Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery

by R. Allen Chappell

  Paul and the others finally came to the tent and drank copious amounts of water from the barrel beside the door, after which the two patients declared themselves cured and ready to return to the project. Neither of the two men referred to the ceremony or made further inquiry into the matter of Danny Hat. They would try not to think of him in the future.

  A few minutes later Charlie grinned, looked up from one of the professor’s reports he was reading and motioned George Custer from his grid charts. Old man Paul T’Sosi had taken up a shovel and was following the other two to the kiva they had been excavating. He appeared none the worse for his time in the sweat lodge and, in fact, had a spring in his step they hadn’t noticed before.

  “Do you think he’s up to using that shovel?” Professor Custer whispered.

  “Well, he must think he is,” Charlie said, “I suppose that’s a good indicator. He’s a tough old bird and this might be the best thing for him.” He then took up a shovel himself and headed toward the excavation.

  Charlie Yazzie as an undergraduate had been one of Custer’s most promising students; the professor often spoke of his intuitive bent for archaeology. In later years he would go so far as to remark it had been a mistake for Charlie to switch his major to Law. Privately Dr. Custer still thought so, though he now agreed Charlie had proven himself in his chosen field as well.

  When they reached the shade of the alcove they found Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay already hard at work. Paul, with a trowel and screen, sifted portions of a fill area made up of household middins he judged interesting only by the color and texture of the deposit. None of the men needed instruction in correct procedure. This was salvage archaeology, more of a recovery effort than anything else and not to be confused with the more careful and time-consuming investigation of a more scientific probe. Still, Charlie knew salvage people were often qualified and experienced workers picked to do the best job possible in the time available. Salvage projects were ones in imminent danger of being destroyed, drowned, or otherwise eliminated from their place in recorded history. Whatever can be cataloged and saved is thought all to the good. Professor Custer knew in the not so distant past he would have been hard pressed to find Navajo who would even consider working in these ruins. While that was still sometimes the case, much had changed over the years and many of the rangers and other workmen in the Reservation’s National Parks and Monuments were now Indian.

  While this particular little Anasazi site was not thought to be in immediate peril, new state guidelines decreed a qualified person should at least have a cursory look. In the initial surveys Dr. Custer first thought this site little different from those further up the canyon. Though it was clear the others were from a slightly earlier time, this is the one that aroused the professor’s curiosity. Recent looting of the upper mesa top ruins had been a factor in that decision. There had been incursions so systematic and thorough as to leave the sites with very little of scientific value. Beyond a quick survey and photo documentation of those looted sites, Custer thought his time better spent on this more protected and less spoiled cluster of dwellings. Time was short and state funding unreliable at best. He knew the highway department was champing at the bit, petitioning higher-ups to cancel the salvage project altogether.

  In its little alcove below the rim, the defensive nature of the site had immediately attracted the archaeologist’s attention; further investigation only heightened his interest. The masonry was classic Chaco and he hoped it might provide some crucial link to the gradual northward resettlement following the great towns’ “golden age.”

  The site was only ten or twelve ground floor apartments and less than half that in second story rooms––with a scattering of storage bins here and there among the cracks and fissures. There was a small kiva in the forefront of the dwellings requiring an outer retaining wall to be built, with rock and dirt fill still supporting the chambers lower walls.

  A tiny round tower sat atop the end room, just at the entry to the alcove, an unusual feature to say the least. Custer suspected it was a lookout that might afford easier surveillance of the lower trail that edged across the face of the cliff. To his mind it was yet another indicator of a period when increased security was thought necessary. There had been just the one single-file access to the cliff-side apartments, further evidence of the turmoil brought about by a dark period of climate change, change so severe as to prove the beginning of the end for these ancient people. Dr. Custer had a special interest in this drastic change and the great drought it brought with it, especially in regard to these small outlier groups. He surmised no more than twenty-five or thirty people might have made their home in this village at any one time, and possibly for only one or two generations.

  Thomas Begay and Harley Ponyboy had become so proficient in their work they now required little overseeing. The professor had spent a good bit of time digging alongside them and they were apt students. They learned to hurry through the fill, fallen rubble of the walls, and debris of roofing material, to concentrate their main efforts at base level––that’s where the more important finds were likely to be made.

  Charlie had just picked what he thought might be a productive spot inside the grid marked for the day’s investigation when the professor appeared with a sheaf of papers in hand and called him to follow. The archaeologist pointed to the last room in the little complex––the room with the small second-floor tower guarding the narrow ledge beyond the entry.

  George Custer began by saying, “There can be little doubt the lower path up to the dwellings once followed a very narrow ledge, along the face of that cliff, one easily defended should one remain alert and have a pile of stones at their disposal.”

