Glenn nodded.
“Before it was mummified, the tissue at the top of the head was most likely exposed brain and congealed blood. The scientists estimated the mummy was a full grown adult male; approximately 65 years old at the time of death.”
“It's the craziest thing I ever heard,” Glenn said. “Anything else?”
Natasha shrugged. “Just one more slice of crazy, if you want it?”
“I can't wait.”
“Well, you can't see them because the body was mummified with its lips tight but, if you look at the x-rays, I saw them on-line, Pedro has a full set of teeth that are all canines. I swear. If he smiled at you, with that little mouth, he'd look just like–”
“A piranha?”
“Yeah,” Natasha said, glaring. “Yes. It's doubtful his people were vegetarians.”
“Little people,” Glenn said, shaking his head. “Franklin's last words. Oh, it's ridiculous!”
“It might be ridiculous, Chief, but it isn't new. I assume somewhere in your vast experiences you've at least heard of leprechauns, sprites, brownies, imps, elves, shall I go on? The notion of little people isn't new.”
“It's new to me. It's new here.”
Natasha frowned. “You make a pretty good cup of coffee for an ostrich. It isn't new here at all! We're surrounded by Native American tribes. As far as I know every one of them has a legend of some sort about little people. To some tribes they're magical helpmates, to others troublesome spirits bringing illness or bad luck. To many native tribes they're just plain evil. There's even a legend that the Pedro Mountain mummy is evil.”
“Are you suggesting our John Doe, or Franklin for that matter, died from an Indian curse?”
“I'm reporting what you ordered me to report, Chief, the history of the Pedro mummy. I'm the first to admit I don't know much about it; the history and culture of the American Indian is not my forte. But it is indisputable that the Native tribes of North America warn their people to be wary of one variation or another of the 'little people' who hunt and haunt the mountains and high places.
Chapter 19
Thank goodness, in all of Natasha's nonsense there had been a bright spot. The Pedro might have something to do with Native American lore. Meaning Glenn had an excuse to visit Johnny Two Ravens, his personal pressure safety valve. Meaning shared whiskey in the near future. But not just yet. First there were more protestors, reporters, and meetings. Plus, chats to be had and personal requests to be made of local law enforcement officials, including a sheriff who put too little coffee in a cup holding too much cream and sugar.
“I got my pride like any other man, I suppose,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “But I hope to God I'm not prideful. And let there be no mistake, I'm not politically ambitious. I was elected by the folks of this county to do a job and I aim to do it to the best of my abilities.”
Glenn listened, aware the man seated across from him had not finished but was merely choosing his words carefully. Both sipped for a moment in silence.
“But I know where my abilities end,” The sheriff continued. “I know I'm in so far over my head with these killings my hat is floating. I got manpower and resources but you can call me a liar if I tell you I know what to do with them. I hate liars.” He looked out the window at nothing in particular.
“Me and my predecessor, a fellow you worked with and knew well,” the sheriff said, looking the chief ranger in the eyes. “God rest his soul. We had many a long sit-down for coffee just to think things over. He had plenty to say about you, Glenn, every bit of it good. He had nothing but respect for you and your professionalism over that… Well, that mess a few years back. Couldn't talk highly enough of you. I have no desire, nor do I have the authority, to surrender my jurisdiction to you and I'm not about to do that, but for this single case, as you've so politely asked, I'll lend a couple of my officers to follow your suggestions. Just keep me apprised of what's going on and I'll stay out of your way.” The sheriff took another leisurely sip. “Or would it be better if I just deputized you?”
Glenn held up his hands in protest. “I've already got a badge,” he said, smiling. “And, frankly, I'm working day and night to keep from tarnishing it.”
The sheriff smiled too and nodded. He stole a look at his watch, grabbed the menu from between the sugar shaker and the ketchup bottle, and said, “It's nearly lunch. Going to stay and join me?”
Glenn offered a friendly wave and pushed himself up, standing beside the booth. “Thanks. But I need to have this conversation a half-dozen more times. I hope the others are as amenable as you.”
