Thomas laughed and shook his head. “Harley…in the first place…no one else would want it. And in the second place: the two most likely to steal it are already under arrest.”
Harley wasn’t amused and glared back, asking, “How did you find us out here anyway?” He made certain to say this loudly enough for Eileen to hear.
Thomas first looked incredulous, but quick to catch on, whispered back, “I think you know how we found you, Harley. Once you turned off on that stock driveway you weren’t hard to follow. Those big tires of Charlie’s leave tracks that are pretty easy to spot.” Both men glanced sideways at the woman, satisfied Eileen couldn’t hear them. “I knew you were laying a trail, Harley.”
On the way back out to the highway, and what Billy Red Clay was now calling Checkpoint Charlie, the fugitives went back over the story Eileen had so recently related to Harley. Both lawmen were taking mental notes with a view to their later written reports.
The Tribal policeman sat in back with Eileen and Harley sat up front with the Legal Services investigator. Billy hadn’t cuffed either of them, but only with the understanding, he would before they reached search headquarters; it would be expected, he said.
On their way in, Charlie, spent a good deal of time on the radio letting Fred Smith of the FBI know they were on their way in with prisoners, and giving the agent a preliminary report on the morning’s activities. He made sure Tribal Policeman Billy Red Clay received credit for the arrests. Billy, of course, protested, but Charlie thought it only right the young officer be redeemed after letting Harley and Eileen get away in the first place––at least, that’s how Captain Beyale would see it. Charlie didn’t want Billy left holding the bag.
FBI Agent Fred Smith was first to meet them. Fred accepted the prisoners in handcuffs as was proper and, overall, was happy enough with how things turned out. His superiors, he thought, would be pleased as well. It had been a very full day for the newly appointed federal agent and he was generous with his praise of everyone who’d had a hand in the outcome––Charlie Yazzie included.
The FBI man tried to sound matter-of-fact as he waved an arm toward the tented command post, surprising everyone by saying, “We have Claude Bell. He only made it about eight or nine miles west of here. He was already in the backcountry before we even set up our roadblock. We had, of course, taken that possibility into consideration and still doubted he could work his way back past us…and he didn’t.” Here the FBI man couldn’t help smiling. “His truck apparently ran out of gas leaving him afoot in a very rough area. A fly-over by federal wildlife officers spotted the truck and reported a man fitting Bell’s description running from the abandoned vehicle.” The FBI man paused a moment and looked around the group.
“Fortunately, one of our search volunteers, a Navajo park ranger from up at Monument Valley happened to be closest and heard the report. When he tracked him down, he said Bell had fallen off a ledge and was pretty beat up, disoriented, dehydrated, and nearly unconscious.” The FBI man grimaced. “The ranger figured he better get him back here for medical attention without waiting for an emergency crew to try and find their way back in there.
Our EMT said the man was in a very bad way and appeared to be unconscious. He’s working on him in the tent right now.”
Harley looked over at Eileen and saw her slump, lowering her head as though she might be sick. He moved to support her, and Charlie went to fetch a cup of water from the little table under the tent fly. As he was filling the paper cup a man with a stethoscope over his shoulder came out and looked around for Agent Smith.
“Have you seen the guy in charge?” He asked.
Charlie paused and took the cup from the spigot. “I believe he’s over there,” he said, pointing Smith out. “How’s the patient, Doc?”
“That’s what I need to see him about. I’m afraid he got to us too late. The man’s dead. He was nearly so when they brought him in. I didn’t think he would make it even then.” The medical technician murmured almost to himself, “He looked more like he’d taken a beating instead of just a fall.”
Charlie, already turned to go, canted his head at this and turned again to face the technician, “Where is the ranger who brought him in?”
“That, I don’t know. He helped us take the stretcher into the tent and then said he had to get back up to Monument Valley.”
Charlie walked over and peeked inside the tent. “Has anyone identified your guy in here yet?”
