Silence the Dead

by David Crossman

  “There’s a difference between Mexican and Spanish?” Maryellen asked innocently.

  “Bar the doors!” Margaret laughed. “God forbid you should repeat that blasphemy outside these walls.”

  “I asked the same thing once,” said Regan with a chuckle. “The answer depends on who’s talking. Some Hispanics trace their line back to the pobladores, Spanish colonists, who were granted land by the Kings of Spain. Others to Mexican-Indian settlers – norteños . . . ”

  “Northerners,” Margaret explained.

  “Right. Which is what New Mexicans were, from the Mexican perspective. Others traced their roots back to those, whatever their bloodlines, who obtained land from the Mexican government. Fact is, with so much intermarriage between all these groups – adding Indians into the mix – over a couple hundred years, any difference is pretty much imaginary. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it with my dying breathe.”

  “There’s tension between all the groups, just below the surface,” said Regan. “Hereditary resentments that get handed down with mother’s milk.”

  “It’s that way most places where people of different backgrounds are thrown together, isn’t it?” said Maryellen.

  Regan shrugged. “I suppose. It’s just that, in a town like Chama, I guess it’s a little more concentrated. Magnified. Not like the cities back east where each group carves out its own little neighborhood. Here, apart from the fact that the Hispanics pretty much occupy the south of town, and Anglos the north, they’re all thrown together. During the day they all work toe-to-toe, shoulder-to-shoulder and think nothing of it. But put ‘em in a bar or a pool hall at night, add a little whiskey, like Margaret says. . . ”

  “Boom?”

  “Boom. You’ve got to consider the fact that history in New Mexico goes back a lot farther than in New England. The Spanish built Santa Fe before some of the Pilgrims were even born.”

  Maryellen helped Mrs. Dunham roll up the mattress and put it away. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with this undercurrent of hostility you’re talking about.”

  “Well, each of the groups figures the land is theirs, no matter whose name’s on the deed.” Regan held up his hand and bent one finger down at the knuckle. “The Indians: Utes, Pueblos, Jicarilla Apaches, Navajos, even Comanches fought for hunting grounds and counting coup – achieving glory in battle; then,” he bent the second finger, “come the Spanish, who just sort of muscle in and take it over, unintentionally spreading disease and their own peculiar brand of Christianity. They want to own the land itself. That’s a foreign concept to the Indian. Then King Fillip starts parceling it out like he has a right to. Next,” another finger, “you have those whose Crown grants were recognized by the Mexican government, after secession from Spain, in conflict with those who couldn’t substantiate their grants . . . and those who had grants from the Mexican government that superseded or somehow overlapped existing grants . . . like I told you on the train.”

  “I’m getting a headache .”

  “Then, after the Mexican-American war and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, you’ve got families who’ve owned the land for a couple hundred years petitioning the Congress to recognize their grants. Congress says, ‘yes’ to some, ‘no’ to others, and ‘maybe’ to most.

  “Meantime, to quote Winnie-the-Pooh, you have all of Rabbit’s friends and relations – a few hundred Martinez’s and what not – selling off thousands of acres of that same land for a few dollars to men like Lucien Maxwell or, later on, trading it to T.D. Burns to settle debts at his store in Los Ojos . . . ”

  “And then there are the Indians,” said Mrs. Dunham with a grin, dropping another ingredient into this inedible stew.

  “What about them?” Maryellen said, rhetorically, then editorialized. “Those poor people were just minding their business, and then we came along . . . ”

  Her hearers looked at one another, rolled their eyes and tried to mind their manners. “Believe me, the Spanish and Anglos didn’t invent violence and bloodshed.”

  “Yes, I mean, no, but . . . ”

  “You had the Anasazi, who replaced whatever tribe was here before them . . . and not just by asking them to leave, then the Pueblos took over, and they fought back and forth with the Comanches for a hundred years or so, mostly over the buffalo, then the Apaches and Navajos come down from Canada . . . ”

  “Canada?”

