Ancient Blood

by R. Allen Chappell

  It was beginning to cloud up again, as a fresh breeze welled up out of the canyon and gushed over the rim, causing the gnarly, little piñon trees to sigh and sway. It was exactly the sort of breeze a hunter would want in his face.

  Harley Ponyboy, still in the lead, quietly held up a hand and motioned for the others to stay and remain silent. He then eased off into a patch of oak brush that ran down a rocky gully to the rim and an overlook.

  Charlie and Thomas, eyes slitted against the wind, waited impatiently, and did not hear the big man come up behind them. He was nearly upon them when some sixth sense caused Thomas to turn.

  Thomas Begay had been hit some awful blows in his life, but nothing like the fist the size of a small ham that now sent him sprawling backward and right into Charlie Yazzie—who reeled, hands clawing the air, before he too went down flat on his back. Charlie’s eyes widened as he looked into the leering face of a man even he thought could be a “bigfoot.”

  “Whatchu little men do’n’ out here so far from the Dinè Bikeyah?” The apparition grinned through yellowed and uneven teeth. He leveled a short-barreled pump shotgun at them, “You’re on the ‘Uta’ reservation now… trespassers!” There was something almost wild in the man’s demeanor, and something else Charlie couldn’t quite put a finger on. The man tilted his head from side to side, as though listening to something only he could hear. There was a slight tick in his left eye.

  Thomas, apparently out cold, or possibly even dead, lay absolutely still. The astute observer, however, might have noticed a slight movement of his right hand, which was partially hidden beneath him.

  Thomas Begay had thought he should be the one to carry the .38 this time. He well knew Charlie’s reticence when it came to shooting people—a trait he felt had nearly gotten them both killed a time or two. The Smith & Wesson was now in his waistband under his shirt, his gun hand already on the grip.

  All Charlie could think of was what his Aunt Annie Eagletree said about patterning a shotgun’s pellets. This particular shotgun should throw a rather wide pattern, in his opinion. Their only hope at this point seemed to lie with Harley Ponyboy, whom this person might still be unaware of. The thought had no more than crossed his mind when the big man whispered, “Where’s you fat little friend?” He looked past Charlie toward the canyon rim. “That boy’s a good tracker, but he shoulda seen I was making it too easy for him.” He almost smiled. “That is a very old Ute trick, and you are not the first Dinè to fall for it.”

  Charlie’s mind fell into that calm, autonomous drift the mind reserves for periods of deep distress. He gave absolutely no outward sign as he watched Harley Ponyboy ease up behind the brutish hulk, a rock the size of a baseball at the end of his throwing arm. It was at this moment Thomas Begay stirred slightly and moaned as he rolled to his side, causing the big man to swing the shotgun to cover him.

  The smooth, round rock caught the big Ute full force at the base of his skull, and he rocked back on his heels. His eyes rolled slightly upward in his head, but he did not go down, only blinked several times, as though gathering his wits.

  Thomas, still groggy, but fast regaining his faculties, came to his knees, revolver in hand, hammer back. He saw instantly that Harley’s rock was not enough and squeezed off a shot that smashed through the Ute’s great paw, shattering both the hand and the shotgun’s stock.

  Harley, never faint of spirit when it came to a fight, rushed the big man, tackling him, bringing him to one knee. This broke the Ute’s grip on what was left of the shotgun and sent it skittering across the sandstone shelf.

  The Ute roared as he came to his senses and backhanded Harley with the bloody wreck of his right hand, causing him such exquisite pain he shrieked in agony, a terrifying scream like that of a woman or cougar. This so unnerved Thomas Begay he began wildly flinging lead—sending all four remaining shots wide of their mark.

  The huge Ute came instantly to his feet and leaped beyond the reach of his tormentors and in only a few bounds was at the canyon edge and gone.

  Charlie, frozen in place at this nearly instantaneous chain of events, looked to see how Harley fared. The little man’s face was covered with blood, both his and that of the wounded Ute. He regarded Charlie with a gap-toothed grin. “That was an old Navajo trick the Utes never knowed about.” Harley fished around inside his jaw with his tongue and retrieved a missing tooth. Holding it carefully by the enamel portion, he reinserted it in the socket and pushed it down firmly enough to seat it. “Sometimes tis works if you get it back in quick enough.” He grinned again to show the results of his work. He was lucky the tooth had been tight with its brothers and could be wedged into place. This was not Harley’s first rodeo.

