Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery

by R. Allen Chappell

  “About time,” Thomas muttered, but touched the brim of his hat to the girl. Harley also smiled, and tipped his hat. Time listening to Thomas’s whining might have been better spent chatting this girl up. Obviously she was interested, and that was rare these days.

  Charlie Yazzie didn’t look up when the two came in and continued reading his document–– indicating chairs with a wave of his hand. His visitors, frowning, stared across the desk then made little faces at one another.

  Thomas coughed finally, and winking at Harley Ponyboy observed, “That must be some pretty interesting reading he’s got there.”

  “Yep,” Harley agreed, “Maybe he inherited some money from someone…ta hold his attention like that.” Both men chuckled and Thomas took a swipe at Harley with his hat.

  Charlie, exasperated, finally looked up then he, too, frowned, pinched the bridge of his nose and studied the pair. “All dressed up I see, new hats and all…must be new hat season on the rez.” He almost smiled, “Paul T’Sosi has one, too.” He settled back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at them. “Someone must have gotten paid today.” Charlie turned serious when he lay his papers down, “Is the professor all through out at the dig?”

  “No, he’s still out there piddling around…said there were a few things still needed documenting.” Thomas paused and rolled a word around in his head. “Provenance…he said something about ‘provenance’.” He grinned at Harley. “He paid us off though, most of it anyway, and told us we could take the weekend off and report back on Monday. We still have to help clean up out there, backfill the kiva and such.”

  Harley, ever inquisitive, pointed at the papers on Charlie’s desk, and though they were clearly stamped “Confidential” in large red overlay, pursed his lips and asked. “Confidential, huh? What’s that all about?”

  “They’re from the FBI Harley. ‘Confidential’ means I can’t tell anyone what they’re about.”

  “Oh, I know that, but just between us, what are they about?” He canted his head to one side, smiled and murmured, “Have the Feds got something new in the murders?”

  Charlie sighed, pushed the papers into the top drawer, and gave Harley a look. “They are confidential Harley. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  The little man puffed up. “Well, what about all the stuff I’ve told you…about Luanne and all. What about that, huh? That was supposed to be confidential, too.”

  Charlie leaned across the desk. “You didn’t tell me about Luanne…Paul T’Sosi did. You could have told me about Luanne, but you didn’t, because you thought it was ‘confidential.’ Now isn’t that right?”

  Harley squirmed in his chair and looked sideways at Thomas for support.

  Thomas shrugged and looked out the window.

  Harley frowned and pulled his hat down on his ears. “Well maybe we just better talk about what we came for then.” And again looked to his companion to carry the conversation.

  Now it was Thomas’s turn to be uncomfortable. “Uh… Charlie, we kinda’ noticed there seems to be something going on with you and Sue. We sorta wondered if it might be us…maybe we’re hanging around too much out there lately, or something like that? If that’s what it is, we want you to tell us straight up. We don’t mean to be a burden on your relationship.”

  Charlie pushed back in his chair as though distancing himself from the two. They had him. It crossed his mind to just agree and let them think this thing between him and Sue was their fault, but he didn’t. And when he did speak, it was in a voice so low they could hardly hear the words. “It’s not about you boys…in fact, I don’t know what it’s about. Sue hasn’t been herself lately, moody, and doesn’t say much. And when she does talk it’s usually about something she thinks I’m doing wrong, or could do better.” Charlie stood up, stretched, and walked to the window. Hands clasped behind his back he whispered almost to himself, “Something’s bothering her that’s for sure.”

  Harley put on his innocent face and looked up to the ceiling, “She don’t have a boyfriend, does she, Charlie?”

  Thomas turned a flinty eye on his friend. “Of course she doesn’t have a boyfriend Harley…you knothead.” He hadn’t even considered the possibility of such a thing and after a moment’s thought, smiled up at the investigator, “Naa, we’d already heard about it if she had a boyfriend; that kind of news travels fast on the Dinétah.”

  Charlie Yazzie shook his head at the two. “It’s nothing like that. It’s something else, like she’s worried about something…I don’t know what it is.” He knew his friends were concerned and only trying to help, but it irritated him to have it out in the open like this. That meant he could no longer ignore it, which he now realized was exactly what he had been doing. When he turned from the window he said, “I guess I better have a talk with her tonight and see if we can’t work it out…whatever it is…before the neighbors start asking questions.” He meant this last part as a joke but saw the two look at one another as though that might already be the case.

