Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery Read online

  Wolves of winter

  R. Allen Chappell

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those Diné who still follow the Beauty Way, and while their numbers are less each year, they remain the well from which the people draw strength and feed the Hozo that binds them together.

  Copyright © 2016 R. Allen Chappell

  All rights reserved

  Second edition

  102917

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, including electronic media, without express permission of the author or his agent.

  Acknowledgments

  Again, many sincere thanks to those Navajo friends and classmates who provided “grist for the mill.” Their insight into Navajo thought and reservation life helped fuel a lifelong interest in their culture, one I once only observed from the other side of the fence.

  Author’s Note

  In the back pages you will find a small glossary of Navajo words and terms used in this story, the spelling of which may vary somewhat, depending on which expert opinion is referenced.

  Table of Contents

  1. The Runner

  2. The Journey 1075 A.D.

  3. The Tecolote

  4. Retribution 1075 A.D.

  5. The Fallen

  6. The Pursuit 1075 A.D.

  7. The Revelation

  8. The Way Back 1075 A. D

  9. The Informant

  10. The Interrogation

  12. Together

  13. Sands of Time

  14. The Wolves

  15. Provenance

  16. Friends

  17. Rain

  18. The Predicament

  Glossary

  1075 A.D.

  Winter settled in late, and with a vengeance; blizzard after blizzard howled through the canyons, leaving deep snow to hinder travel and make difficult the collection of firewood or hunting. By the month of popping trees even the oldest could not remember it ever being so cold.

  And it was then the wolves of winter appeared, first only one or two watching silently from the other side of the canyon, then shrugging deep into their blankets they went away. This village on the cliff was not like those to the north––this one might not be so easy.

  1

  The Runner

  When Harley Ponyboy looked up from his digging it was through a haze, forcing him to crane his neck for a breath of fresh air. The dust of a thousand years hung over the kiva––the dust of dead people––and there was no escaping it. Though only mid-morning, and the real work yet to come, a fine powder already coated the neckerchief covering his nose, “I wish’t we had enough water ta sprinkle down this dirt.” He coughed, nearly choking on his own words.

  His friend Thomas Begay straightened, and adjusted his own bandanna, leaving just his eyes visible below the brim of his hat. He licked his parched lips and scanned the far rim. “Maybe it’ll rain…it’s for damn sure time.” He saw little sign of it even to the southwest. Down in Mexico the Baja was being stingy with its clouds, squeezing them dry against the rocky peaks, leaving only shadows to sail north.

  Under the neckerchief Harley ran the tip of his tongue across his teeth. “Rain? Maybe…” he said, “maybe.” He was not one to waste words on anything so unlikely. His back hurt, stiff and sore from the previous day’s dig––sweat mixed with dirt caked mud at the corners of his eyes. He was rethinking this job of excavating a ruin. It was not only the heat and the dust, but the sobering thought that a dead person might pop up at any moment. True, they had been dead a very long time, and their chindi, if they had one, were probably weak and tired. Still, the old people believed these ancients were best left alone. “They still have their powers,” they said, “That’s why witches collect their old bones and grind them into evil potions.”

  Thomas Begay pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes against the shimmering heat. What the hell is that? he wondered, focusing on a scraggly line of trees across the canyon. He nudged his friend. “Harley, take a look at that little crap-bunch of cedars right across from us. Is there something moving along there…or is the sun getting to me?”

  Harley, known to have extraordinary vision when sober, screwed up his face, squinted and blinked a few times to clear the dust. “It’s a man,” he whispered… “Running…he’s running.” Harley kept his eyes on the spot even as the runner momentarily disappeared into a draw. Lifting a plastic jug of water he took a long swallow, passed it to Thomas, and observed, “Indian…or he better be if he’s goin’ ta get very far in this heat.”

  Thomas Begay studied a long moment before murmuring, almost to himself, “Why would anyone be running in this heat?”

  Harley grinned behind his kerchief. “Maybe there’s a bear down there in the brush. I’m told they come here for the chokecherries this time a year. Maybe he was picking chokecherries and ran across a bear.”

  The two Navajo watched and pondered the possibilities. What might cause a man to be running in the heat of the day, and so far from anywhere, too? Before either of them could conjure up a tolerable explanation the faint wail of a siren drifted down-canyon. Neither man bothered to turn or look in that direction, but Thomas Begay grinned as the answer finally came to him. He canted his head slightly and gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “That might explain it.” Neither he, nor Harley was a stranger to sirens, and Indians running from the law were not uncommon. The two Navajo looked again in the direction of the runner and wondered if it was someone they might know; both men were well acquainted in the area and several likely suspects leapt to mind. The distant figure, now only a speck, soon faded into the wavering vista, and the two Diné reluctantly turned back to their shovels.

