Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  to’ wa ci’wan an u’lo’nakwi

  o—”

  It was the prayer of the scalp dance. Sal tried to look away; he couldn’t. It would be useless to try to run. His legs did not have the strength to carry him. He slumped to the ground, his eyes never leaving the tableau twenty-five feet in front of him. Was it a man or a woman, the one in ceremonial dress who now dipped and scrubbed the scalp? Yes, a scalp. He knew that for certain—the dark scrap that was being immersed, shaken, stretched had once covered the front of a man’s skull. He knew what would come next, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  The scalp washer roared, squatted on his haunches, waved his arms like paws and batted at the air around him. Holding the scalp high, he slowly lowered it and bit it. Not once, but many times he sank his teeth into the leathery piece of human hide to receive the power of the beast gods. As an animal he would be immune to any contamination, any taboos regarding the dead. He did this to save his life.

  Now it was an animal who dragged the scalp through the shallows of the standing pool. It snorted, huffed, growled but worked busily at its chore of cleaning. Sal stared without blinking. This was his every nightmare come true to view the washing of a scalp the fourth day after a death.

  He felt queasy, faint even. Everything looked fuzzy. The scalp washer-animal moved in and out of focus. But Sal couldn’t have turned away. Trance-like, he watched the finish of the ceremony, the breaking of a bowl containing food and the scattering of the offering on the ground. Then the scalp washer skewered the scalp to an eight foot sapling, bending the young tree while he tied the scalp firmly in the upper branches. Then he let go and the tree sprang upright to weave back and forth before going still with its new burden.

  Mechanically, Sal reached into his medicine bag and drew out three kernels of black corn and placed them under his tongue. Would this be enough to prevent being pursued by the ghost of the man who was scalped? He was viewing a ceremony he should never have seen.

  Next came the planting of the prayer sticks. But then the scalp washer did a strange thing. He rose and turned to stare in Sal’s direction, locking his eyes on the exact spot where Sal crouched. How could Sal be seen? Only supernaturals could pierce the darkness and know his presence.

  Supernaturals. Could it be? The costume was from his people. Had the old ones, the ancestors, come back to treat this scalp and keep the trader’s spirit from doing harm? Sal felt the blood drain from his head. The lightness caused spots to swim and dance before his eyes. He reminded himself to take a breath but couldn’t seem to find enough air to bring into his body. He opened his mouth, gasping, eyes bug-wide, his hands involuntarily clawing in space.

  Then came blackness and nothing. As neatly as if a hood had been slipped over his head, Sal lost consciousness and sprawled on his back in the dampness of the rain-fresh earth.

  + + +

  “You have a patient. Waiting on the doorstep when I opened up, 6:30 a.m.” Rose paused. “I put him in your office. Hope that was okay?”

  “Sure.” Ben checked the counter for the person’s folder. “No one was scheduled. Have you had time to pull his file?”

  “No file. This one’s a virgin.”

  “Never been seen before? For anything?”

  “Never.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Salvador Zuni, the carver. He says he knows you.”

  “I’ve met him.” Ben’s curiosity was piqued. The taciturn Sal in his office? That was interesting. Rose had left his office door open and Ben could see Sal’s mud-streaked pant’s leg before he stepped across the threshold. And the rest of Sal wasn’t much better. Mud was caked along the right side of his neck, his shirt was streaked a red-clay brown, and on the crown of his head, dried blood matted his hair.

  But it was the eyes. Sal looked petrified, scared to death. Ben had learned the hard way not to boom out, “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” More often than not among his people, that was the truth. He closed the door and waited. Walked behind his desk, sat down, took out paper and pen before he said anything, all the time feeling Sal’s eyes follow him—not staring, but looking respectfully to the side.

  He wondered why this man was here now when he’d never come before. He knew Sal was aware of Ben’s profession. Hadn’t Hannah told him he treated “crazies”? But Sal looked like he might need medical attention. Should he offer to have a doc step in and take a look? At least at the cut?

  “Some say you’re half Indian, half Anglo?”

