Boy Made of Dawn

by R. Allen Chappell

  Charlie knew his history when It came to the Ute: Since their beginning, the Ute survived by their wiles and ability to endure in this country before they had the horse. Afterward, they became the capable guardians of these vast mountain strongholds. Early trappers thought only fools would approach the Ute in these mountains with war on their mind. Only the Blackfoot and Crow, far to the north, were more feared by the early mountain men.

  The Ute, when they came down to the plains to hunt buffalo, were called “black people.” Their dark skin was possibly the result of high-altitude sun exposure, and the ten-thousand-year process of natural selection to protect against it.

  ~~~~~~

  The two Navajos lay perfectly still behind a light screen of scrub oak. It was a narrow ledge just off the top of the knob but afforded a good view of the Klee cow camp. The two passed the field glasses back and forth as they tried to commit every detail of the place to memory. The building was a low, ramshackle log structure from the early part of the century. Repairs over the decades had been minimal at best, yet the Klee’s obviously still considered it a viable shelter.

  A large iron caldron sat on a smoldering fire in the front yard, and two older women stood talking while they tended what was inside. Take away the modern clothes and the stock truck at the edge of the clearing and it could have been a scene from a hundred fifty years ago.

  There was a holding pen connected to the side of the cabin and a larger corral encompassing a few scraggly Aspen trees. No horses or other stock could be seen and, strangely, no dogs either.

  Several children played about the far edge of the compound with an older girl apparently in charge. There was no sign of men or even older boys.

  “The men must be out on a war party,” Thomas whispered, only half joking. He anxiously scanned the children and at first did not recognize his seven-year-old daughter who was dressed as a boy, her hair cropped short. Ida looked healthy and not at all worried. She probably thought she was just on a little vacation with her cousins.

  Charlie felt Thomas tense up and for an instant thought he might break and run down there. He put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and held up a cautioning finger.

  “Easy now, big guy,” he said softly. “We need to think about this for a minute.”

  Thomas could barely contain himself at the sight of the girl. “There are no horses down there…or dogs. The men are out working stock, I think. It won’t get any better than this. If we wait till dark, the men will be back, and it’s going to mean a fight. We’re only one gun.”

  “Well, ya know, we could just sneak back down the mountain and call in some real law.”

  “They’ve got a boy down that road watching. You can count on it.” Thomas was adamant. “The law wouldn’t get within a mile of this place without they whisk Ida back into the mountains. We’d play hell getting her back then.”

  Charlie hesitated, mulling over the many possibilities, ones he knew Thomas had not even considered. In the end, however, he concluded his friend was right. Now or never!

  They moved back from the edge. “Work your way down into that little grove of evergreens by the creek,” he told Thomas. “She knows you and won’t put up much of a fuss when you grab her and make a run for it.”

  Charlie emphasized his next words. “Do Not Stop For Anything! Don’t try to hide! These people know every inch up here. Head downstream the other side of the creek for about a quarter mile. I’ll be waiting with the truck at that first big switchback! If I’m not there, head straight down the track. I’ll pick you up one way or another.” He paused to catch his breath. “Just give me a five-minute head start.” He looked Thomas square in the eye. “Uh…if there is a boy watching down the road, he’s likely to have a gun to signal the camp. The creek is far enough away from the road you shouldn’t run into him, and the creek should cover your noise.”

  “Okay,” Thomas said, not taking his eyes off the clearing.

  Charlie held out his hand. “Give me the gun, Thomas. You don’t want to shoot a boy.”

  Thomas looked grim when he handed Charlie back his .38.

  Charlie knew Thomas wouldn’t wait five minutes. He would be on his way as soon as his back was turned. He started around the knob at a dogtrot for the truck. He kept to what timber there was and tried not to make too much noise. As he opened the truck door, he paused and listened for a moment, thinking he heard shouting in the distance.