  After Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay left the office, Charlie sat back and took a good hard look at himself. He wasn’t at all sure he liked what he saw. Maybe this wasn’t just about Sue after all.

  ~~~~~~

  George Custer thought it a sad thing that so interesting a site should be left for another time, but he felt the recent murders, and their ties to the project, made it dangerous to continue. He himself was now wearing a sidearm at all times and even Thomas Begay was talking about buying a gun.

  George planned only to locate, and record, any suspected burials against the back wall of the alcove. It was a favorite place for the Anasazi to bury their dead––possibly because the digging was easy and close by. They seemed to like having their dead near them. Aside from the far end of the alcove, where signs of a spring or at least a seep of some sort were still apparent, the base of the back wall was dust dry, with bedrock only a couple of feet down. A nice protected place to put the dead despite having turkey pens on top of them. The professor considered the recording of these burial sites an integral part of his documentation, and his job. He was well aware that not everyone in the business thought it necessary, but for him it was.

  The professor could see now that Paul T’Sosi on his previous visit had already located one of the burials and had it nearly uncovered. The old singer had a natural sense of these things, despite, or perhaps because of, a natural aversion to the dead. He hadn’t mentioned his work along the wall. Paul had grown more forgetful these last months and the professor found himself rechecking a good many of the old man’s assigned tasks. He wouldn’t have minded so much in more ordinary times, but this particular project left him little time to follow up on the work of others.

  As part of his decision to mothball the entire site George was about to fill in the shallow excavation when he noticed just a tiny corner of textile or some sort of woven material.

  The professor’s curiosity kicked in and he couldn’t resist taking a closer look. He had not yet turned in the accumulated collection of specimens from the project. Other than the mummified remains of the girl they had come to call the “Swallow Keeper.” He thought there was probably little of professional interest, either scientifically or for display. Most museums’ backrooms were already filled with similar artifacts to the point of becoming a burden on strained institutional budgets. Many curators had a hard time even keeping up with the cataloging of what they already had stored. The professor had no doubt there were still plenty of similar specimens left to find, should one know where to look. All this aside he could not help but take another shovel-full…then another…then the trowel and finally the whiskbroom. Soon he was looking at what appeared to be a hurried interment. It was a choice spot so most likely from early on in the settlement’s history.

  Funerary offerings included a rather plain looking bowl along with a simple, undecorated mug, but there was also a nicely made bow and handful of arrows. The professor grew more pensive as he regarded these things, a
nd used extra care in removing the roughly woven layer of matting covering the remains. He was then looking at what appeared to be a mature male, not mummified, but with skeletal remains in good condition. It was only as he examined the burial more closely that he noticed first one, then a second arrowhead; one just inside the rib cage, and yet another embedded in the tibia of the lower left leg. It was now obvious what had brought the person to so unhappy an end. But more important to the professor was that the man had clearly suffered these mortal wounds in some sort of conflict, more than likely close by. That would mean a confrontation near, or in the village itself. The body would not have been retrieved from any great distance. The professor surmised this village had come under attack at some point, but it would seem their enemies had been driven off as his previous observations indicated the little settlement remained occupied by these people for many years following this period. This particular burial was covered with what appeared to be turkey droppings, in what must have been a pen of some sort.

  George Custer stood finally, and rubbed his lower back, thinking to himself he should retrieve his water bottle left in another part of the ruin, but as he walked to the edge of the alcove he could see someone coming up the trail from the road. He had become so engrossed in the burial he’d not heard the vehicle. As the man drew closer the professor still did not recognize him and again cursed the ancient rockslide that made the site so accessible. The man appeared to be close to his own age, plainly dressed, and of a determined nature. When he looked up and saw he was being watched the man put on a smile and raised a hand in greeting. The professor knew almost immediately then who it was––he was not likely to forget that cold and cynical smile.

  William Crawley was breathing hard as he climbed the remaining pile of rubble and then stood a moment surveying the site. “Found anything good, have you?” he asked, holding out a hand, “How have you been, George?” Not waiting for an answer he cocked his head to one side, “It’s been a while hasn’t it?

  George Custer hesitated a moment before taking the hand, but didn’t bother to return the smile when he answered, “Hello Bill…back in the states I see. I believe you were in Guatemala last I heard. How was it down there?” The professor knew exactly how it had been for Crawley in Guatemala but wondered what spin the man would put on the goings on whispered among the fraternity.

  “Oh, you know, those digs down there are all pretty much the same George, you’ve been there yourself from what I recall.” The archaeologist seemed ambivalent enough toward the obviously loaded question but it set the tone for the conversation and both men were now on their guard.

  Crawley pointed to the new revolver on the professor’s hip. “I see you’re ‘packing’ George. Rattlesnakes?”

  “I suppose you could say that. I’m sure you’ve heard about the looting in the area. One can’t be too careful when that sort of people are about.” He eyed his former colleague up and down. “I’ve never really minded a rattlesnake, Bill, as long as he rattles now and again…it’s those quiet ones that will get you.” This was one of the professor’s favorite old sayings and he thought it never more appropriate than now.

