Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery

by R. Allen Chappell

  Charlie circled his truck in behind the corrals and as he and Harley got out, the Indian cowboys sat silent on their horses watching them, waiting to see how Jimmy John would handle these out-of-state lawmen. Their uncle hesitated only a moment before getting down from his horse, then approached the truck with the hint of a swagger, making the cowboys think everything was all right and that Jimmy John of the Bear Clan had things under control.

  The Ute knew who Charlie was, but couldn’t imagine what he wanted. It might be as simple as a few innocuous questions, maybe ones he had already answered. He thought he’d handled that Navajo policeman, Hastiin Sosi, about right the day of the murder. Sosi had been lucky though. If this tribal investigator hadn’t shown up when he did it might have been a whole different story for the officer. This Yazzie fellow didn’t even talk like an Indian. No, he would have to think about this a little…but not too long.

  When Charlie got out of the truck he pushed his hat back on his forehead and smiled at the pen of calves. “Those are a nice set of calves you boys have there…you must be running government bulls to make calves like those.”

  Now Jimmy was confused; this Law wasn’t talking like a white man now, he seemed different somehow. “They’re all right I guess…we buy our own bulls…from up in the Paradox,” thinking everyone knew about the bulls raised in the Paradox Valley. He didn’t intend to spar around with a Navajo cop who had no authority in Colorado.

  “Well, they look good.” Charlie smiled, “You must get a little more rain up this way.” He pushed his chin at the loafing shed at the side of the corrals. “You wouldn’t have someplace we can talk, would you, Jimmy?” The other men had gone back to working the calves and Charlie kept his eye on Jimmy as he spoke to Harley over his shoulder. “Harley can you stay by that radio? I’m expecting a call from Agent Mayfield. He’s on his way up here and might need directions. You can just toot the horn if he calls.”

  Harley looked a little confused at this, but turned back to the truck.

  Jimmy John nodded toward the shed, but was unsmiling, and more than a little apprehensive that the FBI might be on the way. He had already been questioned by the FBI man and thought he was all right there…now this. As he led the way into the loafing shed he rolled these things around in his mind and quickly came to the conclusion this Navajo was bluffing…that or he was being set up.

  The Ute wasn’t tall but he was built like a tractor and Charlie took that into account. The shed was open in front but inside they were out of sight of the cowboys…and of Harley.

  When Jimmy John turned and started to say something, Charlie’s fist caught him full in the mouth; still the Ute didn’t go down, which was disappointing, but he was stunned and his head listed slightly to the side. Charlie hit him again, this time in the nose and something popped. Thomas had said, “There is something about a broken nose that will take the fight out of most men.” Jimmy went to one knee with blood gushing, which in itself has a certain psychological value.

  Charlie had been in a few fights, but mostly when he was young. He had never been very good at it and could see now he had been going about it all wrong Having seen Thomas Begay put men away over the years it had been impressed upon him that taking the first shot was important. Thomas had always been first and then never let up––that was the second most important thing––you don’t ever let up. Thomas had mentioned how important that was.

  If Captain Beyale had not sent him the Ute’s rap sheet he could not have known of the assaults on previous arresting officers, and then it might have been him on the ground with a bloody nose. As Charlie stood over the man he was surprised to find himself fully prepared to kick him in the face, should the Ute be so foolish as to try getting up. He knew for certain it’s what Thomas Begay would do. He had never felt that urge before, but it was on him now and he intended to act on it should he have to.

  “Jimmy, I’m going to ask you this…just one time…then I’m going to get mean with you.” His voice took on an ominous tone and he sounded like a dangerous person, even to himself. “You’ve got a key to that trailer where Erdric died…don’t you?”

  The Ute shook his head and Charlie drew back a foot, but when the Ute cowered and raised his hand to wave him off he hesitated a moment as a tremor ran through the downed man.

  “That trailer was where I stayed…before Erdric took it over…like he did everything else.” Jimmy John was holding his nose together and his voice was muffled and weak. There was no more fight left in him.

  “And you took the turquoise amulet he had on him there in the trailer, too, didn’t you––the one Erdric stole from the ruins?” Charlie had known when he saw the matching beads by the body that James Erdric had the amulet. It hadn’t shown up in the FBI report, so it must have been taken before the tribal policeman arrived on the scene.

  Jimmy John hesitated, started to deny it, but thought better of it as he saw Charlie yet again draw back his boot. He nodded, groaned, and sat back, hands to his nose, gently probing, trying to push it back into some semblance of its former self. Charlie reached in his back pocket, removed a set of handcuffs and secured the man to a nearby feed bunk.

  “I didn’t shoot him you know,” Jimmy John’s mouth was so swollen Charlie had trouble understanding him. Seeing this, the Ute reiterated, “I did not…shoot…him!”

  “The FBI’s looking into that right now; I guess we’ll know soon enough.” Charlie moved to the front of the building and motioned for Harley to bring the pickup. The FBI agent should already be on his way and could make the actual arrest then transport the Ute across the state line. Charlie smiled, Mayfield thought he was coming to question Jimmy John in lieu of some new evidence, but would soon find the questioning already done and that he need only recover the amulet, and return the prisoner to New Mexico in Federal custody.

