Harley, who had been watching the entire exchange from across his saddle, smiled to himself, and was glad it worked out as it did. He knew from experience Thomas had the ability to turn an iffy situation into a full-blown disaster in the blink of an eye.
Billy Red Clay, with a final glance at the retreating road workers, turned to the others and scratched his chin. “For just a minute there I thought I might have to pull a gun on the man…I’ve never had to pull a gun on anyone before.”
Thomas chuckled, “Well, I’m glad you didn’t nephew, none of our clan has shot a white man in over a hundred years…” He stopped and thought a moment. “Well…except for Hector Bitsillie who shot a couple of Italian deserters in World War ll. He later said that was mostly an accident––it was dark, and he thought at the time they might be Germans.”
Billy Red Clay shrugged, and with a lopsided grin looked past the mule at Harley Ponyboy. “You better get moving Harley, that Hopi isn’t going to catch himself.”
Harley smirked and snorted as he and Thomas readied the mule.
George Custer brought Billy Red Clay a drink of water and whispered, “Well done young man.”
Thomas finished the saddling and opened the trailer’s tack compartment for another plastic jug of water, looping the saddle strings through the handle. “I figure one of you boys might need a drink before this is over.” He knew Harley wasn’t one to quit an enterprise once started and it was doubtful he would find much water in the direction he was headed. Danny Hat was young and tough and regardless of how well Harley thought he knew him, it might take more than just talking to bring him back. When Thomas thought about it, Harley was never that good a talker anyway. But he had no worries about the little man handling the fugitive should it come to a fight. Despite his size Harley Ponyboy had surprised more formidable opponents than Danny Hat.
Billy Red Clay took a long drink of the water George brought him and allowed he felt some better. “Harley, why don’t you just lend me that mule? I’ll go after him myself.”
Thomas Begay eyed his nephew and spoke before Harley had a chance. “Billy, that mule‘s pretty green. Harley’s the only one that’s rode him so far and mules are particular who they take up with.” He paused and tried to put the next thing as delicately as possible. “Harley’s well known around here as a tracker…and you’re not. That boy’s got a pretty good jump on you and in the end I’m thinking it’s going to come down to tracking…maybe some pretty fancy tracking at that. You better just let Harley handle it. If that boy can be caught Harley will catch him. You’re lucky he’s offered to do it for you Billy. Danny Hat’s got clan all over down there in the canyons. He could just as easy get away clean if you’re not careful.” This was all Thomas Begay could think of to discourage his nephew from an undertaking he thought might turn out badly.
Thomas was aware Harley’s main motivation was likely just looking out for Danny Hat, who he considered harmless despite the man’s troublesome ways. Probably, Harley figured it was the least he could do for Danny’s people, who for the most part, were good folks, including Danny’s sister who Harley had once been sweet on when they were kids. Thomas often wondered if Harley hadn’t looked the girl up, now that his wife Anita had been gone over a year. Luanne wasn’t married at the moment, and he’d heard she had a good job checking at the Co-Op. Maybe that’s who Harley was thinking about. Luanne Keyoni was a little wild to some people’s notion, but maybe that was what Harley needed.
Billy Red Clay sighed, chewed his lower lip and looked from Harley to Thomas. He knew his uncle was right but he, too, suspected Harley’s motives. In the end the policeman, deciding he had no real choice, reluctantly nodded agreement, then reached into his patrol unit to raise dispatch on the radio. He figured to have another unit sent in from below just in case. If Danny Hat got by Harley somehow, they might still be able to pick him up down-canyon.
Harley Ponyboy tightened the mule’s cinch a second time knowing the animal’s tendency to hold a deep breath when first saddled. Harley would have thought less of him if he hadn’t. Mules are always looking out for themselves and that’s the thing he liked best about this one. He rocked the saddle back and forth and put some weight in the stirrup a couple of times before swinging aboard. The mule, with the retightening of the cinch stood flat-footed, possibly wondering if this would be a good time to buck…but he didn’t on account it was Harley.
When he turned the mule toward the Navajo policeman Harley held up a finger. “You might let Charlie Yazzie know what’s going on. I expect that boy out there might be needing some legal advice––I’ve heard them FBIs will bully a person when they can.”
Billy Red Clay gave the little man a blank stare, then started to say something in the agency’s defense but then decided otherwise and held his tongue. “I’ll do that Harley.” He knew Senior FBI Agent Eldon Mayfield wouldn’t be pleased to have Charlie Yazzie involved in his business, and might even blame him for it. That could be a little worrisome, and possibly jeopardize his new position as Liaison Officer. On the other hand, he and Charlie Yazzie had always gotten on well––tribal police depended on Legal Services for all manner of information. Yes, there was the chance this could get a little sticky.
After they watched Harley Ponyboy edge the mule off into the draw, Professor Custer took it upon himself to enlighten the tribal policeman regarding the significance of the salvage operation in progress. George didn’t like the term “salvage” but knew that was what they were doing. He pointed out various features of the stone dwellings and was a little disappointed when the law officer showed only polite interest. But before returning to his tent and the never-ending paperwork, George Custer also asked Billy to have Charlie Yazzie get in touch.
