Key Witness

by Sandra Bolton

  Abe opened the passenger-side door and scooted out. “Okay, Emily. Go get the bad guys,” he said before slamming the door shut. Emily pulled the vehicle around, then turned to wave before driving away. His eyes pursued her until only a dust trail remained under the flawless, cerulean sky. “Useful,” he said aloud. “Useless, she means.” He walked toward a small lean-to, determined to work off his frustration on the woodpile. The information Emily had shared with him buzzed in his head like a swarm of hornets, but still made no sense.

  Abe picked up the axe and relentlessly drove it into the tough piñon wood, mumbling and cursing to himself. That’s how Will found him when he stumbled out of the trailer later that afternoon, shading his eyes from the bright sun but not able to conceal his shaking hands.

  “What the hell are you making so much noise for? My head is killing me, man.”

  “Yeah, well, too bad.” Abe brought the axe down with a vicious swing.

  “Hey, cool it, white man. Why are you so pissed off? You got free room and board.”

  Abe slammed the axe blade into another log. “Nothing much. I’ve been accused of killing some guy I barely met, got thrown in jail, my truck is ruined, I’m stuck out here, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.” The log split with a resounding crack, sending a piece sailing toward Will’s head. “Even my dog deserted me for a couple of mongrels and some scraggly sheep. I want my name cleared and to be done with this bullshit.”

  Will ducked the chunk of wood. “Put that axe down, man, before you kill someone. Your dog is fine. Pinko and Shorty are the best sheep dogs on the Navajo Nation, and they’ll teach that mutt of yours something, if he can keep up.” He rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. “By the way, white man, you got anything to drink with you?” Will stood over six feet tall with a barrel chest, wide shoulders, and the tree-trunk legs of a linebacker. He wore his long hair pulled back in a messy club. Though Will was not much older than Abe’s thirty-four years, his features looked worn and weary. Puffiness around the eyes and flab around the belly chronicled a body abused.

  Abe leaned the axe against the woodpile and sighed. He felt better since burning off some of his anger. “I have a few beers left, guess we can share since we’re stuck out here together.” Shaking his head, he added, “I have a name, too. It’s Abe Freeman, and my dog can keep up with anything on four legs, maybe run circles around them.”

  “All right, Abe Freeman.” Will nearly grinned, but couldn’t quite manage it. His eyes darted, his head twitched, and he wrung his hands. “Look, I need a drink. I don’t have any more bottles stashed around here. Don’t you have anything stronger?”

  “Sorry. Beer’s all I brought.”

  They sat under the cottonwood on a couple of stumps. Will chugged his first Miller and reached for another. “You say my little sister impounded the Chief and left me out here without my wheels or any liquor. She’s turned into a regular Navajo Nazi since she put on that damn uniform.” He scowled and took another long chug. “This beer is going to be gone in a couple more swallows, Freeman.”

  “Yeah, well try not to drink that last one so fast because that’s the end of it.” He drained his can and stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Abe thought he might as well roll a joint and relax. He didn’t think Will Etcitty would mind one bit.

  They passed the joint back and forth while Will reiterated the story of how he lost his job trying to bring attention to the emissions problem at the power plant, how his friends decided they didn’t want to hang around with a guy who didn’t have a job or money, and eventually, how he gave up. “You look at the horizon when you wake up in the morning—over to the west. Shit, look any direction,” Will said bitterly. “You can’t miss that ring of yellow, scummy sulfur dioxide lying there hugging the land, passing time till it kills everything.” He drew on the joint, closed his eyes, and passed it to Abe.

  Abe inhaled the pungent smoke slowly, pondering the Navajo’s words, and nodded. “Life has a way of screwing up your plans,” he muttered, then related his story while the other man listened silently, emitting an occasional grunt or nod of agreement. When Rico Corazón’s name came up, Will’s face darkened, and he spit on the ground before growling something in Navajo.

  “What? Do you know this guy?”

  “I know him, and his kind. They’re pigs, have no respect for anything.”

  “How do you know Corazón?”

