Boy Made of Dawn

by R. Allen Chappell

  Lucy had arisen to find the boy’s cot empty, and while both she and her father approved of his running to meet the dawn, she felt uneasy awakening to find him already gone. Always before, she was first up and able to watch the boy run. This morning he chose the wash, and that prevented her seeing him.

  When they arrived back at the hogan, the dog jumped out first then the boy dragging the rabbit with him. Lucy looked at the rabbit approvingly. “That is a nice young cottontail. Do you want him for your breakfast?”

  The old man came around the sheep corrals and saw the rabbit. “Whoa! It looks like we are having ‘gah’ for breakfast!” using the Navajo word for rabbit. He took the rabbit from the boy then noticed his daughter looking off down the road, shading her eyes with one hand. “What?” he asked.

  “Someone was getting out of a car down there at the highway when I picked these two up,” she said with a push of her lips toward the boy and dog.

  “Black Suburban?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking we should not let this boy out of our sight for a while.”

  Paul T’Sosi nodded his head, motioning for the boy to come along with him to the edge of the compound. The boy and dog followed closely, not wanting to miss a single step in fixing this rabbit. The dog, knowing what was coming, kept his eyes on Caleb. This boy seemed to be of some value to these people and, like the sheep, would require watching.

  The old man first stepped on the rabbits head with one foot. Holding the hind feet, he gave a quick jerk, leaving the head on the ground. He then pulled out his pocketknife and, opening the small blade, made an incision across the skin of the rabbits back. Inserting his two index fingers in the cut, he slowly pulled the skin off in both directions. The boy’s eyes grew large, but the dog was unimpressed, having seen Paul pull a rabbit’s pants off many times. Paul inserted just the tip of the blade and ran it the length of the paunch, taking care not to nick the intestines. Holding the rabbit by the hind feet, he gave a quick sling of the carcass, flinging the entrails over the edge of the wash. The entire process had taken less than two minutes, and the rabbit was totally clean. He need only cut the feet off to make it ready for the pot.

  In olden days his people had roasted rabbits on a green stick over the embers of a fire or added them to a pot for stew—those lucky enough to have a pot. Paul now liked his rabbits cut up like a chicken and rolled in flour to fry. If Lucy had a little canned milk, she might make some cream gravy as well. He doubted his people could have made it in those long-ago times without rabbits for food, blankets, and clothing.

  Paul let Caleb carry the rabbit back to Lucy to cook, to show he had been the provider. Paul acknowledged the dog’s part in the thing with a pat on the head. The dog would have to be satisfied with the leftovers when they were finished, provided there were any leftovers. If not, he would have to go catch himself another rabbit. There seemed to be plenty of rabbits this year. It was a tradeoff dogs had come to terms with thousands of years ago. Should the people kill something big (a deer or later a sheep or goat or even a beef) the dog would receive his share. It had worked this way for a very long time, and both parties found it equitable or at least preferable to going it alone. Navajo dogs were free to go whenever they felt the inclination. It was an option few chose.

  That night, when the boy was asleep, Lucy whispered to her father, “I don’t think this boy is safe here anymore.” She looked over at the sleeping child. “I’m thinking maybe we should take him away from here. Maybe take him up north to Thomas’s Uncle Johnny at Navajo Mountain.”

  Paul T’Sosi considered this. “Well, John Nez is the boy’s blood relative, and I am sure he would be willing to take him in. Still, I would hate to take him so far away without Thomas knowing about it.”