  Crawley laughed, grudgingly nodded agreement, and then looked out across the ruin to a shovel handle sticking up above a mound of dirt. “Is that a burial along that back wall George? Looks like a clever person might uncover a mummy or two in these conditions…dry as it is and all.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no, that’s not the case this time.” The professor didn’t elaborate or even look back toward the burial in question, only grimaced and with a glint in his eye questioned his old colleague further. “I hear you’re working up this way again? ‘Contract work,’ as I understand it? That right?”

  Crawley didn’t hesitate or bother to make excuses when he answered, “In a manner of speaking, I guess that’s about right. ‘Salvage work,’ actually! We may as well call it what it is George. I know ‘Contract Archaeology’ seems to be the term bandied about these days, but that has always struck me as…somehow pretentious. I’m actually more in the business of placing quality artifacts in the hands of interested collectors––universities and museums for the most part, but a few private collectors, too, should the paperwork be right, and of course the price––It’s always about price in the end, isn’t it, George?”

  The professor said nothing but moved slightly to block the other’s view of the burial though he doubted much could be seen from this distance. “Plan on being around this part of the country much longer do you, Bill?” Dr. Custer narrowed his eyes when he continued, “Any ‘contracts’ in the works now?” The professor was suspicious of William Crawley’s motives in arriving unexpected like this. In truth, he would have thought the man should be embarrassed to show his face among legitimate academics. It occurred to him his visitor had been waiting until George was alone before dropping by. It was almost all the professor could do then to keep his hand from straying near his revolver. Crawley wasn’t armed as far as he could see and it seemed silly to suspect the portly, balding little man of any sort of violence, but his reputation had preceded him and it was one filled with the innuendo of many dark deeds.

  As though reading Custer’s mind, Crawley looked away for a moment. “I’ve heard you’ve uncovered a rather unusual piece here, George; a turquoise amulet or fetish, and was wondering if I might have a look at it?” The man held up a cautionary finger, “No more than academic curiosity, I can assure you.” Seeing little positive response, Crawley’s next statement was more pointed. “I would consider it a professional courtesy George.”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately that piece is in the hands of the FBI at the moment and it may be a while before it’s available.” George Armstrong Custer fixed the other archaeologist with a flinty gaze. “As you might also have heard, the amulet has been linked to the murder of one, and quite possibly two men, as far as I know.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, George. News of the murders is all over the media, but I had no idea the amulet was involved.” He smiled. “Should you come back into possession of it you might want to give me a call.” He passed the professor his card. “You might find it interesting to learn exactly how much these things are worth these days…just between you and me, of course.”

  Up to this point Dr. Custer had attempted to conceal his full disdain for the man but it was apparent when he answered, “I don’t think so Bill. You know me, I don’t deal in artifacts, nor do I intend to in the future, no matter what the price.”

  “Never say never, George. Fortunes change, and it is fortunes that are being made in the gray market right now. With the proper provenance attached, the trade can be…how shall I put this? Quite safe, legally speaking.” With this William Crawley turned on his heel and purposefully strode back the way he had come, working his way through the slide rock, and on down to the road.

  There was that word again, “Provenance.” It had become a catchphrase in the parlance of those involved in the acquisition of antiquities, legal or otherwise. Proper documentation was the key to providing or denying legal distribution of artifacts. Provenance? It was always the first question out of buyers’ mouths.

  George Custer watched as the once-respected academic got in his car and without even a glance in his rear view mirror, started back the way he had come. The man had been well thought of in their early days at UNM. Many felt he would go far given his natural talent and clear dedication to the science. How he had come to such a sorry pass was still the focus of many a conversation among his fellows at the university. Who can say what devils drive such a man. The visit reminded the professor he should be checking with Agent Mayfield as to the status of the amulet. Charlie Yazzie was of the opinion that photo documentation alone should suffice in any sort of courtroom proceeding. It would be unusual, he thought, to require so rare a piece be retained as physical evidence. It was, after all, not a smoking gun.

  As it grew dark Professor Custer couldn’t shake the feel
ing he was being watched, and became uncomfortable at the thought of it. Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay would be back in another day and then he thought the three of them could wrap things up pretty quickly. He looked forward to taking a few days off, perhaps running up to Cortez for a little visit with Aida Winters. They still were corresponding on a sporadic basis and he tried to drop by every month or so. Occasionally they drove into Cortez for dinner, but that was about as far as it went these days. He was afraid that fire might finally be dying out––at least for one of them. In any case it wouldn’t hurt to give it a last go. He thought he might make one last attempt at reconciliation. Aida had only Thomas Begay’s children to focus on…and he, had no one at all. They were both getting on and he doubted either would have many more opportunities down the road.

  That night in his tent Professor Custer read later than he intended, not turning out the light until nearly midnight. Only a short time after that, as he was drifting off, he thought he heard the faraway sound of a car, or truck perhaps, but couldn’t be certain and fell asleep thinking he should get up and check it out…but he didn’t.

  15

  Friends

  Thomas Begay had thought himself nearly immune to his wife’s insistent badgering about the two murder investigations. Due to his friendship with Tribal Investigator Charlie Yazzie she had somehow perceived the idea he was privy to secret information. He tried to explain that the FBI had let it be known they would no longer tolerate information being passed among the various tribal agencies. They felt local authorities were prone to mishandle confidential information…and that was probably true. Navajo law enforcement probably was a little lax in that regard, but only in their effort to compare notes and quantify how little had been sent them. They resented the FBI’s notoriously superficial reports, filled with double-speak, and oftentimes incomplete when it came to the real goods.