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

by R. Allen Chappell

  It had taken Claude only a few hours to realize it could take weeks to find the pair. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that kind of time.

  What few people he’d run across, those who would even talk to him, were standoffish, suspicious, and not inclined to be at all friendly. He would have thought he appeared Indian enough to generate some sort of rapport, but there was something else causing them to disconnect when questioned about Eileen. Even the young man he gave a lift to, and shared a good bit of whiskey with, had left him with the impression he knew more than he was willing to say. Claude left the young man at the next dirt crossroads, obviously feeling the effects of the alcohol. The youth, clearly educated beyond the norm, refused to have anymore to drink, saying his brother would be along for him most any time and would tell their parents if he suspected there’d been drinking. The last thing he offered was, “If I were you, Hastiin, I would be very careful about asking after this woman you’re looking for. This is a different part of the reservation than you might be used to; there is the chance she is better left unfound.” Claude thought this odd, but was not a man easily discouraged when the stakes were high.

  He barely had time to reach fourth gear on his way back to the highway, when in the distance, he saw a middle-aged woman crossing the road ahead of a rather large flock of sheep, who in turn, were being nipped along by two dogs. Hearing his truck, the woman turned in the middle of the highway and waved her arms, then turned her hands palm down and patted the air as a signal for him to slow down. Claude let the truck drift to a stop alongside, smiled at the woman, and attempted to engage her in conversation. He was not unskilled at this––it was the rare woman he couldn’t charm into some sort of banter. When this particular woman appeared uninterested, however, he was forced to come right out with it; asking if she had seen a stranger…a woman…new to the area. The woman was his sister, he said, and he had been told she’d moved up this way with her new husband: a man called Harley Ponyboy. He then went on to describe Eileen––being sure to mention she might not look quite the same now. The older woman cocked her head to one side and paid close attention to all he said, but when he was finished she looked him up and down with a flinty eye. “You say she might have red hair…or she might have black hair…and it might be long…or it might be cut short?” She shook her head, and without waiting for him to answer she turned to her sheep. “This woman you’re looking for could be anyone. A man should keep in closer touch with his sister, I think.”

  Claude watched the woman for a moment as she directed her dogs in gathering the now scattered band of sheep; a deadly calm fell over him…just as it always did when that little thing in his head clicked into place. He made his way back to the pull-off, the one just across Highway 163, where he parked well off the pavement, concealed by a county road grader and a giant culvert that had lain there over a month waiting to be installed. He had a clear view of the highway in both directions…and of anyone coming to or from that country to the west.

  The soft call of a night bird drifted through his partially lowered window. Claude couldn’t recall its Indian name and had never heard what it was called in English. His own people thought them an omen—of what, he couldn’t remember.

  This waiting game was a long shot and he knew it. Some of the people living out here might go into town only once a month, a few even less. He did, at least, know what Harley Ponyboy’s pickup looked like; Alfred Nakii had described it in great detail. The man had just been stalling for time, of course. It was toward the end––when Alfred would have said anything to escape the pain.

  Claude had picked up a bag of chips at the liquor store in town and a clutch of bottles filled with what advertised itself as ‘crystal spring water.’ There were also a few sticks of dry sausage that left his teeth with a greasy orange film and a lingering taste of stale garlic. Not a supper he could recommend, but he was a man used to simple fare and had known worse.

  It was nearly dark, and vehicles already had their lights on, as they sped along the two-lane asphalt ribbon. None slowed, or turned west at the crossing, and each loud passing left a mind-numbing silence in its wake. Twenty minutes later, Claude noticed two faint pinpricks of light far across the highway and to the west…unmistakably a vehicle…though still a good distance off. Occasionally obscured by wind-blown dust, or a dip in the gravel road, he still was certain it was a pickup truck. As it came nearer it slowed to a stop just across from the pull-off. When finally the passenger door opened and the overhead light came on, Claude could make out three people in the cab. He thought two of the people were adults; the third appeared to be a smaller person, a child possibly. This caused him to come instantly alert and concentrate every sense in that direction. It was the smallest of the three who eventually stepped down from the truck, and Claude could see she carried a small bag in one hand. It was a woman, he thought. She reached into the bag and handed someone inside the truck something, then waved as she watched the driver turn the truck around and drive off into the gathering gloom.

  Claude waited until the truck nearly disappeared in the distance––still not willing to believe his luck. He felt there was a good chance it was Eileen. He saw her stand for a moment, shoulders seeming to slump, as she followed the dusty retreat of the old pickup. When she turned back to the highway, it was to cross over to his side of the pavement, where she barely even glanced about, before taking up the familiar stance of a hitchhiker. Only when the next car flashed by could Claude satisfy himself it was really her. He slid down in the seat––just peeping over the dashboard––confident he’d gone unnoticed. It was a rare woman that would have the courage to hitchhike that lonely stretch at night…that…or a very desperate one. The wind was on the rise, and as it would with a deer or an elk, it seemed to make her nervous; she shrugged occasionally inside her light jacket, and fidgeted with her bag, as she looked up and down the highway.