“No. The FBI agent looked in on him when he was first brought in; that was just before you people arrived. He had a rough fax picture with him but you couldn’t tell much from it. This guy’s face is so beat up I doubt his own mother would recognize him.”
“I’ll tell the agent in charge,” Charlie said over his shoulder as he strode off with the cup of water.
Fred Smith, still filling out arrest forms for Harley and Eileen, trying to hold the papers down on his car’s fender; a breeze had come up making it hard to keep anything in place.
Charlie walked over and handed Eileen the water, then motioned for Harley to help her with it before moving over next to Fred and waiting for him to look up.
“What?” Fred asked.
“Your suspect is dead,” Charlie said. “The EMT just told me.”
Fred, put the back of his hand to his forehead, rubbing one side then the other, reflecting on the implications of this; certainly, it would make things easier as far as presenting trial evidence…and it would save the taxpayers money, too. Fred had little compassion for men like Claude Bell.
Charlie hesitated before going on—not sure how the agent might take his next question. “The EMT…he said the suspect hadn’t really been identified as yet?”
“My God, Charlie, they just brought him in a few minutes before you pulled up. The State Patrol is already standing down and lifting the road blocks––what are you saying?”
“I understand all that, Fred, it’s just… Do we even know who we have in there… I mean for sure?”
Charlie had the agent’s full attention now and he watched as a look of disbelief flickered across the man’s face.
Fred pulled a folded fax paper from his pocket and passed it to the Tribal investigator. “No one up here has ever seen this guy; this fax picture isn’t much help, as you can see.”
Charlie studied the picture and had to admit the quality of the fax made it nearly impossible to identify anyone by it.
“Well, we have someone here, now, who does know him.” Both men turned to look at Eileen who was sipping water and talking quietly to Harley Ponyboy. Harley hovered over her, patting her shoulder occasionally despite the handcuffs. He seemed to be assuring her everything would be all right—something he had no way of knowing and that was reflected in Eileen’s face. She looked up as the two lawmen approached and even Billy Red Clay, who was keeping a close eye on the pair, knew something was up.
Fred Smith didn’t quite know how to begin, but as was his wont, approached it straight on. “Eileen, we have been informed the person we think is Claude Bell, didn’t make it. I’m afraid we are going to need your help…much as I hate to ask at a time like this. We would appreciate it if you could take a look at the body inside and see if you can make a positive identification. It’s just a formality, but we’d like to go ahead and do it now. It will save you the trouble of having to face it later. I know it’s a lot to ask but I will be sure to note your cooperation in your file. That could be very helpful for you, Eileen.”
Eileen had partially regained her composure but now had to take a breath or two to keep from losing it again. She nodded and with Harley supporting her on one side, and Charlie on the other, they made their way to the tent. Agent Smith led the way and Thomas Begay brought up the rear along with his nephew, Billy Red Clay, neither of whom had any desire to see a dead person.
When they entered the tent, all but Thomas and Billy, the EMT was just finishing up his work; he’d removed the IV and placed a sheet over the remains. Seei
ng what the little group was about, he waited until they were gathered around and then pulled back the top half of the sheet. Eileen paled but remained strangely quiet as she stared at the person on the gurney. In death, the swelling had gone down somewhat and she studied the face carefully before looking directly at Fred Smith.
“This is not Claude Bell,” she said before anyone else could speak. “I’m certain of it. It’s not him.” She turned away and looked up to the canvas ceiling for a moment, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
Harley Ponyboy, still staring at the corpse, made a little sound in his throat. “I know who it is…and it’s not Claude Bell.”
Charlie gave his friend an odd look. “Harley you’ve never seen Claude Bell; how could you know it’s not him?”
Harley’s face fell apart. “Cause it’s my cousin, Jimmy Tall Horse. He’s a park ranger over in Tsé Bii’ Ndzisgaii…we were good friends when we were kids. I haven’t seen him in a few years…but… it’s him all right.”