  What did this have to do with anything? Ben wondered, but nodded.

  “Would that give you power from both worlds?”

  Ben paused. God, he wished he knew where this was going.

  “Some would believe that. It gives me knowledge of both sides.” That wasn’t entirely a lie.

  Sal seemed satisfied and continued to stare ahead of him. Ben waited. Whatever it was, it was important.

  “What happens to the ghosts of non-Indians?”

  Ben took a breath. So that was it. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Are you thinking about the trader?”

  Again, Sal nodded but didn’t look up.

  “Sometimes Anglos believe spirits of the dead can stay with the living before crossing over.” Crossing over? Where had he gotten that term? “But there’s usually a sense of closure with burial or cremation. I don’t know what religion the man followed.”

  “Would being scalped make any difference?”

  Ben thought a moment. “How do you mean?”

  “Would the spirit come back? Or stay here seeking this ‘closure’ if a part of him had been left here?” Sal suddenly turned in his seat. “What if the scalp was tended in the Indian way? Would that make a difference?”

  “How is that?” Ben risked showing his ignorance but he needed to know exactly what Sal was thinking.

  “Washed by a scalp dancer.”

  “In water that would not contaminate the drinking water of the village, wouldn’t expose others to death?” He remembered what Hannah had said, and it helped him sound knowledgeable.

  “Yes.”

  Ben moved from behind the desk and dragged a folding chair opposite Sal. This man was in torment. Something had happened. He knew something.

  “Can you tell me why you need answers to these questions?”

  “Do you cost?”

  “My services are free to members of the Hawikuh tribe.” The answer seemed to be what Sal wanted to hear. He visibly relaxed and leaned back in his chair.

  “Should we have someone look at that cut on your head?”

  “No.” Sal seemed oblivious to discomfort, and Ben decided not to press it.

  “If I knew where the scalp was, should I tell someone so that it could be sent to the dead man’s family? In the white man’s way, would this give his ghost rest?”

  Ben thought a moment. “In the white man’s way, the scalp would be evidence. It would have to be reported first. The police would have to get involved.”

  This seemed safer than trying to second guess how Ahmed’s widow might receive a part of her husband’s skull covering. Rumor was she’d gone back to New York. How would you send a scalp, second-day express in a bubble-pack? Not funny, Ben admonished himself. The man in front of him was dead serious—not a good choice of adjective, but true.

  “I know where it is,” Sal said.

  “The scalp?”

  Sal nodded.

  “How do you know this?”

  Sitting in front of him, Sal began to tell how he took sacred black corn to Wide River the night before to break the spell the trader had cast on him. He needed to appease his ghost, keep it from appearing to him at night. Instead, Sal stumbled upon the ceremony of his ancestors, a scalp washer completing the fourth day ritual. Sal took a breath, then mimicked the growls and cries of the ancient one who had become an animal.

  “In punishment for my watching, he stole my breath and threw me down on the stones beside the river.”

  That explains the mud a
nd head wound, Ben thought. But ancestors? Supernaturals? It was obvious that Sal believed what he had seen.

  “I think we need to share this information with Tommy Spottedhorse. Do you agree?”

  Sal seemed to be thinking this over but finally said, “Will he lock me up?”

  “He’s not going to lock someone up who hasn’t done anything wrong. Trust me on that. Can you take us to where you saw the scalp?”

  Sal nodded. Ben dialed the Hawikuh tribal police station. It was still early; he hoped that Tommy would be in. The third ring got a receptionist who said Officer Spottedhorse was on another line. Ben told her to tell him he was on his way over with an emergency. A little melodrama couldn’t hurt. It would capture Tommy’s interest.

  + + +

  When they pulled up in front, Tommy was leaning against the Caprice. “So what’s so all-fire important at quarter to eight in the morning?”

  Ben filled him in.

  “Shit.” Tommy didn’t seem very pleased about what he heard. “What do you think? Any chance Sal is hallucinating? Or whatever?”

  “I can’t be positive. I believe that he is being truthful when he says he saw a scalp washer.”