  “A bunch of bikers rode through here one day, tore up the trading post, and stole everything they could get their hands on. On the way out they knocked over an old lady and left her lying in the street, beat up some of the old-timers who hung around—used clubs and tire irons on unarmed men. Asshole made sure everyone knew his name, bragged and laughed about it. ‘You want to fight me?’ he says. ‘Look me up anytime. Rico Corazón. I’ll be waiting for you,’ he says.” Will scowled and kicked at the dust. “I’ll never forget that name.” He pulled back his hair, exposing a three-inch scar. “Yeah, I tried to stop him. He hit me with a tire iron, knocked me out cold. I’ve been waiting a long time to get even with that shit-head Mexican.”

  The tinkle of a bell on the lead goat’s neck announced the return of the sheep. They crowded into the corral, the three dogs nipping at their heels, and Grandfather bringing up the rear. The old man seemed aware of what they were smoking and nodded knowingly.

  “Grandpa is cool with weed. Fact is he smokes a little himself when he can. But he doesn’t like the booze. Wants me to do a cleansing ceremony, sweat it out.” Will stood and went to meet his grandfather. “Yá at ééh,” he called.

  Patch ran over to Abe, tail wagging. After a quick greeting he hopped back to the sheep and his new friends. Abe filled a bucket with water and washed his face and arms.

  When he returned to the trailer, he found Will assembling a stack of bologna-and-cheese sandwiches. He piled them on a plate and plopped it down in the middle of the table. They might as well have been steaks the way the men devoured them. When he had his fill, the elderly Navajo man sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and closed his eyes.

  “Freeman,” Will said after his grandfather’s head dropped forward and the old man’s breathing slowed, “you and I need a plan.” He snubbed out the still-smoldering cigarette butt, and stood. “But first, there’s something I have to do.”

  9

  Will Etcitty returned to his bed and remained there for two days and nights, shivering and sweating as he suffered through the throes of alcohol withdrawal. Whatever plan he’d had in mind, he kept to himself. Etcitty was drying out, and the demons he experienced in the process remained private. He arose from bed on the third day, and looked like someone resurrected from the dead. Abe watched while Will removed his clothing and walked to the sweat house, a small pyramidal structure resembling a miniature hogan. It blended so completely with the landscape it had gone unnoticed by Abe.

  The elder Etcitty spent most of the early morning using a round fire pit to heat large rocks, which he then shoveled into a smaller pit inside the sweat house. Abe watched as the old man emerged to fetch a ladle of water, which he poured over the heated stones. He came out briefly, indicating to Abe through sign language that he should assist by heating more stones and bringing fresh water when needed, then he also removed his clothing and reentered the sweat house to join Will in the cleansing ceremony.

  Whenever he brought newly heated stones and ladles of water, Abe heard singing and chanting from inside the tent.

  The sweating continued throughout the day, and when Will emerged that evening he appeared thinner, his face drained of color. He told Abe to bring a bucket of cold water, which he poured first over his grandfather’s body, then over his own. Will’s hands shook, but despite the tremors and weakness, he seemed calm. Abe brought each man a blanket and left them alone while he walked with his dog and contemplated the strangeness of it all.

  Will didn’t even make a fuss over his motorcycle when his sister returned later that night bri
nging coffee, potatoes, and a real treat—steaks for dinner. Emily gave her brother a bemused look but said nothing, and left soon after washing the dinner dishes without offering any news concerning Abe’s truck or the case.

  A routine developed over the next several days. During the morning hours, Abe and Will added to the growing stack of wood in the lean-to. They spoke little, one chainsawing log lengths from the large pile of dead piñon and cedar, while the other used an axe to chop branches into stove-size pieces. Abe sometimes hummed a discordant melody while Will cursed and mumbled under his breath. They labored until muscles ached and sweat ran down their bare backs, taking short breaks for copious drinks of cold springwater.

