Death on a Pale Horse

by Douglass, Carl;

  Dodge Maryboy’s mother and Lashena Tall Woman are cousins. Lashena is a Spotted Eagle of the Tall Woman clan before she married a young soldier, Emery Weatherseer, who was drafted to fight in the War in Viet Nam. He told her about being discriminated against; he was neither black nor white. Neither race of soldiers accepted him. His only desire when he was sent back to Viet Nam for his second tour was to get out of the army and away from the bigots he saw all around him. He and Lashena talked for hours, for days, when he came home on furlough and when at last he was given an honorable discharge. He and Lashena came to an understanding; they would leave America and live a true Navajo life away from those people who looked down on everything Indian. They took an opposite course from those Americans. They eschewed everything that was not Indian, not Navajo.

  Emery was discharged in 1969. He and Lashena took the bare necessities and rode horses out into the desert beyond the roads, beyond the reach of the white man’s radio, telephone, television, and internet. They built a hogán with their own two hands, hunted and fished, grew corn and squash, and had four children. It was the children who caused the authorities to find them. It was not as if they were at fault. Occasionally one of their children would encounter a distant neighbor child riding far away from home. Those chance encounters resulted in the authorities finding out where the Weatherseer family lived and that their children were not attending the white man’s school. The Navajo Nation Police came and forced them to let the children attend the schools in Blue Mesa.

  Emery and Lashena grew progressively dismayed when the children reported that they only spoke Navajo an hour or two a day, and only a few of their classes were taught in the sacred language. They were learning about places like Rome and issues like civil rights for black people. They learned almost nothing about Indians except that they were warriors who attacked and did bad things to white people; so, the white pony soldiers came to drive them onto reservations and to destroy their way of life.

  Emery started to drink. Lashena knew that Indians cannot use alcohol; for them it is a poison that takes away the Indian spirit. One late snowy night, he fell off his horse, struck his head, and died out there in the cold. Lashena blamed the whites; she blamed their school and their police, including the Indian officers. She tried to reclaim her children, but they were under the spell of the white demons in the school. Lashena changed her name back to Tall Woman. The children graduated from school and fled the reservation.

  Lashena vowed to make change in the school system—to make it more nurturing of the Indian way and spirit—her lifetime goal. She found like-minded people from the tribe and even from the despised Hopis and Zunis. A group of forty real Indians became a driving force for change. They had a lawyer who helped them form the Navajos of 1491. During this year, this election year, they became political. No one else that they knew was interested in getting a real Indian elected; so, they began to fight for their champion, a man named Leland Biakeddy from Utah. It seemed to be a doomed mission, and they had no illusions. He was from Utah, up around Navajo Lake; he was a Democrat; and he was opposed to the modernization of education on the reservation at the expense of the Navajo heritage and culture. All of those made him an unlikely candidate, but the 1491ers were a very determined minority vowing to effect change.

  When her sister Esmé’ Spotted Eagle’s boy—rides up to the front door of her hogán, it takes her a moment to remember that he would be named Maryboy like his father. It has been that long since she and Esmé communicated. The years fly by too fast.

  Dodge dismounts and walks to the rough-hewn door of Lashena’s hogán. As a good Navajo should, he patiently stands in front of the rectangular door of the eight-sided earthen hut and waits to be invited in.

  Lashena opens the door and quickly frowns and takes a small step back when she sees his Navajo Nation Police uniform.

  “You’re Esmé’s boy, right?” she asks, making no move to invite him in—a discourtesy even towards a stranger.

  “Yes, I’m Dodge.”

  “And you’re one of their police.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You here on police business?”

  “Yes, I am, Lashena. Can I come in and talk?”

  “How many frogskins they give you to betray your people, Dodge, hmmh?”

  He ignores the insulting attack.

  “No. I have to let them take away my kids to school, have to have the Americans run our government, make our roads, control our lives outside our homes, but I don’t have to let them into my home without a warrant. That’s American law. Sometimes Navajo law is even more definite about who can come in. We’ll talk out here.”

  An unknown traveler—weary and far from home—may stop at a hogán along his way and be assured that he will be welcomed. Although he is a stranger in the sense that he has never been seen before, he will be taken in and cared for. That is the Navajo way. Apparently the ‘Navajo Way’ is not in force for Dodge Maryboy today.

