“For one thing, he’s not interested in stealing a man’s food unless he is really enjoying it. You was acting real hungry. And for another, ’cause he knows better. I’m on to all his tricks.”
Tricks? “What else does he do?”
“Oh, he likes to steal things besides food. Old Sidewinder’ll sneak away with your car keys if he gets half a chance. Or your boots.”
Moon’s scowl grew darker. “I don’t much like this dog.”
Sidewinder’s tongue hung over his lips. He grinned at the owner of the Columbine.
Bushman considered the dog’s demeanor, then glanced at his boss. “You know, Charlie—I think he’s fond of you.”
As if to corroborate this conjecture, Sidewinder wagged his tail. And slobbered.
THE CHAIRMAN
It was well into the afternoon when Charlie Moon cocked his ear at the distant sound of an engine. Wasn’t Bushman’s pickup. The old Dodge eight-cylinder needed a valve job; a man could hear the clickety-clacking a quarter-mile away.
He went to a window that faced the long driveway. A maroon Buick was barely managing to stay ahead of a boiling billow of dust. Whoever it was had gotten past Bushman’s place, which served as a sentry post to determine who could go on to the big house and who must return several miles to the paved highway. If Pete wasn’t at home, Dolly would hear intruders coming, flag them down, and ask them to state their business with the Columbine spread. Nobody got past Dolly without a good story.
The dusty automobile rocked to a stop behind Moon’s Ford pickup. The Ute knew who was driving before he saw the gray-haired, stoop-shouldered figure of Oscar Sweetwater emerge from the low-slung sedan. Oscar—having ousted Betty Flintcorn in a recent election—was now the distinguished chairman of the Southern Ute Tribal Council.
Moon went outside to greet the tribal elder, heard complaints about what the bumpy ranch road had done to the Buick’s shock absorbers. After promising to grade the road, he ushered Oscar into the parlor, got him into a comfortable chair.
“You want something to drink?”
The tribal chairman nodded at the fireplace. “Something hot.”
Five minutes later, Moon returned with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. “I’m glad to see you.”
Oscar Sweetwater nodded. “Thought you would be.” He took a sip of the coffee. “But you’re wondering why I’m here. You know I don’t generally drive myself this far from home.”
Moon didn’t admit that the chairman had read his mind.
Oscar grinned, exposing a well-crafted set of artificial dentures. “Well, I’ll tell you. I’m on a secret mission.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It is. Nobody knows I’m here.” The grin morphed into a slight frown. “Well, except my wife. You know Nora—she’s got to know everything.” The old man stretched his legs. “You got a nice place here.”
“Thanks.”
“Being head of a big operation like this must keep you pretty busy.”
“I got a foreman to look after things. And some cowboys.”
The chairman eyed the magnificent furnishings. “Looks like you’re a rich man now.”
Uh-oh. Oscar’s sniffing out a donation for his favorite tribal project. “If land was money, I’d be sitting pretty.”
“Don’t ever give up your land. That’s a big mistake some of us Utes made a long time ago. A lot of our people sold the parcels they got from the government. That’s why a map of the reservation looks like a patched blanket.” He placed the empty coffee cup on a polished mahogany table. “Charlie—I heard how you found that little Zuni girl who got lost over at the ruins by Chimney Rock. Nice piece of work.”
“I just happened to be in the right place.”
Sweetwater thought about this. “It’s a God-given talent—being in the right place. At the right time.”
Moon waited.
“And you found that picture on the sandstone.”
“The little girl showed it to me.”
The tribal chairman stared at the fireplace. Reflected flames danced in his dark eyes. “How does a five-year-old girl find what all those educated people didn’t know about?”
Moon was not about to mention Dr. Amanda Silk’s theory that the petroglyph was a hoax. “Hard to say.”
Oscar Sweetwater offered his host an enigmatic half smile. “There’s talk going around.”
“There usually is.”
