Not all of the smoke produced by the hogan's stove had escaped out the pipe. Three men were awaiting them in the aromatic haze: Agent Osborne, a young fellow in a jean jacket standing with him by the door, and an elderly man, his gray hair tied in the traditional bun, sitting on a bench beside the hogan's table.
"We're having a little trouble getting any information out of Mr. Peshlakai," Agent Osborne said to Chee. And having said it, he endowed Bernie Manuelito with a sort of "Oh, yes, I forgot" nod.
"What sort of information are you after?" Chee asked. He was nodding to the old man, smiling at him.
"We found the spent round that was fired at Officer Manuelito," Osborne said. "Glanced off a rock, and it's well enough preserved to get a match." He pointed toward a plastic evidence sack leaning against the wall. "He has an old Savage thirty-thirty carbine, the right caliber and so forth to match the slug we found, but the old fella doesn't seem to want to talk about it."
Chee glanced at Peshlakai, who had looked faintly amused at Osborne's description. To Mr. Peshlakai Chee nodded again, and said in Navajo: "He doesn't know you understand English."
Peshlakai erased the beginnings of a smile, looked very somber, and said: "It is true."
"Officer Harjo, Ralph Harjo, he's my interpreter," Osborne said. "With the Bureau of Indian Affairs Law and Order office. He's Navajo."
"Good to meet you," Chee said, and switched into Navajo. "I'm born to the Slow Talking Dineh, born for the Bitter Water. People call me Jim Chee."
"Ralph Harjo," Harjo said, looking slightly abashed as they shook hands. "My father was Potawatomi, and my mother grew up over near Burnt Water. I think she said she was a member of the Standing House clan."
"Hostiin Peshlakai may have been raised way over on the west side of the reservation. The language over there is a little different," Chee said. "Lot of Paiute words mixed in, and some things are pronounced differently."
"That might be part of my problem," Harjo said. "But he's not being responsive to questions. He wants to tell me about something that happened a long time ago. I think it's about religion. We moved to Oregon when I was a kid. I don't have the vocabulary for that stuff.
"If you get down to the bottom line, all we really want here is whether he admits shooting at Officer Manuelito. And why he did it. We're going to hold off on the Doherty homicide for now. Don't want to stir the old man up on that until we get a search warrant and see what we can find in here."
"How about the rifle?" Chee asked, nodding toward the evidence sack.
"I asked him about it," Harjo said. "He said go ahead, take it. Bring it back before hunting season starts."
"Sounds like that makes it legal," Chee said. "Now, with this questioning, you're going to have to have patience."
It began, of course, with Chee telling Mr. Peshlakai who he was—not in belagaana terms of what he did to make money but how he fit in the Dineh social order. He named the maternal clan he was "born to" and paternal clan he was born for. He mentioned various relatives—most notably the late Frank Sam Nakai, who was a shaman of considerable note. That done, he listened to Mr. Peshlakai's listing of his own clans and kinfolks. Only then did Chee explain his position in the belagaana world and that it was his duty to learn who had fired a shot at Bernadette Manuelito. Anything Mr. Peshlakai could tell him about that would be appreciated.
This produced a silence of perhaps two minutes, while Mr. Peshlakai considered his response. Then he motioned at Chee and his other visitors and asked if they would like to be served coffee.
A good sign, Chee thought. Mr. Peshlakai had something to tell them. "Coffee would be good," he said.
Peshlakai arose, collected an assortment of cups from the shelf behind him, lined them up on the edge of the stove, put a jar of Nescafe instant coffee beside them, tested the pot of steaming water on the stovetop with a cautious finger, pushed the pot into a hotter spot, said: "Not quite hot enough," and resumed both his seat and his silence.
Osborne frowned. "What's all this about?"
"It's about tradition," Chee said. "If you're going to do any serious talking in a gentleman's home, he offers you some coffee first."
"Tell him we haven't got time to brew coffee. Tell him we just want him to answer some simple questions."
"I don't think they're going to have simple answers," Chee said.
"Well, hell," Osborne said. He started to add something angry to that, changed his mind. "I have a couple of calls to make. Come get me when he's ready to cooperate," he said, and disappeared through the doorway.