  “That’s right. And when the Apache tried to settle on Comanche land in western Kansas, the Comanches took exception and ran them west to . . . well, to here, where they end up fighting . . . ”

  “ . . . the Pueblos, who are already here . . . ” Maryellen hazarded.

  Regan nodded. “You’re getting the idea.”

  “But, what are they like now, the Indians? I mean, they’re not on the warpath anymore or anything . . . are they?” At this point, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear they were.

  “They just sort of sit and wait. Predatory land ownership isn’t part of their natural heritage.”

  “But, what about all this chasing each other hither and yon you’ve been talking about.”

  “Not to own the land, but to protect it, at least as far as they’re concerned. Practically speaking, of course, no amount of land can support an indefinite amount of people, so when too many crowd into one area, a kind of natural winnowing process takes place. But the reason may get disguised as something else. I think, if you asked an Indian, he’d say they were protecting the spirit of the land.” He looked at Margaret. “Does that make sense?”

  Margaret watered her lilies. “Much as anything, I suppose. Lot of chinde about.”

  “From what I understand, to Indians – at least those hereabouts – there’s no difference between the earthly realm and the spiritual realm. They’re just two manifestations of the same thing.

  “To the Pueblos, the land from the San Juan mountains to the Sangre de Christo is holy, bordered by four sacred mountains. That would be their excuse for fighting anyone who challenged their supremacy in the region. That and glory, which was the real currency of the Indians.”

  “So, where does that leave them today in all this mess?”

  Regan raised an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly sure. First of all, there’s not really a ‘them’. The difference between one tribe and the next is just as distinct as between an Englishman and an Italian. To them, a white is a white. Same as to us, an Indian is an Indian. But there are huge differences.

  “That said, Indians, as a rule, aren’t easy to get to know, and a lot of their beliefs are so secret, even most Indians don’t know them. I mean, they know the rituals, but not necessarily the meaning behind them. The Blessing Way, the hataal.”

  “Like Catholics,” said Maryellen thoughtfully.

  Regan, a Catholic himself, was brought up short. He considered the statement. “I guess you’re right. Hmm. Might be another thesis there.” He shook of the thought with a grin. “Anyway, near as I can make out, and I’ve only been at this less than a year, mind – there are anthropologists who study one tribe or another for twenty years, then go off an shoot themselves in frustration – but for what it’s worth, I think they – the Indians, not the anthropologists – just expect to wake up one day and find the Anglos and Hispanics have gone away. That the Great Spirit has recovered from whatever madness led him to create such people and just ‘Poof!’ Cleared the table.

  “Have you ever heard of the Ghost Dance . . . ?”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Mrs. Dunham. “Don’t get him started on that. We’ll be here ‘til Doomsday.”

  Regan hung his head a little sheepishly. “She’s only known me six months and already she’s tired of me.”

  “Not true,” Mrs. Dunham retorted, winking at Maryellen. “I was tired of him after six days, just too polite to show it.”

  The rafters rang with laughter.

  “I guess that’s what the Indians would say to the Spanish,” said Maryellen.

  Regan stood up to
rest his haunches on the ancient oaken dresser and was quickly reminded that his injuries still had a lot of healing to do. He winced and grabbed his broken wing. “And the Spanish would say to the Anglos. And the Anglos will say to the Tahitians or whoever comes next. That’s about the size of it.”

  “So, that’s what you’re writing about . . . all these land grants and, what would you call it, tribal warfare?”

  “Not warfare, necessarily. Kind of a cold war, like we’re in with Russia. Tribal, though. Definitely. But it does get complicated. It’s like a prism, the color you see depends on where you stand, until you look really close, then you begin to see that it’s just the reflection of the things around you; the mirrors behind you.

  “I guess that’s why I kind of gravitated toward the Conllans. Their history is something I can get a hold of.”

  “You think you can tell the bigger story through their eyes?”

  Regan nodded a little. “That’s the hope. And even those parts that aren’t documented, I can more or less piece together what probably happened.”

  “Make up, you mean.”

  Regan laughed. “In academia we call it ‘reconstruction based on careful study of people groups and historical context.’ ”

  “Probable fiction, then.”

