Thomas sighed and thought, “Maybe it isn’t Harley Ponyboy’s fault; maybe all Indians are victims of their genes. Or maybe Charlie Yazzie was right; maybe Indians just needed to get their shit together.
~~~~~~
Charlie nosed the big Silverado pickup north on U.S.49, just past the Colorado state line, and then hung a left on Route 160 toward Aneth, Utah. They were now only a few miles from the Four Corners Monument—where the states of Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona join (the one place in the United States where such a phenomenon occurs). Near the turnoff to the monument someone had erected a sign that said in Navajo, God Bless America! “Diyin God Baahózhó Nihimá Bikéyah Nízhoníye!” Navajo are surprisingly patriotic and do not let their past differences with the U.S. Government discourage their love of a country they have defended in several wars.
Once an oil and gas field mecca in the region, Aneth, had fallen upon hard times. It did, however, remain the ghostly center of a rich trove of archaeological sites involving several previous cultures. Not too far to the east, the Ute Mountain Reservation and that of the Navajo butt up against one another. That was where Professor Custer’s dig was located—right in the path of the great Anasazi exodus as they fled the country over a thousand years ago. In those final years this became one of several evacuation routes for a people who had also fallen upon evil times.
Charlie pulled up to the gas pumps at the only store left in town. He figured he had enough fuel but, in this country it is considered prudent to fill up before heading into the backcountry. It is a vast land and can be an unforgiving one should one miscalculate. Harley was asleep and neither of the other two men felt it worthwhile to wake him. Charlie paid for the gas and picked up a couple of burritos for him and Thomas. He had not had time to eat the breakfast Sue had fixed him that morning and now he regretted it. She was trying out her new toaster and was having a little trouble getting the settings just right. She had quite a stack of burnt toast on the sideboard when he left but was determined to get it just right regardless of time or cost.
As far as Harley Ponyboy was concerned, Charlie doubted he could hold anything down. Not just yet anyway. Thomas, on the other hand, could eat anytime food presented itself, a particularly Indian trait passed down through millennia of hard times and not knowing where one’s next meal might come from.
Charlie was beginning to get a bad feeling about George Custer.
~~~~~~
Though it was not many miles as the crow flies, the rutted track that led to the dig site was tortuous and wandering. The pitching and rolling of the truck eventually woke Harley Ponyboy, who turned a bleary eye to Thomas and whispered, “Whatcha eatin?”
Thomas quickly stuffed the last of the burrito in his mouth and mumbled, “Nothin’ Harley,” and licking his fingers, he swallowed and added, “Charlie don’t want anyone eating in this truck.”
The rough track finally ran out in a little sand wash about a quarter mile from the dig. Harley Ponyboy had pointed the way as best he could, but Charlie mostly just followed the Suburban’s tracks back in.
Charlie shut down the engine and heaved a sigh of relief. “I wouldn’t want to do that every day.” He silently wondered how Harley Ponyboy had managed to drive out of that country, drunk, only hours before.
Harley pointed up the dirt bank to a recently pounded-out trail. “Me an’ Professor Custer had ta carry everything up ta the dig,” he said, rubbing the tip of his nose in thought. “Took us near half a day ta get it all up there and set camp.”
“How much of it was booze?” Thomas asked, smiling.
Harley threw him a sour look and indicated with his middle finger for Thomas to get out. He and Thomas went back a long way. Back in their drinking days they had fought their way, back-to-back, out of several unpleasant situations in the Indian bars of Gallup and Farmington.
Charlie left the door open when he got out and stretched, swinging his arms to loosen up and get the feeling back. His fingers had taken a set from his grip on the steering wheel and it was a few minutes before they would straighten out.
Charlie thought it an uncommonly fine day for late spring. Distant mesas sparkled bright green in the midday sun and the warm aroma of cedar and piñyon was on the breeze. Soon enough though, the diurnal winds of spring would bring sand-laden storms, and the furnace blast that sucks the life from that land leaving the low country crisp and brown.
