The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7)

by R. Allen Chappell

  “Hey,” Harley called. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Arnold… Arnold T’si.”

  “Arnold, there should be some friends of mine along pretty soon in a white Chevy pickup with a Tribal emblem on the door. It will look like the police, but they are not policemen; they are coming to help me. Keep an eye out for them and when you see them coming––flag them down. They have a two-way radio and will call in some help for you, and check on your people too.” Harley held a finger in the air, shaking it for emphasis, “Tell them Harley Ponyboy is up at Willie Etcitty’s place in Yellow Canyon. Someone will come back by here later on to check on you so don’t worry.” With this Harley put his truck in gear and pointed it up the long grade to the side canyon where he’d left Eileen May. He felt bad about leaving the boy alone but thought it wouldn’t be for long. Still the nagging worry of Arnold T’si, and his grandparents, added to his torment. He feared their situation might be a precursor of things to come.

  Harley had gone only a few miles when he came upon his Aunt Willie’s battered Jeep pickup, nosed over in the ditch, the hood up and driver’s door ajar. He pulled to one side and cautiously approached the abandoned vehicle. There was only one set of tracks leaving the driver’s side––the small slender tracks of a woman. The prints led down country toward the highway. He could see through the open truck door that the key was still in the ignition and had been left turned on. The gas gauge showed empty, making it obvious the truck had run out of gas leaving the driver afoot. That might explain the disappearance of the old couple and their vehicle; they were the first camp on the way out to the highway. Harley, even while confronting the evidence, had a hard time bringing himself to believe it was Eileen.

  ~~~~~~

  Charlie Yazzie thought it foolish of Harley not to have waited there at Lucy Tallwoman’s camp, knowing full well he and Thomas Begay were on their way out there.

  Thomas Begay was of the opinion, their friend’s mind was affected by this new woman in his life, and he didn’t hesitate to say so. “Harley’s not thinking straight––this woman has him all screwed up––maybe she has put a spell on him.”

  Mentally dismissing the part about the spell, Charlie still thought there was more to it than just the woman. “I doubt this is all about her. I’m pretty sure Harley’s feeling some guilt over Alfred Nakii, too.” Charlie had no doubt Harley was taking the news of Alfred’s tortured death in the worst possible way.

  Old man Paul T’Sosie looked on as though in a daze and could only watch as Thomas began gathering what he thought they might need in that isolated area west of Monument Valley. Charlie stayed in the truck talking via radio to Tribal Officer Billy Red Clay––now on his way back from a prisoner delivery to Window Rock. Billy made it plain his department was spread pretty thin at the moment, but he would try to catch up with them somewhere up in the Tsé Bii’ Ndzisgaii country.

  Charlie’s unofficial hunt was now focused on finding Harley Ponyboy, who, he now felt certain, was sheltering the missing woman, putting her under the protection of family and clan, and possibly endangering all of them.

  Billy, more interested in the murder suspect Claude Bell, agreed that Harley and the woman might cause the fugitive to show himself at some point. Still the liaison officer was quick to point out: “There is still the matter of the FBI’s right of jurisdiction. We can’t cross the Bureau on this one, Charlie,” he cautioned. “I have a call in to Agent Smith as we speak, but I haven’t heard back as yet. Fred will get back to us …I’m just not sure when.”

  Charlie could tell Billy Red Clay didn’t intend to make an official move on any of this without a go-ahead from the Bureau––not that he blamed him. It was Billy’s neck on the line. He knew the young policeman had always envied Charlie’s autonomy at Legal Services, including his greater latitude in decision-making. There is something to be said for having a law degree Charlie thought, though he was well aware there was more to it than just that.

  Paul T’Sosi had put some sandwiches and drinks together for them and was obviously waiting to be asked along. When that didn’t happen, he watched the proceedings with less enthusiasm and didn’t follow them out to the truck when they left.

  Once on the road, Thomas sat slouched against the passenger side door. He hadn’t slept well the previous night and doubted Charlie had either.

  “Helluva thing about Alfred Nakii…I guess you’re right about Harley; he must be feeling pretty bad about Alfred’s death. The little guy probably believes he’s responsible. He’ll just naturally think it’s all his fault.” Thomas closed one eye at the endless stretch of highway. “Which I guess it is, when you stop to think about it.”

  Charlie nodded. “I’m surprised he didn’t stick around down there with Paul…maybe take advantage of another cleansing ceremony.” He said this without his usual degree of frustration over Harley’s predilection for traditional medicine. Everyone needs to believe in something, I guess. Hell, I don’t even know what I believe in anymore.

  Charlie had gone from an old-fashioned cultural upbringing to the gradual rejection of most of those same traditional beliefs. He was beginning to understand how much had been lost during that time at boarding school, and then university, and though he felt no real regret, there still was an empty place inside when he thought about it. Charlie had noticed of late, however, the longer he was back among his more traditional friends and relatives, the more sense some of those cultural beliefs actually made. He could see now how many of those myths and superstitions evolved––some of them over thousands of years––all to answer the needs of a people trying to survive. He was coming to the realization a person didn’t have to go ‘back to the blanket’ to have an appreciation of his own culture.