  ~~~~~~

  Thomas was more cautious than Charlie could have hoped, slinking down the hill like a cougar and into the little grove of black timber by the creek. The children were engrossed in their play and had moved even farther away from the cabin. The older girl, watching them from a distance, had a shoe off examining her foot. She didn’t even look up when Thomas broke from the woods and ran to the children, whose backs were turned to him. Things were going well, he thought. He swooped Ida up from behind and gave her a big smile when she turned, surprised. He whirled for the creek just as a screech came from behind, and the older girl sprinted toward him with a vengeance. She was a hefty girl, and Thomas was amazed how fast she could move. The smaller children scattered like quail and took cover without a single sound. They didn’t cry and carry on as some children might have done. They hid, he thought, much as they would during an enemy raid in olden times. It was a reflex action embedded in the most primitive cortex of their minds.

  Thomas hit the creek full tilt, and his feet seemed almost not to touch the water as he splashed across.

  The big girl, with a snarl on her lips and what Thomas thought must be the Ute war cry in her throat, came crashing on behind him. She appeared absolutely fearless, like a mother bear. The girl paid no heed to what she might be up against. She wore only one shoe, and when she hit the creek, she went down on the slick rocks but was back up almost instantly, determined as ever.

  It will not go well for that girl if she catches up, Thomas thought. Even a girl that size should not be hard to fend off, but it might cost him some time. He didn’t have time to waste on this wild girl. The two older women ran to the aid of the younger now, their screams urging her on. One of the women waved an axe.

  Old trappers often said they would rather be captured by Ute warriors than by their women. The warriors would generally just kill you, they said.

  Thomas knew, as he started up out of the creek bottom, he was losing ground. It wasn’t like he had been working out or even running to meet the dawn each day.

  He clawed at the saplings and chokecherries with one hand, holding on to Ida with the other as he half pulled his way up through the brush. Just as he shoved Ida up on top of the bank, he felt a strong hand on his ankle and saw the wide, dark face of the Ute girl twisted in a triumphant sneer. The screams from the two older women obviously bolstered the girl’s courage, and she intended to acquit herself well. With Ida safe on the bank, Thomas turned and smiled at the girl before kicking her in the face with his heavy boot. This was not a game; she was lucky Charlie had the gun.

  When Thomas pulled himself on up and grabbed the wide-eyed child back into his arms, he could hear the roar of the truck engine in the distance. He guessed if he angled slightly downslope after cresting the creek bank, he should hit the switchback just about right.

  Charlie grinned at Ida when Thomas pushed her up into the cab of the truck. “Hi, Ida. How are you today?” The girl looked astounded.

  “Grab some gears, my man,” Thomas yelled breathlessly. “There’s a war party of Ute women right behind me!” Thomas was high on victory, a rare thing for him, and he laughed as he turned to look out the back window. He guessed there would be a great wailing in the lodges of these Ute tonight. But someday they would sing songs about a young Ute girl who was fearless—like a mother grizzly.

  The Sniper

  Hiram Buck grew more consumed with worry each time his nephew reported back empty handed. On the third day he received word from the Uinta that Sally’s daughter Ida Begay was stolen away. This was the final str
aw.

  Hiram went into a temper, the likes of which had never been witnessed, even by his closest relatives. He knew now where the two Navajos had been.

  He was wiped out. The sheriff’s eviction notice was already tacked to his front door. This only added to the devastating news from his Ute relatives. Like an avalanche, everything was coming down on him at once. At last the big man fell into that cold, quiet fury feared most by those who knew him. It was out of his hands now. He was no longer in control of his own life.

  Later that afternoon as Hiram sat on George Jim’s rickety front porch, a .30-06 rifle across his lap, two dogs came passing through the property, as they often did after a day of carousing. One of the dogs belonged to George Jim but had taken to hanging out with the neighbor’s dog when George Jim was away.

  Hiram shot them both dead.