  It was unlike the old man to be so solicitous of Thomas’s feelings. Lucy felt he had grown so fond of the boy he hated to see him go. She knew her father thought he could keep Caleb from harm, but this morning’s episode made it clear another plan was called for. She thought maybe she should talk to Sue Hanagarni about it. Possibly she could get word to Charlie and Thomas and see what they thought. Thomas would soon have to take an active part in the raising of this boy, and the sooner he began expressing an opinion, the better.

  ~~~~~~

  Lucy Tallwoman left a message for Thomas’s uncle, John Nez, at the chapter house at Navajo Mountain. She said only he was needed immediately.

  She knew she could not leave her father there alone in order to deliver the boy to Navajo Mountain herself, especially so soon after Paul’s recent illness. Then, of course, there were the sheep. Always there were the sheep.

  Early the following morning John Nez and his white friend, anthropologist Marissa Key, pulled up in front of Lucy’s hogan. John had driven all night to get there despite Marissa saying they could wait till the next morning. She had hardly had time to get any clothes together for the two of them, she said.

  Lucy was a little nervous when she saw Marissa had come along. She didn’t know what an educated white woman would think of their more humble way of living out there on Tortilla Flats, as her father liked to refer to it. Then she thought of the new generator Thomas bought when he went back to work and felt better. The generator was exactly like the one Marissa had at John Nez’s place up at Navajo Mountain. Lucy didn’t have a propane kitchen range like Marissa, but they were working on that. Thomas said they needed to step into the twenty-first century at some point, and this was as good a time as any.

  He had said, “When those people up at Navajo Mountain start getting more modern stuff than we have down here, it is a wakeup call!”

  Lucy reminded him that Marissa was the only one up there who had much in the way of modern conveniences, and she had bought them all herself.

  “Well then,” Thomas had stated, “it is a wakeup call for all those other people up at Navajo Mountain, too.”

  John Nez and Marissa settled their belongings in the “summer hogan”—just a brush arbor really, often the focal point of family life in the warmer summer months. Lucy usually set up her loom there in the dog days of summer. The brush shelter made for handy guest accommodations too, given good weather.

  “This is sort of like camping out, isn’t it,” Marissa whispered, looking doubtfully at the army cots along the sparse, brushy walls.

  John just looked at her. “You will be surprised how nice it is sleeping out here.” He hoped she would not insist on going to town for accommodations—that would be an embarrassment. “You can see the stars right through the roof,” he offered. He often thought white women made for troublesome companions. He sometimes wondered if the wear and tear on his head was worth it.

  They all gathered there in the shade and sipped the sodas John Nez brought in his cooler. The boy was called from his work of teaching the dog to retrieve a stick. Secretly, the dog thought he was teaching the boy to throw it. They both came to the call rather reluctantly as each felt himself just on the verge of success.

  John Nez watched the boy approach and nodded approvingly. “That’s Thomas’s boy alright; Thomas looked just like that when he was little.”

  This was not particularly good news for some who knew Thomas best. Old Paul T’Sosi, for one, hoped the boy would not follow too closely in his father’s footsteps and vowed privately to set a stronger example himself.

  After the boy had been introduced to his new relative and to Marissa, he was allowed to return to his schooling of the dog. He had not spoken a word during the introductions, but John Nez thought this was all right. A boy should come along at his own pace, he said.

  After the boy had gone outside, John Nez started off the conversation regarding Caleb’s safety with the thought they should not be too hasty. Whisking the boy away to another strange place and people he hardly knew might not be the best thing. He thought the boy had already had enough of that.

  Lucy wondered if this was John Nez talking, or could it be Marissa. She had noticed in the past that Marissa was quite ha
ppy with her life up at Navajo Mountain just the way it was.

  Paul T’Sosi, however, was pleased at this turn in the conversation, preferring to keep the boy right here in camp. He felt he was already making progress educating Caleb in old traditions and certain other things he might well need to know someday.

  “I have said all along the boy would be best off here with us,” the old man said, leaning forward in his chair. “I know we are not his blood, but his father will no doubt be back soon. The boy belongs with his father since his mother and sister are nowhere to be found.”

  Lucy recounted for them the series of incidents which caused her initial concern, ending with the day before when the black car parked at the end of the road. “I think whoever was in that car meant to take Caleb!” she said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. Lucy’s body language told Marissa she was no longer open to discussion.

  John Nez looked thoughtful for a moment. “What about this: how about me and Marissa hang around for a few days to give the boy some added protection, just until Thomas gets back. It will show anyone watching the family is on guard. This thing might, pretty quick, sort itself out.”

  Marissa spoke for the first time. “I have been dying to see Lucy’s work on the loom and get her ideas for the chapter I’m writing about Navajo weaving.”

  John nodded, adding, “We have been wanting to come down for a visit anyway. It will give us all a chance to get to know one another better and maybe figure something out about the boy.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “Hopefully, Thomas will be heard from soon. Rightfully, as has been said, he is the one to make this decision.”

  Everyone had now been offered a chance to speak their mind on the matter, and to their way of thinking, this constituted an in-depth discussion, which in time should lead to some sort of solution. Navajos are not ones to talk a thing to death.