“Some people are saying that an old Anasazi haunt showed the little Zuni girl that picture of the Twin War Gods.”
Moon sipped at his coffee. Knowing that, sooner or later, the chairman would get to the point.
Oscar rocked in the chair. “Yesterday, I stopped by to see your aunt.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She told me something bad is going to happen.”
“Something bad is always happening.”
The chairman folded wrinkled hands over his belly and closed his eyes. “Daisy says there’ll be some big trouble on Ghost Wolf Mesa. On account of that Twin War Gods rock picture.”
Moon preferred to steer the conversation away from his aunt’s premonitions. “So how’s the tribal government getting along?”
“Not bad. But we’re kind of shorthanded in some departments.” Oscar Sweetwater opened an eye to peek at Moon. “Too bad you’ve got so many things to occupy your time.”
“Why’s that?”
The tribal chairman made a tent of his fingers. “Well…I sorta have a proposition for you.”
Moon thought he knew what was coming. Wallace White-horse—the Northern Cheyenne the council had hired last winter—had finally had his fill of tribal politics. Sure. Whitehorse had taken a hike. “You already looking for a new chief of police?”
Oscar Sweetwater seemed surprised. “Oh no. That Cheyenne fella is doing a fine job.”
“Happy to hear it.”
The tribal chairman gave Moon an appraising look. Like a horse trader sizing up a promising animal. “Way I see it, a man should work at what he does best. You were always a good police officer.”
Aha. They were looking for a deputy chief of police. Someone who knew the tribe and the reservation inside out.
“That foreman of yours—Pete Bushman—me and him are old friends. On the way down the lane, I stopped at his place. Dolly gave me a big piece of apple pie and a cold glass of sweet milk. Me and Pete, we sat around. Talked some.”
“No kidding. And I bet my foreman told you to help me find a regular job.”
Oscar furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. “I don’t recall him saying anything like that. We mostly talked about football.” The tribal chairman grinned. “But now that you mention it, I bet you and Pete would both be happier if you got off the ranch now and again. It’d be good for you, doing some police work for the tribe.”
“What does Wallace Whitehorse think about this?”
The tribal chairman hesitated. “You wouldn’t be reporting to Chief Whitehorse.”
“How could I be a police officer for the tribe and not report to the chief of police?”
The chairman leaned toward Moon—as if someone might have an ear pressed to a keyhole—and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What I had in mind was a special investigator job. Not a direct employee of the tribe, more like a consultant with your own business—contracting your services to us.”
Charlie Moon thought this sounded a little bit interesting.
Oscar Sweetwater could see that the former policeman was teetering this way and that, so the tribal chairman played his hole card. “We’d reimburse you for all reasonable expenses, including travel. A flat fee of one thousand per month to keep you on retainer. And the hourly pay is pretty good.”
“How good?”
Oscar told him.
Moon almost managed to conceal his pleasure.
“Tribe can afford it,” Oscar said matter-of-factly. “We have our hands in all kinds of businesses. Mining. Tourism. Gas leases…�
��
“Don’t forget the casino.”
Oscar Sweetwater nodded. “Gaming is a lucrative business for the tribe. I see it as a tax on those unfortunate people who don’t understand the laws of probability. Am I right?”
“Probably.”
“So are you interested in working for the tribe?”
“Running the ranch keeps me busy. Another full-time job is out of the question.”
“You could put in as few hours as you wanted to.”
“Exactly what sort of work do you have in mind?”
“Oh, this and that. Every so often, the council needs the services of a qualified investigator for”—he searched for the right words—“well…special projects. Issues where we can’t use our own police force. I don’t have to tell you that our tribal officers are pretty much limited in what they can investigate.”
“Yeah.” Anything beyond drunk and disorderly was handed off to the BIA cops. The really serious crime on the reservation was dealt with by the FBI.
“The tribe could hire a private agency out of Denver. But we don’t want no matukach Dick Tracy working for us—getting his long nose deep into private tribal business. You understand?”
