The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  Archie, caught up in Raul’s traitorous involvement with this other faction, didn’t realize he had inadvertently tightened the garrote. Seeing the big man was fading he quickly loosened the wire and raised his voice to refocus his attention.

  “So, you do understand… I will need to know where I can find Raul?”

  “Yes,” the big man answered dreamily. “I figured you might want to know that…”

  ~~~~~~

  Archie Blumker washed his hands in the lawn sprinkler and threw a glance back over his shoulder at the Lincoln. The man at the wheel, chin resting on his chest, appeared to be only dozing in the warmth of a cloudy afternoon—someone’s grandfather, perhaps, waiting patiently for a dawdling family member.

  ~~~~~~

  Raul Ortiz had not been nearly so agreeable to deal with. Archie hated it when someone wouldn’t take their medicine like a man.

  Raul had at first denied Big Ray’s confession—tried to talk his way out of the situation and when that failed began to whine and grovel. Finally, Raul caught his breath as though awakening at last to the reality of the situation. Then between involuntary sobs, admitted there had been no operative stepping off a curb…no fractured leg…and most importantly no information. He confessed he had made the story up fearing repercussions. He had, of course, been correct in that assumption, but horribly incorrect in the severity of the consequences.

  Raul now admitted Ray’s part in the thing. But swore the ex-cop had been instructed there was to be no killing—not under any circumstances. He warned the man that could only bring in the FBI and was to be avoided at all cost. Based on Ray Danson’s final report Raul was convinced he had not killed Clifford Johnson and declared the trader’s death must have been from some later incident.

  When Archie picked up a picture of Raul’s family from the desk, the man began to cry. He blubbered incoherently until Archie found it necessary to backhand him across the face then—slap him with an open palm. People like this shouldn’t be in the business, he thought. When things come to a fine point, they really don’t have the ‘cojones’ for it.

  Archie’s entire take-away from this tense and disjointed “interview” with Raul was that Big Ray’s effort to obtain Clifford Johnson’s client list, and possibly the man’s own private collection which was known to be considerable, was poorly thought out from the beginning. He could see that now. When questioned about the other operatives, Big Ray had offered the thought that Archie was being played off against highly motivated foreign interests, but didn’t know who they were. When Archie mentioned this to Raul, the man shuddered uncontrollably, pulled a small book from his desk drawer and handed it over before falling completely apart.

