Mojado Read online

  “I remember he was two years ahead of us in school and was one of the dorm monitors who was on my ass all the time.” Thomas had been somewhat of a case in school, and were it not for his abilities on the football field, might not have lasted out his final year of government boarding school, at least not without some serious repercussions. Thomas’s coach had taken a liking to him, and thinking the boy had potential, often ran interference for him with other white teachers. Things might otherwise have ended badly for Thomas.

  “Yeah, well anyway, Sam left me a note on the back of this fax saying they found a camp, just up the canyon from where the body was recovered. Just a small backpacking tent, apparently. There was no clothing, pack, food, or sleeping bag… just the tent.” Charlie ran a finger along the words, then stopped. “Oh, and the dead guy’s fingernails were worn to the quick… right into the finger tips.”

  When Charlie looked up, Thomas Begay had rocked back in his chair, his eyes nearly closed. Charlie thought for a moment he might have dozed off. Thomas was known to catch a nap when he could. But then his eyes blinked open, and bringing his chair upright he fixed Charlie with a look. “Were they able to get his prints?”

  “I don’t know.” Charlie glanced again at the paper. “It doesn’t say. Sam says he will get back to me, if and when he finds out any more. The FBI generally sends tribal police follow-up reports in this sort of case, but they seldom include anything of any real value. They keep the good stuff to themselves.”

  “Do you think it would do any good if we took a run back up there for a look around… maybe take Harley with us. He’s a hell of a tracker when he’s sober, which he has been for a good while.” Thomas added this last part to assure Charlie of their friend’s continued good intentions. Harley’s recent fall from grace had been a disappointment to them both, but especially to Thomas, who well knew what Harley had gone through to quit, and how easy it would be for him to fall off the wagon himself. He had known any number of people who swore off drinking for various lengths of time—many for three or four or even six months… or a year even—then, bam! They were off and running again. It was a reservation phenomenon that had, over the years, become part of the culture; it was hard to say where in the cycle any one person might be at any particular time.

  When appearing before a federal commission, New Mexico's Alcohol Beverage Control Director once said, “Alcoholism is destroying the Navajo Nation, and the situation is a national disgrace, if not a national disaster.” Thomas grimaced when he remembered how long ago the report had been made… years ago; but little had come of it. The problem was still endemic. He also knew he might well have returned to drink himself had it not been for his two children coming back into his life; they had no one else to turn to now, and he knew it. He thought it a pitiful state of affairs that nearly sixty-five percent of the Navajo Nation, at some point in their lives, are said to find alcohol abuse a problem. The government acknowledges the affliction as the leading cause of life-threatening medical complications and death throughout the reservation… not to mention, eighty percent of reservation crime can be attributed to it. Even Charlie admitted he could see no solution to the problem in the foreseeable future.

  Charlie Yazzie twirled a pencil back and forth between two fingers. “I doubt we could do any good up there after the place has been mucked up by everyone else,” he said referring to Thomas’s previous question. “Probably looked like Grand Central Station, what with the recovery effort and all.”

  Thomas knew Grand Central Station was a train station, and just figured Charlie meant there’d be a lot of tracks. He didn’t always get what Charlie meant when he alluded to things and places he himself had no experience with.

  Charlie pursued his previous train of thought. “I’ll think about it.” He kicked Thomas’s chair under the table. “Hey, you know tomorrow’s Saturday; there’s the barbeque up at our place?”

  “Yep, Lucy told me. Old Man Paul T’Sosi says he’s coming too, which is good. He can help keep an eye on the kids, and I know he’s looking forward to giving a little prayer at the baby’s naming. He’s been feeling better lately, but we still don’t like to leave him home by himself.” Thomas looked down at his boots. “I don’t know what it is about that old man…I’m sure he doesn’t like me… never has, but still I’d hate to see anything happen to him.” He looked away for a moment before going on, “Harley and Anita will be there, too, at least according to Harley.” He examined a fresh rope burn on his throwing hand and frowned. “You know, Anita never comes to our get-togethers. I guess she still thinks I’m a bad influence on Harley, or something. She doesn’t seem to remember that he was the last one to get his ass in trouble drinking, not me.”

  Charlie only nodded. Thomas Begay and Harley Ponyboy had been drinking buddies for years and finally had quit the bottle about the same time. Harley had fallen off the wagon for a short time the previous year but had made a valiant turnaround. Thomas himself had been sober almost two years now, but still had a hard time dealing with his past and the consequences he had brought upon himself. Charlie knew his friend was always only one drink away from square one. It wasn’t easy being Thomas.

  ~~~~~~

  In the pre-dawn chill, the mojado threw off his recently acquired sleeping bag—he had not known there were such wonderful things and had almost left it behind. He realized now that each piece of this equipment had a carefully thought out purpose. He had done well to take the trouble to get these things. It had not been so much trouble really, and while it had cost one man his life, it had probably saved that of another—that’s the way he looked at it. If he’d had the use of both arms, it would have been easier yet. He had left behind only the tent, a silly little thing to his way of thinking, but he had taken its plastic ground cloth, just in case. He didn’t quite know what to make of the freeze-dried food (there was a lot of it), but he thought it might prove to be quite a windfall once he understood its preparation; pictures on the foil packets gave clues to what each pouch contained, and he was confident he would figure out the process in time. For now, though, he just tore open the package with a picture of some little brown cakes… He hoped they would be chocolate, and they were. He ate these as he re-stuffed the down sleeping bag, marveling once again at its feathery weight.

  As he moved out in the graying dawn, he fingered the hefty Buck knife folded in his pocket and thought what a prize it would be back home. Where he came from, a man without a knife was no man at all. A knife like this could make all the difference, and down the road, he expected it had its work cut out for it.