“I’d need a private investigator’s license.”
“Our attorney has already done the paperwork.” Oscar patted his jacket. “I’ve got the application in my pocket. All you’ve got to do is sign it, we’ll mail it in. And pay the fees.”
Moon smiled. “You were pretty sure I’d be interested.”
“Sure enough to have a jeweler in Durango make you a new shield. Fourteen-karat gold plate. I’ll look pretty foolish if you turn me down.”
“I wouldn’t want to embarrass the chairman.”
“That’s the first lesson of tribal politics. So do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
They shook hands, and it was a binding contract.
6
The Sun showed the Twins over his turquoise house and asked them to choose whatever they wished.
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
THE GRAVE
THOSE MOST IMPORTANT of modern conveniences are not to be found on the mesa. Here is neither throbbing water pipe, nor snaking sewer line, no electric transformer jigs in sixty-cycle time.
Ghost Wolf Mesa is gloriously sweet in the warm light of day—and the temple Crag is lifted up to the very top of the world. But every day must end. Dawn Raven must fly away to where the sun sleeps. Before departing, she shakes the shadows from her wings, cloaking the land with darkness. On those nights when the moon’s thousand-thousand cratered eyes stare off into eternity, the ruins are soaked in a cool, ivory radiance. When White Shell Woman does not make her appearance, white-hot stars pierce the velvet curtain of night. These thermonuclear furnaces are so stupifyingly distant that the wise shun any thought of the cosmic arithmetic. Contemplating the vast journey those massless photons have made through time can unhinge the mortal mind. And there is madness enough among the prideful bipeds.
The thunder rumbled a booming commotion, a west wind arose and seconded the motion. The storm was gathering strength—and would soon envelop Ghost Wolf Mesa.
The contract archaeologist was snug in her camping trailer, which occupied a position in the center of the small parking lot. As far as Amanda Silk knew, she was the only living soul within the boundaries of Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. There were, of course, a great many nocturnal creatures out searching for food. Here and there, brittle bones of bygone ages rested beneath the sandy soil. And there were delectably eerie tales of faceless ghosts wandering hither and thither in the deepening twilight. But she entertained no thought of such things. It had been a tiring day, and there were necessary rituals to be attended to. First, a nice cup of tea. After removing the fragrant bag from a flowered tin, she poured precisely six ounces of water into a blue-enameled pot. When water must be carried in, one is not wasteful of the precious fluid. Because the propane stove in her camp trailer was not equipped with a pilot light, Amanda touched a long-stemmed butane lighter to the gas ring and was pleased at the pop, the rapid closing of a circle of blue fire. While the water heated toward a cheerful bubble, she removed a pair of vanilla wafers from a plastic bag. These were placed on a small china saucer decorated with impossibly pink primroses. Life, despite occasional setbacks, could be sweet. But it was up to a person to make it that way.
She seated herself at the kitchen table, the ledger open before her. It was a habit of long standing, closing each day by recording its events in the green ledger. Between sips of tea, she faithfully inked in the minutiae of the day. First, the professional tasks she had completed on the site. Problems encountered, problems solved. Being engrossed in this task, Amanda Silk did not hear the soft purr of a four-cylinder engine, or the crunch of rubber tires on gravel. Neither did she notice the momentary glow of headlights sweeping past a curtained window. The archaeologist did hear the car door slam, and looked up from her work.
There was a loud rapping at the door.
“Now who can that be?” There was more urgent knocking, as if the visitor was determined to dismount the flimsy aluminum door from its hinges. “I’ll be right there.” Everyone is in such a hurry these days.
Amanda took two steps to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
She recognized the voice, pushed the door open. What she saw was a young woman, dressed in loose-fitting jeans and baggy sweater. The pretty face was framed with unkempt blonde hair. So stringy. Why don’t these young people ever fix their hair up nice. Amanda stepped aside and made a delicate gesture, as if she were inviting a close friend into a cozy parlor. “Please come inside.”