  11

  1075 A.D.

  Together

  The village was larger now with a few more second-story rooms built by the newcomers. Others moved to close in the far end of the alcove, adding storage and living quarters. In the spring they would begin a new kiva just for themselves; they had been builders in the old town to the south and proven craftsmen. The boy thought the elders had been wise to allow these people to join them.

  Not far into winter the boy’s new wife suffered the death of her father and he was buried in the deep drift at the back of the alcove. Her mother, and the orphan girl found along the trail, lived together then, and with only a little help from the community took care of one another. The mother was a skilled potter and was teaching the girl the craft, just as she had her own daughter. The youngster was an apt pupil and already did credible work for one her age. Most of what they made was stored away as dry clay vessels, waiting for spring, when fuel could be gathered and the process completed through firing. They would be ceramics then, and they, or some part of them, might last forever.

  The boy’s father and sister were only two rooms away. The old man, too, was failing, and the boy’s wife had taken up the burden of caring for the girl. The two were of an age and like-minded. His sister took a great liking to her brother’s new wife, and thought her being “Swallow Clan” a good omen. The two confided in one another and each learned things known only to the other. The sister saw in the young wife what she herself might have been, but was not jealous or ill disposed toward her on that account. As winter deepened the helpless girl grew listless and weak, but still the elders came to seek her advice, were pleased with what they heard and her position among them grew ever stronger. Her brother became her voice at council and thus he, too, gained importance. His words were well spoken and listened to as those of an older, wiser person.

  The harsh winter storms were thought by some to be a harbinger of a wetter spring, and that brought hope. Perhaps the Gods were listening now and their prayers would bring more bountiful crops and easier times. There would be people enough now to work on the dams and ditches, whatever rain might come their way could be sa
ved and meted out to the fields. There were turkeys in the upper reaches of the side canyons and in the spring, when they nested, boys could be sent to watch from hiding, and as the young birds hatched they could be caught and brought back to be raised in the village. There would be feathers for blankets then, and eggs for both young and old. Tamed turkeys were seldom eaten…wild ones were hunted for that. If only the rains returned, life could be good again. Perhaps then women who had remained barren through lack of food and too much hard work would conceive, and again the sound of children would lighten the hearts of the people. All that was in the future and still in the hands of the Gods. For now, wolves were foremost in their minds. The elders worried and their dreams were troubled. The boy, who was now a man, remained ever on his guard, rising before the sun each morning to watch the trails below the little tower and make certain there were no fresh tracks in the snow. There had been no sign of the wolves since the latest storms and he thought the weather might be keeping them close to their fires.

  His people had only two dogs left but if they didn’t have to eat them there would be more in the spring. These were smaller dogs, good hunters, and in better times mostly fended for themselves. They were kept close now to sound an alarm should strangers approach. No one begrudged them what few scraps they stole from the cook fires.

  The boy knew, eventually, the winds would turn and come from the south as they almost always did in midwinter; that would bring a thaw. Then the wolves would return to haunt them. The newcomers said the raiding parties seldom numbered more than a dozen––only a third of village numbers––but the raiders were hardened warriors…and desperate.

  It had been his father who proposed the great slab of rock be placed just at the entrance to the village. It had taken six men, with poles to raise it enough to lean against the overhang in such a fashion as to allow only a narrow passage into the village. In the wide space, just inside, a lesser piece of sandstone was slid into place in front of the entrance. It took three strong men to move it in front of the passage. On the other side of the barricade the trail was so narrow as to allow only one person at a time to approach––certainly not enough to force entry. No one had seen a village so secure from attack. As long as they could stay in the alcove they would be safe. A small seep at the back of the alcove might, with careful management, provide enough water for drinking, and snow could be melted. Nonetheless, a foraging party must eventually be sent to gather firewood and hunt what little game had migrated from the high country. Even then, he knew, the wolves would be waiting.

  It was in the coldest part of the middle month of winter that the old people read portents in the clouds and eagerly awaited the breezes, almost warm, wafting up the canyon from the south. This was the way of these Chinooks. They came just as the wild creatures were on their last legs and even the people thought they could stand no more. It was almost as though they were being tested and then finally awarded a reprieve.

  The younger people preferred to think it an early spring and that the worst was over. Older and wiser heads knew this was not the case––it might last only a few days… a week at the most, and they had best make the most of it. When winter returned it would come fierce and unrelenting, and torture them for at least another month, maybe two. This was but a respite and their lives might well depend on how they took advantage of it. Firewood was nearly gone and there had been no meat for many weeks. Even the dogs came under the calculating gaze of the elders, and were now relieved not to suffer those hungry looks. The dogs did not belong to any one person, but to everyone and probably, in the end that was what saved them.