  “If this is another wild goose chase ... Sal, get over here. We’ll run out to check your story in my car. Just try not to get mud on the seats.”

  No one spoke other than Sal giving directions. Tommy gunned the Caprice over mud and slippery rock, snagging its undercarriage on brush as he fishtailed down embankments. Ben was thankful for seatbelts.

  If they had been on any other mission, Ben would have enjoyed the scenery. The greens of young trees and newly sprouted grasses were made vibrant by the recent rain. Indian paintbrush was a scarlet splash against outcroppings of gray rock. He would have sworn the flowers hadn’t been there yesterday. This overnight awakening was miraculous. Worshiping rain in the desert had always made sense to him.

  “Can we walk in from here?” Tommy had stopped the car and turned to look at Sal in the backseat. They were probably still about a half mile from the river, Ben thought.

  “Yeah. Stay to your right past the red rock then go northeast toward the river.”

  “You going to go with us?” Tommy asked.

  Sal shook his head.

  “Thought so.” Tommy sounded ticked.

  The two of them walked in silence. Ben wished he knew what was bugging Tommy. He was almost antisocial, not his old wisecracking self. There must be some problem.

  “There.” Tommy was pointing toward a stand of young cottonwoods.

  He motioned to Ben and plowed on ahead. The brush was knee deep in spots and slowed their approach.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Tommy was looking at an eight foot cottonwood. Something dark, wadded to the size of a fist, was tied to the top of a sapling. “He could be telling the truth. You want to help me get a closer look?”

  Ben nodded. There must be some taboo for Tommy—something that said he shouldn’t touch this part of the dead. He wondered how religious Tommy was.

  “Shit,” Tommy said.

  Ben had pulled the young tree over, and Tommy held it as he inspected the small brownish mass tied to its trunk. He was careful not to touch it, Ben noted. Then Tommy broke the branch below where the scalp was tied and turned toward the car.

  “I’ve got all I need. You want to see if you can find a plastic bag in the trunk? I need to speak to Sal.” Tommy handed Ben his car keys as the two walked back. Tommy held the branch of cottonwood away from his body—as far away as he could get it. He laid it in the grass before he confronted Sal.

  “Guess you know what this means, pal.”

  Sal nodded but kept his eyes averted.

  “I’m arresting you for the murder of Ahmed Sadh.”

  “You can’t do that.” Ben slammed the trunk. Had he heard correctly? He rushed from behind the back of the car and stepped between Tommy and Sal. “What’s wrong with you?” He was yelling in Tommy’s face, now, but he didn’t care. “You can’t arrest someone who has just led you to a valuable piece of evidence completely of his own volition.” Ben didn’t try to hide his anger. Sal had trusted him. Hadn’t Ben promised that nothing would happen to him?

  “Or put the evidence there because he’s had it all along,” Tommy yelled back. “Have you ever considered that? That this man took the scalp in the first place? Mr. Zuni here, if you remember, just happened to be at the scene without an alibi that night. He very probably was moving the body he’d hidden under the trailer when he was surprised by the tourist.”

  Ben glanced at Sal who leaned against the car and studied a rock some two feet away. Sal wasn’t going to say anything. Who knew what the consequences were going to be, but this man was not going to say anything in his own defense.

  Tommy stopped abruptly and his anger seemed to dissipate, in a more normal voice he added, “This isn’t the only thing that makes him look guilty.” Tommy took a deep breath. “In addition, Sal here gave Ahmed’s widow a bag of amber worth around two or three thousand dollars the morning after the body was found. He just up and drove into the village and presented the woman with a bag of riches.” Tommy turned to Ben. “The Indian way says that a murderer must pay the family of the one he’s killed—a substantial payment of all or most all of his worldly possessions. I’d say that sack of amber came close to being just that.”

  Ben was floored. Would he have called Tommy if he had known this? He didn’t know, but he stepped back. He was certain that Sal hadn’t killed anyone. But how could he prove it? Ben had to admit it looked bad. He watched numbly as Sal held out his arms, wrists together and winced when he heard the snap of cuffs. Looked like Sal was going to be charged with murder.

