Harley agreed. “I go along with that. Those FBIs might be pretty smart and all, but I wonder if they even cut any circles looking for sign. Those young tribal policemens can’t read sign neither. No one takes the time ta learn that stuff anymore.” Harley, by virtue of his recent cleansing ceremony, was now invested in the case and felt some intangible need to contribute to a satisfactory conclusion.
Charlie sighed. “Well, tomorrow is Sunday. I guess we could take a little run up there and see if anything jumps out at us.”
“Don’ say ‘Jumps out at us.’ That dead person’s chindi could still be hanging around up there.” Harley was now having second thoughts.
“Whoa!” Thomas didn’t like the sound of it either. He glared at Harley. “I thought you said white people didn’t have chindi?”
“Well, my father always said they didn’t, but what the hell did he know? He never saw no dead white person that I know of, and neither did I, before this.” Harley frowned. “Who knows what white peoples have got. They must have some kind of spirit inside them,” and after thinking a moment added, “but maybe not mean ones like our chindi.”
Charlie turned back to the barbeque. “I don’t think chindi will be a problem.” Charlie chose not to believe in many of the old ways, and while he didn’t disparage them to his friends, his years away at boarding school and then university had caused him to become somewhat ambivalent when it came to traditional myths and religion. Why, even old Paul T’Sosi occasionally interspersed his blessings with a little Christian embellishment, which came, Charlie surmised, from his long years as a handyman for the local Episcopal mission. The Navajo have always adopted what they like from other cultures as long as it made sense to them and didn’t impinge too heavily on the bedrock of their own beliefs.
That reminded Charlie, and he eyed Harley Ponyboy. “How did that cleansing ceremony with Paul T’Sosi go? Do you feel better now?” Charlie had an honest interest in the thing but suspected most of the good coming from these ceremonies was psychological at best. But since he considered the malady itself to be psychological, he supposed it might make sense that it worked… once a person thought about it.
Harley tried to remember how he felt about the cleansing and how it might have helped him. Thomas had taken part in it as well, and each had later agreed it took a weight off their mind. It had taken only an hour to put the whole thing together. A few long branches planted in the ground, tied together at the top, and covered with heavy blankets sufficed for the sweat lodge, and the round stones for a fire-ring were borrowed from the border of Lucy Tallwoman’s garden. There was plenty of dry cedar wood on hand, and before he knew it, Harley was naked, in the dark, and dribbling water over white-hot rocks. Occasionally a cleansing rite ended badly when too much cold water was dumped on the rocks, causing one of them to explode and injure the patient, in which case the treatment became worse than the affliction. He had also known of several scalding incidents suffered from the live steam. Harley took special pains not to make these mistakes.
Old Man Paul T’Sosi, just outside the sweat lodge, chanted the prayers and Harley joined in on the parts he knew, trusting to the old man to make up any difference. Since it was Harley that had actually touched the body (and he was paying cash money) more attention was paid to his ceremony, and Paul endeavored to make sure everything went exactly as it should.
Thomas’s purification was shorter and lacked some of the enthusiasm of Harley’s. Thomas suspected it was because he didn’t pay anything—his father-in-law doing the ceremony more as a family obligation… and to eliminate any evil from hanging around the family digs.
Harley finally answered Charlie’s question. “Well, I feel better about the whole thing now. I don’t have that little fear in me anymore, and it didn’t cost much neither, so it was good insurance, I guess.”
After everyone at the barbeque had eaten, they gathered round and Charlie held his son high for everyone to see. Paul T’Sosi gave a short blessing, much as he had for the boy’s initial “Indian name” ceremony, and again offered blue corn pollen to the four sacred mountains. Only then was Charlie and Sue’s son formally introduced to his official name. Sue had tried to adhere to the old ways from the beginning, right down to burying a portion of the infant’s umbilical cord in the corrals. She thought it somehow important the boy should be exposed to as much Diné culture as possible in his early years. Later, when he was older, he could decide for himself how much he needed to take from the traditional ways. His new name would not likely get much use, at least until he started school—most of those present preferred his Navajo name, even when it was spoken in English.
Everyone brought some little something as a gift for the boy on this special day. Old Man Paul T’Sosi gave a tiny flint bird point he had found near an Anasazi cliff dwelling when he himself was a boy. He thought many of those little arrowheads had themselves been gifts to young boys back in that time, and figured it might help this child as well. It would be placed in the small beaded medicine bag he had previously brought the boy on the day the child had been given his Indian name months before. Paul had already given Thomas’s son, Caleb, a similar small bag to be carried around his neck, and had passed along his only other bird point to his adopted grandson. Both of those relics were from his own medicine bundle or jish. The old man knew it would not be long before he himself would no longer need them.
John Nez and his partner Marissa took their obligation in this gift giving quite seriously and had thought long and hard on an appropriate gift. It was Marissa’s idea to bring the boy a brilliant red headband and matching sash just as the old Navajo leader Narbona was said to have once worn.