  “All right, Lashena, but you’re making a mistake. I have to have answers. You know why I’m here. If you won’t talk to me, then there’ll be others who don’t care about family like I do who will come out here.”

  “Let them come.”

  “There have been three murders on res, including one in Utah. Every one of them was a person involved in our schools and in the education of our children. More than that, they were all members of a group I know you’ve heard about, the Save the Minds of the Navajo Children. I know you are a member of the Navajos of 1491 who oppose everything Bertha Yazzie, Sialea-lea Biakeddy, Hyrum Kieyoomia, and the rest want to accomplish for our children.”

  “And turn them into pretty little blond white Navajo robots like their own kids—can’t ride, can’t speak the language, don’t know about our real history of struggles against the white intruders, thieves, and murderers.”

  “That about sums up the attitudes. We know the murdered people received threats, and there is no doubt who sent those threats, Lashena. I need to get information I can use, or I am going to have to bring you in for obstruction of justice.”

  “You and what army, Dodge Maryboy?”

  She made an elaborate theatrical effort to look out of her hogán door to see the ‘army.’

  “Answer me a few questions, and I’ll ride back the way I came.”

  “Like what?”

  “Who killed those three innocent Navajos? Was it you? Did you help in the killings? Who is behind them? Who stands to benefit?”

  “You have some nerve asking me if I killed them. They are part of the people who committed the massacres at Sand Creek and Bended Knee.”

  “That was a century ago, and not relevant to the three murders I am investigating.”

  “There is every relevance. Us Navajos—us real Navajos—have to be the ‘homeland security’ for the nation. We have always had to fight. Maybe those three dead people were just combatants that fell in this new set of battles to save our way of life. We’ve been at it since 1492, what’s different now?”

  “You did not answer my questions. Tell me where you were during the past several days, please.”

  “Now, I need an alibi? What have things come to? I was here … alone. Nobody saw me here or any place else for that matter. And, since you ask, I did not kill anybody. I am an activist, but I am not a murderer.”

  Lashena is angry and working herself up to a smoldering rage.

  “Then, who did kill them? Give me something to work on, or I will have to take you in for obstructing a legal police investigation at the least.”

  Lashena has no stomach for going into Blue Mesa for a grilling. She has some secrets that the police would probably be able to ferret out, and it is best if those secrets do not come out.

  “Okay. I give you some names and you leave me alone.”

  “Depends.”

  Lashena reluctantly relents, “You might want to talk to Patrick Joe, Fred Chee, Jay Wauneka, Herb Tavare, Zonnie Whitehorse, and Tsosie Halne’
é, the medicine men who have anything to do with the Painted Desert. None of them make any bones about their opposition to the new ways in the schools or for their dislike of the troublemakers either, for that matter. If you are so sure that one of the 1491 people did it, there’s a place to start. Good luck with that.”

  “I’ll go with that for now, Lashena, but don’t be too surprised if I come back. My partner and I are going to get the murderer or murderers and anyone who helps them and obstructs the law. Count on it.”

  Lashena puts her head out in another theatrical looking gesture and says, “It’s raining out. Don’t yell when it is raining. Maybe you will be struck by lightning, Mr. Navajo Nation policeman, Mr. White Man’s boy.”

  She walks back inside the hogán and closes the door.

  “Thanks for the nice cool drink of water,” Dodge says sarcastically, talking to the wind.

  Naalnish finds the going easier with Hyrum Kieyoomia’s family. They produce a list of every member of the 1491 antiprogress group—including the supporters of Leland Biakeddy’s election campaign. Because of their good educations and relative sophistication, they also produce a chronological list of every attack and insult by every member of the 1491s they can remember. The list is more than a hundred incidents long and well documented. Naalnish is very tired and feeling down at the lack of specifics thus far in his investigation, but he now has a considerable amount of information. It bothers him that everything is pointing at the 1491ers. Maybe he has blinders on and is not looking at other options. He cannot think of any other options at the moment, and that bothers him. The stakes are too high for him and his career to lose objectivity and to make a major mistake. At least he has something to go on when he meets Dodge and McGee back in Blue Mesa in the afternoon. It is a long drive from Navajo Lake.