  By noon, the sun made it too hot for swinging an axe, even though the late afternoon inevitably brought cooling rain, so they would stop for a lunch of more bologna sandwiches and coffee. While they ate and rested, Abe sat quietly, listening to Will converse in his mysterious language with Grandfather Etcitty, not understanding anything but mesmerized by the music of their voices.

  After lunch the men returned to work. But when the afternoon sky transformed into a sea of purple bruises illuminated by slashes of iridescent lightning, they retreated to the shelter of the Airstream, all conversation obliterated by the hammering rain. Will, though stronger each day, would lie down to rest. Abe loved the storms. He thought he could smell the ozone and feel the molecules in the electrified air. The rain cleared his mind for a time, allowing a sense of peace. The tempests reminded him of music. Sometimes he took out his harmonica and played to the accompaniment of crashing thunder and the rhythm of a thousand tiny drumbeats dancing on the roof. The monsoons, though dramatic, were usually short-lived. In their wake they left the earth with a clean face and an odor of heady freshness. After the storms, he took long walks through the high desert land, always accompanied by Patch and sometimes by Will, with Shorty and Pinko tagging along. Abe began to appreciate the stark, barren landscape of northwestern New Mexico. During one of these walks, Will shared the history of the land.

  “See those hills over there in the north.” Will directed Abe’s attention to a group of soft dark-gray bluffs. “Those crests over there are Mancos shale, and the light cliffs, picture cliffs sandstone, Cretaceous formations.” He hesitated and let a self-deprecating smile curl his lips. “That’s what the white man’s university taught me, anyway. This land, this sacred land of the Diné, the San Juan Basin as some call it, one hundred and fifty miles across, is the bed of an ancient sea. Dead plant and animal life compressed over time. They discovered oil way back in 1896. Since then, this land that no white man wanted has been a battleground, with the government and petroleum companies fighting over who has first rights to all that coal, natural gas, and oil lying below the surface.”

  “Doesn’t this land belong to the Navajo Nation?”

  “It’s complicated.” Will watched a black-tailed jackrabbit zigzagging in long leaps, with the dogs in hot pursuit. “The oil was on the reservation, and the elders weren’t interested in changing anything.” He stopped to steady his hands as he lit another cigarette. “Nothing happened until 1924, when congress negotiated with the newly formed tribal council and set the terms for the Indian Oil Leasing Act. A few months later they discovered a rich field on the rez in a place called Rattlesnake Dome.” Will paused, and after exhaling a cloud of smoke, began speaking again. “The northwest plateau is cut up in squares, part BLM, part county, and part Navajo. Our people, the Diné, never had the desire or the money to pursue a mining or drilling operation.” He whistled for the dogs, who were no match for the jackrabbit’s speed, and they reluctantly gave up the chase, returning with their tongues dragging.

  Three crows huddled on a twisted juniper and cawed like bickering morticians as they studied the corpse of a kangaroo rat. They took flight when the men neared, complaining loudly, but returned quickly when they passed. Abe looked up and spotted a lone turkey buzzard riding the warm currents in concentric circles. The bird’s sharp eyes and keen sense of smell had also detected the rat, whose body would not go to waste. “Why did you want to become a geologist?”

  “I was always interested in the land. Being young and stupid I thought I wanted the life those white men had—big truck, nice house in town, money in my pocket. I studied hard, earned a scholarship to New Mexico Tech, and came back to make my claim.” He frowned, snuffed out his cigarette, and started walking again, head down, his long strides kicking up stones, hands stuffed in his pockets. “No sense bringing that up.”

  Abe caught up with him but said nothing as he painfully remembered his own dreams, now seemingly irredeemable. The two men were opposites in many ways—one an urban, rebellious, Jewish kid from a crowded East Coast city; the other, Native American, stubborn, proud, accustomed to the openness and freedom of the West. Yet, as they lumbered mutely over the rough terrain, their differences diminished. Perhaps it came from a shared sense of loss.