  ~~~~~~

  Sue Hanagarni sat at her desk in somewhat of a quandary. She’d been keeping a close eye on Pete Fish after what he had said.

  He had asked her out for the third time that week and she, as usual, politely refused, hoping each time would be the last.

  Pete Fish, however, was not to be denied. She finally told him she didn’t think Charlie would like it if they went out.

  Pete Fish dropped his head and started away from her desk but suddenly turned and hissed under his breath, “Charlie Yazzie may not always be around, you know! You might do well to reconsider your options.” With that he stormed out of the office, leaving several of the older women exchanging looks and casting sideways glances at Sue.

  The last time she and Charlie talked, he asked her who had ordered him to go to Blanding for the deposition. It seemed like a petty thing at the time, but it played on her mind over the last few days, and more and more she wondered if Pete Fish had just been trying to clear the playing field, or was there more to it than that. She couldn’t help wonder if Charlie told her everything about his trip and finding the boy.

  Pete Fish’s comment about considering her options struck a nerve. Apparently, even he thought the chances of her and Charlie being a sure thing was not a sure thing. Sue was not one to shilly-shally. She liked to know exactly where she stood and resolved to find out when Charlie returned.

  She was aware that her aging parents were a further issue. The question must have crossed his mind of how she would manage to continue caring for them should she and Charlie find their own place in the country. She was almost certain they could not afford a large enough place for her parents to live with them, assuming Charlie would agree to it at all. Her parents were quite old, having had Sue late in life when little hope remained of having a child at all.

  Maybe Charlie thought he could wait them out. They had been sick a very long time and certainly would not last forever. Sue’s mind hit overdrive now, and no possibility seemed too bizarre to consider. Sue knew the old people worried about her and hoped she would find a husband while they were still alive to see it. They thought the world of Charlie and felt he would be a perfect match for their often headstrong daughter.

  Just the previous morning, she found an automated message on her line when she opened the switchboard. She had to run the volume up considerably to make out the words.

  “Hi, Sue. I’m calling from Monticello. It’s the only place high enough to get out to the radio towers and….” The message faded and static crackled. “…northern Utah. Should be back in a …” Again his voice was gone, and though the message ran for another full minute, she couldn’t decipher any more of it.

  “…should be back in a…?” What? In an hour? A day? A week? She wasn’t at all sure she was ready for a life with so adventurous a man. Charlie was up there on his own, taking vacation time to help Thomas find his daughter. She admired him for helping their old friend, but Thomas had already nearly gotten Charlie killed. Being a lawyer was supposed to be a safe, prosperous occupation. So far this was not the case.

  Later, as Sue walked past the water cooler, she heard one of the women ask another, “Did you see that new car Pete Fish bought?”

  The other woman nodded. “Pretty fancy if you ask me. I didn’t know he made that kind of money.”

  “Too bad some people around here can’t see an opportunity when it comes knocking.” The older woman said this loud enough for Sue to hear. Sue could feel the heat rise to her face, but she knew what was right for her and didn’t care what anyone else might think. These old women did not know everything.