Chapter 20
Meetings over, jurisdictional spats hopefully circumvented, Glenn drove south watching the lodgepole forests he spent so much time in give way to unending miles of open country covered with sagebrush. He passed through Dubois, headed further south still for Johnny Two Ravens' place, a tall tumbler of whiskey and, with any luck, a little information about a little Pedro mummy. He'd brought the box with him; surprisingly without a squawk from Natasha. It lay beside him on the Suburban's passenger's seat covered by the heavy uniform coat he always carried as a spare. The ranger stared at the bundle, trying hard not to think about what he'd been told, and failing miserably.
Glenn crossed the boundary into the Wind River Indian Reservation and instantly relaxed.
He made the usual tour of Crowheart taking in the changes since the events of Apparition Lake. The Lunkers Galore Trout Farm was still there. Tommy Two Fists, the owner, was nowhere in sight but that was just as well. Ramshackle housing in stereo made up the remainder of the first block of Washakie Street, the only entrance to the town. The street was named after the Shoshone's greatest chief and Crowheart after one of Washakie's greatest victories.
The Crowheart business district stood much like that of any other small town but overshadowed by the shabbiness of the weary reservation. The town's one small liquor store and lounge, The Crowheart Bar, sat opposite the post office. Its owner, the transplanted Nez Perce Indian, Smohalla, leaned against the frame in the open doorway giving the white government Suburban the same blank stare all white government trucks received on the reservation. When he spotted Glenn, Smohalla smiled and waved. Some things had changed.
Down the street and opposite stood the Tomahawk Motel, still gray and vacant, still looking like the gray rocks found outside of town in the sagebrush. Mrs. Boinaiv, the owner, still rocked slowly back and forth in an old rocking chair on the wide front porch, as colorless and empty as her motel. Despite her usual glazed expression, even Mrs. Boinaiv took the time to wave at Glenn's passing. He couldn't help but smile. Things had indeed changed.
Glenn passed Shawn's Gas Station. Patrick Shaughnessy had bought the station for a song from Joe White soon after the latter's boy, Ed, was killed at Apparition Lake. Despite the name, Shaughnessy had every right to be on the reservation, as his old man had married a Shoshone woman. And don't think of calling him a half-breed. Two belts and he'd tell you half of his five foot, four-inch frame was full-blooded Shoshone. Two drinks more and he'd coldcock you to show the remaining two-feet-eight was all Irish. Shaughnessy had made long-needed repairs and slung a paint brush about and the old station had never looked better. The rusted air compressor had been replaced; air cost a quarter now. The windows were clean, the faded signs hawking oil and transmission fluid traded for new ones touting iced coffee and snacks. The vintage gas pump was gone from the side of the building; despite its shattered globe, it had fetched a pretty penny at auction. The bottled soda machine was gone; a new canned soda machine stood in its place between the front door and the now always-closed overhead. Shaughnessy was shortened to Shawn's, to save the tourists questions, on a big sign over the door. A ruined ghost of a man, Joe White had left the reservation for parts unknown muttering only that he wished he was dead. Now wife-less and child-less, he was overheard to add that he wished his father had died the same.
The F&E Grocery store remained in operation on the far e
nd of the main drag. The clerk at the register gossiped busily, trading her BIA customers their food stamps for her overpriced staples. The same three old Traditionals told the same lies, a little slower now, on the same wooden sidewalk bench outside the store. They paused, recognized Glenn for who he was and what he'd done, and they waved, too. Glenn watched them in amazement in his rear view mirror. You'd swear he was a celebrity.
The Wind River Taxidermy Studio, having just celebrated its third anniversary, was doing good business but, nevertheless, had lost its shine. It had also lost the mounted beaver that once occupied its front window. A coyote stood in the beaver's stead and looked proud to be there.
Just past the Taxidermist, Glenn turned off Washakie and followed the side street the short distance to Two Ravens' Outdoors Shop. He pulled to a stop and, as the dust settled, eyed the coat-covered box on his passenger's seat. He'd intended to take it in with him; he'd brought the creepy thing for the express purpose of showing it to Two Ravens. But, now he was there, he thought differently about it. Maybe he'd leave it in the truck for the time being.