Others had brought similar items of a traditional nature, and soon there was a small pile of such things as a hand-woven saddle blanket by Lucy Tallwoman and a thin silver bracelet Thomas had made the boy. Aunt Annie Eagletree had a small but expensive turquoise belt buckle, made by a Zuni craftsman just for the boy, and though he probably wouldn’t be wearing it for a while, it was oohed and aahed over by the entire group. When the party broke up at sundown, everyone went away with portions of the beef quarter that was left uncooked and as much of the other food as they cared to take home with them. That was the Navajo way and showed proper respect; the hosts would have been quite disappointed if it had not happened just so.
Little Wiley Joseph Yazzie was paraded around the circle one last time to show off his new finery and was already fast asleep by the time Sue put him in his bed.
4
The Investigation
The next day on the drive up to the Carrizos, Thomas Begay again speculated on the happenings that ended the life of R. J. Tyler. “I been thinking about this, and there’s still a couple of things we haven’t chewed over.”
Harley Ponyboy grunted, “I don’ need to talk about it no more.”
Charlie ignored Harley’s remark and looked across at Thomas. “What’s that?”
“Well, for one thing, what was up with the guy’s fingers being torn up at the ends? How do you figure that?”
“Maybe a coyote chewed them off,” Harley offered from the rear seat. “I’ve heard they will eat a person’s fingers and toes if they get a chance.”
In the old days very young children were often told stories like these to keep them in line and close by the camp. The other two men suspected this was what Harley’s comment was based on and smiled remembering many similar stories from their own childhood, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that such things were possible.
The horseback ride up the side canyon at the base of Pastora Peak went more quickly this time, and the three passed the stretch with pointed suppositions back and forth of what might have happened to the young archaeologist, R. J. Tyler, and pondered his untimely end.
Charlie’s gelding ultimately took the lead, as he was well rested and eager to go. Charlie still thought a lot of the horse and disregarded the fact that his previous owner had been the notorious Ute malco
ntent, Hiram Buck.
“A really good horse, like an exceptional dog, might come along only once in a man’s life,” Charlie opined. This caused the men’s conversation to turn to horses, and Thomas Begay said he had known some who claimed having had two or even three good horses. But, as with women, this would be a rare thing in his view.
As Harley rode a mule, he stayed out of the talk of horses altogether but still felt his Shorty the superior animal.
On the subject of dogs, when it came up, Charlie declared his intention to get his son a pup in the near future and hoped it would be one the boy would always remember. To his mind it was best a boy have a pup as early as possible. At the barbeque, old Paul T’Sosi had mentioned his neighbor’s bitch had pups by his dog, which, though it had no name, and was only called “dog,” was known to be a good one. His son would be lucky to have a dog as fine as Paul’s. They, of course, had no sheep to herd, but to his way of thinking there was more to it than that. There is a lot a dog could teach a boy, more even than the boy could teach the dog. He remembered his own dog, a scruffy black and white Navajo dog that had twice warned him of a rattlesnake when he was herding his grandmother’s sheep. That dog had died of poison when the government decided to eradicate a prairie dog town during an outbreak of Hanta virus. Later it was said the virus was mostly just carried by mice and kangaroo rats in their particular area, but it was too late for the prairie dogs… and his own dog too.
When the three men rode down into the wash where a calf had been lucky to get out alive, luckier than a man who had not been so fortunate, Charlie quietly noted exactly how the upper reaches of the waterway sluiced down from above in a channel worn round and smooth as a bobsled run. Though the streambed now ran only a trickle, he knew that could change very quickly should there be any rain up-country. In fact, the watercourse did show signs of recent flash flooding, possibly from the previous week’s rain in the area. The rush of water had been deep and swift, judging from the debris plastered along the walls of the watercourse.
As the three rode farther up the narrowing canyon, it became apparent what had lured the unfortunate young archaeologist to the area. The canyon walls held scattered pictographs and even some engraved petroglyphs at nearly every turn, some of them from quite early times, and not of the usual type found this far south.
Following the steep course of the streambed, the three Navajo came at last to the place where R. J. Tyler had set his camp. The dark green splash of cottonwoods was in vivid contrast to the vermillion of the canyon walls, and a light trickle of water turned to mist as it tumbled over the edge at the upper end of the little gorge. There was the fire-ring and a few tent stakes still in the ground along with a bit of stacked firewood. The camp had been set back from the watercourse, which gathered in a pool and then plunged to the next lower level. The spot seemed well chosen, far enough below the canyon rim to be invisible to the casual observer, but above the most violent runoff. R. J. had known something about setting a camp in that country. The site was now covered by the tracks of the recovery team, and as Charlie had surmised, little had been left undisturbed.
Harley gave no more than a cursory glance at the campsite and immediately moved upstream to a series of deep slick-rock basins, known locally as “potholes.” Though the stream was now no more than a trickle, the larger depressions still held a good bit of water. When Thomas caught up, Harley was on his knees, his nose nearly touching the smooth sandstone edge of the largest bowl, and Thomas watched through narrowed eyes to see for himself what the tracker might find.
Charlie wandered beyond the camp and seemed more interested in the primordial images scrawled on the rock walls than more recent happenings. Since his early days at UNM he had maintained a serious interest in the ancient history of the area, had in fact been tempted to switch his major from law to archaeology. Even now he maintained a relationship with his former archaeology professor, Dr. George Custer, a man he had come to admire.
