Boy Made of Dawn

by R. Allen Chappell

  Donald Benally beamed at this and turned to his fellow councilman. “Did you hear that, Robert? ‘Within days,’ the man said!” He nodded agreeably to Robert Ashki.

  “What I heard was, ‘with luck.’ I prefer not to risk the rest of my life on ‘Luck!’” He raked Pete Fish with a cold stare. “My sources tell me your little success last week was more than luck.”

  Pete Fish smiled, prematurely, as it turned out.

  “No!” Ashki went on, “it was more on the order of a miracle! They seem to think you recruited idiots. They could have cost us a great deal, and I’m not talking about money.”

  Donald Benally was somewhat taken aback at this talk and looked immediately to Pete Fish for some sort of denial.

  “Those people came well recommended…and I might add, by one of your fellow council members—the one you sent with the money, though I understand he is now in jail awaiting bond.” Pete Fish had hoped the talk would go smoother than this. The Grand Jury recently made it known there were secret indictments still in the offing. No one knew who would be next. These people were clearly frightened, and he wondered for a moment if he too might be in more danger than he previously thought.

  “I want to make this very plain to you, Fish! The people you have dealt with in the past are no longer key. You are dealing with us now, and I’m telling you plain and simple, should you fail in this, there will be serious consequences.” Robert Ashki had done his own due diligence and was not to be swayed in the matter.

  “You told us Yazzie couldn’t be bought.” Ashki’s eyes glittered. “Did you even try?”

  Donald Benally also looked at Pete, the question obvious in his eyes.

  Pete Fish recoiled mentally but desperately hoped it did not show. “I’m telling you both right now! Charlie Yazzie cannot be bought. The other maybe, but not Yazzie.” Pete had gone over and over this in the past. They apparently thought everyone was as corrupt as they were. “Charlie Yazzie will have to be killed to keep him out of that courtroom!” There, Pete Fish had made it as plain as possible.

  “Do you want us to bring in outside help?” Benally could not imagine an outsider being able to make this thing happen, but he thought to spur Pete Fish to some sort of extra effort.

  Robert Ashki spoke almost in a whisper. “There are people in Albuquerque who can take care of this, if you can’t.” And then louder, “We are running out of time! Let us know soon, should you decide you need help.”

  Donald Benally looked surprised and, for just a moment, as though he might want to interject something further but thought better of it and just shook his head.

  Robert Ashki stood and prepared to leave, motioning for his fellow councilman to follow. He cautioned Pete Fish. “Wait a few minutes before leaving and, again, go out by the side entrance.”

  After the councilmen closed the door behind them, Pete Fish immediately went to the suite’s refrigerator and, with trembling hands, made himself a stiff drink, using two of the little bottles of bourbon.

  At the window he watched the black Suburban drive out of the parking lot and hoisted his drink at the departing car. He thoughtfully fingered his turquoise ring. It had been his father’s ring. Pete felt it brought him luck, though it certainly hadn’t done so for his father.

