Now three men were dead, and George Custer believed the situation serious enough to buy himself a revolver. He began wearing it even when wielding a shovel in the confines of the dig. Thomas Begay was quick to pick up on this, and asked Charlie Yazzie if he could borrow his .38 Smith. He said he didn’t want to depend on the professor’s limited expertise to protect him and Harley, should it ever come to that. And clearly, the professor seemed to consider it a possibility.
“No, I don’t think so,” the investigator replied after only a moment.
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing the gun is registered to me, and if you should feel called on to use deadly force––I can see that happening––it would most likely come back on me.”
“How about if I tried to only wing someone with it?”
“No!”
Thomas hadn’t really expected Charlie to let go of the gun, but thought he might at least refuse in a more considerate manner.
Charlie didn’t care what Thomas thought. He felt the situation spiraling out of control since the arrest of the Ute, Jimmy John, who remained in FBI custody in Farmington. The man was currently held on antiquities charges, but prosecutors hinted at something much more serious, murder, being a distinct possibility.
These were just a few of the things occupying the professor’s mind that morning as he worked to uncover the kiva burial. Harley Ponyboy stood nearby, and looked on with interest as Dr. Custer wielded what he called his “micro trowel” along the edge of the shredded cedar bark lining the pit. At this stage of the excavation the professor took over from his assistant, and it became Harley’s job to hand him various instruments of the trade, including a small short bristled paintbrush, and the professor’s own worn-out toothbrush brought in a shirt pocket just that morning.
No matter how many burials the archaeologist uncovered, each new one was as exciting as the first. No one knew what would be uncovered, or what information might for the first time, cast light on some question whose answer was previously only guessed at. To think he would soon view something not seen by human eyes in nearly a thousand years was pure magic––an excitement he could not suppress, or explain to anyone who had no passion for the science and mystery involved.
A layer of windblown dust and sand was delicately brushed aside, and added to the plastic bin that would later be screened for tiny artifacts that might provide additional clues. Already there had been several more turquoise beads recovered, of the same type associated with the turquoise amulet, now considered evidence by the FBI.
When a narrow perimeter had been meticulously channeled around the burial, the professor could see the whole of the thing was nearly intact. Due to the eons of desiccating conditions in the alcove he suspected the remains might well be mummified, a rare find indeed. The information learned from a burial in such a state of preservation might offer valuable clues to the culture.
Several ceramic vessels of an unusually high quality could be seen at the side of the burial and these, along with the previously found amulet, caused the professor to think this the grave of an unusually important person. He wished Charlie Yazzie could be there to see this, he was certain now it was no ordinary burial.
Thomas waited at the edge of the kiva with the long plastic container used to transport remains from the field. The professor looked up and shook his head.
“We won’t be needing that just yet, Thomas.” Dr. Custer seemed deep in thought as he began gently laying back the wrappings, the first covering a loosely woven reed sleeping mat. The professor had often excavated remains that still carried a moldy or even fetid odor––even after the passage of hundreds of years. But this burial had virtually no odor, even after the second cover had been exposed; a blanket of turkey feathers woven with narrow strips of rabbit fur, thick and full even now. It would have been warm, but lightweight, with the ability to breathe, yet insulate. The protected nature of the storage bin had indeed allowed preservation to an unusual degree. The feather and fur blanket was soft, supple and nearly free of insect or rodent damage.
Kivas were not ordinarily known to harbor burials and especially not in these Chaco-linked villages. Remarkably few burials of any kind had turned up in the great towns of the Chaco Canyon. It was still not known why this was so, or how this particular group of Anasazi disposed of their dead; another ancient mystery modern science had, as yet, been unable to unravel.
The professor took his time now, pondering each step and from time to time, made notes and diagrams in his field journal. He asked Thomas to pass down his old Graflex; a veteran of many archaeological adventures, then took several shots of each stage of the exhumation. Custer judged the light and shutter speed by dint of long experience, but still took the precaution of bracketing exposures, some at least, might be exactly right. He set the camera aside finally, and carefully lifted the blanket to see the mummified remains of what was obviously a young woman, dressed in a deerskin skirt and cloak so finely tanned and sewn as to appear recently made. It was apparent the person had sustained serious injury at some early stage of her life, lower limbs wasted and probably useless. She was draped with several strings of tiny turquoise and shell beads. Many burials of men had been found displaying funerary dress and offerings of this caliber, but not many women had been afforded such consideration.
This was not the first evidence the professor had found showing the Anasazi compassion in providing long-term care for disabled victims of accident or disease. Broken bones and serious injury from falls or rockslides were not uncommon among these people. There were even known examples of attempted surgeries, including the trepan of skulls to alleviate swelling of the brain, incredibly, a few patients apparently survived the ordeal…at least for a while. Splinting of broken bones was common, and some of these healed almost perfectly.
Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to send this young person on her last journey in so fine a manner, despite her obvious inability to contribute to the community in a more physical way, the professor couldn’t help but wonder, Was there some more intangible gift or service she was able to offer in return? It was probably the comparative security earned through agriculture, and its sedentary lifestyle that allowed so strong a devotion. The itinerate existence of the early wandering tribes would have made this level of attachment impossible.