  She obviously intended to hitch north in the direction of Salt Lake City, probably still determined to be with her relatives. Her back was to him and she seemed unaware of his dark colored truck, invisible there in the shadows of the oversize culvert. He would have to handle this very carefully. Turning on his lights, or starting the engine, would probably frighten her––not a good thing––as he knew, for a fact, Eileen was the type to break and run should she be given half a chance. Fortunately, there was not much in the way of cover for a good distance in any direction. He might just have to risk it––try to run her down––before some soft-hearted or lecherous person came along and offered her a ride. It was now quite dark; he could barely make out the woman’s outline as she stood waiting there at the edge of the deserted highway.

  The wind, when it came, blew from several directions before clocking from the northwest and blowing harder, with gusts well beyond its first promise. The slight figure by the highway turned her back to the sting of driven sand and shrugged deep into her light jacket. Earlier in the day, and far to the north of Hanksville, a frontal system was making up along the rocky spine that marks the domed escarpment of Capital Reef. It looked for a while like it might hang up on the snowy peaks of the Manti-LaSalles but then fooled forecasters by breaking away to the south, only to be baffled by the Goose Necks of the San Juan. Tearing loose in a rage the rogue front sent gales twisting and writhing their way down Glen Canyon, where they picked up speed across the open reaches of Lake Powell. By the time the winds sifted through the flats below Mexican Hat, the air was filled with a choking red dust––piling up sand against the scattered hogans of the Diné in that lonely land. People reported the backhanded slap of the storm as far away as Many Farms and Chinle.

  ~~~~~~

  A short string of cars appeared coming from the north––tourists, likely, out of Moab––heading home after a few days among the four-wheeling and bike trails the area is famous for. They seemed in a hurry now to return to their workaday lives; too short a respite, and one that brought people to the limit of their endurance yet, strangely, refre
shed them in mind and spirit. They felt gritty and longed for a hot shower…and food without sand in it. Not one of them noticed the hitchhiker huddled at the far roadside. They remained oblivious to the drama playing out on this darkened stretch of 163.

  He would wait for these last few vehicles to get past then take a run at her. There was really no escaping him this time. Thinking ahead, Claude concluded he might, himself, continue on to Moab––pick up a new ride––one that might carry him on to Denver and old friends. Maybe he could find some sort of sanctuary there. He still had plenty of the old Navajo’s money left…money that might yet buy a new truck…but not for foolish old Benny Klee.

  The gusting winds drove curtains of sand—at times obscuring everything beyond a few yards. Each time Claude lost view of the slight figure at the roadside he became anxious, and finally, muffled by a mounting gale, he started the engine and made ready. Having memorized every dip and gravel rut between him and his target he would need the headlights only in the final moments—at which point there would be little possibility of escape.

  Just as he put the truck in gear, however, there came yet another dim glow of headlights––approaching from the south this time. He reconsidered as he lightly touched the brake pedal, giving no thought to the truck’s taillights, which momentarily flashed red against the culvert. He caught this little indiscretion in the side mirror, causing him to curse and ease the truck out of gear. He watched as the oncoming headlights grew stronger, then gnashed his teeth as the vehicle rolled to a stop beside the hitchhiker. Just for a fleeting instant, he saw the woman glance his way as the door opened and someone pulled her inside.

  ~~~~~~

  Thomas Begay saw fear on the woman’s face and quickly yanked her in beside him, then motioned Charlie Yazzie to gun the truck. With tires squealing, the vehicle veered left across the highway and up the road leading into the backcountry. In the rear view mirror Charlie saw a set of headlights switch on, but only for a moment, as though to have a better look at their vehicle as it sped away. The person didn’t follow, as far as Thomas could see, and when he looked again there were no lights or sign of pursuit.

  Neither Thomas nor Charlie said a word––nor did Eileen May—as she clutched her bag, sat bolt upright, and stared straight ahead. She had immediately recognized the Tribal emblem on the truck door, and thinking it the lesser of two evils, instantly made her choice. She’d sensed someone watching her from the darkness––long before the brake lights came on––and even thought she’d caught a reflective glint from the headlights of a passing car. She tried to tell herself it was from the road equipment parked near the culvert but the fear was on her then, and she recalled Harley Ponyboy’s last words to her: “Eileen, you can only be safe here at Aunt Willie’s. You don’t know what might be waiting for you out there. Stay here and I will come for you. You’ll be safer here than anywhere else.” They proved to be wise words. Still, when she listened from inside the hogan as Willie’s friend told of the stranger and his questions, a cold sweat came over her and she was certain it would be only a matter of time before Claude Bell discovered her hiding place.

  Thomas was the first to speak and tried sounding casual, “You must be Harley’s new friend?”

  Eileen pursed her lips slightly, turned to look at him, and only then recognized him as the person who came to the trailer to check on Harley. She nodded, and nodded again at Charlie. “And you two must be Harley’s friends, Charlie Yazzie and Thomas Begay?” She turned back to her side window peering out into the dark, before saying, “Harley talks a lot about you two.” She seemed to relax a little, “I guess you showed up just in time. I’ve got a pretty good idea who that was back there.”