After the professor made his way back up the hill, Thomas Begay stayed on, talking to his nephew and as they waited, they wondered again what might have come over Danny Hat to make him act as he did.
Billy Red Clay again ventured the opinion, “The boy didn’t seem ‘right’ somehow.”
Even after talk turned to other matters, family mostly, a strange foreboding came over Thomas each time his thoughts turned to Harley Ponyboy. As the afternoon wore on he couldn’t shake the feeling the little man had run into trouble. He and Harley had been friends for a long time and were more or less attuned to one another’s thinking. He was still mulling over the possibilities when he spied Harley and his mule across the canyon and heading their way at a fast clip.
When Harley finally urged the mule up out of the draw it was plain, even from a distance that he had failed to bring in the fugitive. Thomas knew his friend to be a pit-bull when once on a scent and was one who didn’t let go of a thing until he had given it a good shake. He was more than a little surprised, then, to see him come in empty handed. As the little man drew closer it was clear he had not only been hard on himself, but on the mule as well. The animal was lathered and carried his head low, ears flat out to either side in that pitiable state of dejection only a mule can pull off with any degree of credibility. Even the tribal policeman seemed taken aback to see Harley return so soon…and without the fugitive Danny Hat. Neither Thomas, nor the policeman called out to the rider; only watched quietly as Harley rode right up to the patrol unit and looked down at Billy Red Clay. Even then he didn’t speak, or look directly at the young officer.
Billy frowned. “You didn’t get him?”
“I didn’t have to.”
Billy squinted his one good eye and tried to maintain his composure, “Why not?”
Harley looked away for a moment and bit his lower lip. “Something already got him Billy. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Billy Red Clay was stunned and for a moment unable to speak. When he did finally answer he stammered, “What happened to him?”
Harley could barely form the words. “Damned if I could tell.” He didn’t like thinking about Danny now. His views on death were traditional to say the least, and the less he thought about it the better. The
mule was getting antsy, he was thirsty and wanted a drink and his dinner; he knew he had earned it.
Thomas Begay stepped up to take hold of the bridle. “Where did you find him Harley? You haven’t been gone more’n a few hours.”
“Danny only made it three or four miles from where we last saw him…maybe a little more.” Harley got a faraway look in his eyes, as though he still couldn’t believe what he had seen. “…Just sitting there against a juniper, hands folded in his lap, still had the cuffs on and all. But he’s dead all right. I didn’t have to touch him to see that…flies were already working him. I figured the Feds wouldn’t want anyone mucking things up so I didn’t go any closer. I couldn’t see a mark on that boy. Whatever killed him didn’t leave any sign. I backed out and cut a couple of circles way out around, but couldn’t come up with anything ta speak of, no tracks or nothin’.” Harley shot Thomas Begay an odd look, which Thomas took to mean there might be more to it than Harley was reporting.
Harley swung down off the mule, untied the still full water bottle, took a long slow swallow, and then wet his kerchief and began wiping his neck and face with it. “There’s an old four-wheel drive track coming in from the lower canyon, almost up to where he’s sitting.” Harley mentioned this with the hope Billy Red Clay would have someone come in from that direction to retrieve the body, and not require any further involvement on his part. “There really isn’t any good way in from up here Billy,” he insisted. “Unless you want to pack him out horseback.” The policeman stayed staring at the ground for a moment, shook his head finally, and turned back to the radio. Things had gone downhill fast from the time he had first arrested Danny Hat. Billy Red Clay figured he might as well get in touch with Agent Mayfield and lay it all out for him. The FBI man wouldn’t be happy with this turn of events, but Billy knew he would definitely want to be in on the recovery. He would have to bring along his forensic people of course; that would mean a long wait. Farmington wasn’t far as the crow flies but it was a circuitous route to the lower end of that canyon. This could well turn into an all-nighter, and given the circumstances, Eldon Mayfield was not someone he was eager to spend the night with.
After Harley unsaddled and watered the mule he staked him out on a patch of grass then came back to wait for Billy Red Clay to finish his conversation. Dispatch was having a little trouble making him out, and unable to pinpoint the subject’s location on their topo maps. Navajo are soft talkers; a few thousand years of relative quiet pretty much eliminated the need for loud talk. Billy raised his voice to a near shout, thinking that might help…and it did.
When Harley looked over at him, Thomas Begay glanced back, nodded, and headed up the hill to inform the professor of the news. He would talk to Harley later, but he had a pretty good idea what was on his mind. While Harley hadn’t touched the body, he had been there soon enough that he might now perceive himself at risk, especially since there was no apparent cause of death. It could have been some sort of witchery and Danny Hat’s chindi might still have been hanging around. Thomas knew Harley would feel vulnerable enough to be thinking of a singer. He would have felt much the same himself; he and Harley were of a like mind when it came to dead people.
Billy Red Clay eventually wound up his business on the two-way, and after taking down Harley Ponyboy’s statement and getting his signature, left to meet with a tribal unit at the turnoff. They would most likely have to wait there for the Feds, as he doubted Senior Agent Mayfield or his people could find the place without someone being there to show them the way.