  Chapter Nine

  McGee divides the list of 1491ers Naalnish Begay gave him into three separate lists and arbitrarily assigns each partner in the McGee & Associates Investigations firm a third. They all have satellite phones, recording devices, GPSs, and the necessary weaponry for what they believe might turn out to be a regular cowboy and Indian skirmish. Each of them is able to drive more than a hundred miles before having to park their trucks and get on horses. For all of his inner-city bravado, Ivory is afraid of horses—mainly that he will fall off.

  Ivory bumps along the rutted trail on the rock-hard saddle and wonders if he will ever be able to have children after this ride. The colors are interesting but monotonous. Give him a view of New York from a skyscraper. How can anybody even consider living in a place like this? No noise, no buildings, no people; arid, barren, and almost devoid of the color green? You can’t even smell the air. By anybody’s definition, it is a very challenging place to live. The expanses are huge, and Ivory is daunted; will he ever get there and back? The Southwest region of the United States includes Arizona, California, New Mexico, and parts of Utah. The Navajo live on Diné Bikéyah [Navajoland], which is larger than ten of the fifty states in America. The Navajo Indian Reservation covers about 27,000 square miles of land—more than 16 million acres—an area larger than West Virginia and equal in size to Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island combined. It lies between Arizona and New Mexico and the fact that it is an extremely arid, barren region has made it a challenging place to live; and for Ivory, a very challenging place to ride.

  Navajo Nation is the name of a sovereign Native American nation established by the Diné—occupying all of northeastern Arizona, and extending into Utah and New Mexico—and is the largest land area assigned primarily to a Native American jurisdiction within the United States. Over decades, the Navajo Nation has become known as a wealthy nation in a world of its own; but for many of the 300,000 members of the Nation, there is only poverty and squalor. The Nation has a sophisticated tribal government that superficially appears to be autonomous from both state and federal control. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Government in the Navajo Nation has fumbled along and has been wracked with corruption and scandals from the discovery of oil on Navajo land in the early 1920s, which promoted the need for a more systematic form of government. In 1923 a tribal government was established to help meet the increasing desires of American oil companies to lease Navajo land for exploration. Navajo government has evolved into the largest and most sophisticated form of American Indian government and possibly the most wasteful.

  After a five-hour ride, Ivory finally arrives at the GPS location provided him by Naalnish Begay. He is looking at a trailer without wheels. Of five homes clustered between two protective maroon-colored cliffs, two are masonry and stucco, two are trailers, and one is a traditional hogán. Two boys and a girl are playing an intensely competitive game of basketball on a court improvised on hard-packed clay dust. In Navajo land, there are only two sports that matter—basketball and rodeo. It is a little early for the rodeos to get going. Dibé [sheep] are feeding in a small corral—sheep are a source of food but also are an important part of Navajo culture.

  In many places on the reservation, vehicles have replaced horses and walking sheepherders. Today’s sheepherders are more likely than not to live in a double-wide trailer with air-conditioning powered by electricity. They have a concrete basketball court and a nice truck parked in the yard and as many as five satellite dishes on the roof. Honored Grandmother lives nearby. She has three sheep and a dog. She takes the sheep out daily and brings them back to the pen, returns to her home, and starts over the next day like the rest of the family. They often eat together and remain close-knit families.

  Atsidi Nezbah lives too far out into the desert to have all of those accoutrements of modern living, and he would not have them even if they were available and affordable. His home has no electricity or indoor plumbing. Atsidi makes a meager living creating silver and turquoise jewelry between visits to neighbors who live 100 to 200 miles away to perform the ancient traditional Navajo rituals, usually the Enemy Way or the Night Way ceremonies to restore someone to health. Atsidi—like many other recognized medicine men—is fairly well compensated for his efforts, but the opportunities are decreasing as more Navajos convert to Christianity—especially Mormonism—and more Navajos embrace modern education.