  “Basically.”

  Having won her point, Maryellen smiled. “But why the Conllans, specifically?”

  “Because of the diary. I was looking for a place to stay while I was doing my research, and I met Becky.”

  “Becky?”

  “Tiffin’s mother. Somebody told me she might have a room, or she saw my notice at the post office, I don’t remember, exactly. Anyway, I ended up renting a room at their place and, knowing I was interested in history, she got out this tin box one night . . . ”

  “That’s where you found the diary?”

  Regan nodded. “I was hooked from the first page.”

  “Speaking of Tiffin,” said Mrs. Dunham, busying herself with unnecessary chores, “seen any more of today’s edition?”

  Maryellen flashed a glance at Regan, who flashed a glance back at her, then looked away with an indefinable look in his eyes. “Once or twice,” she stammered, kicking herself inwardly for being so inept at hiding her feelings. “We’ve met on the street and . . . it’s a small town. I guess you’re bound to run into everybody sooner or later.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Dunham, mischievously, “I go years without seein’ some folks.”

  Maryellen blushed.

  “Of course, that kind of success doesn’t come without effort.”

  Mrs. Dunham, having returned her dining room to its pre-Regan condition, leaned back on the dresser beside him and folded her arms. She looked at Maryellen. “Anybody hurt?”

  “Pardon?”

  “In this gunfight of yours. Anybody get shot?”

  Maryellen flushed slightly, and dropped her eyes. “I’m not sure. As soon as I realized what was happening I . . . ”

  “You what?” Regan prompted.

  “I shut the window, drew the blinds, threw myself on the bed, and buried my head under my pillow.”

  Mrs. Dunham nodded. “Sensible.”

  “I heard shots though!” Maryellen rejoined. “I think. Unless it was a backfire. But . . . ”

  “No blood on the street this morning?”

  “Not that I saw. I didn’t look that closely.”

  “Anybody mention anything about it at the hotel?”

  “No,” said Maryellen. “That really worried me. I mean, if that kind of thing could happen and nobody even took notice! What kind of place must this be?”

  “That’s Chama in a nutshell,” said Margaret. “You off back up the mountain?” She mussed Regan’s hair.

  “I guess.”

  “What mountain?” Maryellen asked.

  “That’s where the Conllans live. They’ve got a cabin up on a place called Canyon Ridge.”

  “Tell her how it got that name, Ray,” said Mrs. Dunham.

  Regan laughed. “Talk about cross-cultural miscommun-ications!”

  Maryellen smiled in anticipation of being let in on the story. “What? What happened?”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you to the Shamrock for lunch and tell you all about it.” He opened the door and, as Maryellen passed through, turned to Mrs. Dunham. “Thanks, Margaret . . . ”

  She shushed him. “We’ve been all through that, young man. Nothing I wouldn’t do for any idiot who got himself in a train wreck . . . and your insurance company’ll be getting my bill. No fear.” She grabbed a broom and started sweeping where she’d swept twice already. “Go on, now. Stop cluttering up my house.” She followed them out onto the porch, sweeping all the way. “If I can round Jimmy up, I’ll have him bring your luggage down to the station. You can pick it up there.”

  “Thanks.”

  As they walked across the yard and down the street, she stopped sweeping and watched them. “That boy’s bit off more than he can chew and doesn’t even know it.”

  With Wake Up Little Susie blasting from the jukebox in the saloon next door, Regan and Maryellen settled in a booth at the Shamrock over hamburgers, Coke, and fries, and Regan unfolded the story of Canyon Ridge.

  “Well, I’m not sure how it happened, exactly, but when the Conlan’s left Ireland, their name was spelled with one ‘l’, that’s according to church records back in their home town. I’ve written. However, by the time Thomas and Sadie arrived in Chama, it was spelled with two ‘l’s. Conllan.”

  Maryellen sipped her drink. “I’ve never seen it spelled that way.”