Charlie tried to imagine the primal wall art through the eyes of R. J. Tyler and wondered what that unfortunate might have made of them in his last hours. Not all authorities held the same opinion regarding the meaning of even the more common of the designs.
Harley Ponyboy, calling his name from upstream, startled him. The echo from the canyon walls made the summons sound even more urgent.
“Charlie, there’s something you need to see up here!”
Thomas was already at Harley’s side and gazed along with him into the largest of the catch basins, which sat below quite a steep overhang in the watercourse. During times of even distant rain, water might come gushing down this sluiceway and over the edge in a virtual torrent. Harley had spotted a little niche in the rock wall surround, almost hidden by a sprig of sage growing from a crack. Harley reached into the fissure and produced a well used bar of soap.
“Soap,” Harley declared, stating the obvious, but proud of the discovery nonetheless. “If the sun had not been exactly right, I would’n never have seen it. That guy was taking a shower in this pothole before the flash flood hit. Probably never heard it coming until it was too late.” He beamed, “That’s why he was naked! Why, he was probably just washed downstream ’til he got sucked into the quicksand. That’s what probably happened to him.”
Charlie knelt and examined the bar of soap and looked up at the little waterfall still tinkling over the edge, and nodded, “Just could be, I guess.”
Thomas rose and stepped back with a frown. “This still doesn’t explain what happened to the guy’s stuff.”
Charlie agreed with Thomas to some extent too. “No, but at least now we’re just talking petty theft rather than murder.”
“Maybe.” Thomas seemed unconvinced. “But I still think we should make a circle and see what kind of sign we can cut upstream.” He hesitated and thought back. “Coming in here the first time, Harley and I didn’t cross any man or horse tracks, yet it’s certain someone else was through here, so they must have come cross-country, above us, at some point.” He thought for a moment and then hedged, “This canyon floor is nearly all slick-rock. I suppose a person who knew what he was doing could pass through without leaving much sign, especially with these recent rains that washed everything away.” It was true, even tracks of game and livestock had been nearly obliterated.
They had to travel nearly two miles above the camp site before Harley found even a recognizable footprint, and that, in the soft sand of a feeder wash; a print made by a very worn but common work shoe, by the look of it. Only the one print was discernable, and it was angling down toward R. J. Tyler’s campsite. They searched for almost another mile before the next tracks turned up, these made by a hiking boot that headed back north up the streambed toward Teec Nos Pos. These tracks were not hard to follow, as though the person knew the different boot prints had changed his signature. Harley noted that both of the two different prints they’d found were of nearly the same size, the first possibly only a half-size smaller than the second. Even the new prints gradually petered out due to the heavier rain that occurred higher up. They had totally disappeared by the time the men reached the head of the canyon and a trailhead… but this was not the trailhead where they had left the truck and horse trailer.
If Harley remembered Charlie’s topo map correctly, they were still a good way from the truck. “Hold up, guys!” he called to the other two as he stepped off Shorty. Thomas’s horse had apparently thought they were headed for home and, as horses will, had picked up the pace. Charlie’s horse had stayed right with the piebald, and both were now well out in front of Harley, whose mule knew quite well this was not their trailhead, and that there were likely hours of tough canyon going ahead of them.
Shorty, in no particular hurry now, closed his eyes and rested his weight on three legs. Lop-eared, he awaited some sort of a decision. Harley dug through his saddlebag and produced the well-creased topo map from that morning. It didn’t take him long to figure out there was still an additional drainage between them
and their truck. He motioned the others to come back and said simply, “We’re far enough tis way.”
Thomas shook his head. “I figured we might still hit that track again a little farther on.”
“Not likely,” Harley replied scanning a terrain that continued to gain elevation. “First off, the rain was heaviest up here and didn’t leave much sign. Second, this trail is just going to take us higher up the mountain.” He paused and again looked upcountry. “Something tells me this guy we’re following doesn’t know this country any better than we do... It’s almost like he’s jus’ wandering around, but keeps heading generally north. I thought first he might have a vehicle at this trailhead… If he did, he’s gone… or maybe he’s jus’ looking for a ride out of here.”
Thomas pushed his hat back and adjusted his weight in the stirrups. “…Or maybe he thought he would find R. J. Tyler’s vehicle up here. I’m sure he could have backtracked him out of that canyon before the rains got too heavy; he seems pretty savvy to me.”
Charlie weighed in, “Since we know R. J.’s wife was going to pick him up and he had no vehicle, this person, if he was the one involved at all, didn’t find any car keys in that camp down there, so he probably wasn’t looking for a vehicle. Looks more like he was trying to lose himself out here.” Doubt had begun to worry the back edge of Charlie’s mind, and he was becoming less certain of his “accidental death” theory.
“No, but very few people out here take their keys with them… too easy to lose. Not a good thing in the middle of nowhere.” Thomas wasn’t ready to concede the point and enjoyed arguing with Charlie in any case. “Most hide them in one of those little black key box thingies… or maybe just put ’em up under the bumper.” He smiled. “…You know, like you do.”
Mojado Page 3