  The Ute

  When the White River Ute band wore out their welcome with the massacre of Nathan Meeker and his minions (after wiping out Major Thornburg’s cavalry unit, sent to prevent it) the United States Government was provided just the excuse needed to remove them from that country entirely. They were taken from their more desirable Colorado lands and relocated to the barren and desolate reaches of Utah’s Uinta and Ouray Reserve. Many thought it poetic justice that the Mormons would now have to deal with this polygamous and irascible band of Indians.

  Charlie and Thomas were several hours into their long drive up to the Ute Reservation in northeastern Utah when they found it necessary to stop in Monticello for fuel. Waiting for the tank to fill, Thomas wondered out loud, “Are you allowed to take this truck out of state?”

  “As long as it’s one of the Four Corners states or anywhere there’s a piece of Navajo reservation.”

  “This will be about the farthest I’ve ever been out of New Mexico.” Thomas scratched his head. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

  “Well, I doubt you will see anything new where we’re going. I haven’t been there myself, but I’ve heard the stories.” The pump shut off and Charlie frowned at the price. “But then we’re not up here on vacation, you know.” He opened the truck door before adding, “If Hiram’s relations up there have Ida, we’ll have our work cut out for us getting her back.”

  Thomas followed along into the convenience store, and as Charlie paid for the gas, Thomas picked up a dozen chocolate donuts. They were his favorites, and while nearly every store carried them, he always felt lucky when he found them. “A lot of times they are sold out,” he assured his friend.

  Charlie’s thoughts drifted back to Aida talking about the paperwork Hiram delivered on cows he sometimes brought down from his relatives up on the Uinta. It hadn’t taken Charlie long to decide a talk with the brand inspector might be in order.

  Brand inspectors mostly work out of their trucks. They keep no regular office other than sale barn restaurants. When Thomas and Charlie stopped by his house the day before, Brand Inspector Dan Cleaver was fairly accommodating for a man in the middle of his breakfast. He pulled out several fat record books and made quite a fuss thumbing through the entries. His search turned up several names on the transfer papers from Hiram’s relatives. Hiram brought down several batches of stock that year. “He picks up some pretty scrappy stuff up there then brings them down here to feed out and run through the sale. He starts ‘em out on government g
rass—a BLM lease his bunch has up by Bluff.” He smiled. “Then tries to finish them out down here on his own place.” He shook his head. “The feed on his place has been so poor of late he can’t be making much on them now.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Unless, of course, someone’s running a long iron up there.” A grim smile crossed his face. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for a while now. Even talked to the Utah brand inspector a couple of times. He covers a lot of ground—big as some states, he claims. He doesn’t really have time to track anything down for me.”

  Charlie copied down the information Dan had on record and took the name of the Utah brand inspector as well.

  In parting, Dan pulled no punches. “That’s a pretty rough crowd up there, Yazzie; smart too. I doubt they’ll be impressed with a Navajo Nation badge.” He coughed discreetly. “I’d step lightly if you know what I mean.”

  Charlie, with a serious nod, thanked him for the information. He told the brand inspector they would let him know if they turned up anything that might interest him.

  Back in the truck Thomas went a little shifty eyed. “Is the revolver still in the glove box?” He opened the little drop down door and was relieved to see not only the .38 but a brand new box of cartridges as well.

  Charlie grimaced and rolled his eyes when he saw the look on Thomas’s face.

  It was nearly dark when they pulled into Roosevelt, Utah, and divvied up for a cheap motel room.

  The next morning they looked up the Utah State Brand Inspector, a no-nonsense sort who Charlie figured for a Mormon. All the good state jobs in these isolated areas of Utah were generally held by Mormons. The man was not used to seeing Navajos so far north but took it in stride as they laid out their reason for being there. They told him the Colorado Brand Inspector in Cortez mentioned he might be able to help them. Their main objective was to locate Hiram Buck’s relatives who had been supplying him stock. The brand inspector, a big man, who looked remarkably like John Wayne, but whose name was Tim Nordstrom, went through his records and came up with a few names and addresses. Charlie noticed he already had notes stuck on those pages.