Ancient Blood
R. Allen Chappell
Author’s Note
In the back pages you will find a small glossary of Navajo words and terms used in the story, the spelling of which may vary somewhat depending on which “expert’s” opinion is referenced.
Copyright © 2014 R. Allen Chappell
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1500714722
Second edition 11-20-14
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, including electronic media, without express permission of the author or his designated agents
Table of Contents
The Dig
The Curse
The Cure
The Expedition
The Bebie
The Bigfoot
The Clan
The Fight
The Snake
The Reprisal
The Reckoning
The Mystery
Glossary
Prologue
For nearly two thousand years the people who would later be known as the Anasazi gradually developed a culture that still astounds. Then in a matter of only a few years, totally abandoned their great pueblos and homeland, causing a disturbing yet fascinating mystery to forever shadow the canyon lands of the Southwest. It is often referred to as the “Mysterious disappearance of the Anasazi.”
Over the years each succeeding generation of investigators proffered new and sometimes dissimilar theories as to the reason. It is only in the last few years irrefutable new evidence has surfaced which may satisfy all but the most recalcitrant. In the process, however, a dark and little known side of that ancient people is revealed. A secret long hinted at—yet often denied.
1
The Dig
Professor George Armstrong Custer bestirred himself from a drunken slumber with the full intent of carrying on business as usual; but as he gazed about the camp in a state of befuddlement, slowly came to the awareness that he was quite alone. His faithful Indian drinking companion and employee, Harley Ponyboy, was nowhere to be seen. Disconcerting as this was, equally troubling was the vague memory of a truck engine roaring to life, and then fading silently into the desert dawn. Before the realization of abandonment could take full hold, however, the professor was spared—by a shovel crashing against the side of his skull.
~~~~~~
Harley Ponyboy and George Custer had been drinking heavily for nearly three days before Harley found he could no longer keep up and enough was enough. Though still fuzzyheaded, he finally decided to risk driving the professor’s big Chevy Suburban to report the matter to Charlie Yazzie. Charlie Yazzie was the one accountable in his view. It was he who set him up with the expedition—knowing full well George Custer’s chancy nature. Harley was no stranger to the bottle himself and felt more than a little embarrassed at his deplorable lack of stamina. He realized too late that George Custer was in a league of his own; his Irish heritage had given him a decided advantage. Harley now felt his only recourse was to make the situation known to someone in authority before the professor should come to some harm.
~~~~~~
Legal services investigator Charlie Yazzie was outside enjoying the morning sun and watering his new seedling peach trees when Harley Ponyboy pulled recklessly into the yard—the big Suburban sliding nearly sideways in the gravel.
Though somewhat startled, Charlie immediately recognized the vehicle and instantly feared something bad had happened. He was further convinced by Harley Ponyboy’s disheveled appearance—hair sticking straight up and the left lens missing in his sunglasses. It might have been comical had it not been for the look on Harley’s face.
Opening the door, Harley Ponyboy exited the truck with the exaggerated sense of propriety often seen in one who wishes to appear sober. All the way into town he had rehearsed the reasonable fashion in which he would approach the matter. He would calmly mention he felt Charlie Yazzie owned some responsibility for the state of affairs out at the dig. He meant to make it clear he himself had no part in it, other than the drinking part, of course, (that was undeniable). Instead, he just blurted out, “George Custer is drunk like a skunk. Somethin’ could happen to him up there your fault, too.” He abruptly caught himself halfway through this report, looked away, and leaning heavily on the door of the truck, began retching down the side of the vehicle. “It was not my fault,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He added in a whisper, “I am only one man.”
Charlie groaned and wrinkled his nose at the mess on the side of the vehicle. It took only a moment for the implications of Harley’s news to sink in. “Wash up over at the hydrant Harley, then go in the house and tell Sue I said you need some coffee.”
Harley Ponyboy had been off the sauce for nearly two years. He was a strong churchgoer, and Charlie had thought him nearly bulletproof in his resolve. Clearly, this was all on the head of Dr. Custer.
Charlie Yazzie had laughed when first introduced to George Armstrong Custer, certain it was a joke—but it wasn’t. Dr. Custer didn’t even smile. He had been through this enough times it was no longer amusing. He once enjoyed being introduced as the namesake of the infamous general, especially to Navajo, who had no dog in the fight at Little Big Horn. Now, it had grown tiresome. These days he generally just introduced himself as Dr. Custer. He had no idea why his parents had decided on George Armstrong. He suspected it was his father’s idea, as his father had wanted him to be named George Armstrong Custer, a name some still thought heroic back in that time. His grandmother, however, had the good sense to oppose the move. They lived in sensitive times, she said, and felt the boy might suffer for it. Consequently, George’s father was named Elmer; he swore to do better for his own son should he someday have one.
Charlie Yazzie had attended Professor Custer’s classes at the University of New Mexico. He first thought to just monitor the general class on southwestern archeology, a subject he had always been keen on. He soon, however, became intrigued by Dr. Custer’s thinking and signed up for succeeding classes as well.