Thomas let Harley out, then reached back in the truck, opened the glove box and looked across at Charlie. “You want me to bring the gun?”
Charlie stared at him before answering. “Do you think we’ll have to shoot George Custer?”
Thomas shrugged.
Harley Ponyboy, who was now leaning into the front fender on both forearms, nodded grimly. “Shoot ’im—an’ then you can shoot me too.” His head was down and he was going through the motions of throwing up but apparently had nothing left to give.
Thomas Begay wagged a finger at Harley. “If you don’t get better purty damn quick maybe I will shoot you—you’d be better off.” Thomas made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and clicked it at Harley.
Charlie shook his head at the two and gazed off to the north where a pair of buzzards was spiraling in on a downdraft. He caught Thomas Begay’s attention and with a push of his lips indicated the birds.
As they made their way up the embankment they took turns helping Harley Ponyboy, Thomas still making jokes at his old friend’s expense; the two went back a long way.
When they finally straggled out on top, the three of them stood a moment taking in the camp. The tent was pitched amid a huddle of twisted piñon pines, taking advantage of the thick carpet of pine needles for bedding. A little spring trickled a silver ribbon from beneath a sandstone ledge. An errant gust of wind pushed a small dust devil through the camp, leaving a trail of fluttering papers and a snapping tent flap. As the dust cleared, Charlie could not at first see any trace of George Custer. Then, Thomas pointed to a downed cedar trunk near the tent.
Harley shook his head, holding on to Thomas for support and peering at the camp. “That’s not where I left ’im.” he said in a whisper. “He was pas’t out in ta tent.” He then confided, “I knowed I couldn’t drag ’im all way ta the truck.”
Thomas nodded his head sympathetically, “I doubt you coulda drug a piss ant to the truck in your shape, Harley.”
Charlie left Thomas Begay to help Harley down the incline and went skittering down the slope as quickly as the loose shale would allow. Something looked wrong and fear was nipping at him as he came up to the log hiding what he assumed to be George Custer. But it wasn’t George Custer; it was a bedroll with a khaki field jacket draped over it. Thomas and Harley edged up and stopped, gazing intently at the bedroll.
“That’s not him,” Harley managed finally, vindicated.
Thomas darted a glance his way. “We can see that, Harley.”
Charlie quickly entered the tent and, after a cursory look, announced from inside, “He’s not here either.” After a few moments he came back carrying a small excavation shovel. It had blood with little bits of hair on the edge—hair that looked remarkably like George Custer’s.
Thomas immediately turned a stern eye on Harley Ponyboy. “Harley!” he demanded, “Did you kill George Custer?”
Harley wrinkled his brow and looked long and hard at the shovel. “Well, if I did, I don’ remember doin’ it.” He looked more closely at the implement. “That’s not even my shovel. That’s Dr. Custer’s shovel,” he said, as though to settle the question once and for all.
“Harley, we didn’t think he hit himself in the head with his own shovel.” Thomas shook his head and began to pick up the still fluttering papers blowing about camp.
A weak voice from the tent made them all jump. “Harley didn’t do it.” This was punctuated by a groan and a rustle of brush. Rushing into the tent the three Navajo saw George Custer peeking in under the back canvas. His face was covered in dried blood and t
he hand holding the canvas appeared twisted and swollen.
2
The Curse
When Lucy Tallwoman finally finished her errands in Shiprock, she made her way out to Sue Hanagarni-Yazzie’s place. She was surprised to see Sue out in the garden, vigorously hacking away at some delinquent young tumbleweed.
“Yaa’ eh t’eeh,” Lucy called as she got out of the truck. “That is rough work for one so far along!” she said smiling. “How are you chih keh? Lucy used the Navajo term for “young woman” with more of a slang connotation than a reference to the difference in their ages.
Sue turned, looked up from her weeding, shaded her eyes, and waved. “I’m good.” She laughed and gave a final whack with her hoe. “You’ve got to get these things while they are little. They’ll be twice as much work later.” She lay down her hoe and rubbed her hands together. “My mother said she rode a horse five miles to my aunt’s hogan the day she had me.” She raised a forearm to brush away beads of perspiration. “She said she was ready to have me and thought the ride might do it.” Both women laughed at this. “You doing all right?” Sue asked her friend.