  Charlie grimaced and pushed his tongue against his own front teeth as he tilted his head at Harley’s newly replanted tooth. That had to hurt. Harley was a tough little booger. You had to give him that.

  Despite being battered and shaken, the three Dinè fell into pursuit of the wounded Ute and worked their way along the crevasse leading into the canyon. Harley reached down and retrieved the shotgun as they passed through the crevasse, “I wish’t I had me some Duck Tape,” he lisped, trying to keep his tongue away from the newly planted tooth. “I think maybe I could fix tis ting.”

  Thomas frowned and said, “That would be good, Harley, cause I’m out of bullets.”

  “That’s okay. I can still make this scattergun shoot if we need it.” Harley knew he could fire the gun using just the pistol grip, should it come to that.

  At the truck, Thomas had taken Charlie seriously when he said, “Anyone who needs more than five rounds is either incompetent or reckless.” This was more of Aunt Annie Eagletree’s wisdom. Charlie thought it sounded like something Clint Eastwood might say in a “Dirty Harry” movie and had remembered it. Thomas, not wanting to be thought incompetent, or reckless, had left the full box of extra ammunition in the glove compartment.

  Harley was once again in front and followed the spatters of blood—hard to see on the red rock. Thomas, in the rear, kept an eagle eye on their back trail. He wasn’t sure what the Ute was capable of now. It wasn’t unthinkable that this person was a shape-shifter, or worse.

  Charlie cautioned both men to watch their step as the old Anasazi trail now clung precariously to the side of the cliff. One misstep could prove fatal. Blood still flecked the rocky trail ahead, telling Harley Ponyboy the Ute was indeed still in front of them, where he belonged.

  Thomas turned his full attention to the path ahead and whispered loudly to be heard above the wind, “Charlie, who did that Ute remind you of?”

  Without thinking, Charlie replied, “Hiram Buck.” That was exactly what had been bothering him about the Ute all along, right down to the twitch in the left eye. “But Hiram Buck’s dead and gone, Hastiin.”

  “Yes,” Thomas raised his voice above a particularly strong gust, “but his younger brother, Ira Buck, isn’t dead. Hiram ran him off years ago. People thought he was afraid Ira would want a split of the inheritance.” After a pause, he went on, “Last I heard he was living in Cortez—a derrick hand on a work-over rig. He wasn’t there long until the tool-pusher was found dead under the platform one morning with his head banged in. It was rumored Ira let a chain get loose on purpose. That’s not unheard of on a rig in this country. It was well known the two didn’t get along; but no one was charged. The other ‘hands’ said they were in the doghouse at the time and claimed they hadn’t seen anything—too scared to come forward, I guess.” Thomas paused and flattened himself against the cliff and edged along a particularly thin section of trail. He had been so involved in his talk he had nearly failed to follow Charlie’s lead. “Ira sort of disappeared after that. I had forgotten all about him myself. Sally Klee used to say he was bigger than his brother, but not as smart. She said he would never mess with Hiram, though. As head of the clan, Hiram could have killed Ira if he got in his way, and Ira knew it.”

  This was a development Charlie was not happy with. I
f this was Ira Buck and he was as crazy as Hiram--or George Jim, even—he was capable of anything. But then this Ute had already made it clear what he was capable of.

  Harley stopped abruptly and motioned them back as gravel sifted down off a high ledge, followed by heavy rock and debris—a slide that totally blocked the trail.

  Harley peered through clouds of choking red dust and knew they would not be going farther that day. “By the time we find another way down, that bad boy will be long gone.” He looked up to where a huge slab of rock had been pulled loose. “He’s purty smart for a big, dumb bastard.”

  “We won’t catch him today.” Charlie agreed. “But I bet we haven’t seen the last of him, either.”