Professor Custer—even then known as a rounder—was the object of rather pointed speculation among his peers. Many thought his theories far fetched and his personal behavior a disgrace. The man, however, did have an unsettling way of proving them all wrong. More than one detractor later became a convert, and Custer’s following had become legion. The university tried to ignore his outlandish conduct, mainly due to his propensity to write rather brilliant papers—papers that brought more than a little acclaim to the university.
George Custer was now in his fifties, not a physically imposing figure but one with an undeniable charisma. Charlie Yazzie took to him at once, and Dr. Custer, in turn became impressed with the young Dinè and nearly convinced him to switch majors from law to archaeology. In the end, however, Charlie thought he had best keep his life directed toward the future. Having grown up on the reservation he thought he had seen enough of people living in the past.
When his old friend and mentor first called from the university, it was with the hope Charlie might ease the sometimes convoluted path to obtaining tribal dig permits. He also implored Charlie to find a dependable helper to assist in gridding the site. His graduate students would not arrive until the following week, he said. He hoped even Charlie himself might be able to squeeze in a few days of excavation at some point. He remembered how Charlie enjoyed fieldwork as a student and went so far as to promise him a look at his startling new paper, “Anasazi Migration in the End Times.” He intended to publish it in the fall. “There are some dark secrets revealed in those papers,” he assured in a whisper.
Harley Ponyboy had immediately come to Charlie’s mind when thinking of a helper for the professor. Harley was known to be sober and reliabl
e—and in need of a job. Charlie would have preferred to recommend old Paul T’Sosie, who had some actual hands-on experience in the business, but knew poor health was slowing him down. He might not be up to the rigors of fieldwork.
It was not that Charlie thought George Custer above his current predicament, but he thought the excitement of the new project would have kept the professor more centered. Dr. Custer seldom went off on a binge in the field, generally saving that eventuality for the boredom of academia. Charlie knew intuitively this could be the final straw for the professor—tenure or no.
Charlie Yazzie had not thought to begin his vacation tending to Harley Ponyboy and George Custer, but he had been the one to put that alliance together. He had thought Harley would do a workmanlike job and knew he needed the money; proof once again that no good deed goes unpunished. Sue was not going to be happy about his first day of vacation being spent rescuing drunks. She should be having the baby in the next week or so, and he was supposed to be refinishing their tiny second bedroom as a nursery. Her best friend, Lucy Tallwoman, thought it was going to be a boy. How she deduced this he couldn’t say. A boy would suit him all right, but he had no real preference. Either would be all right by him.
Charley pulled the water hose from the little peach trees and sprayed off the side of the truck. “What the hell has gotten into Professor Custer?” he wondered aloud as he turned off the water.
The sorrel gelding came to the fence and tossed his head to attract Charlie’s attention. There was another horse, too, a mare, but that was Sue’s horse, and it did not care for men. The mare stood back, shaking her head in a distrustful, even haughty, manner. Charlie moved to the corral, leaning on the top rail to rub his horse’s jaw. He did not pat the horse. His grandfather had thought it wrong to pat a horse. “They are not dogs to be patted on the head. It disturbs their hozo. Rubbing their jaw is better.” Later studies proved rubbing a horse’s jaw does release certain endorphins that tend to calm the animal. Charlie’s grandfather knew a lot about horses without knowing the why of it.
Across the highway the muddy waters of the San Juan ran deep and swift with spring melt. The she-rains, as his grandmother called them, had been good this year. His little pasture and Sue’s garden were doing well for this normally parched country. He was cautiously optimistic they would not have to buy too much hay next winter. It was nearly summer, and the soft breeze from the hogback ridge felt warm on the back of his neck. It carried the fresh-washed scent of cedar and sage, good medicine for a Dinè. The cottonwoods along the irrigation ditch already had sprouted leaves and would soon provide some respite from the coming heat of summer. This was a good little place. He and Sue had chosen wisely. Getting married last fall was the best thing that could have happened to either of them in his opinion.
When he heard the screen door slam, he looked to see Harley Ponyboy rush out of the house in a dither. “Sue’s pregnant!” he announced. “You shouda’ tol’ me Sue was with a baby.” He cocked an eye at the house. “I’da cleaned up better.” He looked down at his clothing. “Now she’s going to think bad about me.”
Charlie chuckled. “I’ll tell her it’s not your fault.” Guiding Harley toward the truck he continued, “And I don’t think you should be driving till you feel better, either.”
Harley spit on the ground and mumbled, “I’m sick a driven’ anyway.” Then he hauled himself up into Charlie’s truck and leaned back against the headrest.
Charley thought he knew the location of Professor Custer’s dig, but once they left the highway it would be good to have Harley along to point the way. Harley didn’t mind. His wife didn’t expect him back for days and, in any case, he was none too eager for her to see him in his present condition.
Charlie turned to the house and saw Sue coming out with his hat and sunglasses. He shook his head in the direction of Harley and hurried up to the porch.
“Dr. Custer’s on a bender,” he told her simply. “I’m going to have to go up there.”