~~~~~~
Charlie Yazzie sat entranced at his kitchen table as Thomas Begay and Harley Ponyboy related the recent discovery in minute detail, embellishing the story with their own thoughts and conclusions as they went along.
“There weren’t any evil hanging over this dead person, at least as far as Harley and me could feel.”
Harley agreed, “She seemed so comfortable there the professor decided to leave her “in situ.” The words were becoming a favorite of the little man and Charlie had to smile as he gave a quick lift of an eyebrow in Thomas’s direction, who, grinned in turn and punched Harley’s shoulder but in a friendly way.
The tribal investigator was pleased to see his friends less intimidated by the dead; he thought it showed promise of things to come. He gave the professor credit for helping with that transformation, but doubted it would affect their fear of their own people’s dead; that was a matter of chindi, and it might never go away. In the far reaches of his mind he was not so certain he was immune to it himself.
The professor arrived late in the afternoon, the three Navajo already at the corrals. Harley was to do a little hoof trimming in return for a haircut and some laundry. There seems to be a magnetic attraction between the Diné and corrals. They gather there regardless of what animals might be held in the enclosure and, if there are none, they discuss what could be acquired to fill them. An empty corral is an affront to the sensibilities not many can ignore, and the urge to do something about it can entail long and sometimes heated discussions. In this particular case, however, there were two horses to hold their attention. Horses have long been a favorite subject of Indian conversation, and they a
re still of vital interest to many.
One can ride horses or race them…or use them to rope or herd. They can be bought, sold or bartered, and those possibilities make for endless debate.
The professor recalled, only a few years back, how one could sit in any restaurant or gas station on the reservation and see people who showed a slight limp or lacked the full use of an arm or hand. Many of these anomalies were attributable to horse-related incidents, including missing thumbs from roping mishaps. Women, and children too, were avid riders and apt to incur various injuries as well, though not as many as was once the case.
Sue watched from the clotheslines as she hung Harley’s wash. The dryer was already full, and he had mentioned he preferred to have his Levi’s dried outside. He thought the dryer was shrinking them, he said, though Sue could see he was just gaining weight.
Joseph Wiley, even at three years old, ran back and forth along the fenced in yard and yelled for his father to come for him so he go see the horses. Charlie looked up from the corrals and waved but didn’t move to fetch the boy.
Professor Custer moved alongside the Tribal Investigator as they watched Harley catch up Sue’s mare and walk her around to see how she stood, and how best to do her feet.
“I guess the boys told you all about the burial in the Kiva?” The professor asked with a smug smile.
“Yes they did, and I have to say I’m surprised you’ve decided to leave her in place and not ship her off to the lab for evaluation. You’ve always said there was a lot to be learned from such burials.”
“I don’t know, Charlie, there’s just something about this entire situation…the murders and all, that makes me think it best we just fill in the kiva and let it be for now.”
So unscientific a view was out of character for the professor and though surprised, Charlie nodded and felt justified in the high regard in which he had always held George Custer. “Well, she’ll always be there I suppose, George, should you ever change your mind…at least I hope she’ll be there.”
“I’m working on that. A local historical society has agreed to fund an eight-foot-high chain link fence to secure the alcove from passers-by. It will still leave the buildings viewable from the new road, yet for the most part, inaccessible.” The professor gave a grim shake of his head. “Nothing’s forever Charlie; we can only do what we can do. We’ll backfill the Kiva with rubble and hopefully that alone will deter digging. I’ve already charted several more suspected burials in the back of the alcove, which haven’t been disturbed. I’ll have most of the data written up pretty soon, so I’m thinking it’s time to wrap this one up.” He leaned on the top rail of the corral to watch Harley tie the mare to the snubbing post and lay his nippers and rasp out on the ground.
The professor murmured under his breath, “Like you say Charlie, I know where she is.”
Charlie Yazzie changed the subject. “We should have final word from the Federal prosecutor’s office sometime in the next day or so, about charges the maintenance man, Jimmy John, might be liable for. They’ve been pretty closemouthed; that makes me think they are making a case against him in the murder of James Erdric.” Charlie frowned before going on, “Captain Beyale said Agent Mayfield has his people working nonstop.”
Professor Custer lowered an eyelid and looked askance at this news. Do they even know where Erdric was when he was shot?”
“Not yet, but they do know it wasn’t long after being hit that he made it to the trailer and locked himself inside. His truck was found in its usual parking place just outside the camp and with no sign it had even been used that night. The FBI figured he was shot somewhere else.”
Thomas Begay was now in the corral, feeling it best he just hold the mare himself rather than leave her tied to the post. She was still a little green when it came to her feet, and he didn’t want her to jerk back and maybe hurt herself. He had helped break this mare for Sue and had told her the horse still had some spook left in her. He kept an eye on the professor and Charlie, wondering what sort of conversation could cause them to look so serious.
