by Jay Heavner
One hour later, he pulled up to the entrance booth at Arches National Park. He paid the admission fee and drove up the twisting road into the park. For the next hour, he did a stop, look, and go at the many large stone arches in the park. The little brochure said that this area contained over two thousand of them. It had a higher concentration of the stone horseshoe like structures than any other place on earth, and his eyes told him to believe it. No two were alike. Some were single; some were joined. One group was three arches end to end. Some were delicate, and others were massive.
He drove on to a lot leading to the arch pictured on the front of the handout. It took a two-mile walk to get to the arch’s location, but it only a one-half mile hike for a good view still from a distance. Tom only had enough time for the latter. Today was going to be a long day, and he was not sure he would make Lukachukai by nightfall, but with the camper, he could stop whenever he got tired. Tom walked up the path past some petroglyphs and saw a sign that read John Wesley Wolf Cabin, Two Hundred Feet. An arrow pointed the way. Tom wondered what kind of a man would try to make a life in this barren, but beautiful land. The trail turned and twisted along a calm, but murky stream of water. He rounded a corner and stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes fell on the small old cabin, and his mouth dropped open, and he gasped. The old cabin looked just like Gerald’s in Canyonlands. Tom slowly walked forward to the small structure. The door was locked, so he looked into the window. The interior looked just like he remembered Gerald’s cabin. He began to shake. No. This can’t be. What’s happening to me?
He sat down on a park bench nearby to catch his breath. It took a while to regained his composure. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew he needed to leave this place and keep moving. Traveling down the highway would give him time to think.
Tom walked quickly to his vehicle, hopped in, and drove out of the park. He’d seen enough. The small town of Moab disappeared in his rearview mirror as he rode south on US 191. A sign announced the large arch to his left off the highway as Wilsons Arch. He saw the two signs several miles apart that pointed to Canyonlands, but he’d seen enough of that place for his liking. “I’ve had enough adventures for a while,” he said, his thought rolling out his mouth. “Hope I can make it there before nightfall.”
Another sign ten miles down the road announced a massive rock outcropping in a field as Church Rock. He could see a hole big enough to drive a dump truck in at the base. Guess they must have used that cavern as a church in olden days. Wonder what the acoustics were like when the singing started?
The road was in good condition and straight. Even in the under-powered VW, Tom was making good time. A few long, steep grades slowed him down, but these weren’t many. He passed a tall twin rock that looked like great hands had sculptured it, and it was right behind a large restaurant. If that thing ever falls, the restaurant is history. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near if that happens.
At the town of Bluff, he turned on US 163, a very scenic route that crossed the San Juan River. It was the largest stream he’d seen since Green River. Within a few miles, he saw another sign, Welcome to Monument Valley, Navajo Nation. It was self-evident why John Ford and John Wayne made so many movies in this area. The rocks, everything about this area, just shouted that you were in the Wild West. As he drove down the slight incline toward the massive rock formations ahead known as the Mittens, he thought he saw a blue box about the size of a phone booth along the side of the road, and then a bearded man with a headband running and a group of people following him ran by. Is this real? He kept driving, and they never acknowledged that they saw Tom. A quarter-mile down the road, he looked in the rearview mirror, but there was nothing there, no people, and no blue box.
At the little town of Kayenta, he realized he’d taken a wrong turn and needed to get back on US 191. “Too many distractions,” he muttered. This long cut would cost him an extra hour of travel. He found US 191 again, turned right, and traveled for another 45 minutes till he saw a speed sign for the little town of Round Rock. The notice was almost bigger than the town. If he’d blinked his eyes, he’d have missed it and another sign that pointed to the left and said, Lukachukai, 16 miles.
A short time later, he pulled the hippie microbus into Likachukai. It wasn’t much to look at, some trailers that had seen better days and many nondescript prefab homes that looked like they had all been cut with the same cookie cutter. He passed Totsoh Trading Post, the community’s general store. The Chapter House had to be around here somewhere. Tom knew from talking with Chris while in Vietnam, this was the place to go to find the house of Dark Cloud Benally. It served as the Indian town hall and information center all rolled into one.
