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  The Collector

  R. Allen Chappell

  Copyright © 2019

  R. Allen Chappell

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  5-15-19

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

  Dedication

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

  Acknowledgments

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

  Graphics and layout by Marraii Design

  Cover art by Daniela

  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’s opinion is referenced.

  Table of Contents

  The Trader

  The Crime

  The Heat

  The Factor

  The Party

  The Operative

  Time & Trouble

  The Price

  The Discovery

  The Gitters

  The Rogues

  The Calling

  Desperado

  Zuppa di Mare

  Fate

  The Surprise

  Serendipity

  The Amalgamation

  The Awakening

  The Decision

  The Storm

  The Stretch

  The Enigma

  The Test

  Crossfire

  Survivors

  The Aftermath

  The Way of It

  Glossary

  The Trader

  There was quite a line waiting for Clifford Johnson to open his trading post, some eager to pawn jewelry, others desperate to rescue family heirlooms teetering on the edge of redemption. The Diné are, for the most part, an even-tempered people; a thousand years waiting around for something to happen has provided them an extra measure of patience. Still, as the sun lifted in a near cloudless sky tempers rose. Everyone has their limit and the Navajo are no different.

  It started with a muted grumbling at the back of the queue. Then several went to the barred window to peer inside and curse. Shaking their heads in disgust they returned to their place in line, scowling, and muttering dark threats.

  Tommy Nez, determined to pawn his ring for Saturday night beer money, made so bold as to bang on the door and yell out, “Open up, you crazy old bastard! I know you’re in there…your truck’s out back.”

  A snaggle-toothed woman at the back of the queue cackled and called, “Hey you, Tommy…maybe he’s hurt in there…maybe some robbers got him like last time… Maybe you should just kick down the door.” The old lady, still drunk from the night before, was ignored. Her husband, also tipsy, was the only one thinking the idea had merit but even he drew the line at kicking down doors.

  As the sun warmed to its work, a customer known only as ‘Bad Eye’ thought of the corner phone booth; borrowing a quarter and straining his one good eye he looked up the number to call the trader’s wife.

  Almost shouting, he complained, “The store’s still not open! Where the hell’s Clifford?”