  “That end room,” the professor said, pointing, “would have been the first line of defense against intruders, and whoever lived in that room would have had the duty of alerting the others and repelling enemies until help arrived.” The professor hesitated then seemed to consider further. “There does seem to have been some sort of stone barrier at the narrowest section of trail. Further out there is the main trail up to the top and the fields. “It makes a person wonder what kind of people it took to work… or even survive under these conditions.” He shook his head as though to clear those thoughts. “There had to have been happy times I’m sure, but always there seems to have been an undercurrent of desperation in these people and their life here in the canyons.” The professor’s face brightened. “I have roughly dated this site to those years before a later, and more severe drought, forced the great migration out of this area and it is one of the few small sites in the canyon to plainly show the Chaco influence. This might possibly have been an offshoot of the Chacoan phase at Aztec Ruins National Monument.”

  Charlie nodded, agreeing with the professor’s basic assessment. He felt the old urge to know more about this particular little band of people and how they lived. He gazed past the broken walls and he too, silently wondered. What incredible hardships they must have endured during those times. The stories these walls could tell…

  Once again the two men became teacher and student, and together fell to clearing rubble and chatting as they had so often in the past.

  It was late afternoon when Thomas Begay looked up from his work and saw a Tribal police unit easing its way down the rough grade that was to become part of the new highway. He poked Harley, and pointed. “Look who’s back? My nephew must think he needs to keep an eye on us up here.” Thomas stayed leaning on his shovel, watching as the unit came to a stop and the officer stepped down and looked around the staging area.

  Harley barely raised his head and gave no more than a quick glance toward the road. In a muffled voice he said, “I think I might be on ta something here,” then pulled down his bandanna and tapped the point of his shovel against a large flat stone––there was a hollow clunk. Bending closer he gave it another light tap…something definitely sounded different.

  Thomas paid no attention, concentrating instead on his nephew down
below then decided. “Billy looks a little put out, if you know what I mean.” He then waved to catch his nephew’s attention and whistled toward the others at their digging, thinking they had missed the sound of the car’s approach. When still no one took notice he shouted and waved an arm in their direction.

  Charlie Yazzie’s head popped out of a doorway; he looked about, thinking the professor might have called from across the site. George and old man Paul T’Sosi had been digging a test hole last he saw of them. Thomas waved again then pointed; finally Charlie caught sight of Officer Billy Red Clay and understood.

  Thomas poked Harley who was still bent over his shovel, reluctant to leave off his investigation. “Something’s going on, little man. You can mess with that rock later.”

  Harley muttered, “This thing looks like it might really be somethin’ …maybe I better…”

  “I guess whatever it is will keep Harley. It’s been there a thousand years. I doubt it’s going anywhere in the next few minutes. It would be rude for you to ignore my nephew. He’s always liked you.”

  Harley sighed, laid down his shovel and he and Thomas moved to join the others picking their way to meet the tribal policeman. Billy was waving a piece of paper and seemed anxious to show it to someone. Everyone came together at about the same time, though Harley, glancing back at the kiva, had lagged a little behind.

  The policeman stopped to catch his breath and let them come closer. Charlie was first there and was surprised to see a rather sinister look on Billy’s placid features. Maybe it was the black, swollen eye––that was new. He paused mid-step, hesitant, waiting for the policeman to speak.

  Billy cleared his throat and seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. “Sue told me you would be up here.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “That supervisor…foreman, up at the road construction filed a complaint against me.” His voice was ragged, edged with emotion, and nearly a growl. “That bastard Karl Hoffman claims I threatened him with violence...said we were on Ute land, and I had no authority there.”

  Charlie held up a hand. “What?” and then took the paper the lawman held. “Hold on a minute Billy.” Charlie had already heard about the confrontation with the road foreman, but this sounded like the situation might be escalating. After reading the complaint he asked, “Did you go by the road camp and talk to the guy?” He thought that might be something Billy Red Clay would do––the lawman was not one to mince words, or back off a delicate situation.

  Billy made a visible effort to speak more clearly and his next words were calm and measured. “I did go up there, but the maintenance man was the only one around; the dozer was off in the ditch and on its side. When I asked about Karl Hoffman, the guy said there had been an accident and the others had taken him to the hospital in Farmington.” Billy frowned and looked back up the hill toward the road camp. “I asked him why they hadn’t called for an ambulance, and he looked at me kind of funny… said they didn’t think Karl would last long enough for the ambulance to get out here and back.”

  Thomas interrupted his nephew, “It sounds to me like it was probably a good thing those road boys was gone, you might have made things a whole lot worse going up there.” He narrowed his eyes at the younger man. “There was plenty of people heard what took place at our little run-in with Karl Hoffman. I doubt there’ll be any problem once that’s set straight.”

  “Right now, Uncle,” Billy said quietly, “The ‘complaint’ is not what I’m worried about. I just called dispatch on the two-way and had them patch me through to the hospital.” Here Billy Red Clay turned to look out across the canyon and for a moment seemed to have trouble finding his voice.

  “So how is he Billy?” Charlie was getting a bad feeling about this.

