“Ida Marie Begay!” she called sharply, “Let your brother have a say in those flowers!” Aida always called her Ida Marie. Sally Klee had given her daughter Aida’s middle name, ‘Marie’ in deference to the years of help and love Aida lavished on her growing up. She would probably have given her Aida’s first name as well had her adoptive Ute family been on better terms with her. Still, Aida savored the name each time it was spoken. Neighbors thought it strange that a white woman, and one of some means at that, would take two Indian children as her heirs. They didn’t understand. This child’s name and her memories of Aida would one day be all that was left of Aida Marie Winters. She had no one beyond these two children. The boy, Caleb Thomas Begay, was bright and engaging and was showing the inherent charm and beguiling nature of his father. Aida smiled and thought the boy would bear watching on that account.
Thomas Begay had been good enough to let the children come visit for a part of their summer vacation. His father-in-law, old Paul T’Sosi, thought they might be better off under his tutelage rather than that of a white woman rancher and horse trader. Secretly, however, he knew there were often advantages to be gained from associating with whites. He had learned a good bit from white people himself. He thought herding sheep and listening to an old man prattle on about old ways might not carry them as far in today’s world.
In the little cemetery on the hill behind the house, Aida and the children were debating the placement of their flower arrangements.
“Well, I think these roses would look better in front,” Ida Marie asserted with a cross look at her brother.
Her brother scowled and replied, “Just ’cause you think so don’t make it so!”
Aida was about to quash the argument when she happened to look up and see a smudge of dust far up the road leading to the ranch. The mailman and his little white jeep did not stir up so much dust. It was someone else and they were in a hurry. She shaded her eyes with a hand and wondered who could be calling so late in the day. She stooped to help the children place the flowers and then hurried them down the hill toward the house.
They had almost reached the yard when Charlie’s white truck slowed and pulled into the drive. Aida frowned. Now what? She could see Thomas leaning out the window and waving. Surely he was not back for the children so soon—she was supposed to have them for three weeks at the least.
As the truck rolled to a stop, Aida could see four men inside and was somewhat alarmed when Thomas and Charlie helped an obviously injured white man out of the vehicle. A third Navajo stood looking on, occasionally wringing his hands—he had only one lens in his sunglasses.
Charlie spoke first, “Hi, Aida, good to see you again,” and without further ado launched into the reason for them being there, “We’ve run into a little problem down-country and thought you might be able to give us a hand.”
She could now see the white man was badly hurt and hurried to clear the way to the house and hold the door for them. “Put him there on the sofa,” she said.
The children held back, uncertain at the strange doings, but smiled at Thomas Begay when he threw them a sidelong grin.
George Custer lay back with a sigh and held his injured hand on his chest to avoid dirtying the couch. Charlie had cleaned him up as best he could, but the facilities had been meager. George, his eyes nearly swollen shut, was embarrassed and smiled weakly in the direction of Aida’s voice. She, in turn, regarded him in a much more thoughtful and calculating manner.
“This man needs to go to the hospital,” Aida announced, moving toward the kitchen. “What possessed you to bring him here?”
Charlie followed her out of the room, and as she ran water in a basin, he attempted to explain, “Aida,” he searched for just the right words, “we had nowhere else to turn. George refused to be taken to a hospital or even let us call in tribal police for help.” He picked up the pan of water from the sink. “I just thought…if word gets out it could be the end of his career.”
“What sort of trouble is he in?” Aida was getting over her surprise. “He stinks of whiskey but I expect there’s more to it than that.”
“His name is George Custer, and he’s an archaeology professor from the University of New Mexico—”
“I know who he is!” Aida interrupted. She turned with a sharp look. “I know who he is.” she was trembling slightly now. “What I can’t figure out is why he would have you bring him here.”
Now it was Charlie’s turn to be surprised. “Uh…he didn’t have us bring him here. Thomas thought of it.” He narrowed his eyes. “You know George Custer?”
She was at the linen closet then and brought forth a stack of cotton dishtowels, worn thin but soft and bleached clean. “Get my vet kit by the back door,” she said and, taking the container of water from him, she returned to the living room.
When Charlie came back with the medical supplies, the gash on the side of George’s head had already been cleaned. He could see now it was not as bad as it first appeared. Aida proceeded to irrigate the injury with saline solution from the kit. “How long’s he been like this?”
“You mean drunk…or cut?” Thomas queried, not sure what she was getting at. “He’s been drunk about three days, according to Harley.” He looked over at Charlie. “We’re not sure how long it’s been since he got hit in the head.”
“One of your guys do it?” Aida asked, digging through her folder of suture packets.
Thomas frowned. “Harley helped him get drunk, but swears he didn’t hit him in the head.” He smiled engagingly. “Charlie and me is just the rescue party.”
Aida examined the cut more closely. “Another few hours and the edges would have dried out. I’d of had to trim them back before putting in stitches; that would’ve hurt.” She glanced up at Charlie. “Good thing I put a coverlet on this couch when the kids came; they like to eat while they’re watching cartoons. Otherwise you boys would owe me a couch.”
