Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery

by R. Allen Chappell

  The first graying of dawn appeared in the east and quickly became streaked with red and orange mare’s tails. In normal times this might mean rain was on the way. Now, it would probably be only a cold front moving through, pushing wind and dirt ahead of it. The tracks of the raiding party were easy to find and easier to follow. The village elder had been right; the raiders didn’t bother to hurry and showed little concern that anyone might come after them.

  The boys kept their eyes on the trail ahead, slowing to a walk only when chewing their ration of corn. Twice, in the light of a waning moon, they stopped to sip water at hidden seeps, water that was alkaline and bitter, but they had drunk worse and were happy to have it. It was obvious the raiding party had been there before them each time, their prints plain around the muddy edges of the seep. The older boy gauged how long it took the dripping water to refill the pool below. He signed they might be only hours behind and should stay well back and wait their chance.

  This made sense to the younger boy and he wondered again why anyone might think there was anything wrong with this person. They at last agreed it would be good to lie down and at least rest a while, that they might be fresh when the time came to strike.

  It was light enough now to make better sense of the tracks and they saw there were only four of the raiders left. The other tracks were those of the three women in woven sandals. There was no sign of the two children. The women were carrying heavy packs of plunder and probably unable to help the children keep up, the missing tracks a likely indicator of their fate. When the older boy came to this realization he fell into an even darker mood and did not sleep. He sat brooding and watching through slitted eyes. One of those boys had been his nephew and often in his care. During the attack he had heard the boy call for him, but at the time had been busy killing a man with his bare hands and unable to save his nephew from capture.

  It was close to sunset when the boys cautiously worked their way to a point above the trail and studied the way ahead. They knew they were close and no longer bothered to follow the trail itself, but kept to higher ground, out of sight or sound of the trail below. They lay on their bellies and carefully edged to the brink of the overlook. The invaders would make camp somewhere in the darkening canyon below, a place where there would be water and shelter from the coming weather. Even the older boy had not been this far north and now depended on the abductors to point the way to water.

  “There,” the younger boy finally whispered, “Below that ledge… just at the bottom.”

  The other instantly nodded, staring long and hard at the camp, which was nearly indiscernible in the shadows. They must remember exactly how everything was, and memorize a way down that would take them close, but afford cover for at least the first hour of descent. It would be dark after that and cover less important, but still they would have to move slowly and avoid the slightest noise. The moon would be only a sliver this night, and that would be to their advantage. They quickly shed their packs and readied themselves for the assault. These marauders would not be taking their women to a victory dance tomorrow. One way or the other this was as far north as they would go.

  From the moccasin tracks the older boy had judged one, possibly two, of the attackers had suffered serious injury. One limped from time to time, and the other had a foot turned nearly sideways, causing him to stagger over the rough ground; he must be an important man not to be left behind. This and the heavy-laden women had slowed them considerably, even without the children.

  This boy might get lucky––this boy who sought a wife to become a man. He showed courage enough now, but what would he do in the coming fight? The larger boy knew exactly what he would do and, despite the odds, he meant to take a heavy toll on these northern dogs. There was a reason even his own people feared the large and brooding boy.

  As they studied the camp, the older boy reached in his pouch and withdrew a square of buckskin tied with a thong. He nudged the other, and handed him the package without looking, then surprised him by speaking his first words. “If these dogs should kill me, this will identify you to that girl who you would have for a wife. Her father is my uncle and told me to give you this, but only if I thought you worthy and a proper person.” He smiled. “It is hard to see it now, but that old man was a great warrior himself in his time­­––before he took to farming. He taught me what he could of how to go about it.” He then frowned. “He thinks he sees something in you. I hope he is right. That girl down there is my cousin and is the only one who ever treated me well. She is the last of her clan; she will make a good wife.” He turned to the boy, and in a voice devoid of feeling said, “My uncle told me; if I could not save her, then I must kill her…better that, than leave her to these wild men.”

  The boy was not shocked at this, only by hearing it spoken. Unfolding the buckskin he marveled at the amulet on its string of matching beads. Azure turquoise from the far southwest, a spider web of gold running through a delicately carved cliff swallow, so finely cut and polished as to take the breath away. He knew at once it was the work of master artisans in the old town. He could only nod, and for a moment did not trust himself to speak. Finally he said, “I hoped you would introduce me to that girl yourself and perhaps put in a good word for me.” The boy smiled as he said this, but he meant it all the same, and as he saw the other attempt a smile in return, he said, “We are of the same people, you and I…our people left the great town for the same reasons. No matter if the worst happens here, we will surely meet again in another time and place.”

  With that, the two rose in the last faint rays of light and as they adjusted their weapons and put their minds to what lay ahead, the younger boy turned and asked, “What is your name brother?”

  “I have no name. It has been lost to me.” The young man did not explain, or ask what the other was called, there would be time enough for that later…or it would not matter.

  As the pair silently, and with excruciating care, crept their way to the lower reaches of the canyon their minds were as one and each knew intuitively how the other was thinking. Their common goal was clear; they must kill four dangerous men. And if the women were to be saved, they must kill those men quickly. These were not the sort of people to leave a woman behind…not alive…that was certain.

