Luca saw there was only one horse left in the corral and waited for the man to go back inside the tent. There was no sense in bothering himself with this man if there was no need. There was trouble enough already, and as he waited his mind again drifted back to Tressa.
If only she had not prodded him to move to the city, things might still be as they once were. He became a little irritated with Tressa then and wondered if he could somehow talk her into moving back to their little adobe and the life they had known since they were children. Not likely, he knew, but these were the things that occupied his mind as he shivered there in the cold dead calm of first light—gazing down on a sheep camp that might mark the end of him. Luca Tarango was a man not usually given to introspection and it’s attendant regret, but in this instance he couldn’t help but feel a bit nostalgic for the life he once had led.
12
The Loss
The boy had been sent out with the band of sheep just at daylight, leaving only his uncle and one horse. The horse was lame, and the man, Harvey Bitsinnie, had stayed in camp to doctor it, telling his nephew he could bring the other horse back at noon, and then he would go to the sheep—a few of them needed doctoring as well. Always something needed doctoring Harvey Bitsinnie thought as he headed down to the corral with his little bag of medicines. The horse had somehow injured a right front foot when they packed in their supplies the day before, and already it was swollen and pus leaked down the side of the hoof. Harvey thought there is maybe a stob or a thorn still in there. He opened the corral and saw the stranger crouching behind the horse and cursed to himself, whispering the common Navajo epitaph máii (coyote) a word reserved for all that was despicable.
~~~~~~
Charlie Yazzie had taken the lead when they came in view of the wall tent and cedar corrals that served as a summer spike camp for the Natanii sheep operation, and he was first to see Harvey Bitsinnie lying in the mud of the corral. Though dead, blood still pooled from knife wounds in the herder’s chest and right forearm. The lame horse stood almost over him and did not move until Charlie pushed it aside. It was obvious the mojado had come for a horse and been surprised by the luckless herder. There must have been cursing later when the killer found the horse to be useless.
Harley pushed past Charlie and gazed down at the body. “This must be the uncle who runs this camp. Since the sheep and dogs are gone, the boy must be with them. He’s probably safe for now.”
Thomas Begay, who had moved up behind Charlie, shook his head before raising his eyes to the mountain. Searching. “No one’s safe until this guy is caught. He’s not going to leave witnesses, if he can help it.”
Harley nodded agreement, glanced at Thomas, and speculated, “I expect you are the only one ta see this man’s face and live ta tell about it.”
“Only in the dark—I couldn’t see much of him, but he don’t know that. I imagine I’d be gone too if you boys hadn’t come along.” As Thomas said this, another shiver passed over him. He shrugged it off and said, “I think he might be putting a spell on me.” He knew only Harley would really understand and frowned at the skeptical look on Charlie’s face.
Charlie shook his head and looked down before saying, “Don’t start thinking like that. You’ll think yourself into an early grave,” and headed toward the wall-tent.
Always there was this talk of witches, and spells, and beings from the underworld to deal with. Fewer and fewer people believed in them as time went on, but even among the most modern-thinking, there still was the lingering thought of magic and the power of those who understood it. Charlie Yazzie was not one to take these traditionalists’ premonitions of evil too seriously, yet even he was becoming leery of this mojado and his never-ending bag of tricks.
When Harley Ponyboy caught up with him, he could see Charlie was in no mood to discuss what “powers” their quarry might have. So instead, he just said, “He’s for sure looking for a horse now. I suspect he’s headed for the highway and a ride out of here.”
When the two reached the tent flap, they paused and turned to see Thomas Begay still standing in the corral, but backed well away from the dead man.
The tent was in disarray, with the newly arrived supplies pulled out of the panniers and scattered about. They could not tell if there had been a gun of any sort as part of the gear, but Harley Ponyboy knew every camp such as this would have some sort of firearm to ward off coyotes and bears. Possibly the boy had taken the gun with him on his herding rounds that morning. If not, they were now dealing with an armed adversary, and one considerably more dangerous than before.
Thomas Begay was still at the corral when the dead man’s nephew came riding back up the hill to the camp. Thomas spotted him at a good distance and went to greet him with the sad news of his uncle, and to send him back down the mountain to fetch the authorities. When Thomas came back toward the tent, his friends had gathered a bit of food and were again ready to take up the chase.
“Did you find the 30-30?” Thomas called, even before reaching them. “The boy said there was a rifle, and two new boxes of ammunition brought in yesterday. I’ve sent him for help… and told him we were going after the killer.”
Charlie Yazzie shook his head. “No, we didn’t find any rifle, so that means the cholló has it. We didn’t see but one new box of 30-30 shells. I guess he didn’t feel like packing more, but even at that he’s got plenty.”