  Thomas only grunted and rubbed his jaw, which had continued to swell, making his face look lopsided. Under his breath he said, “I hope we do meet him again.”

  ~~~~~~

  The next day, when Charlie made his report to George Custer, it was clear he thought they were safe, for the present at least. “It will take that Ute a while to get over the shattered hand, if he ever does get over it.”

  “Maybe,” the professor replied, “but we still can’t rule out those other two coming back. I think we better post a night guard up at the site.” He hesitated, and then said, “Charlie, I think there’s another thing you should know. Ira Buck was one of the hired hands on the survey at Aida Winters’ ranch. Tanya Griggs’s mother, Myra, and he were pretty friendly.” The professor hesitated. “More than friends, some thought, though it’s hard to imagine.”

  Charlie took a moment to digest this and then nodded. “That’s starting to make a little more sense. That would explain the connection between these people, and why they are working together. Myra and her husband Steven are not anxious to see your research go forward, or for your new paper to be published.”

  “No, they aren’t. One reason being the Hopi’s strong claims to Anasazi heritage. Some think it’s why they fought so hard for the Native American Graves Protection and Reparations Act. They needed to show cause for an expansion of their reservation borders toward their sacred homeland. That proposed expansion included water and grazing rights worth millions.”

  Here, Charlie held up a finger. “George, that theory has been worked to death. And while it may justify their never-ending dispute with the Navajo Nation, it’s been a stretch trying to validate that line of reasoning in a court of law—at least it has been so far.”

  Privately, Charlie couldn’t help but commiserate with his former professor. The Reparations Act had been a crushing blow for archaeology and its related institutions, including museums and university research facilities. It interrupted vital research-in-progress and gutted important museums of their most enthralling displays; their traffic was affected to the point some of them still struggled financially.

  The professor waved away Charlie’s argument and, as though reading his thoughts, concluded, “The removal of the burial remains, and funerary material from museums was a colossal loss. More importantly, Americans, including the very tribes involved, lost a vital link to those people—destroying a near palpable bond with an entire culture—one that cannot be replaced with dioramas and pottery displays. The public has forever lost the essence of those ancient people.” George Custer paused, breathless, and threw up his hands. “It was all gone with one legislative swipe of a pen.” He lowered his eyes and shook his head. “All gone.”

  A good portion of George Custer’s life had been spent in the research and study of those very collections, many of which he himself contributed to. Charlie could understand what must be going through his mind, remembering those years of hard work. While everything in those collections had been documented, cataloged, and photographed, it did not mitigate the fact that latter technology might contribute new and exciting knowledge, some never before dreamed possible.

  “So,” Charlie asked, “you’re thinking the daughter, Tanya Griggs, played a part in these attacks we’ve had here?”

  “Well, it would make sense, I suppose.” The professor waved his pencil in the air. “I know it’s a serious accusation. She seems innocent enough, and no one so far has reported anything that would implicate her in any way.” He laid the pencil down and admitted, “We could be barking up the wrong tree entirely, of course, but we need to find some way to verify her involvement, one way or the other. Indeed, there may not have been any involvement at all.”

  Charlie went away from the meeting still uncertain in the matter of Tanya Griggs. But why else would this Hopi girl have applied for the expedition except to help her mother and father stop George Custer’s research? As he made his way over to the mess tent to join Harley and Thomas, he was determined to find some way to prove or disprove the complicity of Tanya Griggs.

  It was nearly noon; his two friends already in the mess tent were the center of attention, and had attracted several sympathetic onlookers. Some were aghast at Thomas’s swollen features and the reconstructed tooth Harley so proudly displayed was the object of much interest.

  One expedition member, Bob Mills, who had been a dental student before switching his field of study to dental forensics, had Harley open wide and then carefully examined the tooth using a teaspoon for a tongue depressor. “I don’t see why that won’t work out for you, Harley. From what you say, it was never out of your mouth and was reinserted soon enough to insure a live root. There was little I could have done differently to save it.”

  Harley grinned at this and called to Charlie, “The tooth. Doc says I did good.” He turned back to the dentist. “This is the second tooth I lost this way, and that other one is just fine now. Maybe I should have been a dentist.”

  The dental expert chuckled and clapped Harley on the shoulder. “You probably would have made a good one, Harley, and maybe not have gotten these teeth knocked out to start with.”

  Tanya Griggs had not gathered around with the others and now stood quietly near the stove tending a large pot—only occasionally glancing their way. She was uncertain what to make of these latest developments and wondered at the curious stares of these three Navajo.

  Thomas was surprised when he heard George Custer’s information regarding Tanya Griggs. He sighed. “Well, that’s a damn shame. She’s a good worker, and everyone seems to like her, too.”

  Charlie was adamant. “We’d best keep an eye on her, she may well be tied in with all this.” As he said this he caught the girl’s eye and quickly looked away. “No one has proof of any wrongdoing—not yet, anyway.” Charlie didn’t like the idea any better than Thomas.

  After the crowd of Harley Ponyboy’s admirers dissipated and the three were free to talk, Harley, too, was updated regarding Tanya Griggs, which caused him to say, “Hmmph.” In such a way Charlie took to mean there was some serious doubt in his mind. “She might be a part of something but maybe not in the way you think. When her and me was working together up in the trench she said she could not wait ta see what was in the kiva. Sounded ta me like she don’t have no clue what’s in there.”

  “Do you have any clue what’s in there Harley?” Charlie wanted to know.

  “More than you maybe think, Charlie.” The little man looked guardedly around the tent. “When the professor and me was drink’n’, he tol’ me a lot of things about that kiva.” Harley nodded wisely. “He read me his paper one night too. I didn’ really understand a lot of it, but I got a good idea what the professor is looking for.”

  Thomas gave Harley Ponyboy a suspicious stare. “What’s that Harley?

  Harley stared right back and said, “I can’t tell you. The professor said if I tol’ anyone, he would have to kill me.”

  Charlie and Thomas exchanged smiles and Thomas asked, “Do you really think Professor Custer would kill you Harley?”

  “From some of the things he said, I would not doubt it.” Again Harley looked around the tent and whispered, “Once down in…” He stopped himself. “I tol’ you guys I couldn’ tell you! Now don’t ask no more.”
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br />   Charlie and Thomas eyed one another again, but this time they didn’t smile.

  That night Thomas propped up the side of the cook tent with a little forked stick. From his sleeping mat there was a clear view of the women’s tent across the way. One way or the other, he intended to watch Tanya Griggs a little more closely from now on. Harley snored peacefully next to him, and Thomas once again thought it strange Harley Ponyboy should be in the confidence of Professor George Custer. Thomas had been keeping a close eye out for any drinking on the professor’s part but so far had not seen any evidence of it. Charlie told him that it was nearly impossible to tell when the professor was drinking until he crossed over that invisible line. What invisible line? Who knew where that line was? Thomas knew one thing for certain it was a different line for an Irishman than it was for an Indian.