He pulled into the parking lot in front of the building and slid to a stop on a skiff of ice and snow. The wind tore at his coat as he got out of the brightly painted microbus. Brown faces appeared at the windows and stared out at his vehicle. Suspicion was written all over their faces. Yup, they’re expecting another unwelcome drugged-out hippie looking for peyote, I bet. Can’t say I blame them. I got to get some new paint on this van.
He went into the warm building and looked around. About ten pairs of dark eyes looked at him warily, Tom didn’t like the looks of this, and he felt very self-conscious. He cleared his throat and said, “A friend of mine told me if I needed to find someone here on the Big Rez, the Chapter House was the place to start. Could anyone please tell me where Dark Cloud Benally lives?”
From Tom’s right, a man’s voice spoke, “Who wants to know and why?”
Tom couldn’t see who had spoken. Four men and a woman sat in that direction, and all had long braided hair and leathery faces. “My name is Tom Kenney. I came a long way to deliver a message to him. I was with his son Chris in Vietnam.”
Tom could see dark eyes widening as his statement sank in. The oldest-looking of the men spoke, “Hosteen Benally is in the back room. He’s busy helping someone with a problem. Wait here till he’s done. Then you can see him.”
“Thank you.” He sat down next to a fat and very pregnant Navajo girl. “Hello,” he said to be polite.
“Ya`at`eeh,” she replied. Tom looked puzzled. She smiled. “I said, hello.’”
“And a ya`at`eeh to you, too.” He smiled politely and looked around the room. The people had gone back to their business. Some were playing cards and checkers. Two played a game he did not know. Occasionally, they looked in his direction, but none seemed too concerned about the strange white boy who’d somehow found his way to this remote corner of the Big Reservation.
About ten minutes passed slowly for Tom. A door opened in the back of the building, and two people, an older man and a younger man, emerged. They were still talking, but Tom couldn’t make out what they were saying in Navajo. As they spoke, the man who’d questioned Tom walked to them and whispered into the older man’s ear. He seemed surprised and unsure as his eyes met Tom’s. He said something more to the young man who walked to the front of the building and exited. The older man then came to Tom, who rose. He had his hand out, which Tom shook. “Hello. I’m Dark Cloud Benally. I understand you want to speak with me.”
Tom nodded. “I think it would be best if we spoke in private. What I have to say is of a very personal matter.”
Dark Cloud said, “Okay,” and led him to a table in the back of the room. Tom figured the man was uncertain as to Tom’s intentions and didn’t trust him, or they would have gone to the back room and closed the door. Why should he?. If Tom were in his shoes or moccasins, he wouldn’t trust him if the situation was reversed.
They took seats at the table at the back of the room. Tom knew every person in the place was watching him but tried to ignore it. “So,” Dark Cloud said, “ I hear you come along ways to deliver me a message. It must be very important. Would you please tell me what it is?”
.
Chapter 17
Tom nodded. “I think it would be best if we spoke in private. What I have to say is of a very personal m
atter.”
Dark Cloud said, “Okay,” and led him to a table in the back of the room. Tom figured the man was uncertain as to Tom’s intentions and did not trust him, or they would have gone to the back room and closed the door. Tom could not blame the man. If he were in his shoes or moccasins, he wouldn’t trust him if the situation was reversed.
They took seats at a table in the back of the room. Tom could tell that every person in the room was watching him, but trying to be discreet about it. “So I hear you come a long way to deliver me a message. As I said before, it must be very important. What it is?” asked Dark Cloud. “You served with my son, and you were with him when he died, you said?”