Harley stood in the doorway of the tent, holding tight to the old Krag rifle. He sighed and said, “We’ll have the range on him, but not near the ammunition. We’re gonna have ta pick our shots, should it come ta that.”
Thomas Begay filled his canteen from the water bucket beside the tent door. “The boy says it gets a little dry on up the mountain. Said we should load up here.”
Harley was already sorting through the horse tracks left from the herder’s supply run of the day before. It wasn’t hard, and he quickly picked up the mojado’s footprints moving up the mountain. The man must know there would be searchers up ahead and that this latest killing could only bring more. He would have no choice but to lay up somewhere until dark, at least that’s what Harley figured he would do.
It was just after noon when they topped the first big ridge past the sheep camp, looked across to the next rise, and saw the faint outline of a trail winding upwards through the pines and cedars, one that would surely continue across the top and then on down to the trailhead and the road out to the highway. Somewhere in between, the mojado was lying up in the brush, waiting for them.
Only a short distance later Harley stood perplexed, as he examined the rocky path in front of him. “I’ve lost him—I’m thinkin’ now he didn’t stay on this trail any further than that last switchback. He still means to stay above us.” Harley said this last with a finality that belied the doubt in his mind. He really didn’t know where the man had gone and was now even more convinced they had been dealing with something other than a man from the start.
Charlie, while disappointed at this news, was more concerned with the very real worry that the man now had a rifle and ammunition. “If he’s above us, he’ll be laying for us with that 30-30.”
Thomas, after falling slightly behind, had again caught up, and after listening to the other two talk, didn’t seem deterred by the thought of the rifle, and in fact appeared even more anxious to get on with it. “That gun won’t be effective over 150 yards, and with him shooting downhill, it’ll be hard to zero in on us the first round or so. I don’t think he’s an experienced shooter either. I’m betting he’ll miss his first shot, and maybe Harley can get off a round at him before he can bracket us.
Charlie looked down at the ground. “Well, yes, assuming he misses his first shot… What if he doesn’t miss?” Charlie thought the other two were thinking in pretty loose terms regarding the actual probabilities and odds involved. “Don’t forget, he has more ammunition than us; he can afford to fling a little lead.”
Harley squinted thoughtfully up the mountain. “T
his old Krag is good out to about 300 yards… maybe more. Both guns are open sights, so were even there, and we still have the reach on him… I’m a pretty good shot too.”
Thomas wasn’t swayed by Charlie’s doubts either. “If he does hit one of us with his first shot, that leaves two of us to locate him and knock him down.” He nonchalantly adjusted the bandage on his head and then lazily scratched his chin. “I once shot half a box of shells at a buck headed downhill, and that was with a 30-30. It’s not easy hitting a moving downhill target, especially with that short-barreled saddle gun.”
Harley looked at the other two and almost grinned. “Well, I guess we better keep moving then.”
Even Charlie smiled at this, and as he turned back to the trail, warned caution. “Stay under cover, take it slow, and keep your eyes open. It would be nice if he didn’t get that first shot.” He knew Navajo are born gamblers and willing to take the short odds when they are in their element and feel lucky. These two Diné were no different.
During the entire day none of them had seen a single searcher on that part of the mountain, but they had noticed several dust boils down country, pickup trucks or jeeps, or possibly even four-wheelers. These were in addition to glimpses of spotter planes, and far to the north—barely visible—what may have been a helicopter. The authorities were working the country, no doubt, but as usual, they were seldom in the right place at the right time. The vast and rugged expanse of the reservation was not conducive to finding a man who didn’t want to be found.
13
The Ingraciada
Luca Tarango sat under a slight rock overhang along a very steep portion of the trail, hoping to stay high and maybe see his pursuers before they saw him. For the first time in days he was beginning to tire. It was the pressure. Those Indios were finally taking the measure of him, and he was finding it harder to stay out ahead of them. While he hated to admit it, even to himself, the simple truth was, he was no longer young. In the old days he could run like a Tarahumara, those indefatigable mountain runners of Mexico’s great Copper Canyon, and with the endurance of his Yaqui forebears who, while small of stature, were as tough and hard to kill as snakes. He was afraid those days were over now. The pace was beginning to wear on him. Even with proper food and rest, he knew he could never be as he once was.