  After a few minutes Harley lifted his hat, and wiping his forehead on his sleeve, gazed through the junipers below the alcove at the professor’s horse-trailer. His mule Jake, an ungainly creature by any measure, stood tied and asleep on his feet…one ear twitched occasionally to ward off an imaginary fly. Harley had given very little for the animal despite knowing one generally gets what he pays for when it comes to mules. They are a tribe known to harbor more than a few chancy characters. Harley, however, was convinced there was more to this mule than met the eye. Professor Custer hemmed and hawed but in the end agreed he could bring the animal along, thinking it would give his old friend something to do in his spare time…something that didn’t involve drinking. And too, the mule did have its uses, packing equipment up to the dig…and only the day before helped pull a large sandstone slab away from the entrance to the village.

  Dr. Custer and Harley at one time were drinking companions. That was before the professor decided to take charge of his life. The archaeologist still considered Harley more friend than employee and was prone to humor the little man in that way. Harley did occasionally fall off the wagon, but it had been some time. George Custer could only hope for the best.

  A gradual increase in the siren’s volume now warned the diggers to expect a visitor. Again the pair welcomed the distraction. The two men leaned on their shovels and their previous conjecture regarding the identity of the fugitive turned now to the identity of the pursuer, whom they were also likely to know, both men having a good bit of experience with the local law.

  Having found police sirens to be a disruptive force among his Navajo workmen, Professor George Armstrong Custer hurried from his tent and did not look happy as he came. His “Contract Archaeology” venture had been lucky to snare this project but was barely able to stay ahead of the road crew. A new startup company had lately beaten his bids leaving the professor at a loss to know how the newcomers could possibly make any money with such proposals. Ev
en with just Thomas and Harley working he would be lucky to come out ahead on this project.

  Thomas adjusted his bandanna, nudged Harley, and smiled across the dig as the professor precariously navigated the rubble, several times nearly losing his balance. The long-legged Diné shook his head, climbed out of the excavation, then turned and offered his shorter companion a hand up. Harley scrambled out of the hole releasing an even denser cloud of dust. The two fell in with the professor and all three picked their way down to the site of the proposed highway. The old road was to be rerouted through the canyon, paved and a passing lane added should funds hold out. A greater general awareness of the damage caused by these road projects had, of late, been a concern among those government officials charged with protecting such sites. Even lesser oilfield roads took their toll and many a dozer operator took home a little prize or two from time to time. The upshot was contracts with accredited archaeologists to survey and recover whatever was thought to be of scientific or cultural importance.

  When Officer Billy Red Clay slid his tribal unit to a stop in a spray of gravel it was clear the generally unflappable young policeman was in a temper. George Custer and his two workmen watched through the SUV’s window as Billy spoke a few harsh words into a microphone before throwing open the door. A nasty cut above his right eye was already beginning to swell and turn blue at the edges. Blood dribbled down the side of his face leaving a dark stain on the collar of his uniform. When the tribal policeman recognized his Uncle Thomas Begay and his friend Harley Ponyboy, even with the bandannas over their noses, he straightened his hat and feigned nonchalance. “You boys out robbing banks this morning?”

  Thomas Begay smiled at his Nephew’s attempt to make light of an obviously embarrassing situation. “No, but we might take up that line of work if it gets any hotter out here today.” He didn’t smile when he asked, “Who are you looking for Nephew?”

  The policeman hesitated only a moment. “That Hopi boy, Danny Hat… The Feds have a warrant out for him and left a message for someone at Tribal to pick him up.” Billy Red Clay didn’t look well…not well at all. He sighed, “I guess the dispatcher thought that meant me.”

  “Danny Hat?” Harley pushed forward. “What’s he done now? He’s goin’ ta kill his mother if he don’t straighten out. I been knowin’ him since he was little and it’s just one thing after the other with that boy.”

  Billy Red Clay shook his head causing a stabbing pain to make his swollen eye twitch. “Dispatch didn’t say what it was about Harley, but it’s FBI…something serious I expect. Those boys mostly just handle homicides here on the reservation.” The officer paused and for a moment looked doubtful. “I suppose he could be a witness or something, though.”

  Thomas Begay broke into a grin and pushed his chin toward his nephew’s bad eye. “I wouldn’t think Danny Hat would be that hard to catch.”

  Billy attempted a smile. “He wasn’t that hard to catch Uncle…at least not the first time. I had him cuffed and in the patrol car, meek as a lamb. He didn’t offer no resistance. But that was up at the road construction where he works. I don’t know…maybe he didn’t want to show his ass in front of the crew.” Billy swayed back on his heels leaning against his car for support. “As soon as we dropped down over the hill he said he had to take a leak…and could I let him out to do it. Said he had to go real bad and if I didn’t let him out he would just piss in his pants. Headquarters just issued me this unit––it’s the first one I ever had that didn’t smell like piss––so I let him out and re-cuffed his hands in front so he could go.” Billy’s voice grew uncertain. “The little bastard was standing behind the door doing his business when all of a sudden he slams the door into me. Knocked me flat on my back!” Billy fingered the growing lump above his eye and winced at the touch. “I guess I was knocked a little silly for a minute, ‘cause when I gathered myself he was hightailing it down over the edge. I knew I was too woozy to catch him on foot and figured I would try to get ahead of him.” Billy stopped to catch his breath and fixed Harley with his one good eye. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  Harley gave a slight push of his lips toward the far side of the canyon.