  Pete Fish had good enough reason to want Charlie Yazzie dead, and money had nothing to do with it. It was time to put up or shut up, he figured. The time for intermediaries or outside help was past. He would fix this thing once and for all. There might be great rewards in the offing, should this go right.

  ~~~~~~

  Aida Winters had Sally Klee buried on a little rise just up from the house at ten a.m. on a clear, sunny morning. Aida’s husband was already buried there in a plot right next to the one she had marked out for herself. There was just room for Sally between them. Her husband had not known Sally, but he was a kind man who loved children, even though he had none of his own. Aida felt sure he would not mind Sally being there.

  Some men she hired from town dug the grave by hand so as not to disturb the other two plots. They said they would return the following morning for the burial and fill in the grave. The next morning, when the funeral director brought Sally home, Aida had the plain pine box placed on a small wagon. She and Sally had used that wagon in the garden when Sally was small. Aida hitched her own horse to it for the short pull up the hill. She led the horse herself, and the funeral director brought up the rear, carrying two small sprays of flowers, one from Charlie and Sue and one from Thomas and the children. Sue had made the arrangements, and the flowers were just as she had ordered. Aida would bring her own flowers later from her and Sally’s garden. There would be no headstone, just as there was none for her husband, and there would be none for her. This would be the end of the line for them all, literally. Navajos do not often come looking for the graves of their people, and she and her husband had none left to look for theirs.

  The gravediggers arrived during the short reading from the Bible and stood quietly to the side. The funeral director thought the reading part of his job. Aida was not a religious person and knew Sally had not been either, but there seemed to be something right about it there on that sunny, blue-skied morning, and she let him perform the small ceremony as he thought proper.

  After Aida threw in the first handful of dirt, she stood back waiting for the men to fill the grave. It occurred to her then she had neglected to tell Thomas something. Sally mentioned it only days before she died. Something she said Thomas might want to know. It was probably not even important now after all that had happened, but she would try to remember it and let Thomas know when he came for the horses.

  Later that evening, when she was alone, she thought back to all Sally Klee had told her. How there were many forces at work to insure her silence and that of Thomas Begay and Charlie Yazzie. She told Aida those powerful people would kill them all if they could. They were big people with big money, she said. One way or the other they would get everyone on their list. That’s why she had decided to take the money, she said. Not only might it save her life, but more importantly, it could save the lives of her children.

  When Aida first asked who her contact was, Sally said she forgot his name. She later admitted it was Councilman Robert Ashki. She said he told her if she ever revealed him to anyone, she would be sorry, then threatened her with atrocities beyond the imagining of a white woman.

  Now Sally was gone.

  Aida would make them all sorry for that. In the morning she would call up this Robert Ashki, mention Sally Klee’s name. He would be more than willing to meet with her when she was through telling him what she knew.

  She would bring the wrath of God down on these people. If indeed there was a God.

  The Gathering

  Thomas and Lucy agreed it would be a good thing to hold a little gathering to welcome their new children to the family and perhaps help draw them closer. It would be good, they thought, if the children could become acquainted with some of the other children in the area before school started. First, however, Ida Marie would need proper clothes and perhaps a little something special for the party.

  Once again, Sue Hanagarni agreed to meet them at the mall to help pick out school supplies and clothes for Ida Marie. Lucy told Thomas, “Sue has been around town kids more. She has a better idea of what the latest thing might be. It’s important for a young girl to present herself well on her first day of school.”

  Marissa and John originally planned to come along to the mall as well but, at the last minute, decided to stay so Marissa could catch up on her writing. John agreed to take the sheep out, though he was not much on sheep anymore since he had become a cattleman. No one felt the children were in any particular danger now, and Lucy’s father would be along to help in any case.

  At the mall the old man took Caleb with him to look at those nice boots he picked out for the boy on their last visit. Caleb had never worn any shoes other than sneakers. Now it was time for man shoes: boots. The old ma
n was almost as excited as the boy, and they laughed as Caleb stomped around the store in the boots. They bought them slightly too large so he could “grow” into them. They might last him six months fitted this way if he doesn’t wear them out doing what boys always do, Paul thought.

  “Those boots are a good brand and will last a long time,” he told Caleb, “if you will just stay out of the water and put a little mutton tallow on them from time to time.”

  The boy eagerly agreed to this, though secretly Paul knew if he was like most little boys, he will forget to do either of these things.

  At the end of the day, the family had run through nearly all the cash they held in reserve. Thomas did hold back the money he owed Charlie on the horse, but that was it. They were satisfied with their purchases and felt well prepared for their first school year.

  ~~~~~~

  Paul T’Sosi killed a kid goat and a lamb for the get together his daughter planned. It would be just friends and family, but Paul knew there was no telling how many would show up. He didn’t want anyone going away hungry. That would be embarrassing. If there were any leftovers, the people would wrap them up and take them with them. It would be considered rude to do otherwise.