  “Nor has anyone, as far as I know.” Regan was talking with his mouth full, which was one of Maryellen’s pet peeves, but she didn’t say anything. He’d just recovered from serious injuries, after all, and had probably saved her life getting them. Anyway, she wanted to know more about the Conllans, no matter how many ‘l’s they had. “I read a history of Ellis Island that said names changed all the time. If someone who didn’t speak English was giving his name to an immigration official, he might find himself gone from a Manckievietz to Mank in the blink of an eye. If that’s what the agent put on the paper, that’s what identified the man, so Mank it was.”

  “Didn’t they complain?”

  “Probably most weren’t in a position to. So glad not to get sent back to the old country, I guess, they figured a few consonants was a small price to pay. Besides, ‘Mank’ is a lot easier to spell that ‘Manckievietz’.”

  “Point taken. But how does that apply to ‘Conlan’? I mean, they may have had an accent, but they were still speaking English, and they came long before there was an Ellis Island.”

  Regan stuffed another French fry in his mouth and shrugged. “Like I say, I can’t be sure, but my guess is it’s just a foul-up that happened at immigration.

  “Anyway . . . ”

  He raised his hamburger to take a bite, but Maryellen could forebear no further insult to her sensibilities. She grabbed his wrist. “Could you not do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk and eat at the same time. It’s . . . ”

  He put the hamburger on his plate. “It’s rude.”

  She was about to say “it’s a pet peeve”, but just lowered her eyes. “Sorry. I’m just . . . ”

  Regan cleaned his palate with a sip of Coke. “My mom would shoot me. My apologies. Where was I?”

  “Two ‘l’s.”

  “Right. Well, Thomas did a lot of jobs when he got here. The main thing was cutting ties for the rail road.”

  “Ties?”

  “The wooden beams that hold the rails together. Well, this whole area from here up to the Colorado border, all the way to T. A.” He explained before she could ask. “Tierra Amarilla, a town six or seven miles south of here. The county seat. All the way over to Pagosa Springs,” he traced an imaginary map on the plastic place mat, “was all thick forest. Mostly Ponderosa pine. Thomas found himself a nice patch of timber up on this ridge
. . . about halfway between here and T.A., as a matter of fact . . . got permission from the owner to log it, and went to work. Before long folks took to callin’ it Conllon Ridge.

  “Now comes the cross-cultural communication part. Tierra Amarilla is a good example.” He took a pencil from his pocket and wrote the name on a napkin. “The Hispanic pronunciation of these two ‘l’s,” he circled the letters in the second word, ‘is ‘y’. ‘Ree-ya’, not ‘rilla’ . . . ”

  Maryellen took the pencil from him and wrote ‘Conllan’, circling the two ‘l’s. “So, when they saw Conllan, they pronounced it ‘Conyon.’”

  “You got it. And in no time ‘Conyon’, became ‘Canyon’, which makes sense, since there are incredible canyons all through the property.”

  “And Canyon Ridge was born.”

  “Voila!”

  “Which means that, if I stay here long enough, they’ll be calling be Maryeyen.”

  Regan grinned. “I’m going to eat now.”

  Maryellen laughed and traced the name ‘Conllan’ with curlicues.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Heard you was in here.” Tiffin entered, squinting in the sudden envelope of darkness as he stepped in from the bright sunshine. “Margaret finally turn you lose, did she?”

  Regan nodded, but didn’t say anything because his mouth was full of food.

  “How’s the arm?” Tiffin made a fist and swung, stopping just short of Regan’s elbow.

  “Funny.”

  “Ribs okay?”

  “Just bruised.”

  “Guess that means you’ll be underfoot up at the house from now on then,” said Tiffin. He grabbed a nearby chair, spun it toward their booth and sat on it backwards, with his arms crossed on the top rail. He tilted the cowboy hat back on his head and aimed his bright eyes at Maryellen. “I hear you saw some gunplay the other night.”

  Maryellen colored a bit. She could feel the warmth of blood pooling in her cheeks, like it always did, betraying her insecurity to the world. She felt like Raggedy Ann. “I’m not sure what it was. I thought those men were going to shoot one another, but nobody said anything about it the next morning. I’m not sure what happened.”