  “So do we.” Charlie didn’t turn to look at her and was already fumbling with his microphone. He soon had Tribal Officer Billy Red Clay on the radio, and though the reception was poor, the investigator knew it would get worse the farther they went into the canyon. He made it clear to Billy they had Eileen May with them and said he felt certain Claude Bell was in close proximity––possibly even following them. He went on to say they were en route to Aunt Willie Etcitty’s camp—where they hoped to find Harley before he ran up against this man suspected in the killing of Benny Klee, Alfred Nakii, and possibly even Gilbert Nez. Charlie gave their location twice and hoped the increasing static didn’t prevent it being heard.

  Billy Red Clay after several attempts, finally acknowledged the transmission and assured them the FBI, in conjunction with Utah and New Mexico state troopers, would have roadblocks set up on 163 in both directions. “Claude Bell isn’t familiar with this country and I doubt he can work his way out of the area without hitting one or the other of those checkpoints.” Nothing further was heard for nearly a full minute. Billy then surprised them by coming back on. “I’m on my way, Charlie, and Agent Smith is right behind me. Fred intends to stop this guy, one way or the other, but wants you people up there to avoid interacting with him…and hopefully keep the woman out of harm’s way until we get there. Eileen May’s testimony could be crucial in this case.” This message came in very clear despite local two-way interference from the gathering of the various agencies.

  Thomas smiled at this and shook his head at Charlie, knowing full well there was little chance they were going to stand down and wait for the FBI to get there. No…that probably wouldn’t happen. He whispered for Charlie to ask his nephew how he proposed they should go about staying away from this killer should he already be on their tail.

  Charlie grinned and passed along the question.

  There was a pause. Then Agent Fred Smith came on, asking, “Charlie, are you armed?”

  “Roger that Fred, I am armed. We’re not sure if Bell is though. We’ll do our best to stay ahead of him…assuming he’s even following us.”

  There was a crackle of static and Charlie thought he heard Billy Red Clay say something about his position. That was followed by Fred Smith, who only by chance, came in clean and clear. He again impressed upon them the importance of not engaging the suspect in any sort of confrontation. “Assume the suspect is armed and just try to stay out of his way until we arrive, Charlie.” A long string of static and garbled interference put an end to the conversation. They were fast running out of range.

  16

  Friends

  It was already dark by the time Harley Ponyboy pulled away from Arnold T’si’s grandparent’s place. His Aunt Willie had immediately taken charge of the boy and made herself busy putting together something for him to eat. She tried to get Harley to stay long enough to have something, but he was in no frame of mind to linger. Eileen could be in trouble even as he stood there, and he’d never forgive himself, he declared, should anything happen to her.

  Aunt Willie pouted, but could guess the things going through her nephew’s mind, and grudgingly agreed. She tossed him two apples that were in a bowl on the table. Harley put them in his jacket pocket along with the handful of shotgun shells the boy had returned. He picked up his old shotgun and nodded to Arnold, who didn’t smile but gave a little wave of his hand.

  Considering the state of the road and weather, Harley felt he might be pushing his old truck beyond reason. Going this fast was foolish and only invited more trouble. Even so, he’d made no more than a half-dozen miles before a set of headlights popped up over a rise. Harley, thinking it might at last be Charlie and Thomas, flashed his lights and pulled to the side of the road. He soon saw it wasn’t his friends at all but rather the missing grandparents of Arnold T’si––safe and hurrying home to their grandson.

  The old woman peered cautiously through the glass thinking they’d had enough excitement for one day, and enough of strangers in a country not usually prone to them. Still, when the man made that little circular motion with his finger asking her to roll down her window it would have been rude of her not to comply.

  Harley introduced himself to the old couple, told them he had spoken to their grandson earlier, and that his Aunt Willie was ther
e now with Arnold. The old woman had known Willie Etcitty for years and was visibly relieved to hear the woman was now with her grandson.

  The woman was quick to say they would not ordinarily have left Arnold alone, but he was not yet back with the sheep when a woman had come to their camp and insisted they give her a ride to the highway. She told them her truck had broken down leaving her stranded. The woman was clearly distraught–– promising them a good bit of money just to take her down to the highway. She said it was important she get to town. There was a desperate look about her–– they thought––and when she opened her bag to prove she had money they couldn’t help but see the revolver in there with it. At this point they felt it prudent not to argue. It was plain the woman was determined and they could only believe she intended to accomplish her agenda––one way or the other. When they finally agreed to take her, the old man insisted he go along rather than wait there for their grandson to bring in the sheep. He couldn’t drive anymore, he said, but it was an old truck and broke down a lot. He might be able to fix it should something go wrong. His wife looked sideways at him and knew it was not the truck he was worried about.

  When Harley questioned the old couple further, she admitted, yes, they had, in fact, just taken the woman down to the crossroads where she told them she would catch a ride. The old couple advised it might be dangerous for a lone woman on that stretch of road so late in the evening, but she had only laughed and patted her bag, saying she carried a great magic to ward off such evil.

  The old man, finally anxious to be off, leaned across his wife and thanked Harley again for helping with their grandson and assured him he would be welcome at their place anytime. He turned then to his wife and whispered they must be on their way. The couple bid Harley goodbye, and then rolling up the window, hurried off.