  Atsidi has invited three of his fellow medicine men to join in the discussion with Ivory White, evidence that at least some of the fundamentalist Diné Hatałiis [medicine men] are concerned with the suspicion that the 1491ers might be involved in the three recent murders. Ivory is a head taller and four shades darker than the four hataliis, and the small main room in the trailer is crowded. They somehow find sitting room. The Spartan lodging has a propane stove, a table, futon, and a twin bed, and boxes of National Geographic magazines and well-thumbed photo albums. Headroom is diminished by a narrow counter for cooking and shelves for pans and dishes. Newspapers and alfalfa are strewn on the floor for insulation and to manage dust and vermin.

  They shake hands, and the men smile at the newcomer—a novelty in their experience. Two of them have never seen a Negro, and none of them has ever had a black man in his home.

  “Yá’át’ééh [Welcome], Buffalo Soldier,” Atsidi says.

  “What’s a Buffalo Soldier?” Ivory asks.

  “A black soldier who works for the white man’s cavalry … it’s a historical thing,” Toh Yah Blue Horse says.

  “I take it that’s not a favorable reference,” Ivory says.

  “It’s history, the past. We don’t have any other way to think of you, and it is kind of a joke. No disrespect intended,” replies Niichaad Manymules, a very fat and pleasant man.

  “None taken.”

  Atsidi says, “You have come a long distance, and by the way you are squirming in your seat, it doesn’t look like you enjoyed the horseback trip. We should talk about why you came so you can get to a bed.”

  “You already know why I’m here. What can you tell me? I am presuming that you had nothing to do with the killings unless I can’t get good information from you, or I later get s
ome evidence that changes my mind. I’m not a cop; I am just helping a friend. He and I worry that someone is targeting good people. I hope you feel the same way, my friends.”

  “We do, and would do whatever we can to help. The people who want to preserve the Navajo ways are getting a bad name, and we don’t want that. We have talked to our friends around the res, and we know that they have been uncooperative. They just don’t trust outsiders and for good reason. But we are as sure as we can be that none of us killed anybody. Maybe you have heard of the rider on the pale horse, Ivory?”

  “I have. I believe the sightings; and they certainly seem to indicate an Indian fundamentalist sending a message—a threat, in fact.”

  “That is so,” says Quincy Tahoma. “I am from the ‘Azee’tsoh Dine’4 [Big Medicine People] clan. None of my people know of anyone who might have done these bad things. We have branched out to contact the B88h Bitoodnii [Deer Spring People], the B88htsoh Dine’4 [Big Deer People], the Deeshchii’nii [Start-of-the-Red-Streaked People], and many of the D0lii Dine’4 [Blue Bird People] clans. Nobody in these clans has any idea where this pale rider comes from or why he is killing—if, in fact, he is killing our tribe members.

  “And among all of us, we can say the same thing for the Dichin Dine’4 [Hunger People], the Dzaan44z {1n7 [Many Mules Clan], the Hooghan {1n7 [Many Hogáns Clan], the Jaa’yaal0olii Dine’4 [Sticking-up-Ears People], and the K’ai’ Ch’4b1anii [Line-of-Willows-Extend-out-Gray People]}. And they talk to many more of the people. We do not believe that our people—even crazy ones—did this. There are too many that we have talked to. One of them would know, and they would talk to us,” adds Niichaad Manymules.

  “So, what do you think is going on?” asks Ivory, looking intently into the eyes of the four medicine men.

  “It is respectful of you to ask, Buffalo Soldier,” replies Atsidi. “That means we can talk as equals, as friends.”

  Shiye Tapahonso speaks up for the first time, “We would not tell you how to do your duty, but we wish you to carry back a message to the tribal police. A man cannot chase two rabbits and hope to catch either one of them. We believe that the police are chasing the wrong rabbit. Maybe someone should ask who really stands to gain from the deaths of these people. Many things go on here. We are starting into the time of elections, and that is always a dark time on the reservation. There are those who want to have influence over the people on the council and will go to great lengths to get that influence. There are people who would change the school system to make our Navajo children into white people. That happened in a terrible time not so long ago when our boys and girls were bused away to white people’s boarding schools. Other members of our tribe want to change the schools so that our children learn our language and our ways and not lose our culture. Some want power so they can make money—like the mine people and the oil company owners. It is not wrong to investigate somebody like the man on the pale horse, but maybe somebody should look in other directions to find the right rabbit. That is all we have to say.”