Billy once thought being Liaison Officer between Tribal and the FBI a good career move, but was beginning to think maybe that was a mistake. He was off regular patrol duty and did have the new car, but the added worries that came with the job, and dealing with Eldon Mayfield, might be more than he bargained for. Billy originally thought the agent a more or less reasonable man despite being from New York city, but of late things were taking another direction altogether and he was not sure where that might eventually lead. Maybe Charlie Yazzie had been right when he said Eldon would never fit in on the reservation. Billy did sometimes hope Junior Agent Fred Smith out of the Albuquerque office might eventually succeed to the position. There had been talk of it, and he knew Eldon would jump at the chance to quit the reservation and return to what he often referred to as civilization. Fred Smith on the other hand was originally from the Four Corners, still had family around Bloomfield, and had let it be known he would welcome the opportunity to return. In his opinion it would be a step up for the younger FBI man. Billy liked Fred and knew Charlie Yazzie did as well. The policeman hoped his office might someday be able to work with the Bureau on a more equal basis.
2
1075 A.D.
The Journey
In the chill of predawn the boy moved to the edge of the alcove, peered into the shadowed canyon, and sorted through the jumble of thoughts and dreams from the night before. Today things would be different. Today they would start laying walls for his house. He was no longer a boy…but not yet a man. That would come when he took a woman. She must be of another clan, probably from a distant settlement, and likely, a person he had never seen before. Finding her wouldn’t be easy. These were perilous times––people were suspicious and wary of strangers.
These were the thoughts that troubled the boy, making him feel unsure and a bit afraid.
~~~~~~
The boy’s clan had been first among those to leave the great town to the south. Now the outlands were sprinkled with small settlements, sometimes only two or three families, or a single clan. Those settling at the farthest reaches found trouble––reports of wild bands from the north harassing those not on their guard; women and children stolen from the fields and such crops that survived the drought raided in the night.
There had been a time when those wandering hunters were trading partners, exchanging hides and dried meat for corn and beans. Now game was scarce, and there was little left to trade on either side. Isolated groups of their own kind were becoming desperate too, covetous of their more prosperous neighbors. Those who had nothing began to prey upon those who had even a little.
The elders thought it only a matter of time before the fiercest of these people gathered in raiding parties and threatened the entire region. The boy’s clan was few in number, alone in a hostile land, and while it was of their own doing he sometimes wondered if the elders had made the right decision. Leaving the safety of the larger town would have been a risky move even in good times.
The elders in their defense, cited the strange new ideas filtering in from beyond the great southern desert, where there were said to be noble civilizations with peculiar customs, and even more powerful Gods. First there were only a few traders and they brought wondrous things, tiny copper bells, brightly colored feathers, and iridescent shell ornaments to dazzle the eye. It was only later their holy men appeared, taller more imperious beings who implied their Gods had the power to bring rain. These strangers were fortunate to appear when they did––the rains did return for a time, and the newcomers were quick to take credit. Great buildings were begun, and demands upon the people grew more strident as a new class developed. Their grip on the people tightened, and their followers, became many.
Over time, clan elders, including his own father, came to consider these interlopers and their Gods dangerous, and likely to anger the Deities of their ancestors. Turmoil and unrest divided the people as never before––old customs were scorned and the elders challenged at every turn. Their world grew more complicated. The boy’s own sister was a target; followers of the new order cast suspicious glances her way, frowned into their feather blankets, and exchanged knowing looks. The holy men would have had such individuals abandoned… or worse. In the end, the elders were forced to make a life-changing decision. Now, his people were the outliers.
From the dwelling’s open doorway there came whimpering, all the more pitiful in that lonely time before dawn. The girl awaited the sun and the warmt
h of that life-giving orb; soon she would call to be brought outside, into the warmth, hoping to gain some small respite from the pain. After her accident, his mother would rub each injured limb, stretching each one in turn, praying some lasting good might come of it. Now, only he and his father were left to care for the girl. Still she hung on, season after season, year after year, her condition growing ever worse…and where would they be then? The girl’s powers were evident early on and she now held their future in her hands.
The passing of thirty-nine winters had left his father already old. It was a hard life in the canyons, and required constant work. The work took its toll, and his wife’s death only doubled his burden. Grit from the grinding stones wore down his teeth leaving them vulnerable to sugars in the corn they so desperately depended on. Bad teeth brought illness and aged a person beyond their years. The wild game had been hunted out, and native plants produced only sporadically. With less and less food of any sort, the people grew weak and unable to harvest resources in more distant areas. The boy was aware his father ate less now, leaving more for them. The old man no longer worried about putting something aside for winter.
The rains had been late again. The he-rains should already be pushing their way up from the south. In the kiva the elders held the ceremonies, sang the secret songs and smoked their cone-shaped clay pipes, sending little rain clouds of smoke to now heedless Gods…who paid them no mind. In the fields above the canyon rim the corn and beans soon exhausted what little groundwater filtered down from meager winter snows. Squash blossoms languished in the heat of the afternoon and withered on the vine.
Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery Page 2