  ~~~~~~

  As Harley Ponyboy approached his Aunt Willie’s camp, he saw her come outside, shade her eyes with a hand, and then break into a shuffling run as she recognized his truck. Her old father followed––talking to himself and shaking his cane in the air. The two were plainly upset and it didn’t take long to find out why.

  “That woman stole our truck!” The old man shouted before even saying hello. His recent wife-hunting expedition had gone badly and he was in no mood to be nice to his clan nephew who, he felt, was responsible for bringing a thief to their door.

  Aunt Willie stopped and turned to admonish her father in Navajo. “If you don’t slow down and calm yourself you might fall and break something…and then where will you be, old man?” When she returned her attention to Harley, he could see she, too, was more than a little distraught at this betrayal by a guest. She spoke Navajo, and her voice rose as she continued. “We were taking a nap––then when we woke up––the truck was gone. That woman must have let it roll back down the road a good piece before starting it up. We never did hear anything.” She frowned at Harley. “What sort of woman have you taken up with, Nephew?”

  “Now, Auntie, I found your truck off in a ditch just down the road. Let’s not be too quick to think badly of Eileen. She may have become frightened and thought she needed to get away from here. She has some troubles following her––maybe she had some sign that trouble was getting close and didn’t want to get you mixed up in it.”

  “Humph…” Willie nodded reluctantly, and then admitted her friend Elma had come by that morning on her way to get wood. “She was saying her neighbor down country ran across a stranger asking questions about a woman; the woman was his sister, he told Elma, but she didn’t believe him. She said he was the type of person no one would want looking for them anyway, sister or not.” Willie seemed to be putting these things together in her head, slowly becoming less critical of Eileen.

  “Elma never saw Eileen––she stayed in the hogan and didn’t come out. We didn’t say anything about her and Elma never knew she was here.” Willie’s face softened toward her nephew, and she was about to ask if he wanted coffee, when her father, not hearing any of their conversation, came right up to Harley and he thought
for a moment the old man was going to give him a whack with his cane; it would not be the first time either. Many years before, when Harley was yet a teenager, Grover had discovered him and two other cousins drinking a pint of whiskey in the arroyo below his grandmother’s camp. He’d commenced whaling them with that very cane. He then took the further trouble to look up their eldest cousin: the one who had given them the liquor. Grover gave him a couple of good whacks as well. It caused a lot of trouble in the family and for weeks afterward no one said much about the affair…or even spoke to one another at all, for that matter. None of this, however, dissuaded Harley from drinking whenever he got the chance.

  Later, when Harley’s family moved to town, and he started hanging out with Thomas Begay; the die was cast and it was all downhill from there.