  It was growing late; it had taken nearly the entire night, to work their way off the rim. Ragged black clouds scudded across a scrap of moon, repeatedly plunging the canyon into full darkness. The wind rose with blowing sand and alkali dust so thick as to sting the eyes and fill their noses. If the moon didn’t reappear soon, there was nothing to do but wait until it did. There could be no real plan––when the time came they could only do what fate decreed and hope it to be enough. The older boy would make the first move, as he was the more experienced and these women were his own blood. He knew they would get only one chance and lives, certainly their own, hung in the balance. When the pair thought themselves as close to the camp as they dared they could barely make out the sleeping forms. They still were not close enough to see exactly how things were, which were the raiders, and which the captives.

  There would be a sentry. He would most likely be the most capable of their fighters––he must be first to die. Such a sentry should not be hard to locate and the older boy split off to circle the camp and search him out. The other waited a few minutes then moved in a different direction, bow at the ready, he would look for another target.

  The marauders had no fire, and made little noise of any sort. They had become worried as they approached the mountains. They no longer felt safe, though it was the border of their own country. They now took precautions they had not bothered with before. Though wounded, the leader feared nothing from the farmers they left behind, but grew apprehensive as they entered their own land. He considered it even more dangerous here than below in the canyon country. There might be other roving bands here––possibly their own people and even more desperate killers.

  The tired raiders ate parched corn from the stolen
stocks and drank from the muddy seep. The women, in fear of their lives, had known better than make a sound. Later when one was heard quietly sobbing, she was instantly dealt a blow that silenced her, but that sound was heard, the location noted, and it became the start of a plan.

  Should the two strongest warriors, likely sentries, be located and eliminated first, it would leave only the two wounded men to be dealt with. Not that they would be easy. Their injuries would make them no less dangerous––the first hint of trouble would alert them, and they would fight like animals brought to bay. Probably they were sleeping among the captives now, but should their prospects appear hopeless in the coming fight they were certain to wreak havoc on the helpless women. They would be deadly to their last breath.

  The moon’s tiny crescent appeared low in the sky, shed its clouds, and brought a rising wind to blow among the treetops, enough noise to cover the rescuers’ advance. Easing into the deep shadow of a rock outcrop the older boy finally spotted the outline of a sentry. His atlatl was at the ready, a long dart already in place, but at the last moment the wind gusted and gusted again, and he thought the heavier, more powerful spear might be best. Just as he decided this and moved to switch weapons he saw the sentry twitch and jerk as if he had been dozing and come suddenly awake. It appeared he was turning to look directly at him…and it was then he saw the arrow through his throat and watched as the man crumpled to the ground. Even in so little light, and with the wind to contend with, the boy from the south had made a remarkable shot. He must be very skilled to judge the wind so well as that…or he was very, very lucky. Either way, he thought he had perhaps worried about this boy for nothing.

  As he eased up to the lifeless body the older boy had for the first time, an unobstructed view of the camp itself. He saw five forms, motionless, all apparently sleeping. The two larger, one on each outer edge and tight against their packs would be last to taste his revenge. These and the dead sentry made three of the enemy now accounted for. Somewhere near the camp, there had to be a fourth, still hidden. These wild men were on their guard, and the boy gave thanks for the wind and passing clouds.

  After loosing the arrow, the younger boy waited to make sure the first sentry stayed down. Only then did he become aware of his hulking companion; he had not seen him in the cover of the trees. He knew now they should immediately, and at any cost move on the sleepers. He made his first kill to avenge their people; whatever the price, and wife or no wife, he would now, and forevermore, be considered a man.

  If there had indeed been two sentries they would have had signals, the call of a night bird perhaps. And now, because of him, there would be no answering call. A second sentry would be the final line of defense, probably was hiding near his sleeping companions. Both boys were of the same mind and screened by a growth of chokecherries soon came side by side. Not looking at one another they moved silently on the sleeping camp. The hoot of an owl brought them dead in their tracks; none of their own people would use the hoot of an owl to signal…too much chance it would attract that evil and maybe bring trouble. The two boys looked at one another––they already knew death was in the offing. The larger of the pair grinned and pushed his chin toward the sleeping camp.

  As the sliver of moon came clear of the clouds the older boy turned to the other and nodded imperceptibly. His eyes glittered in the half-light, features contorted beyond recognition. So consuming a rage seemed to fall over him that the younger boy was for a moment taken aback. The heavy club of the dead sentry dangled from a thong on his strong left wrist. He signed that the younger boy should cover him as he advanced. It was clear he meant to fly upon these killers and have his revenge at any cost. The younger boy knew there would be time for only one shot at the hidden sentinel when he sounded the alarm. The two wounded raiders would be upon them then, as well and it would become a matter of clubs and stone knives.

  The advancing boy was within feet of the nearest form before realizing it was not a person at all. They had been tricked. A woman screamed, and a mind-splitting cry erupted behind them. The younger boy had just moved behind a sapling and the arrow meant for him lodged there, nearly splitting the slender tree. Quick as a snake, he had two arrows in the air and before the crippled war leader could send another… one of his had found its mark.