  ~~~~~~

  Charlie Yazzie picked up the incoming fax and leafed through the copy of the latest FBI “update” from Sam Shorthair. A scrawled note on the front from Sam warned him not to expect any earth shattering developments. Reading between the lines of an FBI case report prepared for other agencies was always an exercise in futility. The FBI had played their cards close to the vest since the days of Herbert Hoover, when they had actually worn vests. They’d learned back then the value of keeping things to themselves. Nonetheless, Charlie still caught himself trying to read more into this report than was actually there. The update included the usual generic information, things anyone might later pick up from reading the newspaper, or listening to a radio. But, there was also a smattering of tidbits they thought might placate the various agencies, without letting any cats out of the bag, as his grandmother had been fond of saying. The FBI felt they had the best investigative techniques, the latest technology and facilities, and therefore just assumed they must also have the brightest people. Generally speaking, they were right on all counts and thus were reluctant to let lesser entities screw things up. It was an elitist policy that left the rest of the agencies muddling along in the wake of an organization they considered to have… an attitude. The few bones the bureau threw “tribal” always had the meat gnawed off, in Charlie’s opinion. Still, he knew tribal police would doggedly work their investigation regardless of ho
w little they actually had to go on. There were a few scraps in this last update, and Charlie Yazzie intended to make the most of that information.

  3

  The Gathering

  Saturday morning saw Charlie Yazzie’s wife excited and up early to begin preparations for the feed they were putting on just for close friends and family. “Some of these people,” Sue declared, “are coming a long way and deserve the best we can come up with.” She herself would be making two large chocolate cakes, which she had recently learned how to bake in her new oven. The first few cakes had “fallen” when taken out to cool, making them look a little lopsided. Sue just added extra icing and no one seemed the wiser. Everyone liked icing the best anyway. These particular two cakes looked perfect, and she was anxious to see how they went over. Aunt Annie Eagletree was sometimes critical when it came to Sue’s cooking, and not shy about venturing an opinion… and she didn’t care who overheard it either.

  There would also be fresh corn from her own garden, soaked in cold water, then steamed in the husk in hot ashes. It had been her people’s preferred method of cooking green corn for over a thousand years now, and was still hard to improve on. Other women would be bringing covered dishes, and Aunt Annie Eagletree insisted on bringing a front quarter of beef they had butchered only the day before. Her husband Clyde had taken the animal to the locker plant in Farmington so it could be professionally done. Annie thought it an unnecessary expense, as she had always done her own butchering right at home. This allowed her the exact cuts of meat she preferred she said, something the locker plant might not understand how to do. She did tell Clyde to make sure they got back the kidneys and tongue, along with the neck bones and even the tail, as she had heard those people at the facility sometimes kept those things, along with the hide, as part of their fee. Those were all good parts and shouldn’t go to waste or into dog food, as she had been warned could happen; cowhides came in handy for a lot of things as well, and she didn’t intend to let this one go, even if it did cost a little extra to keep it.

  Lucy Tallwoman told her husband, Thomas, she intended to bring a considerable amount of fry-bread dough, already mixed and ready to pat out and drop in the hot oil. Fry-bead had to be eaten freshly cooked to be right she said. She also made a succotash of corn, beans, and squash, just as the Diné had done since they came into that country. Her grandmother had said the dish was given to them in ancient times by their Pueblo neighbors, who she guessed had invented it. Thomas Begay would stop in town for ice to fill Sue’s washtub, already packed with sodas and bottles of water.

  This was to be the official naming day for Charlie and Sue’s son, who was already toddling about and getting in the way of the flurry of preparations in his honor. Only family and close friends knew his Navajo name: Ashkii Ana ‘Dlohi or Laughing Boy. That was from a book Charlie had read at university. Navajo children often have their pet names changed as they grow, usually marking a single memorable incident or happening in their lives. Sometimes one of these names will stick—not always a happy thing for the child. Sue had a cousin who still carried his childhood name of “Mudhead,” which his brothers’ thought fit him at the time. Sue’s son had already gone by several names, and there would be others as time went on. Today, however, his real “birth certificate” name would be made known—the name listed on the tribal rolls, and the one that would identify him for all time as a member of the Navajo Nation: Wiley Joseph Yazzie. Sue had first suggested it, saying she had got the idea from a movie, and Charlie, after thinking it over, thought it good enough. Joseph had been his grandfather’s name, and he wished his grandmother had lasted long enough to hear it.