  The policeman didn’t bother to turn around when he answered. “He’s dead Charlie; the attending physician said he had been shot off that dozer. It was no accident.” Complete silence enveloped the little group and hung like a shroud.

  No one dared look at anyone else, and Thomas put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder to slowly turn him around. “Where were you during that time he was shot Shiye'?” Thomas used the Navajo word meaning ‘nephew’ and looked directly at him when he said it.

  Billy’s eyes did not meet those of his uncle. “I don’t know for sure but I couldn’t have been very far. The man said they had left with Hoffman only about twenty minutes before I pulled up.”

  “You didn’t pass them on their way out?” Charlie thought things might be taking yet another turn for the worse.

  “No,” Billy said, almost in a whisper. “No one passed me going out that I saw.”

  Now Harley Ponyboy edged up to Charlie and spoke in a low voice, “There is that old cut-across this side of Rock Stands Up. It’s rough but people still use it…saves about ten miles for those who know about it.”

  Thomas nodded, “I’ve been that way…could be those boys used it to save time. Seems I heard they graded it recently for those trucks coming in with heavy equipment. They wouldn’t have to go over the pass that way neither; that pass is a pretty good pull for the big equipment haulers.” Everyone could see the implication of proximity and motive, but nonetheless, wanted to show support for Billy Red Clay, and were eager to discount these things in the process. This Navajo policeman was family to Thomas, and by association, related to Paul T’Sosi as well. He was in fact well thought of by the entire group. No one wanted to see him wrongly accused.

  Charlie, had known the young officer a long time, well before he was a policeman, and couldn’t imagine him capable of such an act. “What did your Lieutenant say about the complaint Hoffman filed?”

  “He said he wouldn’t do anything until he talked to the Captain, but did say I wouldn’t be suspended without a preliminary investigation––probably take a day or so.”

  It was then old man Paul T’Sosi moved up close to Billy and boldly asked, “Do you think you need a cleansing ceremony Grandson?”

  Everyone knew what the old singer was really asking including Billy, and he looked directly at him before answering. No, Paul, I don’t need any ceremony. I didn’t shoot Karl Hoffman.”

  Paul nodded, looked closely at the younger man before stepping back, and seemed satisfied with the answer.

  Charlie Yazzie paused and thought for a moment. “Billy, I expect this killing might cause your Captain to rethink his position on that suspension. I think it best everyone present at that little altercation sign a deposition stating exactly what was said. I’ll need something I can present to Captain Beyale to head off any further damage from that complaint Hoffman filed. It might allow enough time for a proper investigation, one that could clear you of wrongdoing before any actual charges can be filed.” Charlie’s expression didn’t change when he looked at Billy Red Clay and cautioned, “You being out here at the time of the shooting is going to look bad no matter what, but at least we’ll have an arguing point when I talk to Captain Beyale.” The Legal Services Investigator’s voice grew more serious. “Doctors are required to report gunshot wounds immediately. I would imagine there is a police report being filed in Farmington as we speak.”

  As the men stood there, each with his own thoughts, the hoot of an owl drifted down from the ancient village. There was not a man among them that didn’t know its implication. Even the white professor, knew the hoot of an owl in daylight was dreaded by these people and was considered a harbinger of evil. A creature that can see in the black of night has always been thought to have supernatural powers and a possible cohort of evil forces. Many fear hearing an owl even at night and feel sorry for its prey.

  Harley’s eyes were wide when he mouthed the Mexican name for an owl. “Tecolote…” Harley knew the old Navajo word for the great horned owl, néʼéshjaatsoh, but avoided saying it for fear it might draw the bird’s attention.

  Thomas took his cue from Harley and he, too, looked worried, casting about for further signs of evil. “I think we better call it a day, it’s almost four o’clo
ck anyway.”

  Harley chimed in, “That would be good, give that thing time to fly away.”

  This was the sort of talk that caused Charlie Yazzie to grimace and shake his head, even though he knew the same stigma was attached to the bird in many other cultures including most other Indian tribes…and a number of white ones as well. When at university a white boy from the mountains of North Carolina told him; should he hear the call of an owl in daylight, someone close was sure to die. Charlie had since thought of that boy many times and wondered at the way even educated people will often hang on to things they believed as a child.

  4

  1075 A.D.

  Retribution

  From the shade of a piñon pine the boy glanced up the back-trail and for the hundredth time checked to see that no one followed. They had come far… further than they first intended. But of the first two villages, one was not inclined to let go of either of the two available young women, as they were already promised. Either would have made a fine wife in his father’s opinion. In the second settlement the only unmarried woman was older, and though of a suitable clan the boy thought her surly, ill natured, and kept a poor house. The boy’s father, in a hurry to return home, was of the opinion a light beating might well cure her of those vices. Still the boy would not budge, saying the woman was also unattractive, and his father was forced to agree a beating would not help that.