Charlie turned and glanced a time or two at the horse trimming, then directed his attention back to the professor. “Funny thing is, the FBI doesn’t seem to think the gunshot wound was serious enough to kill him––turns out what we thought were knife wounds, were knife wounds, and one severed an artery near his heart. That’s what killed him.”
“So someone killed him after he locked himself in the trailer? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Charlie didn’t change expression when he answered, “It makes perfect sense, if someone had a key and was right behind him.”
“The Ute?”
“Looks that way. I can’t tell you more right now, Doc, but between you and me I would say it’s a safe bet that Jimmy John’s going down for this one.”
“Do they think he killed Hoffman too?”
“Hoffman’s another matter––I’ll let you know when I hear more on it, but I can tell you right now, that’s a whole different can of worms.”
Harley had one of the mare’s feet tucked up between his knees and he and the horse were doing a little dance despite Thomas keeping her head up.
“If you can’t hold her,” Harley yelled, “Just say so and we’ll tie her back up ta that post…I know that’ll hold her.” Harley was stout but he could no longer hold onto the foot and released the mare then jumped aside and threw down his nippers in a huff. “I don’t know why you untied her in the first place. She was doing okay just as she was.” Harley and Thomas often disagreed when it came to horses and it looked like this was going to be another one of those times.
Charlie and the professor broke off their conversation at the row in the corral and Charlie moved toward the gate hoping to get the trimming session back on track. “ Give her a minute, Harley; let her settle down a bit.”
“No, if I do that, she’s gonna’ start thinking she’s won and that means we will have ta go through the whole thing again. I better just stick with her on this.” This turned out to be something Thomas and Harley both agreed on and Charlie was voted down.
Sue called down from the yard, “Let them do what they want Charlie!” then whispered under her breath, “You’re not the one doing the trimming Charlie.” She thought, why does he have to interfere? Thomas and Harley both know their way around a horse; just because Charlie’s grandfather was a horse trainer doesn’t make him one. Sue was fast getting in a state. She scooped up her toddler and headed for the house before she said something she might be sorry for later. Her husband looked after her and it was the sort of look that made Thomas Begay uneasy as he turned to consider them. It took Harley Ponyboy some time to finish with the horses but even Thomas admitted it was a good job and he made the thumbs up sign to Charlie and the professor. Charlie appeared not to notice, glancing occasionally at the house and mouthing words no one could hear.
Sue peered from the kitchen window at the little gathering at the corral and felt a twinge of guilt… She should tell Charlie.
13
1075 A.D.
The Wolves
The little band of foragers made slow progress despite being accustomed to hard going. In the lowlands, the Chinook winds reduced snow to a freezing slush, making the trail even slicker and harder to climb with the heavy packs. A full moon made the path easier to follow, but once they left the main trail the way to the mesa top would become steeper and the wet snow would turn to ice; still it would all be worth it to avoid the almost certain ambush should they return the way they came.
It was while they stopped to catch their breath the tracker returned with bad news. The wolves were on to them. He had found signs of a scout on their back trail, only one man, but sent to follow them. The spy was keeping well back, and off the main trail––had probably been there from the beginning, and most likely still was. The tracker suggested he should fall back, lie in wait––kill him if he could, before their new strategy was reported. He was a young man filled with visions o
f glory. Should he succeed in eliminating this danger his name would surely be spoken in council. Perhaps then he, too, could sit with the elders. The leader knew his young friend, like himself, was more a warrior at heart than a farmer, and there was a good chance he could stop this new threat. In any case, they now had little choice in the matter. The wolves must not know they were going home the back way across the mesa. Returning the way they had come would surely mean a battle…and one they might not win.
When they finally angled up and away from the main trail for the climb out to the mesa top, the scout still had not returned. The leader hesitated, waited as long as he dared, then pressed on. They must reach the village before daylight. Too many lives were at stake to linger in the cause of one man. Though all were heavily loaded, each kept a weapon at hand, ready to drop his pack and defend himself at a moment’s notice. Their village could not fend off an attack for very long without them, and should that be the way of it, they were prepared to die in the effort.
The snow grew deeper at this higher elevation, the way more arduous, and there was a growing worry the man left behind to secure their back-trail, still had not caught up. They were nearly to the top when they paused to rest and in the icy moonlit silence a faraway cry was heard. It could only be the tracker, perhaps wounded and unable to catch up. The leader immediately dropped his pack and instructed the others to go on while he went back to see what had become of the scout. He carried his bow and a dozen arrows in the quiver slung across his back. The moon was bright, and reflected by the snow, allowed him to see a good distance down the trail. He became more cautious as he worked his way through the scant cover, pausing to stop now and again to study the way ahead. When he came to a small clearing he saw a dark form huddled at the base of a juniper. With an arrow nocked and ready, he eased forward, keeping to the trees above the path, and alert to the very core of his being. He stepped behind a snow-covered piñon and watched through the heavy branches. He didn’t move, remained perfectly still, and watched. Minutes passed, he grew stiff from the cold yet remained within his cover, Something is not right, he thought to himself, then sensed, more than saw, the flicker of movement at the far edge of the trees.
Wolves of Winter: A Navajo Nation Mystery Page 12