Glenn stepped out, stretched from the trip, considered the item on his seat and did something he never did when visiting Two Ravens' place; he locked the cab. He took the steps in two strides and the porch in four, ignored the SORRY WE'RE CLOSED sign dangling inside the door, and entered to the jingling of bells. He scanned the shadowy front room and called out his usual greeting. “Hey, Tonto, where are you?”
The usual shadowy silhouette, Two Ravens' athletic figure in his ever-present rounded buffalo Stetson, stepped from the back rooms. But there the familiar ended. There was no usual greeting of, “What do you want, Ranger Rick?” No stepping into the light to reveal the copyrighted 'unsmiling' smile. No invitation into his inner sanctum. When the outfitter reached the light he revealed a dark and troubled expression. He carried two glasses and an open bottle of Jack Daniels with him. He set the glasses on the front countertop and poured a shot in each.
Glenn approached warily. “Troubles?”
Two Ravens nodded. “You?”
“By the bowl full,” Glenn said. “By the bag full.” Each threw back their shot. The whiskey exploded in their chests. Both exhaled fire.
Two Ravens filled the glasses again. “Ain't we got fun.”
They eventually found their way to Two Ravens' living quarters in the back, to a couch and a chair surrounded by modern camping gear, fishing gear, diving gear, climbing gear, and all things ancient and American Indian, drums, pipes, even a buffalo blanket.
Glenn told his friend of the bizarre attack on the museum, of the death of Ron Franklin, one of his best rangers, and of the object found in Franklin's arms, the Pedro mummy that, incredibly, Frankie had died to protect. That led to another story, of the find earlier in the week, when Rangers Pence and Maltby had found the old squatter, still John Doe, in the woods with the boxed Pedro hidden beneath his cold dead fanny. “I have no idea,” Glenn confessed. “What any of it means. If it means anything at all. But there is a serious parade of weirdness lining up.”
Two Ravens nodded, as if he'd expected it all along, then proceeded to tell Glenn about what he'd seen at Obsidian Cliff. He wound up his story with what sounded oddly like an opening line: “It was then I felt it.”
“The tremor?”
Two Ravens squinted at the ranger, as if the liquor were affecting him and he couldn't quite make Glenn out, but the booze hadn't gotten that far. “No. Not the tremor; the presence. The reason for the rock slide.”
Glenn shook his head, confused. “The slide was caused by the tremor.”
Two Ravens shook his head right back. Glenn scowled.
“Look,” Two Ravens said, trying another approach. “You know the legend of the Apache Tears?”
“You mean the rocks? Sure.” An unintended growl escaped Glenn's lips as he looked to the ceiling trying to remember the details. It had been some time since the chief ranger had given any tours that mentioned obsidian rocks. “A party of Apaches were ambushed by an enemy tribe.”
“The United States cavalry, actually,” Two Ravens said, correcting him.
“Okay. Outnumbered and driven to the top of a mountain–”
“A bluff overlooking what is now Superior, Arizona.”
“You tell it,” Glenn said, with an intended growl. “If I'm messing it up so bad.”
“Their arrows exhausted, vastly outnumbered, unwilling to give themselves over to the Yellow Legs as captives, over 70 Apache warriors intentionally rode their horses off the cliff to their deaths rather than have their lives taken by the whites.”
Glenn nodded. “And, when they heard the news, the grief-stricken Apache women wept over the bodies. And, according to legend, their tears, when they hit the ground, turned to obsidian stone. The grounds of the Indian territories are littered with these black stones for the evils done to the people.”
Two Ravens nodded his agreement.
“But we both know that's a legend,” Glenn said. “Obsidian is lava untouched by moisture as it cooled to black glass.”
“I'm not talking about what we know,” Two Ravens said. “I'm talking about what I felt when I saw the slide at Obsidian Cliff. We're not tourists, Glenn. We're travelers.”
“Travelers?”