The silence stretched until Peshlakai touched the coffeepot, judged its temperature sufficient, spooned instant coffee into each cup, filled them with steaming water, passed them around, sat, and looked up at Chee.
Chee sipped his coffee, in which the flavor of the Nescafe blended nicely with the alkaline and whatever other minerals enriched Peshlakai's water. It was a taste that pleasantly recalled to Chee his hogan boyhood, and he nodded his approval to Hostiin Peshlakai.
"My grandfather," Chee said, "as you have heard, when this woman with me came to this canyon yesterday in her duty as a policewoman for the Dineh, a rifle shot was fired and the bullet almost hit her. We have come here to see what you can tell us of that. Did you hear the shot? Did you see the one who fired it?
Peshlakai sipped his coffee, considered the questions.
Chee glanced around. Harjo was leaning against the wall, looking interested. Bernadette was sitting on the bench by the door, her eyes on him. Chee looked away.
"They say," began Peshlakai, using the traditional Navajo form separating the speaker from any personal claim to knowledge, "that when people come to another person's property, first they ask that person for his permission. This person "—Peshlakai nodded toward Bernie—"did not ask if she could be on my property."
"They say," Chee responded, "that our Mother Earth is not the property of any person. Do you say you own this canyon?"
"This is my grazing lease," Peshlakai said, looking slightly abashed. "You can look at the papers down at the chapter house. I have a right to protect it."
"Did you think Officer Manuelito was a thief who came to steal from you? Were you the one who fired the shot?"
Peshlakai considered. "What I have here," he said, gesturing around the hogan, "the woman can have all of that. It is nothing of any value. I would not shoot her to protect that."
Now Chee took charge of the silence. He guessed Peshlakai would want to expand on that, and he did.
"There are holy things that must be protected," he said.
Chee nodded. "I once thought I could be a yataali, and my uncle, Hostiin Frank Sam Nakai, taught me for years the way of the Talking God, and the Blessing Way. But before it was finished, Hostiin Nakai died." Chee shrugged. "So I am still a policeman, but he taught me something of the wisdom Changing Woman taught us."
Peshlakai was smiling now. "A great singer of the healing songs," he said. "I knew him. He never joined the Medicine Man Association."
"No," Chee said. Peshlakai seemed far too traditional to want to hear that Hostiin Nakai had planned to join the mma. He was always just too busy to get to the meetings.
"Had he been here," Peshlakai said, creating the canyon outside with a gesture of his hands, "then he would have done what I try to do." Then he looked down at his hands, thinking.
Here it comes, Chee thought. He is deciding how to tell me, and it will start from the very beginning. He glanced at Bernie, who had also sensed the long, long story coming and was settling more comfortably on the bench. Harjo, newer to the ways of his people, looked at Chee, raised his eyebrows into a question.
"I understood some of it," he said. "But did he ever answer your question? Was he the shooter?"
"Not yet he hasn't," Chee said.
"My mother told me that if you keep asking a traditional Navajo the same question, the fourth time you ask it, they have to tell you the answer."
"That's the tradition," Chee
said. "Sometimes—" But now Hostiin Peshlakai was ready to talk.
"They say that Changing Woman had almost finished her work here. She was all ready to follow the light toward the west and go live with the sun across the ocean. But before she did that, she went all around Dinetah. She started at the east, and on the top of the Turquoise Mountain she left her footprints, and blue flint grew everywhere around where she stepped." About here Peshlakai's voice slipped into the storyteller's cadence, recounting the travels of the great Lawgiver of the Navajo People from one of the Sacred Mountains to the next.
Officer Bernadette Manuelito had heard it all before, although some of the details varied, and she found herself more interested in the listeners' reaction than in the tale. Ralph Harjo's knowledge of religious/mythological terminology in the Navajo language had obviously fallen far short of requirements, and he had lost the thread of Peshlakai's discourse. Harjo, she noticed, had become more interested in her than in the suspect. He glanced at her, made a wry "we're in this together" face, smiled, and sent the other signals that Bernie, being a pretty young woman, often received from young men. Sergeant Chee, on the other hand, was totally and absolutely focused on Peshlakai and what he was saying.