  Archie was very good at getting at the truth in such situations and eventually felt both Raul and Big Ray Danson had come clean. He was now certain Ray Danson was not responsible for the trader’s death and had been smart enough to cut his losses and leave the trading post after only a cursory search of the file cabinets. Someone else was responsible for the death of Clifford Johnson and probably his wife as well. Raul Ortiz, on the other hand bore the burden of treason should one go so far as to use that word. He had violated the code and had reaped the reward for such treachery. There might have been further repercussions had Archie had time; he was fairly certain there might one day be attempts by the Ortiz clan at vengeance. This would have been the time to nip it in the bud had there been time. He hoped that wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

  ~~~~~~

  Archie had hoped to remain completely insulated from the Clifford Johnson affair. Percy Vermeer himself had said it wasn’t his job. Now that was impossible.

  Not only were his aspirations of an easy fix dashed, but he was afraid even more desperate people might be waiting in the Four Corners. And he hadn’t a clue who they might be. He doubted the little black book of Raul’s would be much help in the short term.

  On his way out of Albuquerque Archie clicked on the radio and hummed along with some melody he was unable to identify.

  “KOB-FM radio” the announcer crooned when it ended, “93.3—the sweet spot on your radio dial.” Archie had, from the time he was a child, preferred radio over television. Now, he occasionally toggled the receiver between stations—back and forth between FM music and AM—to catch the news. KOB, the most powerful radio station in New Mexico was always his first choice when traveling in the Land of Enchantment. He was almost never out of range of one or the other of the two frequencies.

  He stopped in Bernalillo for fuel, a sandwich, and several bottles of water. He was careful to stay hydrated in this arid land; neglecting that could affect a person’s thinking.

  Mysteriously beautiful as New Mexico might appear to the uninitiated, Archie had long felt there were secret elements at play. The clarity of atmosphere coupled with magically subtle whimsies of light make for mood changing vistas. Somber dark canyons and soaring snow covered peaks overwhelm those from lesser places. A person might easily be fooled into thinking this country more benevolent than it really is. “The Land of Enchantment” label was more indicative than most might think, but in ways they couldn’t imagine.

  The truth is, New Mexico has always been a hard and sometimes treacherous country with more violence over the centuries than almost any other part of the Southwest. From Paleolithic times on, humans seemed drawn to something so irresistibly pervasive they became forever marked by it. Later, when the Spaniards made this country the frontier of their colonization efforts… Well, that’s when things really heated up.

  As he angled north toward Cuba, Archie took note of the pueblos along the way. There were quite a number of them. Zia was one and just a bit farther up the road, the turn off to Jemez. Amazing to think these were some of the oldest continuously inhabited towns in North America. On a working vacation he remembered once catching a trout near Jemez Springs; the only trout he’d ever caught. Just the thought of it made him smile.

  He crossed the dry bones of riverbeds, counting them milestones in a desolate and boring run to the northwest. The clay hills and eroded valley bottoms gave little evidence of the verdant, sometimes lush mesa tops to the north and east. Archie had, over the years, inveigled connections all over this part of the state—all in the service of Percy Vermeer and his insatiable quest for the finest in Native art and artifacts. He had never fully understood it himself, but seldom did he fail Percy. This time he had been dealt a poor hand, yet remained determined, confident even, that he would ultimately prevail.

  This Conquistadors route up from Mexico, even today, waxes interminably long at times. Only the diversity of the land and fleeting shadows of forgotten peoples kept Archie’s mind engaged.

  He stopped at Nageezi for a cold soda and carried it outside where he sat on a bench in the sparse shade of a ramada. The sketchy brush shelter, barely able to fend off the heat of the day, offered little reprieve from the afternoon sun. An old Navajo man, enjoying a drink of his own at the other end of the bench didn’t look up or take any notice of the newcomer.

  Archie smiled to himself, knowing it difficult to draw these older people out. Still, it might be something to pass the time.

  “It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” Archie said this peering off into the distance, as if speaking to himself.

  The old man didn’t turn or acknowledge the remark.

  Archie shrugged his shoulders and stretched. “It seems like I’ve been driving all day. I’m tired…”

  Still the old man didn’t answer, only took a sip of his drink—remained staring straight ahead without so much as a nod.

  “I don’t know how you people got around in this country in the old days. It must have taken forever to get anywhere.”

  The old man gazed out across the country with only the buzzing of a fly to break the silence.

  Archie drained his soda, set the bottle beside the bench and half-rose to go.

  The Navajo, inscrutable as ever, made a tiny noise in the back of his throat, his sho
ulders shook a little, and the noise became a chuckle.

  Archie settled back down to wait. If he had learned anything about Indians over the years it was to have the patience to wait them out.

  The old man began to speak, but in a voice so small Archie had to lean toward him and cock an ear just so to understand. “A rider,” the old Navajo said, “one time rode a horse from Bloomfield to Cuba in only twenty-four hours.”

  Archie edged a bit closer.

  The old man sniffed, “I guess with this new highway that might be over a hundred miles…maybe even more. Back then a rider probably would have gone cross-country in some places…saved a few miles…but not too many. It was still a hell of a ride.” The old man turned toward Archie but as would any Diné with good manners, he looked aside and never directly at him. “He was a young white man, too.” He said this smiling to himself as he watched secretly to see Archie’s reaction—thinking this white man might take some measure of ethnic pride in so laudable an enterprise. “It was a hot summer, too, like this one.” He said this more or less, Archie thought, to perk up his interest, and possibly incite empathy for the young horseman.

  Archie finally nodded. “There’s no telling really, what a person can do once they set their mind to it.” Then, sensing this wasn’t enough to suit the storyteller, he began rubbing his jaw as though thinking more about it. “There should be some sort of memorial, I suppose, to that rider—right along the highway here—so tourists would know how wimpy they are zipping along in their air-conditioned automobiles.” Archie said this to see if he could get a rise from the old man. He thought to himself, once an old Indian like this has his dander up he might say all sorts of interesting things.

  This particular old man, however, let the comment pass with no indication he agreed…or even heard. Then he grimaced and went on, “I doubt there is a horse or man alive today capable of such a ride across so torturous a stretch of country in that heat.”