  After a while, Abe broke the silence. “All I ever wanted to do,” he said, eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of him, “was make beautiful music on the piano.” A sadness as profound as anything he had ever felt washed over him. He forced his fingers to stop their interminable play as they sought the silent keys of a melody forever engrained in his memory. “Anyway, that’s all over. Let’s get back to the trailer. And,” he added after a moment’s hesitation, “maybe you can explain that plan of yours.”

  The tense mood snapped, and Will’s face took on a feverish glint. “Find Corazón and nail him.”

  The implausibility of that happening, however, caused Abe to laugh. “Get serious. We’re at least twenty miles from a main road, we don’t have any transportation, we don’t know where to look, and what would we do if we found him? Besides, that’s the law’s job. Emily says they’re working on it.”

  The expression on Will’s face didn’t change. He looked Abe squarely in the eye. “The law has its limitations.”

  Without further discussion they approached the trailer. The setting sun reflected brilliant hues of orange and purple on the distant bluffs, evening bats swooped through amorphous clouds of insects, and Emily, perched on the trailer step, awaited their return.

  10

  The dogs saw her first and raced ahead, tails wagging. She ruffled their coats, laughing as they climbed over each other competing for attention, then waved at the approaching men. “Yá at ééh. Mom sent mutton stew and fry bread. Come and get some. Grandpa couldn’t wait any longer so he started without you.”

  It had been over a week since Abe arrived at the Etcitty sheep camp. The generous hospitality the family had extended, so unlike anything he had ever experienced on the East Coast, embarrassed him. He reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Emily, let me pay you, or your grandfather, someone, for the food and lodging.”

  “Forget it. That would be an insult.” But she smiled when she said it. “I’ll let you pay for that big sack of dog food I bought for Patch, and you can carry it in,” she said as she entered the trailer.

  Abe picked up a twenty-five-pound sack from the passenger side of her vehicle and brought it inside. “You must think we are going to be here awhile. It will take Patch six months to go through this,” he said.

  “You never know, but I do have good news. Your truck is up and running. The mechanics didn’t find too much damage. They drained the transmission and brake fluid and changed the oil in case water got in there, replaced a few wires, and cleaned it up. If you have insurance, it should cover everything.”

  She dished up bowls of steaming stew and carried them to the table where Grandfather Etcitty wiped the gravy from his first serving with a piece of fry bread. He said something in Navajo and held out his bowl for seconds. A plate of flat fry bread sat in the middle of the table. Will passed him the plate and Abe took one, bit into it, and found it delicious, crispy on the outside and soft in the middle.

  “It’ll be great to have my truck back,” Abe said. He dug into his stew of tende
r mutton, potatoes, and green chilies. “This is so good.” Will, too busy eating to stop for conversation, nodded and shoveled in another spoonful.

  Emily watched Will as he cleaned his bowl and went for more. “You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you, big brother.”

  He nodded again, grunting a soft “hmm,” and kept eating.

  “The woodpile is looking pretty good this year, too,” she added, receiving another grunt in acknowledgment.

  For a while, the only sounds were metal spoons clinking against the sides of bowls and some satisfied-sounding slurps and burps. When he finished his stew, Abe reached for another piece of fry bread and broke the silence. “How soon before I can get my truck and get on my way, Emily?”

  Emily brought the old percolator to the table and poured them each a cup of coffee. “Well, tomorrow is Sunday, and they’re closed. So Monday, I guess. I can pick you up and give you a ride into town, but you have to come back here. We don’t want you taking off yet.” She held a coffee cup with both hands and brought it to her lips, only partially hiding her smile. “I’m afraid I’d have to arrest you again.”

  Abe noticed how Will perked up when Emily made the announcement about his truck. When she turned her back, he lifted his head and shot Abe a conspiratorial glance. Abe shook off the look, swallowed some of his scalding coffee, and wondered how the rest of them could drink this stuff without burning the lining of their throats. It burned like acid all the way to his stomach. Nevertheless, as he chewed his second piece of fry bread, he thought he might learn to like this place, bad coffee and all. That is, if his troubles were cleared up and if he didn’t feel so restless, and if he had a piano—maybe.

  “Anything new on the case?”