At the moment, he was connecting Changing Woman's visits to various places with the minerals and herbs she had endowed them with—getting into territory that touched Bernie's botanical interest. He was also moving into her home territory—specifically Mesa de los Lobos.
Peshlakai was saying that both Changing Woman and Mirage Girl had been here, and he gestured up the canyon, up the slope. And these great yei, these great spirits, they had left behind here, so that the Dineh could be cured, could be returned to the cosmic harmony of the Navajo way, the materials to be used in two curing ceremonies. They were the Wind Way and the Night Chant. Here our uncles (the spirit forms of the plants) had left the seeds for a long list of herbs and grasses (only some of which Bernie recognized under their Navajo name) required for the proper conclusion of one or both of those rituals.
Somewhere in this listing Agent Osborne appeared at the hogan doorway and stood looking in, still holding his cell phone. He motioned to Harjo. They talked; Harjo shrugged. Osborne came in, tapped Chee's shoulder. Peshlakai fell silent, watching him.
"What'd he say about it?" Osborne asked Chee. "Admit it? Deny it? What'd you learn?"
"Not yet," Chee said. "We're getting there. Hostiin Peshlakai is explaining motivations. Why this canyon must be protected."
Osborne looked at his watch. "Well, hell," he said. "Tell Mr. Peshlakai that I'm in a hurry. Just ask him if he shot at Officer Manuelito here."
Chee looked thoughtful.
"Harjo," Osborne said. "Ask the man if he shot at Officer Manuelito."
"Mr. Peshlakai," Harjo said, and pointed at Bernie. "Did you shoot your rifle at this woman here?"
Peshlakai looked puzzled. He shrugged.
Bernie found herself hoping he'd say no. She hadn't been able to visualize this frail old man in the role of sniper, trying to murder her. His mention of the Night Chant had brought back a great, great memory of the last night of that ceremony. She'd been eleven, a fifth grader, and there she stood with her cousin Harold and seven other kids—the boys wearing only breechcloths and shivering in the November cold, the girls wearing their very best ceremonial dresses and all the silver they could borrow, and shivering with a mixture of awe and excitement. The Singer shaking the sacred pollen from a flask, sprinkling it on her shoulders, looking above her into the stars as he sang the prayer. And then, that great dramatic moment that signified the entry of a child into the fullness of humanity, the figures of Grandfather of the Monsters and White Flint Woman appearing in the firelight, walking down the row inspecting them, then removing their terrible yei masks to reveal themselves as fellow humans. White Flint Woman had proved to be Bernie's paternal aunt. She put her mask on Bernie's head, allowing her to see through the eyeholes the world as seen by the Holy People.
"Mr. Peshlakai," Harjo repeated, "did you—"
Chee held up his hand. "I'll handle this," he said.
This surprised Bernie, who had been analyzing Chee's performance and giving him a pretty good grade. Why this abrupt, and rude, interruption?
Chee tilted his head toward Osborne. "This officer here wants you to tell him if you tried to kill this young woman."
Peshlakai had no trouble answering that. He said, "No."
"I will ask you again. Did you try to kill her?"
Peshlakai shook his head. "No."
"I have no need to tell you what we are taught about the truth," Chee said. "You have taught many others. Mr. Harjo here asked you once, now I will ask you the fourth time. Did you try to kill this woman?"
Peshlakai said no again, rather loudly, and followed the answer with a very slight smile.
Chee looked at Osborne. "He denies it."
"Finally," Osborne said. "We've got that on the record, for whatever it's worth." He looked at his watch again, said thank-you-very-much to Peshlakai, and ducked out the hogan door with Harjo following.
Chee and Officer Manuelito lingered long enough to make their polite departure. At the doorway Bernie paused and looked back at Peshlakai. "I never did think you tried to kill me," she said.
The ride out of the canyon and past the chapter house was mostly silent. When they hit Navajo Route 9 and headed west toward Gallup, Bernie decided she had to know.