“Sonofabitch!” No one there had ever heard Fred Smith curse, but under the circumstances, they were not surprised when he did. The lawman appeared stunned and shook his head in disbelief.
Billy Red Clay shook his head as well. “We better get on the horn and see if we can catch those state patrolmen.” He cleared his throat. “Anyone know which direction the bastard went when he pulled out?”
The EMT, replacing the sheet, thought for a moment and said, “North toward Blanding.” He lived in Monticello, himself, and remembered wishing he could be heading that direction too.
Fred Smith pulled himself together in a matter of seconds, and was once again the ever capable FBI agent everyone expected him to be. “Billy, radio Tribal and let them know the suspect is still at large. I’ll have the state patrol inform their people to be on the alert.” Fred was back up to speed, and once again, determined to apprehend Claude Bell at any cost––knowing full well now his career might depend on it. “Billy, you are going to have to transport these two prisoners back to Farmington. We can’t have them standing around out here…and we can’t just pack them around with us either.”
Billy was about to protest the assignment when he saw the look on the agent’s face, and knew it was useless. The FBI was in charge of this investigation and he was at their mercy.
Charlie could see Agent Smith was about to give chase and approached him from a different angle. “Fred, Bell has the ranger’s truck, and if he decides to go off-road again, you won’t be able to follow in your car…not for very far anyway.”
Fred immediately saw the wisdom in this and didn’t hesitate when he said. “I’ll borrow your truck then. He can’t be far; it’s only been fifteen or twenty minutes. I still have a shot at catching up.”
“No. Thomas and I are taking my truck but you can come along if you like.” Charlie’s tone left no room for argument.
This confounded the FBI man but he could see Charlie, too, was determined, and while he had the authority to commandeer the truck, he didn’t have time for the hassle. A confrontation now might have later ramifications.
“Let’s go,” he sighed, finally, then turned to the government car where he opened the trunk. He selected an assault rifle and a short-barreled shotgun—and ammunition belts to go with them.
Charlie and Thomas stood watching as the agent loaded everything in the truck and beckoned them over. “I see you have extra gas cans in back,” the agent smiled at this. “I doubt Bell has any extra. In fact, that ranger’s truck should be a little low on fuel by now.” The agent stopped and stared at the two for a moment as though judging just how far to go. “I mean to bring this man in one way or the other. If we’re going, let’s be gone.”
Thomas smiled at this; it was his kind of talk and coming from a lawman, he found it refreshing, to say the least.
Charlie was thinking…We don’t know if Bell is armed. I didn’t see a gun belt on that park ranger, and I’m pretty sure they carry.
20
The Fatalist
Claude Bell had long been of the opinion he was a good bit smarter than the average lawman, and occasionally, even thought he might have made a good officer himself…should things have been different. He’d been raised on a reservation: Oklahoma and the Choctaw Nation. But that was a different sort of life from that led by these Indians out here. The Navajo people were a breed apart from those farther to the east…or maybe it was his white blood that made it seem so.
Eileen understood him, at least she appeared to, at first. He figured, both of them being half-breeds, gave them something in common. That hadn’t gone anywhere. Still, he had to admit he’d been lucky, luckier than he had any right to be, in fact. That park ranger had come within a whit of catching him out. He’d heard him coming just in time to step behind an outcrop of rock and wait. When he smashed him in the face with a jagged piece of rock he felt the man’s septum give way and knew, then, he had little to worry about from that quarter. It was while he was relieving the ranger of his gun belt, the idea struck him. The man was about his size and weight. They didn’t look anything alike in the face, but that could be remedied. It would be dangerous, to be sure, but everything he did, of late, was more or less dangerous.
A man surviving on the outskirts of society had to be bold, and of an adventurous nature if he were to make a go of such a life. There was nothing else for it.