Charlie and Thomas looked uncomfortable. Thomas had not long ago finished paying Aida for the horse he bought from her the previous fall. This was good news about the couch; he was not eager to incur further debt with this woman.
“You think he’ll need a little deadener?” Aida looked up at them. “I’ve got some Xylocaine here I use on the horses when I have to stitch one up.”
“Naaa,” Thomas ventured, “I think he’s plenty deadened already.” Thomas himself had been sewn up several times when drunk and not always by doctors, either. “I expect he’s got enough painkiller in him already.”
Charlie winced but suspected Aida had put many a stitch in man and beast, and he was fairly confident the job would be done to the best of her ability. It was the rare rancher in that country who couldn’t put in a stitch or two when required.
Harley Ponyboy was finally sobering up and had been pacing nervously up and down the front porch, occasionally peering in through the screen door. He warned Ida and Caleb to stay outside with him. The children were now sitting on the porch swing, and Harley gave it a little push as he passed by. The children had grown solemn, and while they knew Harley, they had not seen him in such a state before. They thought it best to do as he said. They saw Harley as the old kind of people. Who knew what those people might do should the mood strike them. Their new grandfather, Paul T’Sosi, was the old kind of Navajo, too, but he liked kids; Harley didn’t seem to.
George Custer was coming around rather well by the time the procedure was finished, and while he had yelped a couple of times, he had acquitted himself quite well, in Thomas’s view. The men did have to hold his hands away from his face a time or two, but only now and again. His mangled hand received an examination as well, and Aida thought there might be some small bones broken. There was nothing for it now, however, but to clean and bandage.
When George was finally tended to and sleeping, the others gathered on the front porch. Thomas went to sit with his kids on the swing and whispered in their ears. He must have said something silly, as Caleb giggled and Ida Marie
looked up and smiled. It had only been a few days since he dropped them off at Aida’s, but they were happy to see him, just the same.
Charlie, sitting on the front steps, spoke finally and said they had better get George Custer back in the truck and down to his and Sue’s place, as he knew of nowhere else to take him. “George’s students will be up from Albuquerque next week to get started on the dig. George has to be ready for that, or suffer the consequences.”
Thomas looked at Aida. He knew Charlie didn’t have room for the professor at his place and neither did he. Unless, of course, Dr. Custer wanted to sleep under the stars in the “summer hogan” and undergo the third degree from Paul T’Sosi about why he had hired Harley Ponyboy instead of him.
Aida seemed suddenly tired and leaned against a post. “You boys might as well leave him here for a few days, I guess,” she frowned, “Jouncing around in that truck isn’t going to do him any good.” She looked pointedly at Harley Ponyboy. “Hell, he might even have a concussion.”
Harley raised a finger and started to say something, then thought better of it and remained silent.
Aida brushed the back of her hand across her mouth and looked out across the yard. “He and I have a few things to talk over, anyway.”
Thomas looked sharply at Charlie but remained silent.
“You sure having George and the kids won’t be too much?” Charlie asked.
“No, these kids are no trouble, and they’ll be a big help once I get ’em lined out.” She looked over at the children and smiled. “Those two make me laugh,” she said and then turned back to Charlie. “I had almost gotten out of the habit.”
~~~~~~
Old Paul T’Sosi was out of sorts. He had not slept well and had dreamed of his mother and Magpie and Coyote. He did not often dream of the dead, and the very thought of it preyed on his mind. As far as the two tricksters—Magpie and Coyote—he tried never to think of them at all. It was a bad omen, he was sure. He recalled Magpie, who was a great talker and the smarter of the two, commenting on Paul’s lack of attention to the deities here of late. The bird had gone so far as to say no good could come of it. Coyote kept his own council but silently nodded in what might have been agreement. It was worrisome to see these two pranksters together and in accord. It was generally Magpie that bedeviled Coyote and while it was common to see them together at, say, a winterkill, they were generally not on good terms. The Navajo had long ago learned to pay heed to the doings of these two beguilers.
Paul had fallen in and out of health over the last few months and it had taken a toll on his hozo and on the hozo of those around him as well. The old man was not one to tread lightly when in a bad mood. It still rankled that Charlie had not recommended him for George Custer’s archaeology expedition. Charlie was well aware he had participated in major excavations in the past and had indeed assisted several well-known archaeologists. That Harley Ponyboy knew nothing about being an archaeologist’s assistant.
He called up the dog and went to turn out the sheep. The dog stood anxiously watching the little band file from the corral. He thought it odd to be taking them out so late in the day. Paul’s daughter, Lucy Tallwoman, had admonished him to let the sheep be and stay inside and rest. She said she would bring a couple of bales of hay from town when she came back that evening. He had waited the better part of the day. Those sheep had lambs; they could not go the entire day without some sort of feed. Ewes couldn’t make milk from thin air. Even just a couple of hours grazing would settle their nerves and bring the milk.