  Harley figured the old man was now too feeble to do much harm with his stick but still eyed him uneasily, thinking he might have to take the cane away from him.

  “Now, Grandfather,” Harley addressed him using the familiar clan term for an elder. “Try to be reasonable. Nothing good can come of you hitting me with that stick…” But the old man held his threatening stance and still might have made a move, had it not been for his daughter. It was Willie who finally took the cane from her father and shushed him in the Navajo way––more of a hiss than anything else.

  “You two should apologize to each other.” Willie looked from one to the other and stomped her foot so they could see how upset she was. “I won’t stand for this foolishness…not in my own camp.”

  The old man pouted but finally dropped his head and apologized, though his voice was so low it could barely be heard.

  Harley, too, sighed and apologized, but wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for at this point. He understood the old man was upset about the truck, but still thought Grover was blowing the thing all out of proportion. The truck was okay––at least he thought it would be after they pulled it out of the ditch.

  Willie, now satisfied each was good with the other, lifted a finger to Harley, “My father said there wasn’t enough gas in that truck to get very far and he wanted to go after Eileen on foot. I told him we should wait. We would have to carry a can of gas with us if we didn’t want to walk back up here pushing the truck.”

  The old man frowned. “That gas gauge don’t work no more; it’s stuck on one-quarter tank. I keep extra gasoline in cans in the brush arbor. You know…people who live so far from town have to be careful.” He scowled even darker this time. “I carry a five-gallon gas can in the back of that truck, too, but I let a man at the sing have it.” He thought back to the encounter. “The crazy old man knew he didn’t have enough gas to get back home, even before he left. He figured someone would have a little extra though, and no one would be so rude as to refuse an old man enough gasoline to get back home on.”

  Willie pulled a face at this. “So, you gave him the last of your gasoline?”

  Willie’s father shook his head at his bad luck, “I was the first one he asked. I knew, then, it would be nip and tuck getting home all right, but I had to let him have it. People would have thought ill of me if I hadn’t.” He grimaced in the direction of the sing which lay many roundabout miles to the northeast––though not so far as the crow flies. “There was a woman there who I think had her eye on me, and you know how women always like a generous man.” He was getting riled again as he recalled the woman at the sing. “She later suggested she might need a ride home, but I had to tell her I didn’t have enough gasoline left. She wasn’t so pleased with me then I can tell you. I was damn lucky to make it back home myself.” He looked toward the summer hogan. “I meant to fill up the tank today…if I’d got the chance. Good thing I didn’t though, I guess; that truck might be clear out of the country by now.”

  Willie attempted to further calm her old father by suggesting, “Eileen maybe just got nervous waiting here––she’s not used to being so far away from town.” Aunt Willie turned to Harley Ponyboy. “After you left, Eileen seemed to calm down a little and I thought she might be okay with being out here. But I should have seen, after Elma left, that I was wrong about that.”

  Harley shook his head and sighed, “Well it wasn’t your fault, Auntie, but now I got ta go find her before something happens to her.”

  The old man threw a hand in the direction of the highway and gave his final opinion on the matter, “I think that little woman can take care of herself all right.”

  Harley frowned at this but didn’t answer. He was well aware Eileen could take care of herself, but was afraid now what direction that might take.

  When the old man went to fetch his remaining gas can from the arbor, Harley took the opportunity to ask his aunt if she still had the old Long Colt revolver, telling her, “I loaned my shotgun to that T’sí boy who lives down second canyon. His grandparents have gone off and left him. He needed a gun for the coyotes.”

  Willie looked askance at her nephew. “I know those people…they wouldn’t leave that boy alone…not without a very good reason.”

  Harley only shrugged and then, when she still didn’t go for the gun, he gestured toward the hogan.

  His aunt nodded, “I’ll get the Long Colt.”

  Harley stood watching as the sunset left patches of fire splashed along the canyon rim. He was wondering if Eileen was seeing the sunset, too, and if she was thinking of him as she did…probably not.