When he arrived at the check station in the ranger’s uniform—the Navajo park ranger—bloody and unconscious—was dressed in Claude’s clothes. The EMT met them at the vehicle and the two of them put the injured man on the gurney and got him inside. Claude was sure his victim couldn’t speak and doubted he would last long enough to be a problem.
Fred Smith was on the radio at the time and when he was finally able to head that way, the park ranger’s four-wheel-drive was already pulling out on the highway. The driver didn’t look back and the federal agent, being more interested in the fugitive, went directly to the tent and the injured prisoner.
Yes…it had all gone rather well, in Claude’s opinion. There had been plenty of time since his report of the apprehension that the roadblocks should already be down, and in this, he was proven correct. The gas gauge showed little fuel remaining, that was true, but he figured he still could make it to Monticello and fill up there. He was making good time when he felt the thump of a tire going flat. But still, he was not worried; it would take only a few minutes to change the tire and he would be on his way. Nothing was ever easy.
Putting on the spare took a little longer than Claude anticipated, but not so long as to worry him much. He felt he had a pretty good cushion, time wise, and the last thing he wanted to do was get in a hurry—that would only make for more problems. He crossed the Utah State Line and drove through the small town of Bluff, but the one service station there was closed. Glancing at the park ranger’s map he saw Blanding ahead with renewed hope for fuel. But, as he slowed at the Quick Stop there, he noticed another park ranger’s truck fueling. This section of Utah was host to a number of state and national parks and he suspected many of the ranger’s knew one another. He didn’t want to risk being discovered when he was doing so well. He waved at the ranger in passing. It would be Monticello for fuel.
As the truck climbed out on top of the next mesa, Claude found a greener, more hospitable, landscape. He relaxed, a little, and even enjoyed the scenery and cooler air of the higher elevation. The two-way radio was on and he adjusted the squelch, as he had several times already, but there was nothing more than a light atmospheric static to reward his efforts. If his luck held, he would be in Colorado by morning, and eventually Denver, where he would have some people-cover and not feel so exposed. The map noted a turn off at LaSalle junction with Highway 46 heading east and into Colorado the back way. It was a very isolated part of the country and looked much the better prospect when compared to I-70, which, he guessed, would be well patrolled.
Monticello was a welcome surprise when it came in view. For the
last ten miles he felt he was running on fumes and that was making him anxious. He fueled without incident and was happy he had waited. He’d have enough now to make it straight through Gateway to Grand Junction.
It was falling dark, and Claude was almost to his turnoff when he noticed the glow of headlights in his rearview mirror. There had been very little traffic the last fifty miles or so. He slowed, slightly, making sure he was just below the speed limit—too slow, he knew, would attract nearly as much attention as going too fast: not a good thing at this stage of the game. As the headlights grew slightly brighter, he realized the other vehicle was gaining fast and would soon overtake him. For no reason at all, a chill fell across him. Intuition perhaps––it almost never failed him—and this time was strong enough to send an icy finger down his back. He kicked his speed up a notch and still the other vehicle stayed with him. Now, when he slowed, the other vehicle slowed as well. His turnoff was only a mile or so farther and that would tell the tale. Yes…it could be a local who lived at LaSalle but it was unlikely, he thought. He slowed for the turn and the other followed suit. A cool breeze filled the cab as he rolled the window down and watched in his side mirror hoping the other vehicle would turn into the scatter of houses just off the highway. Claude floored the truck and headed for the winding road down the imposing cliffs to the isolated and lonely Paradox Valley.
The road hadn’t looked that bad on the map and Claude Bell hadn’t a clue as to how dangerous its twisty turns and sudden drop-offs could be.
~~~~~~
Thomas Begay shouted. “That’s him up ahead! I know it is!” Charlie Yazzie and FBI Agent Smith were taken aback at the outburst; every car they came up on was suspect, of course, but they could see no indication this particular vehicle in front of them was their man, not at this distance. Both looked at Thomas. Charlie shook his head, peered into the night, and was dubious. “There’s no way to tell that from here.”
The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7) Page 18