  When everyone arrived, the men went around shaking hands (as Navajos are prone to do at the slightest opportunity) and talking while they had a soda, as the women got busy with the food. Harley Ponyboy and his wife Anita arrived last, bringing a pot of pinto beans and a huge container of her specialty—green chili with pork. Lucy Tallwoman’s father, Old Man Paul T’Sosi, teamed up with Aunt Annie’s Husband, Clyde, to man the grills and start the various cuts of meat sizzling. Clyde had brought a pint of fairly good whiskey in his meat cooler and from time to time he and Paul T’Sosi would have a little nip when they thought no one was looking.

  Thomas’s uncle, John Nez, had been invited along with his white live-in girlfriend, Marissa, who was now considered his new wife by most people up near Navajo Mountain, where John Nez had recently been elected to the tribal council. No one up there thought the less of him for “marrying” a white woman. It had turned out to be a mutually beneficial arrangement as it provided anthropologist Marissa an “in” that might only be dreamed about by less fortunate students of the culture. There were more than a few whites living on the reservation, some as spouses of Indians, and it no longer carried the stigma it once had. Still, secretly, each culture looked askance at the practice and didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  Charlie Yazzie, along with Thomas Begay and Harley Ponyboy, gravitated to the far side of the gathering and immediately fell to talking about the grisly discovery up at Pastora Peak.

  Harley, living farther away from town and without a driver’s license or telephone, had not been kept in the loop as far as the latest information went, and since it was his find in the first place, felt somewhat slighted, and said as much. “So… what? No one could drop by our place and let me know what’s going on?”

  Charlie looked up and shook his head. “It’s a long way out there, Harley. We’ve had a lot going on.”

  Thomas elbowed Harley in the ribs and laughed. “You should move closer to town, hostiin. If you want, I’ll hook onto that old trailer of yours and pull it up here in Charlie’s backyard.” Thomas was inordinately proud of his diesel truck and missed no opportunity to advertise its pulling capability. “The salesman said it would pull a house off its foundation,” he assured them for the second or third time.

  Charlie motioned his friends over to the corrals and glanced back at the crowd. “We got another update from the feds.”

  Thomas perked up his ears and moved closer. “About time.”

  Charlie hesitated only a moment before deciding these two should be kept fully abreast of developments since they were already a part of the case, and he knew they would keep things to themselves. He lowered his voice and went over the latest information.

  There was a positive identification of the victim, who proved to be a recent graduate and academic from UNM’s archaeology department named R. J. Tyler, apparently out on a little personal field trip. He’d not seen fit to obtain the requisite tribal permits, however, so his wife had dropped him off at a trailhead southeast of Teec Nos Pos, only three days before the discovery of his body. She was to have picked him up seven days later at a more distant trailhead farther down country. She told federal agents her husband was well credentialed and an experienced backcountry trekker. What she could not seem to tell them was why he had not secured the required paperwork. The Navajo Nation requires permits for backcountry exploration by outsiders, and especially where concentrations of archaeological sites are involved, permits might even involve a mandatory Navajo guide. The lack of permits in this instance was probably the reason the grad student had his wife drop him off, instead of making his presence known by leaving a vehicle at a trailhead. This was not an uncommon dodge among some backpackers—an independent lot—who, for the most part, don’t care to be on a tether. The Navajo Nation, on the other hand, cites an increasing number of people who insist on getting lost each season—sorely taxing tribal resources. Of course, Charlie also knew the guide requirements added a badly needed income stream for the tribe, and that probably had something to do with the edict. Navajo guides do not come cheap.

  Then too, there was always the possibility that a local resident would accost a likely stranger, and demand he buy an additional permit for crossing their “private” land. This “permit” was often more costly than the official one. It was better, some visitors thought, to ju
st pay if you got caught and avoid the double jeopardy.

  As Charlie reviewed the previous day’s fax, the only real evidence of foul play was the fact that all the man’s possessions were missing except his tent. Odd, Charlie thought, it was an expensive tent, light and compact, designed for quick and easy portability. Either someone didn’t know the value of such a thing, or perhaps already had one and didn’t want to bother packing off another. Contrary to popular conception, today’s Indians, aside from the occasional herder, seldom see the inside of a tent and couldn’t care less. Most of the traditional Navajo’s life is spent virtually “camping out” anyway. Camping as a recreational pursuit remains somewhat foreign to most.

  Charlie took a deep breath and went on, “Foul play can’t be ruled out, but based on the current evidence, the death might well have been caused by a fall or other accident.” He looked at the other two. “Don’t you think it’s possible it was accidental and some passerby pilfered the deceased’s belongings after the fact?” This seemed the most likely scenario to Charlie’s way of thinking. This, of course, left several niggling little questions: Why was the man naked? Why would someone take his clothing? “According to his wife’s description, her husband’s clothes had been well worn—including his hiking boots—not worth taking for the average person.” It could have been someone in dire need, he thought to himself, and there are people around there who fit that description, but even this seems unlikely in view of the isolated area involved, and one with so few inhabitants.

  Thomas looked up and across the pasture as though searching the cottonwood trees along the irrigation ditch for an answer. “I still say we take another little ride up there and have a look-see for ourselves.” He shot Charlie a searching glance and said, “Something doesn’t add up.”