Tom nodded his head. “We were friends, and yes, I was with him when he died. He asked me to give you a message. He said…”
“Stop. I want to hear the whole story. I need to know it all. I can cancel most of the appointments I have this afternoon and rearrange them for later, except for the one lady I see waiting. I’ll take her and be free in about half an hour. Then we can talk. Is that good?”
“Okay,” said Tom. “I think that would be better.”
“There’s not much to see or do in Lukachukai, but you could walk over to the Trading Post and look around till I get done.”
“Okay, I’ll do that and see you in a half-hour.”
Dark Cloud said, “Better make it a little longer. You’re on Indian time here.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s kind of flexible. Could be up to an hour.”
“Okay,” said Tom. “There’s no hurry. That will be all right.”
“Yes. Now you are starting to think like an Indian.”
Tom opened his mouth to speak about being part Indian but closed it. It could wait. “See you then. Bye.”
“Ah koo’ neh koo’. Goodbye, and see you back here soon.”
Tom nodded, rose, and left. He felt all eyes in the room following him, and they were overflowing with questions. As he opened the chapter house door, cold wind hit his face and tried to tear the door handle from his hand, but he managed to hold on and forced it shut behind him. The gust tore at his jacket as he walked across the frozen dirt parking lot to the trading post with two old gas pumps. From what he’d seen of the area, filling stations were few and far between. He made a mental note to fill up here and not take any chances. Running out of gas wasn’t in this desolate area would be bad.
He opened the trading post door and entered. The warm air on his face felt so good after having the frigid air tearing at his face. The five or six brown faces in the store turned at the stranger and quickly went back to their shopping. Tom walked around the store that seemed like a cross between a convenience store with the usual snack foods and soft drinks, a bulk store, and Navajo gift store. Large cloth bags containing items such as flour and sugar sat next to large cans of what he assumed held lard. Fortunately, most things had English labels, besides Navajo, but one little area off to the side had only the Navajo items. It had beautiful woven blankets and rugs plus locally crafted grass baskets along with other handcrafted items like knives, kid’s toys, and things only the occasional lost tourist who stumbled this desolate place would buy. It may not be the end of the world, but you can see it from here.
“Can I help you find something, young man?” came a voice behind him.
Tom turned and saw a man old enough to be his father. “I was just looking around. I got some time to kill.” Tom realized he and the other man were the only two left in the store. Somehow and for some reason, the others had left. “How’s business?”
“Not so good this time of the month. Government checks come around the first.” He paused and looked at Tom. “What brings you to this area? We don’t get too many tourists this time of year.”
“In all honesty, sir, I was planning on skipping coming here and being in Colorado now, but you might say the spirit moved me to come here.”
The man’s eyes widened.” I hope they were friendly spirits. There seems to be a lot of chindi roaming lately.”
“Chindi? What are chindi?” asked Tom
“You must not be from around here. Chindi are spirits and leave the body with a person’s last breath. They are everything bad about a person that can’t go to the place of harmony. They can make people ill, and some even die from the sickness they cause.”
Tom was a little surprised. “Sure sounds like something I want no part of. I think I’ll get a Nehi and some chips and sit over by the wood stove for a while. It’s awful nasty outside. Is it always like this, cold and windy?”
“It just turned cold today. It can get bitter cold in this valley, and it seems like it’s always windy.”
Tom got the soft drink and chips and paid the storekeeper. “This should do it,” and he handed the man two dollars.
“Yes, it will. Here’s your change,” and he held the coins out to Tom, who took them. “What’s your business on the Big Rez, young man?”
Tom said, “I’m here to see a man, Dark Cloud Bennally. I have something for him.”
“Hosteen Dark Cloud? I hope you got some good news for him. He took it pretty hard when his son died in Vietnam.”
Tom grimaced and took a drink of orange soda. “That’s what I need to see him about. I was with his son when he died.”
The storekeeper looked surprised, and nervously turned away. He was trying to hide behind a display of Slim Jims and pickled eggs. Seeing the conversation was over, Tom took a seat by the woodstove and nibbled at his purchases.