  On the other end of the line a surprised Louise Johnson glanced first at the clock and seeing it half-past nine immediately hung up in the caller’s ear and dialed Tribal Police. The woman had ample reason to be alarmed.

  ~~~~~~

  In his twenty-three years in the business Clifford Johnson had only twice failed to open the store by eight o’clock of a Saturday morning. The first time, nearly ten years previous, he’d hit a cow on his way in to work. The ill-fated bovine stepped out of the brush without warning and paid the price. Cliff’s new truck was totaled, pinning the trader unconscious in the cab. The local rescue unit got there quick enough, but after seeing what appeared to be an exposed kidney, took an inordinate amount of time prying him out of the wreckage. Clifford was barely regaining his wits as they pulled up to the free clinic. The volunteers jostled the stretcher inside to find the new intern on duty.

  The resident physician had taken a couple of hours off. A fishing crony had called to say the Browns were filtering down the Animas to the confluence. The fish were reported milling about—unwilling to risk the muddied waters of the San Juan—easy pickings for a fisherman who knew his business.

  The excitable young Navajo intern fresh from his schooling was about to call Farmington for an ambulance when he discovered the gore didn’t belong to the trader after all but to the unfortunate cow. Cliff, for his part, had suffered only a dislocated shoulder. The intern grinned as he jerked the ball joint back into place, saying, “You got lucky this time, Trader.”

  Regaining the power of speech with a stifled yelp, Clifford focused on the kidney in the pan beside him. The young doctor nodded his head and laughed, saying Cliff was welcome to take it along as a spare if he liked; noting the rescue team had already divvied up the better parts of the cow.

  The second time the trader missed an opening was four years later when surprised by burglars waiting in the darkened back room of the store. The desperados ordered him at gunpoint to empty the safe. Cliff, not easily intimidated, initially refused and was so severely beaten for his trouble as to be left a little whopper-jawed—his speech permanently affected—a distinct disadvantage for a man who makes his living dealing with the Navajo.

  On this particular Saturday morning, however, Clifford Johnson was not nearly so lucky.

  The Crime

  Thomas Begay hung up the receiver and stared first at the phone, then through the kitchen window and across the sage flats to the blacksnake ribbon of highway—already shimmering and undulating in the morning heat.

  Well, I’ll be go to hell… Thomas had no idea what to make of the call.

  “Who was on the phone?” Lucy Tallwoman, busy at her loom since dawn, didn’t bother getting up or raising her voice. This was the most productive part of her day and she didn’t like disruptions. Still, she was curious. They didn’t get many calls. She’d spent most of her life without the luxury of a telephone and figured now that they had one there was some catching up to do. The notion of missing even a single call was unsettling. She’d heard the phone ring, and Thomas talking, but couldn’t make out who the caller might be. The second time she asked she made it a good bit louder and got an answer.

  “It was Billy over at Tribal Police. He says he’s on his way out here to take you in.”

  Lucy murmured, “Yeah, right,” and grinned in spite of herself. Thomas would have his little joke in the morning. She listened for more and when it didn’t come grew testy, “Who was it really, and what did they want? Was it Sue Yazzie? Sue don’t usually call this early.” And then thought to herself, Sue knows I’m working by now, she wouldn’t call. Lucy Tallwoman didn’t have many close friends; should Sue Yazzie be taken out of the mix there wouldn’t be any. Lucy’s growing renown as a weaver had caused many in the craft to shun her…some out of pure jealousy alone.

  From the other room, Thomas made no further effort to identify the caller—offering instead only a muted curse against a background of kitchen noise.

  Then, too, there was this business with Thomas Begay. In a society where any contact between a man and his mother-in-law is a serious taboo—Thomas taking up with Lucy Tallwoman was a moral thorn in the side of the entire community. Traditionally
minded though she was, Lucy nonetheless refused to give up Thomas Begay. They’d stuck it out a long time now hoping people would eventually forgive, or at least forget. So far that had not been the case.

  Totally exasperated Lucy turned to the door with a scowl—only to find her husband standing there holding two steaming cups. Thomas pursed his lips causing his own frown to tighten. “No, I’m telling you—it was my nephew and he’s coming to take you into the FBI’s office this morning.”

  Lucy studied his face for a moment and was convinced he wasn’t fooling around. She shook her head and asked, “Did he happen to mention why?”

  “What he said was…” and here Thomas tried to recall exactly what Billy Red Clay had said. ‘The FBI wants to question Lucy about a murder that happened this morning. I’m going to have to bring her in.” Thomas gave a lift of his chin in her direction. “That’s about all he said.”

  With a lowered eyelid, Lucy regarded her husband for a long moment. “A little strange don’t you think?” Her hands kept the shuttle skittering back and forth through the vertical warp, pausing only to pat down every few inches of weft with her mother’s old white-shell comb. Finally, at the end of the run, she gave a sharp tap with the long-board to lock it in. The cedar loom was her mother’s own design, built by her father back when he was young. No one else had one like it. Not that it was better than anyone else’s but like Lucy Tallwoman herself, it was just different. “The FBI must think me a witch if they believe I know anything about a murder in town this morning. I haven’t been off this place in over three days.” So foolish did the notion seem she almost smiled…almost.

  As Thomas set her coffee on the low table by the loom, Lucy noticed a slight tremor in his hand. No, her husband did not in the slightest take his nephew’s message as a joke.

  Thomas sucked in his breath and moved to close the kitchen door. “Don’t ever say that…about being a witch, I mean…that’s all we need, people thinking like that again. It’s good your father didn’t hear…you’d be on your way to the sweat lodge this morning.”

  “He hasn’t come in yet?” The words were hardly out of her mouth when they heard the door creak open as Old Man Paul T’Sosi fumbled his way through the mudroom on his way to the kitchen.

  Thomas cocked an ear at the door and shook his head. It wouldn’t do to upset the old man this early in the morning…that could make for a long day.

  Paul’s mental state seemed a bit improved these last months—possibly due to the new diet and vitamin regimen his doctor suggested—not any sort of a real cure to Lucy’s way of thinking. She’d pestered the physician to continue searching for a more definitive answer to her father’s bouts of mental confusion. The GP admitted there could be other contributing factors but assured her that would be a long shot. “It would be rare to see any significant improvement at this stage of the game no matter what we do.”

  She got a second opinion, but that clinician, too, thought it just the natural progression of old age, and declared there was probably nothing further to be done for it.

  Lucy Tallwoman was not one to be easily dissuaded and remained convinced medical science could go some better. Making an appointment with a specialist in Farmington, she was in turn referred to a well-known authority in Albuquerque. That appointment would be coming up soon, and she intended to see it through regardless of the cost or final diagnosis.

  Still concentrated on her weaving Lucy pushed her chin toward the highway, “How long do you figure… before Billy Red Clay gets here?”

  “I’m thinking forty-five minutes—if he don’t get sidetracked.” Thomas knew his nephew wouldn’t hesitate to deal with some deserving traffic offender along the way and God help one so foolish as to be driving under the influence. Billy Red Clay missed being out on patrol in the same way a chained up dog would miss chasing cars. “Why do you ask how long before he gets here? Are you thinking of making a run for it?” That would be Thomas’s solution. For him, it had always proved to be the best course of action.

  Lucy frowned at the thought. “Billy didn’t say anything else? You know…just something between the lines maybe?” Lucy tried sounding unconcerned, but knew her husband saw right through it.

  “Not that I could tell, he didn’t. Billy’s pretty much a straight talker, but he’s always been closemouthed when it comes to his work with the FBI. He’s…reliable…I guess you would say. That’s probably why he was picked for the Bureau’s Liaison Officer in the first place. There were others that had the seniority on him, you know…loose-talkers…every one of ‘em.”

  Thomas Begay was not fond of Tribal Police, or any other law for that matter. It had been a while now since he and Tribal had last hooked horns, and while he had proven to be less than law-abiding in the past, even Tribal conceded he had mellowed. That was the opinion of Harley Ponyboy a kindred spirit back in their wilder days. Harley had seen Thomas in his prime, and it had, indeed, been something to see.

  Lucy Tallwoman couldn’t help thinking it was her husband’s past reputation causing Tribal to send his nephew on any call in which Thomas Begay might play even a minor role.

  The old man’s voice was heard from the kitchen, barely discernible through the closed door. “Where do you suppose the damn cream and sugar’s being kept these days?” Paul said this in the manner of a person recently accustomed to talking to himself. He didn’t really expect an answer.

  Lucy Tallwoman shook her head, narrowed an eye at the door and whispered, “Right where it’s been since we built this house…” And then louder, “It’s right there, on the cabinet beside the stove, Dad.”

  Thomas called to his father-in-law, “I might have left something in front of it Paul… You’ll have to look.”

