, now slowly turning into a steely resolve.
“Remember what Sherlock Holmes told Watson,” Nick finally said, “When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
More silence followed, until at last Charlie reached over and gave Nick an affectionate punch in the arm. “Well, at least we know why Dad wanted their ashes scattered in Chaco Canyon. That’s as far as his search ever got.”
Aztec Odyssey Page 10