Lucy approached the fence nodding her head. “Good to see you Mrs. Yazzie!”
This made the former Sue Hanagarni blush. “I still can’t get used to being called Sue Yazzie.” She threw up her hands. “I still feel like I’m a Sue Hanagarni.” The women met at the open gate and went laughing, arm in arm, to the house. Though Lucy Tallwoman was older than Sue and more traditional in the ways of the people, the two had become quite close over the past year. Each woman now considered the other her closest friend.
A lot had happened to Sue over the course of the past year and not all of it good. Her aged parents passed away—first her father and then, only months later, her mother. Neither had been well for a long while. This often seems the case with old couples that are together a very long time. It is as though they develop a symbiotic relationship over the years, each life nurturing the other until they become entwined to the extent they can no longer exist as a separate entity. They had thought themselves well past their childbearing years and were quite surprised when Sue came along. The old couple had not been well educated themselves but worked hard to see their only daughter was afforded the best possible opportunity in that regard. Sue’s good job at legal services and marriage to law school graduate Charlie Yazzie seemed to them to be ample compensation. They had at least lasted long enough to see their only daughter married and happy, and that had made them happy. They thought they had then come full circle and done their part to bring hozoji to the people.
Charlie’s grandmother had also passed away that winter leaving him and Sue without any close relatives. Charlie still had more distant relatives but was drifting yet farther away from the more traditional life close family might encourage.
Sue was on maternity leave from Legal Services and was learning to care for her first home and getting to know her new husband. If things worked out as they hoped she thought to take several months off and stay home with the new baby. She suspected they might not be able to afford such a luxury, but it was something to think about.
She and Charlie had not wanted to make a big deal of the wedding. They knew Sue’s parents would want to contribute to the cost, something the old couple could ill afford. Also Sue felt what money they had saved would be better spent on their little place outside town. After the justice of the peace had married them, there was a small family gathering with only Sue’s parents, Thomas and Lucy with their two children, and Lucy’s father, Paul T’Sosi, in attendance. Paul sprinkled the newlyweds with blue corn pollen and offered up a wisp of sacred corn meal to both earth and sky. He did this while singing a chant ending with the words of the Beauty Way.
Traditionally, Navajo marriages are simple affairs with little ceremony. Generally the new husband just moves in with the woman’s family and they begin their new life from there. At the time of her wedding, Sue suspected Paul might be inventing some of their particular ceremony. But he was well versed in Navajo culture and she knew he would do his best for them. Sue thought, Maybe his years working at the Episcopal mission had made him feel there should be more to it for a couple starting a new life together. In any case, it was done and she had never been happier.
When she became pregnant, Charlie said, “After this baby is born we’ll put together a real celebration—maybe have Paul T’Sosi do a full Blessing Way.”
Sue looked at him. “Are you sure a ‘Blessing Way’ would be the thing?” she asked.
Charlie only shrugged and said, “We’ll see.”
At the kitchen table Sue and Lucy sat over cups of coffee and talked about “bebies.” The Navajo word for baby is Ah-wayh. Sue thought it a funny word and suspected it might have come about because babies make that sound when they cry: “Ah-whaa Ah-whaa.”
Sue remembered reading somewhere that less than half the people on the reservation still spoke fluent Navajo—most of those who did were older and isolated in a more rural lifestyle. There were even a few people left who spoke relatively little English. Sue, though coming from older and more traditional parents, did not speak Navajo as well as they had, and even that was beginning to slip away. There was, of late, a quiet resurgence afoot on the reservation designed to promote a greater understanding of Navajo culture, including the language. While some young people professed an interest in this movement, most were more interested in the same things young people everywhere are occupied with; television and music. Though Sue had long been attuned to life in the white world, she still was amazed at the grasp of English and slang she heard from the younger crowd. Life goes on, she thought, Life on the reservation changes…and yet, it remains the same.