  “You’re making a mistake.” It was all Ben could think of to say. Tommy gave Ben a look of exasperation and slid behind the wheel.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It hadn’t been a good morning, and the afternoon was worse. Ben offered to pick up some personal articles for Sal back at the trailer and tell Hannah. He wasn’t looking forward to that—not when he felt so responsible for Sal’s sitting in a jail cell. And he’d ignored Julie. He hadn’t said two words to her in as many days. That definitely had to change.

  He pulled up in front of the boarding house, but his usual parking space, one shaded by a hundred-year-old cottonwood, was taken. There were ten other spaces to choose from, and someone took this one. The newish blue station wagon wasn’t one he recognized, more tourists, probably. He pulled in beside it, noticed the Century 21 insignia and wondered what an agent was doing out here.

  And then he saw it—the For Sale sign stuck in the ground to the right of the brick path, halfway up the slope to the porch. For Sale. For some reason, it jolted him. He’d just moved in—maybe that was it, the thought of trying to find another place to live on top of everything else.

  Did Sal know? Somehow, Ben doubted it. So while he’s rotting in jail, his belongings would be tossed in the street and Hannah and son would move on. Ben took a deep breath and chided himself for being a little melodramatic. But was he too far from wrong? He doubted it. Somehow this made the job of telling Hannah even more difficult.

  “It won’t bite,” Hannah said.

  Ben started. He’d been staring at the sign, leaning against the steering wheel and letting his thoughts stray. The women, Hannah and the agent in a gold blazer, stood beside his truck. They must have walked over from the trading post.

  “I’m surprised,” Ben said.

  “Oh, the time’s right. Gloria promises me it is.” Hannah indicated the woman beside her.

  “The time is perfect. It couldn’t be better. I’ve had two calls this week about income property—retirees coming this way from the Midwest. There’s such an opportunity here. And with the market taking off in this state, you better pack your bags. Oh, look at the time, must toodle.” She lightly pecked Hannah on the cheek, smiled brightly at Ben and slipped behind the wheel of the wagon.

  Ben watched her pul
l out of the drive before he got out of the truck. “This seems sudden.” Ben couldn’t help the note of peevishness he heard in his voice as he walked Hannah to the house.

  She shrugged, “You might say I’ve been planning on it for twenty years.”

  “Should I assume you haven’t been happy out here?”

  “Happy?” Hannah’s laugh was hard. “Happy ... what a joke. I’ve hated every minute of it. I’ve scraped together enough money to keep it going—support it in the style to which it was accustomed. But it’s sapped me. It’s taken everything I’ve given and demanded more.” She made a half circle sweep with her arm that took in the boarding house, trading post and deli-mart. “It’s like getting stuck with a bad lover, only he’s the only man on the island.” This time the laugh was hearty. “Everything you see depends on me to make it go, absolutely everything. And I’m sick and tired of it. Simple as that, I want out.”

  “Why haven’t you sold it before? It’s probably none of my business, but twenty years is a long time.”

  Hannah paused as Ben watched. He thought she was struggling to find the right words, or decide how much she should share?

  “My husband loved this land. The business has been in his family since the early 1900s.” Hannah’s gaze softened. “Only one other thing he loved as much and that was his son. And he didn’t care what he had to do to make sure each was taken care of.”

  Did he detect bitterness? An awkward silence settled between them. Ben waited, hoped she would continue. But she didn’t. She just pushed ahead of him, up the steps and pulled open the screen door.

  “Hannah, there’s something else we need to talk about.” Ben caught up with her and held the door open. “Sal’s been arrested.” If he had struck her, she wouldn’t have reacted any differently. She grabbed his arm for support.

  “Arrested? For what?” She barely whispered the words.

  “The death of the trader.”

  She stared at him a moment, then scoffed, “He didn’t kill anyone.” Her voice was gaining strength. “He couldn’t have.”