  In the council, on the second night of the thaw, the elders debated the wisdom of sending out a foraging party. In the midst of the many uncertainties there were, as usual, a few weak and dissenting voices, but finally all conceded there could be no other choice. A small band of their strongest must leave the safety of the village and secure what was needed. Nearly all the capable males volunteered to go and were excited at the prospect––the young ones thinking it a chance for adventure, possibly even glory. Some thought any lurking raiders would surely take advantage of the thaw to move south to more favorable prospects and probably not present any real danger. The boy warrior chosen to lead knew better. He said they were wrong. His past experience led him to believe the outliers would first wait to see what opportunities were available close by before moving south. He knew they would be unrelenting when once they set their sights. The wolves would not let them off so easily as that. It was only through his success in the battle to the north, that he was able to convince every volunteer that they went at the risk of their lives and probably of those they left behind as well. Two older men then dropped out saying they would stay to help protect those who were left. They were farmers, too old they said, and best left at home.

  The leader studied them all, several younger than himself, and of the more than dozen volunteers, agreed two of them were too old. Even his father had wanted to join with them but was refused on the grounds he hadn’t the stamina to keep up with the others. Should these men meet with no evil at the hands of a raiding party, they still might come back loaded with wood enough to at least keep the kiva fire burning and perhaps enough meat, when stewed with corn and beans, to last through the worst times. While it would be easy going down the canyon, it would be much harder coming back and the volunteers were carefully chosen for that reason. Should it come to a fight he felt only three or four were likely to give a good account of themselves and that, only if they could gain the upper hand at the start. These men were thin, but strong and rested. He wondered if the same could be said of the wolves a larger breed and relentless in the chase, though they had been long on the trail, exposed to the elements, and probably with little to eat.

  The boy decided not to bring the dogs, even though some thought they might be put to good use in the hunt. He argued against this and said he thought they were better left in the village to warn of enemies should they become desperate enough to attempt an attack. There were only old men and women left to fend off those more seasoned warriors. Some of the women were probably more capable than the old men they must fight alongside, and even though the village was thought impregnable, one never knew what sort of trickery these wild people might come up with. They too, had their ways.

  “No,” he told them, “The dogs are best left in the village.”

  A young man of the newcomers agreed, and said things might have been different for his own village should they have had dogs to warn them. Their dogs, he said, had taken sick from eating a coyote and died. The few who had wanted to take the dogs relented, seeing the wisdom in the leader’s advice, and his position grew stronger, all now satisfied he was the right choice to lead.

  It was a more serious group that slid back the stone slab that night and ventured forth with the somber thought it might be the last some of them saw of their home. The people who remained watched the little band disappear down the narrow cliff-side trail, and held similar thoughts.

  It was only six or seven hours hard travel to the cedar breaks below, where they should find ample dead wood and perhaps even deer or desert sheep. It had been a long time since there had been meat.

  Just before their canyon ran into the larger lowland basin, they halted. A good hunter was sent ahead to wait for dawn, scout what game there might be and any sign of enemies. The more optimistic hoped to find tracks of the marauders heading south to prey on smaller, less protected settlements, thereby leaving their village in peace.

  An hour after dawn the scout returned with news of deer in the oak brush below the cedar draws. There was just enough snow, he said, to make tracking easy. This was good news and the best hunters were sent ahead so as not to frighten the animals with the sound of the wood gatherers’ stone axes.

  The leader took the scout aside and asked if he found any sign of enemies. The man shook his head, threw a worried glance back the way they had come, and said, “No, they did not leave th
is country before us. They are still back there, possibly at the village as far as I can see.” The man was known to be a thorough and skilled tracker; there was little chance he was wrong. There were only two possibilities. The interlopers had watched them go and the village might already be under attack; or they were waiting to ambush the heavily laden party on their return and then lay siege to the village.

  Within hours the hunters killed a buck fattened on acorns and piñon nuts, then butchered it for packing. They set to work picking the best and densest wood, breaking it into short lengths to be packed on their backs with tumplines about their foreheads. In the fall they had girdled many trees closer to the village, but those were not yet ready, Green wood would not be easy to break into firewood with stone axes, and all the easy wood had already been gathered, much of it within months of when they first arrived. Until the wolves moved on…or were confronted, it would be dangerous, and foolish, to fell timber and break it up with enemies watching.

  The foragers did not rest or wait for morning and again left under cover of darkness. Loaded as heavily as they dared they started for home with the breeze still blowing fresh from the south––temperatures mild in comparison to those they recently endured. They intended to avoid the lower canyon trail and take the long way around to approach the village from above. This, the boy thought was their only chance to avoid ambush.

  12

  Sands of Time

  Professor George Armstrong Custer was not one to take lightly a threat against his livelihood, and when Harley Ponyboy told him Charlie Yazzie was making inquiries into the business of archaeologist William Crawley, he immediately evinced a strong interest in those findings. He had already been suspicious of Crawley’s involvement in the newly formed salvage company, and based on what FBI Agent Mayfield had hinted, now believed Crawley to be the person the agent had been referring to in their last conversation. He had long been aware of rumors out of Guatemala linking Crawley to the disappearance of a coworker thought to be working undercover for the Guatemalan government.