  ~~~~~~

  For the next several days, George Custer’s crew settled into an industrious routine that caused the expedition’s progress to advance at a steady rate. The professor now thought it certain this site was indeed a reconstruction of an older village. This particular transitory group of Anasazi would have lived here in the exact middle of the great migration period. His senior crewmembers were of one mind—the last residents of this village had probably lived here no more than twenty or thirty years total before worsening conditions forced them to move on. But thirty years was a long time in those days—a lifetime for many.

  As the expedition’s crew gathered for lunch in the shade of the overhang, Professor Custer attempted to explain to those team members from other areas, some of the environmental nuances affecting these particular prehistoric people.

  “The uninitiated, looking at the huge and complex building done by the Anasazi,” Custer began, “tend to think the original builders inhabited these great stone structures for many hundreds of years at a stretch.

  “The fact is many of these settlements were only occupied from thirty to fifty years at a time, though a few exceptionally well-endowed locations did continue in use for longer periods.” He paused for effect. “There was good reason for these short-term occupations. Chief among them was the depletion of natural resources in the area—dwindling supplies of firewood, big game, and the exhaustion of prime farm ground. Periodic but localized droughts, in varying degrees of intensity, affected springs and streams in these isolated areas, making these settlements untenable for long periods. The failure of a single local water supply might provoke moves of many miles.” He looked around the group and invited comment.