“I figured,” Sue frowned. “Harley pretty much told me—especially the part about how it wasn’t his fault.” she smiled at this and nudged her chin toward Harley waiting in the truck, now with his head out the window. “Hasn’t he ever seen a pregnant woman before?” She laughed. “I thought he was going to pass out from embarrassment.” She handed him his hat and sunglasses. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Take him along, I guess. I’ve never been to the site. It’ll be easier with him along.”
Sue flipped her hair out of her eyes. “Well, Lucy Tallwoman called from town and said Thomas Begay was waiting for you down at the co-op. Said you two were supposed to pick up sheetrock and trim for the baby’s room.”
Charlie gazed thoughtfully out across the pasture for a moment. “Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. I will pick him up on the way through town and take him along, too. I may need some help up there, and Harley’s not up to much right now. Plus…” He waved an arm toward the truck. “Plus…I really don’t think Harley’s wife should see him like this, not after all they went through last time.” He had to lean over Sue’s belly to kiss her goodbye. It seemed he had to lean farther each day now.
He was still feeling guilty about the sheetrock as he gunned the truck up onto the highway. He intended to get George Custer’s attention when next he saw him.
~~~~~~
Thomas Begay was leaning up against the wall of the co-op and hadn’t moved more than ten feet since Lucy Tallwoman dropped him off more than an hour before.
She had a few errands to run, she said. “Then me and Sue are going ‘bebie’ shopping in Farmington.”
Thomas grinned and called after her, “Well, don’t buy too many bebies.”
Lucy Tallwoman grimaced and waved a salute. “Right,” she said under her breath.
Thomas wasn’t one to let idle time go to waste and was having a nice little nap there against the warm wall of the feed store. He could sleep anywhere and was particularly skilled at sleeping standing up, like a horse. His black Stetson was pushed forward across his sunglasses and you would have thought he was just standing there contemplating the stacks of feed—unless you heard him snore occasionally.
When Charlie pulled up to the curb he and Harley Ponyboy looked at one another and smiled. Charlie hit the horn a good long blast. They were somewhat disappointed when Thomas calmly pushed his hat back and walked over to the truck. It took a lot to surprise Thomas. He was one of those people who didn’t like surprises.
He peered in at Harley Ponyboy, who was still in a state of disarray, wearing the sunglasses with only one lens. He bumped Harley on the shoulder and pointed at the glasses. “Nice, Harley!” He lifted his Stetson and wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. “You and Charlie been fighting this morning?”
Harley Ponyboy stared straight ahead and said nothing. He had known Thomas a long time.
Thomas grinned, looking across at Charlie. “Change of plans?”
Charlie nodded. “Harley and George Custer have been having a little party the last couple of days up at the dig.”
Harley Ponyboy turned to Thomas, “It was not my fault,” he began, and acted as though he might say more but then didn’t.
Charlie Yazzie nudged him. “Scooch over a little, Harley, so Thomas can get in.” He put the truck in gear and was already rolling as Thomas slid in and slammed the door. “We’re just going to check on the professor—make sure he’s all right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t put it past General Custer to drink himself to death up there, if the hooch holds out.” Charlie was clearly put out with his former professor.
Thomas leaned forward a little and looked across at Charlie. “Old man, Paul T’Sosi, was some put out with you for hiring Harley instead of him.” He ignored the fact that he had to look right across Harley to say this. “I expect he’ll be happy to see how that worked out.”
Harley turned and pushed his face up close to Thomas, “I tol’ you it was not my fault!”
Thomas held his hand up between them and wrinkled his nose. “I know, Harley. I heard you.” Thomas playfully bumped Harley on the arm again, but easier this time. “Old Demon Rum gotcha, huh buddy?” Thomas said this with a touch of sadness. He knew it could just as well be him sitting there in Harley’s place. He and Harley had quit drinking about the same time—over a year ago. There had been many times he, just as easily, might have fallen off the wagon. But Thomas had not been a member of AA like Harley. No, Thomas had quit cold turkey after the cataclysmic changes wrought by his involvement in the Patsy Greyhorse murder. Thomas Begay was a man of strong resolution, once he set his mind to a thing. He patted Harley Ponyboy on the knee and said softly, “Don’t you throw up now Harley; this truck’s almost new.”
It had been only a few days since Thomas Begay and his father-in-law, Paul T’Sosi, had been listening to The Navajo Hour on KENN radio in Farmington. The old man rose before dawn and turned on his transistor radio first thing. He felt The Navajo Hour was one of the last vestiges of tribal culture still available to young people. He fully intended that Thomas and Lucy hear it.
The announcer was reading in Navajo from a newly released government report, loosely translating it as he saw fit. “It is estimated as high as sixty-five percent of the reservation’s adult population have alcohol-related problems.” His tone gave the impression he was not surprised. He went on, “A new study out today says Native Americans have a much lower tolerance for alcohol than previously thought, and a greater probability of addiction.” You could nearly see the announcer smirk as he said, “I wonder how much that ‘new research’ cost the taxpayer?”
Ancient Blood Page 1