  He was waiting for his nephew to come back, certain he would tell of yet another failure to find Charlie Yazzie; he intended to kill George Jim too.

  ~~~~~~

  George Jim had twice before in early morning crept up the ridge above Aida Winters’ place only to be disappointed each time to find the Navajo’s truck still missing.

  Now, for the third time, he bellied up through the grass on the ridge above the ranch. Still no Navajos. The only thing different this morning—Aida’s truck was gone as well. He remembered then, it was sale day. Aida never missed a livestock sale if she could help it, especially not a horse sale.

  Everything, at first, seemed quietly in order, but as he focused his attention on the house, he twice saw, within a matter of minutes, what he thought was the flick of a curtain in the front window. He put his scope on it and waited.

  The sun came up fast, and it grew hot there in the grass at the top of the ridge. George just lay there, not moving a muscle, not even to bat a fly that was diligently working the corner of his left eye. Waiting was something he became very good at as a sniper. Waiting was what a sniper did mostly. The Army thought him quite talented in this regard and endeavored to develop those talents as best they could. Fortunately, he was somewhat genetically predisposed to it. Ninety percent of hunting is waiting, and hunting is what the Ute have always done best.

  There it was again!

  Someone was occasionally peeking out of those curtains. He was sure of it now but couldn’t imagine who it might be. It was someone wanting to remain hidden but growing restless, tired of hiding. He saw this in big game. They would stay concealed, testing the air, examining the terrain, until they could stand it no more, and then they would simply appear as though they had worried the thing to death and nothing more could be done about it.

  He could wait.

  It was nearly an hour later when he watched the door open a nearly imperceptible crack. The buzz of a fly at his ear had almost lulled him into dozing. He would never have dozed off in the military, but here, he almost dozed off.

  Eventually, the door opened a bit wider until he could just discern the outline of a face through his riflescope—a small face, that of a small person. She raised her face to the rising sun. It was a woman, and it seemed she had been missing the sun. But it wasn’t until she cautiously edged out onto the porch with her arms outstretched that he could see who it was: Sally Klee.

  George Jim nearly laughed aloud then. Suddenly, it was all so clear. What fools they had been. Aida Winters had been Sally’s refuge when she was small, but no one paid attention to Sally Klee back then. Uncle Hiram would have a good laugh when he heard where she had been hiding all this time. So close to home. He would be proud of George Jim for working this out. They had been so certain she was somewhere in Farmington or maybe even Albuquerque, though God knows how she would have managed in so large a city.

  He studied Sally more closely as she ventured to the edge of the porch, and then realizing the crosshairs were still centered on her, he moved them over a bit. The safety was off, and he had no real intention of squeezing the trigger.

  It occurred to him this might have been his woman had his Aunt Tilde had her way. She had thought Sally the perfect match—one of the few girls in the area not so closely related; possibly only a distant cousin on the Ute side. If only Sally had waited as his aunt had wanted. But no, Sally had run away to Farmington and a life only whispered about among the family. All this could have been avoided perhaps had she waited. Perhaps he and Sally would be living in his little trailer together now, and those two children of hers would be his son and daughter, rather than that of the Navajo Thomas Begay.

  Sally had her hair tied back, tied with one of Aida’s long blue ribbons. She looked fresh and clean there on the porch, even pretty to George’s way of thinking. He wondered if all that talk had been wrong. Maybe people had been wrong about Sally Klee. In his heart, however, he knew they weren’t wrong.

  Sally was moving about the porch now, enjoying the sun. She watched the horses for a moment then scanned the road and then the ridge. George Jim held his breath. Not a twitch or blink of an eyelid gave him away.

  She turned once again to the horses. Her lips were moving, and though he could not hear the words at this distance, he thought she might be singing a little song, just as he remembered her doing when they were children. There had been a happy song about a pony. He thought maybe that was what she was singing.

  The one-hundred-thirty grain boat-tail caught Sally just at the point of the breastbone, the velocity of the round so fast she felt no more than a bump—as though she had been lightly bumped on the chest by an open palm. She started forward, caught herself, and then sat heavily, flat on the porch. She raised her eyes to the sun, and the last image her brain received was of that brilliant orb—that great giver of life.