Melina Castro—outfitted with heavy hiking boots—clomped in with all the grace of an Idaho logger stomping an enraged rattlesnake. She looked around. “You by yourself?”
The archaeologist stared at the graduate student. “You might begin by saying ‘Hello!’”
Melina blushed. “Oh. Yeah. Uh—hi.” She gave the small camp trailer another once-over. “Is April here?”
The older woman smiled. “She is hiding under the bed.”
The blush went crimson. “I—um—thought she might be—um—you know—I mean—in the bathroom or something.”
Pity these university students do not learn to speak conventional English. “She is not here.”
Melina pointed through the camp-trailer wall. “Her car’s parked down the road.”
The archaeologist stared blankly at the young woman. “Her car? April usually walks in from her stepfather’s home.”
“She was hauling her camping gear,” Melina said. “The schedule for Professor Axton’s Chimney Rock survey has been pushed forward.”
The kettle began to whistle. “Would you like a cup of tea? I could add some water.”
Melina ignored the offer. “April’s not in her car,” she muttered. “And I saw something in the trees.”
The older woman frowned absentmindedly at a bag of Red Zinger as if she had no idea what it was. “What did you see?”
“Looked like—I guess—a large dog.”
Amanda Silk dropped the tea bag into her cup. She probably saw a coyote.
“And I heard…” Melina lowered her gaze. “Something like—”
The older woman turned toward her guest. “Like what?”
“Sort of—grunting noises. Like somebody was working pretty hard.”
Amanda poured steaming water into the delicate cup.
The graduate student’s lips went thin. “I’m sure somebody’s out there. With a dog.”
Amanda nodded politely. “Do you take sugar?”
Melina pushed her face close to Amanda’s. “I think they’re digging.”
The archaeologist paled. “You surely don’t mean—”
“Damn right I do.” The young woman nodded grimly. “It’s one of those thieving pothunters that’ve been digging up half the mesa.”
Their eyes met in si
lent agreement. To members of that profession legally certified to excavate the past, there is no creature on God’s earth more to be despised than the skulking pothunter. “Reprehensible vandal,” the archaeologist muttered.
The student clenched her small hands into white-knuckled fists. “Stinking, sleazy, slime-sucking maggot. It makes me so mad I could just puke.”
Dr. Amanda Silk took a deep breath. “Well. I would never have thought they’d be so brazen—not when I’m right here in my camp trailer. It is just appalling.”
The student tossed her head like a young mare, and snorted. “The knuckle-dragging moron probably doesn’t even know you’re here. I bet he didn’t hear April coming. Or me. There’s some wind. And it’s thundering. Maybe April is already watching him—getting evidence.” She stared through the wall. “I’m going to go have a look.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Amanda shook her head. “That could be dangerous.”
This middle-aged woman was worse than silly. She was useless. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Why, it’s obvious—we should call the police.”
Melina grinned cruelly. “Is your cell phone working?” She knew the answer to that.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Still haven’t replaced that crapped-out battery?”
“I meant to pick up a new one. But I forgot.” I must put it on my shopping list.
The young woman set her jaw. “Well, I’m going to get a look at who’s digging. Before the mud-sucking bastard gets away. Or loots the whole site.” She turned toward the door.
“Wait,” the archaeologist said, “I’ll go with you.” Amanda Silk was already pulling her coat on. “I have a small baseball bat in the closet. If he gives us any trouble, we’ll club him!”
Melina smiled. Maybe the old girl does have some spunk.
Perhaps it was the rolling storm clouds, the rumbling mumble of thunder, or the murky twilight that had given way to true darkness. It may have been the small, still voice of common sense whispering inside the young woman’s skull. Whatever the cause, Melina Castro was now feeling considerably less courageous than when she had launched her intrepid expedition.
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