  Thomas’s Uncle John Nez told Paul about a good way to cook underground. “They did wild pigs this way over there,” he said, referring to his time in the service. “It makes my mouth water to think of it. You dig a trench about three or four feet deep and line it with rocks. Then you build a big fire in it until it goes to coals and the rocks turn white hot.” He paused here to lick his lips. “Then lay down a layer of damp earth over the stones—about a foot.”

  He had the old man’s attention.

  “In the islands they used banana leaves over damp earth to cover the hot stones. They wrapped the meat in banana leaves too. Up at our place we put a layer of earth down on the rocks and then a sheet of rusted roofing tin. You can use an old pounded-out car fender or trunk lid too.” John Nez looked at the old man. “Just make sure all the galvanizing or paint is burned off.” He stopped to think; he wanted everything to be exactly in order.

  “Then season the meat how you like it. You can slather it in barbeque sauce or just add chopped garlic and salt and pepper…or ground red chilies.” He was smiling now, remembering the islands. “Wrap the quarters in clean flour sacks and then put each piece in several wet gunny sacks tied up with bailing wire. Wet them down sopping wet so they don’t scorch. He was getting into it now, moving his hands to show how it was all done. “Place the wrapped meat on the first layer of tin and cover it with another piece of tin. Now you put down an extra-heavy layer of damp earth—at least sixteen inches—over everything. Build another big fire on top.” John Nez was embellishing the instructions with elaborate hand gestures now, showing exactly how the earth was spread around and the top fire kept burning evenly over the pit.

  “That fire has to keep going for at least six or eight hours,” he cautioned. “Let the fire die down then for a few hours. Then uncover the meat and carefully unwrap it. It will be falling off the bone!” He smacked his lips. “It’s delicious! The best you ever put your tongue to.”

  Paul T’Sosi was sold and anxious to try this. “We’ve got plenty of old rusted tin!” he asserted. He had always prided himself on his outdoor cooking.

  “It’s a lot of work but it’s worth it. Once you try it you’ll know why. People will talk about it for a long time,” John assured him.

  Paul had listened intently. He had an excellent memory for an old man and seldom forgot anything he was told. He could see everything in his mind just as described. “I have heard of pit cooking, but I never seen it done before.”

  John nodded knowingly. “We may not have banana leaves out here, but what we do have is plenty of cedar wood. That cedar flavor is just the best to my way of thinking. Lots better than oak or apple wood like some use. The meat will melt in your mouth.”

  The old man was fascinated. They had always roasted goat and mutton the traditional way—grilled over the coals. That is, when they did not fry it up in a pot of oil that could then be used to do the fry-bread.

  Stews were more popular back when he was a boy. You could feed a lot of people with a stew, and no one had to go away hungry.