  “How long ago?” Billy seemed wobbly and even more dependent on the car.

  Harley looked down. “We don’ know if it was even him, Billy.”

  Thomas Begay spoke up, “No more’n ten minutes I’d guess, but he’s already across the draw and up the other side. You’ll play hell catching him afoot in your shape.” Thomas knew Harley hated to put the finger on anyone, but it didn’t bother him any. Thomas had never really cared for Danny Hat, and he wasn’t going to lie to a clan member, and his own nephew at that––not to protect someone he cared nothing about. That he really didn’t know it was Danny Hat didn’t deter him in the least. How many runners could be on the loose in this heat?

  Harley glanced at Professor Custer and then at the ground as he pulled off his bandanna and sighed softly, “I’ll go get him Billy––if the Doc will let me––I got my mule over there and I have known the boy a long time…I expect I can get him all right.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “He didn’ take your pistol did he Billy?”

  The officer attempted a smile. “Harley if he had taken my pistol he’d probably already shot me.” He shook his head and turned so Harley could see his holstered sidearm, then passed a hand across his face and again winced as he brushed the cut. “There was something not right about that boy.” He spit into the sand. “I don’t know…maybe he was just scared.”

  The professor, who had been standing back listening, frowned and spoke in a low voice, “Harley if you think you can bring him back without anyone getting hurt go ahead. I suppose that would be better than calling in more people and making a circus out of it. I don’t want to lose any more time on this job than we have to. We’re barely keeping ahead of the highway department as it is.”

  Just as the professor said this a white Chevy one-ton in bad need of a wash, came rattling off the grade in low gear. There were two rough looking men inside and when they stepped down from the truck the smaller one called out, “How you boys doin’ today?” As they drew nearer he could see the policeman’s swollen eye and grinned. “Not so good I guess.”

  The second man peered into the empty patrol car. “What did you do with Danny Hat?” He was a large man, white, and apparently used to talking down to Indians.

  Thomas Begay bristled then moved closer, wondering if the heat had caused the man to abandon his manners. He wasn’t one to be intimidated by rough talk and knew Billy Red Clay wasn’t either. The two of them stared at the big man. It was only then Thomas recognized him as the construction supervisor and foreman for the road crew––probably Danny Hat’s boss. His name was Karl Hoffman and he had been pushing the professor to hurry the recovery effort since the project began. The two of them had words early on, and had not seen eye to eye since.

  George Custer folded his arms across his chest and eyed Hoffman with a glint in his eye. “Karl, Officer Red Clay is in charge here, and I think you’d better keep that in mind.”

  The big man, still thinking he had the advantage, took a more aggressive posture. “Look here Custer, I’m already short an operator as it is, and now this.” He wasn’t pleased to lose an operator, especially one carried off without explanation. “Now I’m the only operator left to run that dozer.”

  The supervisor had been working the bulldozer when his employee was taken away, and missed the arrest entirely. He felt he might have, somehow, interceded on his man’s behalf. Not being allowed that chance angered him and his voice took an edge, “That boy was bundled off before I even knew what the problem was.” Hoffman was determined to know why, and grew more belligerent as he turned back to Billy Red Clay. Raising his voice, he balled his fists and moved forward a step, growling, “Where’s my man? I won’t ask you again. You took him! Where is he?” At this, his companion began to edge forward, and Thomas Begay, who was known to have a short fuse
, moved to intercept him. The professor caught his arm and shook his head. George Custer didn’t want to lose any of his own workers if he could help it––he also knew that might be the least of it should Thomas get out of hand.

  Billy Red Clay’s head hurt and this man’s tough talk was trying his patience. He took a half step toward the foreman with an open hand held in front of him; the other hand hovered over the butt of his service revolver. “You! Stand down! Or by God I’ll take the both of you in along with Danny Hat…when I catch him again.” The lawman cocked his head to one side and glared with his one good eye. “I’ll not have you disrespect this badge, or me. You’re on the reservation…and I’m the law here today.”

  The big foreman faltered and hesitated as he noticed Harley Ponyboy coming around the corner of the horse trailer with a tire iron in his hand. None of these Navajos seemed intimidated and there were more of them than he first thought, too. He dropped his gaze to the badge on Billy Red Clay’s shirt and murmured, “I guess you don’t have Danny anyway…” Hoffman motioned to his companion and the pair backed up a step before turning toward their truck. The foreman called back over his shoulder. “We’ll see what the Colorado State Patrol has to say about this…I’m not so sure were still on the Navajo reservation. This could be Ute land.”

  “I’m the Law here right now,” Billy said calmly and without raising his voice, “You call who you please.”

  Thomas smiled. His nephew had conducted himself well to his way of thinking and he now thought a little more of Billy Red Clay’s chosen profession. He had once felt the boy too good-natured to make a lawman, now he could see that might not be the case after all.