  Archie knew very little about horses, or what sort of animal it would take to accomplish such a feat, but he did know something about men, and having just covered a good portion of that route by pickup truck he was inclined to agree; it would take an extraordinary man to make such a ride—even back in a time when there was no shortage of extraordinary men.

  The old Navajo, seeing Archie’s appreciation of the achievement, did not want to leave him with the impression that only a white man had the gumption for such a business. He was thus encouraged to tell yet another story. This one from an even earlier time, a story, he said, that was told him by his grandfather which in turn had come from his grandfather before him. The old man being quick to point out neither grandfather was known to lie.

  Archie was inclined to show a greater interest this time, certain he would learn something of historical value if nothing else.

  “There was,” the old man began, tapping his brow with a forefinger as though to awaken the tale, “a white soldier carrying a message…just over there…beyond that big stretch of flats.” The Navajo pointed with his chin toward the Jicarilla Apache Reservation, barely visible in the distant haze to the northeast. Nothing more than a blue line of mesas and mountains, all jumbled together, none discernable one from the other.

  “That soldier was tired, his horse moving at little more than a walk, when he came to the attention of an Apache Indian; a young Jicarilla warrior returning from a raid down country. His party had separated, splitting up to confuse a posse of Mexican ranchers.” The old man seemed uncertain how much of the tale would be interesting to this white person so decided on an abbreviated version. “That Indian was taking a rest from the heat, just off the trail, hidden in the brush. His own horse had died of wounds and exhaustion leaving the Jicarilla afoot. After watching the soldier for a few minutes, the Indian thought it would be nice to have that Bluecoat’s horse. Even a worn-out horse is better than no horse at all.” The old man paused to steal a glance at his listener and seeing the man’s attention lagging, decided to dredge up even more exciting details. “Falling in behind the soldier, but staying well back, the Apache saw by the horse’s tracks it was unsteady on its feet. Knowing there was no water in that direction, the Indian was thinking the animal would pretty soon give out. He was careful not to cause the soldier to go faster…or maybe turn around and take a shot at him. He soon saw he was right about the horse. It was clear the animal was starting to stagger.” The old Navajo took a swallow of his orange drink, grimaced and spit out an insect swimming valiantly for its life. He cleared his throat took a deep breath and went on with his story.

  “My Grandfather said the soldier surely must have looked behind him a time or two, but he never saw that Apache. In those times, Apache were good at being sneaky. They were like coyotes; you wouldn’t see one if he didn’t want to be seen.” The old Navajo thought for a time, making certain he had all the elements of the story in order before continuing.

  Archie waited, sneaking a look at the old man and thinking he had drifted off in the warm sage laden breeze.

  From the corner of his eye the storyteller guessed what the white man was thinking. He coughed and shook his head before recovering his place in the tale. “Just at sundown the Jicarilla caught up…and under cover of the coming darkness…eased up on the soldier…shot him low in the back with an arrow. The blue-coat was already worn down I guess—that one arrow killed him pretty good from what my great-great-Grandfather had to say.”

  Archie could see the white soldier was not to be the hero of this story. He suppressed a frown; not so much because of the soldier’s bad luck or that he was white, but because the story was making him thirsty again.

  The old man smiled. “That horse,” he said, “never even moved when the soldier fell off. Just stood there with his head down, all spraddle-legged and lathered up.” The old Diné blinked a time or two and spared the white man another glance to see how he was liking this tale.

  Archie knew the old man was trying to get his goat. He smiled inwardly and bent forward to show an even greater interest.

  “Well,” the Navajo went on, nodding again in the direction of the place it surely must have happened. “That Jicarilla stripped off the horse’s saddle and other gear to lighten him up a little. After eating what little there was in the soldier’s saddlebags and drinking from his canteen, he gave the horse the little sip that was left from the palm of his hand and jumped on that animal. He goaded it north for another twenty miles at least. He would have to pinch its ears or reach back and twist its tail occasionally to keep it going.” The old man gazed over at Archie, wrinkled his brow and nodded knowingly. “I won’t tell you what else he did to that horse, as I know white people are softhearted and can’t stand to be thinking about such things.” He stopped a minute to let this sink in. “Back then, Apaches knew a lot of tricks to use against horses…and people, too.” The old Navajo, after inspecting the contents emptied his drink in a last swallow and set the bottle down on the bench between them.

  Archie gave him a look, more of a grimace perhaps that the storyteller must have mistook for sympathy for the horse.

  The old man spat in the dirt.

  “When that horse went down for the final time the Indian stepped off and shot his last arrow through its throat so he could drink a little blood. Then he made a fire and cooked some strips of horsemeat, you know, to carry along with him. He walked the last thirty miles to his wickiup in a night and a day.” The old man smiled at the incongruity of his next statement. “None of his people that heard the story thought it anything out of the ordinary.” The old man didn’t think it so unusual either but was equally certain white people would.

  “A Navajo woman, who was later carried off by that same Jicarilla and kept as his wife, was the one who told my great-great-Grandfather this story,” the old man smiled into the past and drowsily recalled. “That woman got loose finally and came back to us. She was my great-Grandfather’s mother so that means he might have been half Apache himself. I don’t know. Among
the Diné, if your mother is Navajo, you are Navajo and that’s all there is to it.” The old man, thinking back over what he had been saying, blinked as though surprised to find himself part of the story.

  Archie shook his head at the tale. “I guess they don’t make ‘em like they used to?”

  This caused the old Navajo to laugh outright, “I don’t know about that, some of those Jicarilla are still plenty tough bastards…” He cocked his head to one side. “Our people never like to go fight them Apache, not if there is any way around it.” He turned to Archie and looked him up and down. “I hear there are whites these days who are saying those Apaches are cousins to the Navajo—that we were all the same people once—somewhere up north I think.” The old man nodded his head in that direction. ‘It’s true a lot of the Apache words are almost the same as ours… But we still never liked ‘em much…”

  ~~~~~~

  It was coming on dark when Archie pulled into Farmington and took a room at the Crestview. The motel was nearly new and though he seldom stayed at the same place twice, he liked the Crestview well enough to make it the exception. Oil field hands made up the bulk of the motel’s regulars and they generally stayed to themselves. He’d noticed a good many work-over rigs on his way into town, and several mud-splattered fracking units were parked just to the side of the building.

  There might be some drinking and loud behavior later that night but tired as he was he doubted it would bother him.