Once again the sheep would have to depend on an old man who would have been better left abed. If Thomas had not been off gallivanting with Charlie, he could have taken the sheep out today. Paul understood that Thomas needed the work, and Charlie was very fair with him in that regard. Still there were the sheep to consider; always there were the sheep. Where would the family be without these old-line Churros and their long stringy wool, which weaves like no other? Lucy’s reputation had grown to the point that there was a waiting list for her blankets, and collectors were scrambling to outbid one another. He had never seen the likes of it. Her mother had been a noted weaver as well, but her weaving had never commanded the prices now set by Lucy’s work. The major portion of the family’s income came from Lucy’s weaving of this very wool. Without it things might be quite different indeed. He thought to himself, That was the way young people were these days—always thinking of fun and running around, when there was plenty to do right there at home.
He figured he would take the sheep to the sage flats across the highway, just for an hour or so. They had not been over there for more than a month, and the spring rains should have some new grass cropping up.
It was not so cold, but there was a sharp little breeze from the upper ridges. He wore the new earmuffs he had been given for Christmas. He thought it best he get some use out of them before his new grandson wore them out. The earmuffs were made of rabbit fur, and young Caleb Begay loved to sneak them away and wear them when the old man wasn’t looking. Paul T’Sosi smiled when he thought of it. That boy was like his own grandson now—a grandson he would otherwise never have. He would get the boy a set of earmuffs just like these the next time he was in town. With summer coming on, Caleb wouldn’t get much use from them, perhaps, but they would keep him from putting Paul’s earmuffs on the dog or whatever lambs he could catch. That boy was getting more like Thomas every day.
The sheep hesitated a moment at the black ribbon of asphalt, just as they always did, but the dog nipped and threatened until the leaders gave in and began crossing. The old man spared only a glance each way before following and saw nothing. As the dog pushed the little band across the road, a lamb just beside Paul lost it’s footing on the smooth asphalt and went down. Paul stooped to right the little fellow before it got trampled and did not hear the stock truck until the screech of its tires penetrated his earmuffs. The truck’s driver, momentarily distracted while tuning his radio, had come around the bend unaware—and much too fast. When he did look up, he swerved the truck and applied the brakes at the same time, locking the wheels and skidding sideways through the last of the sheep—and Paul T’Sosi.
The old man lay crumpled in the barrow ditch along with two ewes and the lamb he had tried to help. Six other sheep lay strewn across the road in pools of blood and gore, the bowels of one stretching from one side of the road to the other. The goats, more clever than sheep, stayed at the front of the flock and sustained no casualties. In the wild it is generally the stragglers that are most in danger. Of all domestic animals sheep are one of the few who can no longer survive on their own in the wild. Goats, on the other hand, are famously independent of man and do quite well on their own regardless of where they might be cast out.
Paul T’Sosi felt only a quiet pleasantness, certainly not pain, as Magpie and Coyote came by and stopped at the edge of the road to have a look. They appeared to be speaking to one another as they watched but he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. It must be the earmuffs, he thought lazily, and then again dreamed of his mother.
~~~~~~
As Charlie topped the rise, just before the turnoff to Lucy Tallwoman’s camp, Thomas grabbed the dash with both hands and opened his mouth but made no sound. The whirling red lights of the tribal police cars cast an ethereal glow over the cleanup operations in progress. The dog still held the remainder of the little band of sheep and goats in a tight knot on the far side of the highway. This was not easy to do, as goats pay less attention to a dog than do sheep and the goats wanted to go home. But it was what the dog was bred to do, and he intended to do it as best he could.
“Looks like your sheep got loose!” Charlie exclaimed pulling to the side of the road.
“No, they didn’t get loose,” Thomas whispered while reaching for the door handle. One of the tribal boys was already on his way over and met Charlie halfway while Thomas stood quietly surveying the carnage.
It was Hastiin Klah. He had been a policeman for
a long time and knew his business when it came to this sort of thing. “Do you know whose sheep these are,” he asked Charley, noting his official truck.
Charlie indicated Thomas, who heard the question but didn’t bother turning to the policeman. He and Hastiin Klah had done business before “They are my wife’s sheep,” Thomas said over his shoulder. “Where is the old man?” He stared silently at the earmuffs on the edge of the road.
“The ambulance took him away. Farmington, I guess. He looked in pretty bad shape.” He waved a hand in the direction of the other officer. “We’re just giving the highway boys a hand getting this mess cleaned up.”
~~~~~~
Old Paul T’Sosi was dreaming again. This time his mother appeared closer and was as young and lithe as when he was a boy. She had been a great runner in her youth and fearless in the defense of her flocks. Now each time Magpie and Coyote came close, she would charge at them, shoo them away and then beckon him to follow her into the light of dawn—at least it looked like the dawn, with bands of luminescence swirling all around her. He had nearly decided to go with her, when a sharp jab caused him to change his mind. He was just too tired. It was as though he was being physically pulled away from the light and drawn back into darkness.
The doctor taped the needle in place and stood back looking thoughtfully at the old man. He had been a doctor in this country for over twenty years and had attended hundreds of injured Indians, yet it never ceased to amaze him how tough and tenacious of life they were. Things that might kill a white person outright were often just a bump in the road for these people. Many thousands of years of natural selection had made them so. He wondered how long they would retain this ability in their relatively new life in the soft modern world.
Ancient Blood Page 3