Sue did believe her husband had grown more comfortable with his Navajo roots. Still, his long years away at school left him somewhat at a distance from the more traditional side of the culture. His grandmother had been his last real tie to the old ways. He still had his great-aunt Annie Eagletree, but while old, even she was entranced by television—cop shows mostly. On her occasional visits, Aunt Annie often spent a good bit of time explaining to Charlie the latest investigative techniques. She often inquired if he had been practicing with the .38 Chief’s Special the family had given him as a graduation present.
Some of the family had thought the words. “Chief’s Special” on the Smith & Wesson box meant it was suitable for a Chief. When questioned, the gun salesman assured them this was probably the case (he had sold a lot of Chief’s Specials this way and was prone to be agreeable on the subject). In the gun store that day Annie Eagletree kept quiet, as she did not want to appear rude. Once outside, however, she confided to everyone it really meant Police Chief’s Special. When he heard this, Annie’s husband, Clyde, who’d had a few drinks earlier, wanted to go back in the store and kick the store-man’s ass. Fortunately the family was able to convince Clyde he was too old to kick anyone’s ass, especially a white gun-store owner who probably wouldn’t tolerate it.
As Sue refilled their coffee cups she told Lucy about Harley Ponyboy coming in drunk that morning and mentioned that Charlie, Thomas, and Harley had all gone back up to George Custer’s camp to check on him. “They may not make it back tonight. If they do, Charlie will probably drop the other guys off. He’ll be going right by both places on the way back.” She chuckled. “What’s up with Harley? She twirled a strand of her hair and turned more serious. “He nearly went to pieces when he saw I was pregnant.” She stirred her coffee. “That Harley’s a funny guy I think.”
Lucy added more sugar to her cup and was silent a long moment. “We have been knowin’ Harley a long time.” She brushed an imaginary crumb from the table and went on, “Thomas says Harley is a big believer in Yeenaaldiooshii—witches—and that stuff.” Lucy fidgeted in her chair. “A long time ago, when Harley and Anita were first married, Harley got crosswise with a very bad person over around Ganado. Some said that person was a witch.” Lucy lowered her voice and peered abo
ut the room as though someone might be listening. “That man knew Harley had just gotten married and he put a curse on Harley. He told Harley he would never have children. He said anytime Harley even touched a pregnant woman she would lose her baby.” Lucy looked out the kitchen window and grew quiet for a moment. “Anita lost two babies before they quit trying. They never had any more children.”
A cold shiver ran down Sue’s back, and she had to shake herself to throw it off. “Well, he never touched me! Wouldn’t even look at me after he saw I was pregnant. You don’t think…?”
Lucy bit her lip and looked down at her cup. “I will talk to my father. He will know what to do.” She caught herself, brightened, and forced a smile. “That is, if anything needs to be done at all.”
~~~~~~
Aida Winters paused in her digging to watch her two young charges at work in the flower garden—just as their mother had once worked there beside her. They were squabbling back and forth, as siblings will do and Aida kept a curious ear to their conversation. Ida Marie Begay was now eight years old and already had caught up with her classmates at school. She’d had no schooling before her father gained custody after their mother’s death the previous year. Ida Marie’s brother was seven and would be ready for second grade next fall. They were bright children and had taken to their new life with an exuberance that surprised even their father.
Being adaptable has always been the Navajo strong suit—they seem to embrace change better, perhaps, than any other indigenous people in the Southwest. This is thought to be a major contributing factor to the steady increase in their numbers over the last century. They are one of the few tribes to do so and are now the largest single tribe in the United States.
The two children were vigorously debating which flowers would look best on their mother’s grave. These children did not have the traditional Navajo superstitious fear of the dead. Aida thought this a blessing and hoped they would not fall under that influence later on. She could barely believe it was only a year since their mother, Sally Klee, had been shot to death, right there on Aida’s front porch. She allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction. Everyone involved in Sally’s death was now dead themselves or in prison, which was probably a worse fate for an Indian.
Ancient Blood Page 2