“I don't just read smoke signals and deer tracks. Neither should you. It was the English writer, Chesterton, who said, 'The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.' I'm telling you what I saw. I'm telling you what the Indians believe, what I believe.”
“Okay.” Glenn said in rising exasperation. “What do you believe?”
“The obsidian rained down from that cliff because the earth is crying. Something is wrong here, Glenn. Something has happened, in the park or very nearby, something evil has come to the land.”
The question, 'What again?' was instantly on Glenn's lips. He bit his tongue not to say it. But, after all they'd been through at Apparition Lake, really, 'What again?' He wound up saying nothing at all, merely staring at his outfitter friend.
Two Ravens returned the stare, with an added look of genuine terror, and reiterated the conviction. “Evil, Glenn, pure unadulterated evil has been unleashed. I can feel it. And, call me crazy if you like, but I saw it. I saw Mother Earth crying obsidian tears.”
Glenn sat quietly looking past Johnny toward an unknown point in oblivion. Other than the distant stare in his eyes, his face was otherwise expressionless. Then, slowly shaking his head, he lowered his chin to put his cheeks in palms and slowly massaged his eyes with his fingertips. The agony Glenn felt was obvious to his Indian friend. They sat in silence for many long minutes.
“I'm not sure,” Glenn finally said, in a tremulous whisper. “If I can do this again, Johnny.”
Aware it was a time for listening, Two Ravens made no reply.
“I feel my soul is in freefall with nothing to grab to slow the descent.” The ranger stared, searching his friend's eyes. He saw no answer, only questions. He didn't blame Two Ravens. He wasn't making any sense and knew it. Glenn rose from the couch and started to pace. “When I lived and worked in the city, seems ages ago now, I took a lady friend to a magic show. The magician was world-renowned, touted as the best there had ever been, and it was an amazing show.”
Glenn paused to stare into space beyond the walls, remembering. “At the same time it was weird. All through the performance I marveled at how this guy could do so many astonishing things. My intellect accepted the thought he was doing magic before my eyes. Yet, the whole time I knew in my heart my brain was being deceived. Everyone around me was having a great time while I'm sitting there with a battle raging inside over the concepts of reality and fiction; about the value of truth. The magic wasn't real, I knew that, but for the sake of entertainment I went with the flow. I surrendered reason for fun. The magician stretched the bounds of reality and I helped by being willing to ignore truth.”
Two Ravens nodded but said nothing. Glenn resumed p
acing, exploring his thoughts and confusions aloud. He wasn't really talking to his friend anymore but to himself. Both knew without it being said their friendship was all the permission Two Ravens needed to eavesdrop.
“The incidents spawned by Apparition Lake were like a magic show in reverse. I fought that same battle between my head and my heart over what was truth and what was imagination. Throughout that ordeal my mind fought what I heard, felt, even what I saw. My intellect couldn't comprehend those things; yet my heart knew an unspoken truth existed that I needed to learn. To be honest, to this day I have a hard time reconciling what we saw and did with the things I've always believed.”
“Now this,” Glenn said, turning to make it a discussion again. “Johnny, I don't know what truth is anymore. Is everything I ever thought about truth wrong? Is there really any such thing as truth?”
“Yes, Glenn,” Two Ravens said with conviction and authority. “The truth you know is – and always will be – the truth. But you fail to realize that your truth is incomplete. You can't know everything; there is always more to know. You could live many lifetimes and never see all that is true.”
Glenn looked like a lost child.
“Truth comes from knowledge,” Two Ravens said. “At the risk of sounding like a fortune cookie… knowledge is a great tree. It sprouts from a seed. It grows. From the trunk one branch develops, then another, and another. The tree reaches for the sky, growing taller, spreading its limbs. Ever higher and broader it grows. As it does, the trunk – the original truth – proves itself a solid base. New branches, new knowledge, more truths are revealed as the tree grows. These do not change the base. They strengthen the original truth – if it was a truth – make it more formidable and durable. Truth holds up all other truth. It doesn't change, Glenn, it simply expands.”
Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Page 10