"What were you doing back there?"
"What do you mean?"
"I speak Navajo," Bernie said. "You never did ask him Osborne's question. If he shot at me. You changed the question around."
Chee shrugged. "Same thing."
"Like hell it was," Bernie said. "He could deny he tried to kill me. He couldn't deny he shot at me."
Chee laughed. "As our former president would tell you, it depends on how you define the word at."
"It's not funny," Bernie said. "And if I'm not suspended, and if I'm still an officer working on this case, I think you should tell me what you were doing in that interview."
That produced a long silence. A new red Chrysler RV roared up behind them, way over the speed limit, noticed the police car markings, and slowed abruptly. Chee waved it past.
"I have a right to know," Officer Manuelito said. "Don't you believe I do? Think about it."
"I'm thinking about it," Chee said. "And I guess you're right. I gave him a question he could deny without lying because I didn't think it mattered whether he shot at you. I'm pretty sure he must have. What mattered was why he shot. He must have wanted to scare you. To get you out of the canyon. Why? What's the old man hiding? What's the secret? From what he said, he's protecting a sacred place. You heard him. Up there somewhere is a source of the herbs and minerals shamans need for the Night Chant. Need for their medicine bundles."
Bernie considered all of this, remembering how frightened she had been crouching behind the sandstone out of sight of the sniper. She felt a little hurt by the lack of importance Lieutenant Chee attached to her being shot at—even if it was just to frighten her. How would he have felt hiding behind that slab, waiting to be killed? But she saw his point. He thought Peshlakai had something to do with the Doherty homicide, which was why they were here. He had been establishing some "fellow shaman good old boy" bonding, being friendly. Pretty soon he'd be coming back to Peshlakai's hogan to have a heart-to-heart talk.
"Sergeant," she said, "is it your intention to freeze out Agent Osborne? Solve this one yourself?"
Chee glanced at her, not pleased by either the questions or the tone.
"Come on, Bernadette," he said. "Of course not."
Bernie waited a few moments, said: "Oh."
Hearing the skepticism in that, Chee was frowning at the windshield.
"I think Hostiin Peshlakai has some helpful information. But I don't think he's going to tell anyone about it unless he knows he can trust them. I think it will be about this damned gold-mine business, and he's not going
to trust any belagaana if finding gold is in the picture." Chee interrupted this with a wry chuckle. "Not many Navajos, either, for that matter."
Chapter Fifteen
« ^ »
Deputy sheriff ozzie price was almost as old as Joe Leaphorn, had known him for a long, long time, and was more interested in how he was faring in retirement than in why Leaphorn wanted to inspect the McKay homicide evidence.
"As I remember, you never were much for fishing, or hunting, either," Price said, as he slid the blue plastic basket out of its shelf in the sheriff's department evidence locker. "And you don't play golf as far as I know. How do you pass your time?"
"Stuff like this, I guess," Leaphorn said. "I get interested in all sorts of things."
"Not much interesting in this McKay homicide that I can see," Price said. He put the basket on the sorting table, sat in the chair under the window, and leaned back against the wall. "As I remember, Denton got mad at a swindler and shot him and admitted it and got off on justified manslaughter, self-defense. Wasn't that it?"
"That was it," Leaphorn said. He lifted a folded pair of trousers out of the basket and put it on the table. Next came a shirt, stained and stiffened with dried blood, a belt with a heavy buckle inlaid with turquoise, a pair of expensive-looking boots, and a leather jacket. Leaphorn held it up for a closer inspection.
"Cost a lot of money, a jacket like that," Price said.
"No blood on it. No bullet hole that I can see. Front or back."
"It was hanging over the back of a chair when I got there," Price said. "He wasn't wearing it."
"He wasn't?" Leaphorn found himself remembering Denton's account of the shooting. In that, McKay had this jacket on. He'd taken his pistol out of its pocket. Leaphorn checked the pockets.
"You worked this one?"
"We were short-handed that night. Had to send a car out to Fort Wingate. Some sort of Halloween prank, it turned out to be. Anyway, I went along out to Denton's place." Price shook his head. "Wow. What a mansion."
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