  The boy heard a guttural snarl of rage from his companion as he was struck a glancing blow from a spear. Blood spurted from his side even as he turned to face yet another furious enemy. The black streaked face told him it was one of those he had encountered in the fight for his village. The warrior erupted from beneath the leaves to slash at him once again, slicing deep into his upper leg and bringing him to one knee. But still, the powerful boy swung the stone club with a crushing blow to the side of his assailant’s face. At the far side of the camp yet another warrior rose from cover and plunged a knife into the helpless captive beside him. With a last mighty effort the bleeding boy flung his big spear with stunning force, catching the earth-covered killer full in the breast, knocking him backwards where he lay good as dead beside the woman he had just killed.

  Silence left by a dying wind fell over the camp as the younger boy searched wildly for yet another target. Nothing moved. Seconds flashed by and the boy with the club…dropped it. Although weak, he fixed a dart to his atlatl as two people broke from cover and fled across the clearing. The largest of the pair pushed a smaller person before him. The twice-wounded boy was certain it was his cousin; he feared for just an instant, that he was too far-gone and might only wound the frenzied killer…or hit the girl, who then might be dead either way. He cocked his arm for the throw and with a scream released the long dart. An arrow from the younger boy sang past him at the same instant, both projectiles finding their mark but neither with killing effect.

  The boy nocked yet another arrow to his bow as he watched the girl sidestep a flint bladed knife and then deal her wounded captor a vicious kick to the groin. The man rocked to one side and caught a second dart from the atlatl through one eye. At nearly the same time, the boy’s last arrow pierced his body and he sighed, and was done.

  The older boy cried a name, and this was the girl’s first indication the attackers were her own people and not just another band of roving killers. As she sank wearily to her knees she saw someone running toward her and drew back, not knowing it was her future husband. When the boy slowed his approach and held out the amulet she knew she was indeed in the hands of people who meant her no harm.

  The boy led her back to her dying cousin and she knelt beside him, saw there was no hope, and knew she would be the last of his people he would ever see. This was the second time he had killed in the girl’s defense, the first time it had been an important leader of their own band. The boy was even younger then, but when the rage flew over him he would not be denied. Some said he was not right in his mind, feared him for it, and his name was no longer spoken.

  “They will sing songs about you now,” the girl told him, “And I will tell my children how you fought here today.” The girl shed no tears as she watched the fire fade from his eyes, but spoke softly saying, “Go now Cousin, and help our dead find that far place where life is easy and there is no need to kill…your nephew is calling you.” And then as the boy closed his eyes she whispered, “Your father will at last be proud and once again our people will speak your name.”

  7

  Revelation

  The salvage crew hurried themselves off to the kiva to inspect this latest find of Harley Ponyboy’s, the one he thought might have some connection to the murder of James Erdric; late of the state highway department and now a suspected looter and thief, though a dead one.

  As Harley got down on one knee at the stone lidded bin, the others gathered close and there was an air of expectation and curiosity on each face. Professor Custer leaned over Harley’s shoulder as the slab was pried loose and lifted aside. The flat stone was set atop the bucket protecting the footprint he’d discovered earlier; the one he was certain belonged to Jame
s Erdric.

  Harley pointed to the delicate bowl with the hole drilled in the bottom, and the professor was immediately on his knees, carefully lifting the delicate vessel to exclaim over the finely traced swallows decorating the inside rim.

  Thomas threw a sideways glance at the professor. “That bowl was ‘killed’ as a burial offering, that’s why the hole?”

  The professor turned to answer and was surprised at the distraught look on Thomas’s face. “Yes,” he admitted, “The bowl was intended to serve a person’s spirit in the next world. This is most likely a burial.” Then turning to the others he noted, “It’s not often we see one so neatly drilled, but I imagine it was the surest way to insure a bowl didn’t shatter in the killing of it. That can happen when a hole is chipped into the bottom.” Dr. Custer shrugged. “I suppose some thought it didn’t matter––a ghost vessel is a ghost vessel and will serve the dead either way.”

  Thomas Begay peered suspiciously around the kiva. “Ghost vessel? But these people didn’t have chindi huh? Not like those evil chindi of the Diné, right?”

  Charlie gave a tired sigh but caught himself before saying something he might later regret. “Thomas, no one really knows what these people believed. But after a thousand years I’m pretty certain there’s nothing left here that can hurt you.”

  Professor George Custer agreed and smiled. “No, Thomas, these people didn’t have evil chindi. As you can see they kept their dead close to them and didn’t fear their spirits. The Navajo didn’t come into this country until after the Anasazi were long gone; they had no beef with your people. The Utes might have been a different story, but for the most part even they got along all right––until the big drought––then it became a matter of survival for both and the Ute’s ancestors might have played a harsher role. Eventually only these and maybe a few other outlier groups were left to roam this country. Some of them may well have been the descendants of the Paleo-Indians of the final glacial periods. We now call them the “Clovis” or “Folsom” people from right here in New Mexico and for more than ten thousand years.”