  When his Aunt Willie reappeared, her eyes were as empty as her hands and she looked down the road to spit in disgust.

  “She has the Long Colt,” she murmured.

  Harley looked in the same direction and nodded but said nothing, only went to help the old man with the gas cans.

  On the ride to retrieve the stranded truck, neither Harley nor his aunt said anything to the old man about the pistol being gone. They didn’t want to get him started again.

  Harley hooked his chain to their truck and pulled it out of the ditch with a jerk. The old man, being careful not to spill a single drop, poured in his can of gasoline. Willie cranked the engine, five or ten seconds at a time, but it was nearly a minute before enough gas reached the carburetor to cause the engine to start. There was a clatter of valves as it spit carbon and disgorged smoke until the ground was covered in a fine fog.

  Willie was now determined to follow Harley back down country to see how the boy, Arnold T’sí, was doing, and if his people had returned. If not, she meant to stay with him till she saw what was what.

  Grover pointed to the left front wheel of the truck. “That wheel might be bent; it was wobbling when Harley pulled it out. If we are lucky it’s only the wheel, and not something worse.” He stared at the offending part with an eye born of long experience driving in rough country. “We better just get it home where I got some tools; there’s no use in making things worse than they already are.” Dusk had fallen while they talked, making the old man anxious to get the truck home before full dark.

  Aunt Willie, still speaking in Navajo, nodded her head at her father. “No, you are right…take the truck home. I will go with Harley––he can drop me off at the T’sí place.” Her chin was set, and when her father saw that he knew arguing would do no good. He turned to go but his daughter hadn’t finished.

  “If you can fix the truck you can pick me up tomorrow,” she called after him. Then added hopefully, “Maybe you’ll only have to put on the spare wheel.” She then glanced over at Harley. “I’m not leaving that boy down there alone tonight, not with all these goings on.”

  15

  The Nighthawk

  Claude Bell sat at the wheel of a nearly new pickup truck—stolen, early that same night, from the parking lot of the Thunderbird Motel in Farmington. It was his second score in two days. He had always been good at stealing cars, and this base model Ford took only a few moments. He felt the secret to success in this sort of endeavor was in not keeping the vehicle any longer than absolutely necessary.

  “Choose your target with a specific purpose in mind
––then abandon the unit as fast and inconspicuously as possible.” He’d learned that in prison…and a good many other things too. Prison had proven to be more of a government finishing school for those young street toughs who were of a mind to finish their education in crime. To his way of thinking, this was a major point separating a person who knew his business from one who didn’t. He had been arrested a number of times over the years, and for a variety of crimes, but never had he been arrested for stealing a car. He felt there was a good chance this latest acquisition would not even be reported until morning. He had only one stop left to make, and that was at the liquor store at the edge of town.

  Eileen had been harder to keep up with than he first imagined. But then, he had known from the start, she was a cut above most when it came to smart. They were much the same in that regard and he thought that might have been what attracted him to her in the first place. He knew a lot about Eileen—gleaned in bits and pieces during their stay at the Bible Center. He’d had great hopes for the two of them, thinking it might well be the fresh start both so badly needed. The team leader breaking in on them like that––well, that was the man’s own bad luck: it surprised Claude…set off that little thing in his head; he still wasn’t sure what happened after that.

  Claude was not so naive as to think there was still a chance of he and Eileen getting back together. No, that wouldn’t be happening now. Now, there was nothing for it but to make sure she didn’t talk, and there was only one sure way to prevent that.

  The very idea of this blanket-head, Harley Ponyboy, having the effrontery to assume her protection, raised his ire. If the man’s friend, Alfred Nakii, was any indicator of the caliber of people Eileen had taken up with, this Harley Ponyboy should not be much of a problem. The first thing, of course, was to locate the pair. Alfred, when pressed, had made the place they were headed sound more like a small community rather than the sparsely populated wild side of hell that it actually turned out to be.