Several other people came into the store, made quick purchases, and left. The storekeeper made no more effort to talk with Tom and went back to his hiding place.
Tom wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe he’d committed a Navajo faux pas. He finished the Nehi and the potato chips. Still hungry, he purchased two Tillamook brand pickled sausages from the clerk who said little. Tom went back to the chair by the woodstove, sat down, and slowly ate the two sausages. There was no need to hurry. He was on Indian time.
A look at his watch told him it had been about 45 minutes, and Tom could see no reason to remain here. He finished the last of the sausage, got up, and walked out the door. The cold wind hit him again. Man, I think the temperature’s dropped ten degrees while I was here.
Tom walked across the frozen parking area of the trading post. The asphalt road lacked a centerline, marking of any kind, and traffic, but he looked just the same. He continued to the chapter house avoiding an ice-filled pothole in the parking lot. The door handle was cold against Tom’s bare hand as he turned it and entered. A comforting blast of hot air from an overhead heater welcomed him. Fewer people waited in the building, but again, all eyes turned to him but quickly looked away. It seems like my novelty’s already wearing off.
He sat in an old overstuffed uncomfortable chair with broken springs. Dark Cloud was still busy in his office, so Tom picked up some magazines and papers from the book rack next to him. He glanced at his choices, most of them years old, and laid all back except for the newspaper, The Navajo Times. The front page looked pretty standard like any newspaper in America. “Sergeant Jim Chee and Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn arrested a suspect for the murder of a local man, Ben Cruz, whose corpse was found on Shiprock. Navajo Policeman Chee said over the course of a four-month investigation, he’d discovered evidence sufficient to lead to an arrest. Bernie Hillary of Farmington was apprehended at the Royale Inn. Officer Chee said items found at the scene led them to Hillary. The motive for the murder Chee said was a three-way love triangle gone bad. Hillary confessed to killing Cruz and also the third member of the triangle, Nancy Feinstein. Hillary said he dumped her body in the San Juan River near Mexican Hat, Utah. An extensive search of the river failed to find the body.”
Tom’s ears perked up. A conversation flowed from Dark Cloud Benally’s office, but couldn’t understand the Navajo spoken. A young woman exited the room and didn’t seem happy. Dark Cloud appeared and motioned for Tom to come in. He
placed the newspaper back in the rack and entered the office room. Dark Cloud said, “Take a seat,” and he did.
“So, young man, you say you served with my son.”
Tom said, “Yes, I did. I first met him at the army base in Georgia. We went through air infantry training there and then got shipped off to Vietnam.”
Dark Cloud said, “During WWII, I served in the Pacific Theatre. The lady who just left before you, well, her father served there too. We were part of the Code Talkers, who provided secure and accurate information over the radios. She wanted me to see if I could get more disability benefits for her Dad. He got shot in the leg, and it never did heal right. I told her I would do what I could, but from the papers she showed me, I think he’s already getting the maximum. I’m goin’ give it a shot, but I told her the chances for success weren’t good.”
Tom said, “I’ve heard rumors about Code Talkers while in the Army. So, they really did exist?”
“Yes, some people know about it, but is still supposed to be secret,” replied Dark Cloud. “The military will deny it ever happened. We weren’t the first. They used some of the eastern tribes like the Choctaw and Cherokee for Code Talkers during WWI. The Navajos did secret communications in the Pacific Theatre, but Comanches, Meskwakis from Iowa, and even some Basque speakers contributed to the war effort in Europe and Africa.”
“My dad served in Europe under Patton,” said Tom. “He helped liberate some of the death camps. My dad’s a very strong man. He’s not a fellow to tear up easily, but whenever news on the TV has anything on the Holocaust, or the work camps comes on, he has to leave the room. I followed him one time. He didn’t know I was there, but I could hear him sobbing. I left before he turned around and caught me.”
Dark Cloud said, “War is hell. Any man who’s been in battle has seen things no man should ever have to see.”