  The two men started digging the pit the very next morning. The children helped by gathering large stones and dragging up cedar wood picked from the winter supply behind the hogan. It was going to take a lot of wood, but Paul said he knew of an old, dead cedar tree down the wash. It should be plenty, he thought.

  ~~~~~~

  Charlie and Sue came out early the day of the party. They knew Lucy and the others would need all the help they could get. Though it was intended to be a family affair, word on the reservation gets around. Anyone who dropped by would be welcomed and fed accordingly. The men fashioned long tables, using borrowed sawhorses and timber planks, and set them up under the brush arbor. Navajos do not straggle in for such festivities. Latecomers would have to make do sitting on the old wagon bed or the flatbed of the Dodge truck. Pickup trucks would be backed up and tailgates let down for seating.

  Word had gotten out, and Paul now expected a good deal more hungry guests than first thought. He was not really surprised. It was to be expected. The previous evening he decided to add an additional yearling lamb to the menu.

  The fires were started well before daylight. By the time the sun was up, the meat was in the ground and the top fires burning. The men stood off from the blazing pit satisfied the meat would be done when the guests arrived.

  Lucy, Sue, and Marissa had not been idle. Two five-gallon containers of pinto beans, slow-cooked with salt pork and red chili flakes, simmered on the stove. An iron caldron of oil stood ready on the grill outside to fry the massive amount of fry-bread dough Marissa was kneading on the kitchen table. Large tubs of sodas and bottled water were waiting for friends from town to bring ice on their way out. Lucy stood in the middle of the yard trying to think if they had forgotten anything. Many guests, she knew, would bring an additional dish or dessert to round out the meal.

  Alcohol was not encouraged and not often a problem at these family gatherings, but there would still be the hidden bottle, secretly shared behind a pickup truck on the fringes. As long as this did not get out of hand, it was generally overlooked, and no great stigma was attached to those who behaved themselves.

  By noon, vehicles began to arrive and more and more men gathered at the fire as they would have in any previous age. They talked of livestock and horses and, of course, the high price of feed. Pickup trucks were compared, and Charlie’s new Chevy fell in for a good bit of discussion.

  Children ran through the festivities “like wild Indians,” in Thomas’s words. Ida Marie and Caleb were right in the middle of them and just as loud as any their age.

  Paul T’Sosi and several other older men gravitated to one side, discussing issues more aligned to their interest, remembering times gone by. A tall paper cup of peach schnapps was passed around, and Paul took a good swallow. He abhorred drunkenness but was not, himself, a teetotaler.

  Charlie watched Sue help the women and girls who gathered to cover the serving table and lay out boxes of plastic tableware alongside stacks of paper plates. She was smiling and talking to people, some of whom she had not seen for years. On the reservation one might go a long time without seeing someone they had gone to school with or were even related to. The Dinè Bikeyah is a very large place and people there tend to spread out. They like “elbow room.”

  Paul, John, and Charlie finally uncovered the cooking pit. The coals had nearly died out and were easily shoveled aside by the men holding long poles with hay hooks wired to the ends. They now snagged the bundles out of the heat and quickly carried them up to the recently cleared table. “Stand back!” they called as they moved through the crowd with the poles. Children were pulled out of their way, and many exclaimed over the number of steaming packages. The wire wraps were cut away, and the sacking carefully cut
and laid open. Immediately, the most delicious aroma filled the air. The smell caused people to look around hungrily and call the children.

  Now Uncle John Nez, Charlie, and Thomas sliced great pans of tender lamb and kid goat and tried to calculate the number of arriving guests. They hoped they would not run short. Trucks and a few cars were parked nearly halfway out to the highway now. Thomas pointed out a brand new black Ford dually. It was the very expensive King Ranch model, considered rare in those parts.

  “Anyone know who owns that black Ford?” Thomas asked.

  Charlie studied the truck for a moment but shook his head. On the reservation, trucks were as individual as their owners and usually as easily recognized. “I’ve never seen it,” he finally decided.

  John Nez had not taken his eyes off the truck from the time it had pulled in. He surprised them both when he said, “Utah plates. I think I know who it is.”

  The other two men looked from him to the truck several times before Thomas spoke. “How’s that, Uncle John?”

  “That truck’s from my county—Navajo Mountain area.” He nodded as though to himself. “It’s him alright.”

  Charlie squinted at the truck. “Who is it?”

  “Robert Ashki. He’s our councilman up at Navajo Mountain.” He shook his head. “Now why would a councilman from that far away show up at this little party?”

  The name did not ring a bell with Thomas, and Charlie thought it only vaguely familiar. Only twenty-four Tribal Council members represent the entire Navajo Reservation—an area encompassing portions of three states. Even so, the average Navajo knows but a few councilmen, generally only the ones from his area.

  There had once been eighty-eight councilmen.

  “That number had to be cut down,” Thomas said, “because there was just not enough money to satisfy so many corrupt councilmen.”