  ~~~~~~

  Billy Red Clay, when he finally came rolling in, pulled up to the front of the house and beeped his horn. On the reservation even close friends seldom come directly to a person’s front door without warning. Disregarding such protocol could, in fact, be dangerous.

  Fortunately, Old Man Paul T’Sosi had already returned to his hogan behind the big house. The old singer’s hearing not being what it once was, he remained unaware Billy Red Clay had arrived. That was probably a good thing. Paul getting involved in this would likely lead to some serious pushback should he learn of the young policeman’s mission. He and Thomas Begay seldom aligned on any course of action, but when they did, they were formidable.

  “Can you believe that big-nose cousin of Elbert Sosi?” Billy was incensed. “He comes whipping past me like a house afire, and when I pull him over he’s three-sheets-to-the-wind already! Lucky for me the patrol officer was on his way back into town and took him off my hands.” Billy snorted, “I’d like to see Elbert’s clan try to get him out of this one… I don’t care if his cousin is on the Council.” The young officer slung his head in contempt and was about to curse, but seeing Lucy at her loom, only smiled sheepishly and sent a weak little wave her way.

  Thomas got right up in the lawman’s face. “So what the hell’s up, Nephew?” Thomas Begay didn’t parse words when it came to family being carted off by the law…even if that law was family, too.

  Billy being related, and of the same clan as Thomas, was himself a man of few words. The young officer hesitated, looked down at his boots, and was reluctant to answer. “I’m not sure how much I can say just yet, Uncle.” Seeing the expression on Thomas’s face forced him to reconsider. “What I can tell you is that Clifford Johnson was found in his store this morning dead as a rock.” He sighed and admitted, “Just about everyone in town already knows that much I guess.” Gazing back down at his boots he frowned at the dust. The boots were new and Billy intended to keep them presentable as long as possible. He had his own office now and thought it high time he tried to look like somebody.

  Thomas didn’t back up an inch or say a single word, just waited for his nephew to continue.

  “Aww, hell, Uncle, I may as well tell you… The trader was slumped over his desk with
an unfinished note in his hand.” The young lawman considered how far he should go and again hesitated. Finally, he sighed, “The only thing he’d written was ‘Lucy Tallwoman’ and then it just sort of squiggled off the paper, not really readable.” He glanced at the pair and shrugged. “Old Cliff had taken a pretty hard hit to the back of his head; whoever did it probably left thinking him dead. Later, he must have come around enough to drag himself to his desk…tried to use the phone from the looks of it. There was a bloody trail halfway across the room. Agent Smith said there was no way a man should have been able to make it that far in his shape…but he did. He must have been a pretty tough old bird.” Billy said this with a trace of admiration.

  Lucy Tallwoman, shocked and unable to speak for a moment could only sit hands to her mouth in horror. She had known Cliff Johnson since she was a girl. The trader had been her mother’s agent when she gained prominence. After Lucille’s passing, Lucy’s work had become collectible in its own right, her fame eventually surpassing even that of her mother’s. Lucy Tallwoman had in fact reached the enviable position of selling mostly at private treaty—much of her work spoken for even before it was off the loom. Nearly everything went to one or another of a very short list of private collectors—a secretive bunch virtually unknown even to each other. It took Clifford Johnson a good many years to put that list together and he made certain no one knew who was on it…not even his wife.

  Some locals thought Lucy Tallwoman’s prices unwarranted; her good fortune became the root of more than a little conjecture and jealousy in the community. For a while there were even a few of the more agitated who slyly suggested—she might be a witch.

  Lucy’s mind was a flurry of questions, why was my name on that note…how can I possibly be connected to Clifford Johnson’s death? This can’t be real?