  Through force of habit, George Jim’s first move was to eject the empty and jack in a new round. He knew he wouldn’t need a second shot, but this is the way he had been programmed. It cost nothing to be ready. He rose to one knee and picked up the spent brass, depositing it in his shirt pocket. He had often made a similar shot in the service, ending someone’s life. It never bothered him then, no more than a deer or an elk would have. But this was different. Oh, he had shot women before and even children when it was determined they might have explosives strapped to them. He had not, however, shot a woman that might have one day become the mother of his children. It caught in his throat just then. He looked down at his two hands and, for just a moment, wished things might have been otherwise.

  George Jim did not bother going down to the house. He felt no need to see that. He pulled a young sage and used it to brush out his sign there on the ridge and for a good piece down the trail as well. It really didn’t matter. There would be someone along who knew how to track him. Eventually, they would come and try to kill him. He had already decided he would not allow them to take him to jail.

  Maybe this would finally satisfy his Uncle Hiram; maybe he would get some money from this, and it would give him some breathing space. All Hiram needed was a little time.

  He labored down off the ridge, not caring if he could be seen or not, coming eventually to the patch of oak brush leading down to his place. From a small open space, he could make out Hiram setting on his front porch with something in his lap. At last he would have some good news for his uncle. Maybe Hiram could help him somehow with what he knew was coming.

  As he broke through the brush at the edge of the clearing, he raised an arm in greeting, shouting to his uncle about who he had found. That’s when the two dogs lying dead only a few feet apart caught his attention.

  He instantly jerked his eyes to the distant porch. His uncle paid no heed to George Jim’s shouting and even now was raising his rifle. He did not hesitate.

  Hiram favored a heavier slug in a .30-06 and the two-hundred-twenty grain bullet boomed off the porch almost slow enough to be seen, should a person have the right angle on it. He was not the marksman George Jim was, but he could do a workmanlike job when he set his mind to it.

  The bullet hit George Jim low in the belly wit
h a whomp. There is no mistaking the sound of a large caliber rifle bullet in a gut shot. It took George Jim to his knees. His features registered surprise, and his big, wide face went slack. Instinctively, his own rifle came up, and he returned fire with that deadly accuracy born of gut-wrenching determination. The lighter .270 round hit Hiram just over the heart, but his greater body mass caused the hollow-point to mushroom with terrible effect. Both men, now mortally wounded, looked across the clearing at one another, and both grinned, a grin of satisfaction, each knowing they had finally shed themselves of a great burden.

  George Jim, still on his knees, reloaded automatically without being aware of it.

  Hiram was the luckier of the two as his wound was quickly fatal. The grin faded as he pitched forward out of his chair.

  George Jim had seen countless gut-shot game—and people too. He knew this was going to take awhile. The big soft-nosed slug had plowed through his midsection, and while it had encountered virtually no other vital organ than his gut, it was a lethal wound.

  George Jim thought it unfair that he should be the one to linger on in pain and suffering while his uncle, who was much more deserving in his opinion, was already wherever he was going to be. He raised his head slightly to look over at his dog. It had been gut-shot too but had lasted only a moment. The hydraulic shock alone probably brought near instant death. That had been his dog since it was a pup, and his Uncle Hiram knew how much store he sat by it. That’s why he killed it. Well, no matter. The score was even now.

  What George really wanted was a drink of water. His mouth was dirt-dry, his belly on fire, intestines writhing with the peristaltic action that spewed their contents down his front and into the dirt of the yard. In olden times a gut shot was the easiest and most certain shot of all—always fatal in the end. It was a favorite target of the vengeful warrior—one who wanted an enemy’s death to take a while. It was much the same, no matter what the weapon: knife, spear, arrow, or bullet. Nowadays, medical science might sometimes save a gut-shot person should help arrive in time, but even then that person would never be quite the same. Some, wounded in a like manner, may choose their own way out should means be available. It is those without means who are to be pitied.