He brought the rifle to his shoulder and sighted through the buckhorn sights. This gun was a short little thing, and though he had never shot one like it, he knew instinctively that its heavy bullets would not carry far, not with any sort of killing power. He had seen these guns in western movies with Spanish subtitles. They were meant to be carried in a scabbard on a horse and would do best at close range. His tormentors would have picked up a long gun by now, too, he supposed and he prayed it would be no better than this one.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out the worn and dirty business envelope from Tressa’s last letter and for the hundredth time examined the address of the restaurant where she worked. He thought of her constantly, even to the point of it interfering with his ability to reason, and that could be dangerous. There was no doubt he would have to seek shelter now, at least until nightfall, when it might be possible to slip by those searchers lower down and near the trailhead. He was surprised he had not yet spotted any ground volunteers as he had the day before. Obviously there must be fewer of them today. That’s the way these manhunts usually went—everyone eager to take part, until they found how hard it actually was to hunt down a man in rough country. The search, for the most part, now seemed relegated to the air, though they must know the sound of the aircraft would be warning enough for a man on foot. He had never been in an airplane, so perhaps things appeared differently viewed from up there; he would have to consider that possibility.
“Ah, Tressa, what have you brought me to?” he wondered aloud, and could not help but think back to when they had first met in the little village where they were born. She had gone as far as she could in the one room escuala they had attended. A number of years ahead of her in school, he himself had learned little—to read only the easiest words and scribble out a few of them in a nearly illegible hand. Even that was eventually forgotten, as he followed his father in the adobe making business. There was a little arroyo at the back of the village that had the perfect mixture of clay and sand which, when one added the right amount of water and tromped in chopped straw or even horse manure, made the finest kind of adobe bricks. There was not so much call for those bricks right there in the village, as everyone made their own for what little repair work was needed. And there was little new building being done. He couldn’t remember when the last new house had been laid.
Had it not been for the turbid waters of their little stream from the mountains, there would have been no village at all. The water was just enough for a few milpas of corn and beans, and then only when planted in the old way. The corn stalks supported the bean vines, and the two of them provided shade for some squash—chilies had to live at the edge of the field to catch the full sun. “That’s where chilies get their heat,” his father told him.
Once a month a truck came from a larger town and carried away the fruits of the brick-making trade and brought them the pittance that allowed them even so meager an existence. And so life went on, one day following the next, and with little hope for anything better. Eventually one forgets about hope and only concentrates on getting through the next day… that becomes the hope… that you will somehow get through the next day.
Tressa, though younger than he, and a haughty girl from childhood, claimed she was of Spanish blood, as poor girls from that region sometimes did, hoping to enhance their chances of finding a good husband or some other opportunity that depended on status and blood. Luca doubted there was a teacup full of Spanish blood in that entire part of the country. The only Spanish either of them had was their surnames, which no doubt were handed down from a church official in the distant past. No, Tressa was pretty much all Indio, just as he was, not quite as dark as some but Indio nonetheless. He never argued the point with her and allowed her to go on saying she was other than what she really was, a mestizo at best, and try as she might, she would never be more… not in that village.
They had, at first, expected children, and Luca still thought that might have made a difference. But it was not to be. Neither of them knew whose fault it was or how the situation might be remedied. There was no doctor beyond the very expensive ones in the city, and aside from lack of money, there was the usual chance they would be turned away for not being the class of people the doctor wanted seen in his office, though some of those offices were themselves nothing to be proud of. The couple had, of course, sought out the local “healers” in various villages—ones who would take produce, or chickens, or such in payment. Some of the treatments were quite complicated, entertaining even, but none produced the desired results, and in the end the couple had just given up.
Tressa said, “I’m through with these smelly, dirty, old people prodding and poking at me, shaking rattles in my face, and making me spit in my hand to read if there are children in my future. What does spitting have to do with having children… or rattles, or chants for that matter.”
Once they had moved to the city and had money and learned to present themselves in a reasonable fashion, they had twice been examined by what they were told were creditable physicians, but nothing came of that either, and eventually they resigned themselves to a childless life, and still did not know what the problem was or whose fault it might be.
14
The Witch
When finally darkness came, Luca still had seen neither hide nor hair of his three pursuers and could only surmise they had at last lost his trail. He had seen, far below and in the distance, one or two stragglers from the day’s search parties. None of them had enough gumption to climb the mountain, preferring to do their looking where the looking was easiest. Eventually, he was able to rest and ate three meals in a row from the canned food taken from the sheep camp. The packet
s of freeze-dried food were now nearly gone, and while he would miss their light weight and variety of choice, it had been a good bit of trouble getting the preparation just right, for he seldom allowed himself the luxury of a fire.
There was a better moon this night, which along with the stars provided a surprising amount of light from a near cloudless sky. Even so, the darkness had caused him to end up on a trail that, while not in the exact direction he wanted, was so decent a path and so easy to navigate that he stayed with it, thinking he would find a better sense of where he was at first light. The easier pace lifted his spirits, to the point he was humming under his breath an old ranchero melody that had just popped into his head, one of those things that sticks in your brain, an “earworm” some called it, something that’s only cure is to run its course.
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