Lucy Tallwoman’s old father watched closely and whispered, “There is an old Dinè saying: ‘The first person to make a new baby smile, will always be that baby’s hero.’”
Lucy tilted her head, teared up, and murmured, “Awww.”
Paul looked more closely at the baby. “Or it could just be a gas bubble.”
~~~~~~
It was only twelve days after the baby was born that Sue decided Charlie was getting on her nerves and that it might be best for all concerned should he take a little trip somewhere, maybe up to see George Custer. He had already used up his vacation time and had taken extra time off to stay home with Sue and the new arrival. He hovered around Sue constantly to see if she needed anything and was forever picking up his son to check his diaper and listen to his breathing. Sue was afraid Charlie’s constant messing with him was keeping the baby from his sleep.
Lucy Tallwoman came as often as she could, but her father was still somewhat weak from his recent sheep-wreck, and she was loath to leave him alone for very long.
Charlie’s great aunt, Annie Eagletree, had hoped to come immediately after the birth to help out until Sue felt okay with things. But her husband Clyde had come down with a cold, and she decided she didn’t need to bring any sickness around the baby. By the time they finally did show up, Charlie was suffering from a severe case of “cabin fever” and was anxious to see how things were progressing up at George Custer’s dig near Aneth. He especially wondered how Thomas and Harley were getting on and if there had been any more trouble.
Aunt Annie and Clyde, when they arrived, brought their own housing with them—an eight-by-ten sheepherder tent with a little sheet-metal wood stove. That stove came in handy, Annie said, whenever they could find wood for it. They pitched the tent in the back yard, and Clyde immediately went to work on the garden, which was beginning to show signs of neglect. Clyde, who had once fancied himself a farmer, (though not a very good one, some thought), decided he could show his educated nephew a trick or two about gardening. Annie Eagletree, watching from the kitchen window, shook her head and had her doubts.
Sue didn’t feel she needed help at this point but knew Charlie needed a break, and would be easier in his mind if his aunt and uncle were there to look after them. Aunt Annie might be a “cop-show” junkie, but she knew a lot about babies, too, and was still quite spry for one of her years. She was the sort of take-charge, old-school Dinè woman that reminded Sue of her own mother.
Only a few days after the baby was brought home, Thomas Begay had called from the market in Blanding, where he had been sent to gather more food and supplies for George Custer’s camp.
After hearing all about the new baby, he filled Charlie in on the goings on at the dig, including the latest ransacking of the camp and what little they had discovered about the intruders. The new crew did not know about the previous assault on the professor and thought the ravaged camp the work of vandals, probably young delinquents from one of the area towns.
Charlie left for Aneth the morning following his relatives’ arrival, but not before Annie cornered him on the subject of forensics and what his take might be in regard to ballistic tests on shotguns. Charlie allowed, rightly enough, that he had never heard of any ballistic test for shotguns due to the fact that they shot… well, shot, pellets not bullets, and there was really no way to associate spent shot with one particular shotgun barrel. Charlie had never owned a shotgun himself and had little interest in them.
“HA!” Aunt Annie snorted. “My TV show last week said there is a way. It all has to do with patterning the shot at different distances.” She folded her arms across her chest, and Charlie knew she was spoiling for a fight. Ordinarily, he would have obliged her, as he knew how much she enjoyed it, but he didn’t have time for it this day. He just nodded agreement to the possibility and went on gathering his gear for the trip up-country. Annie had expected more of an argument out of him. She and he had been arguing with each other since he was six years old, and she was now disappointed that he would not give a better account of himself.
~~~~~~
The next morning Charlie was nearly to the Aneth cutoff when he saw black clouds, Thunderbirds, building to the northwest. If there were much rain in those clouds the rutted track into camp might soon be impassable. And once there, it might be awhile before anyone would be able to get out. He kicked the truck up to sixty-five and held it there until he hit the gravel turnoff.
Charlie had some serious reservations concerning the safety of the Professor and his crew. If the attempt on George Custer’s life was any indicator, things could turn ugly. With this latest incident reported by Thomas, he was more concerned than ever. He had been giving this a lot of thought lately, especially after reading Dr. Custer’s latest paper, which had apparently been mailed from his office before he left Albuquerque.
When he wasn’t changing diapers or fixing supplemental bottles, Charlie studied the professor’s latest paper and was convinced it would prove to be a very controversial take on the Anasazi Migration. There were definitely some pretty creative suppositions in the work—the sort of things that might raise the ire of certain people. Someone obviously had it in for the professor already, and clearly it had something to do with the excavation of the Anasazi site.
6
The Bigfoot
As George Custer directed the re-gridding of the site, Harley Ponyboy paid close attention, several times offering suggestions based on the memory of their previous work, suggestions that proved deadly accurate and saved a great deal of time. The professor liked this Dinè and regretted his part in the recent lapse in the man’s sobriety. Harley himself, however, appeared to have come to terms with his recent fall from grace and appeared ready to move beyond it. George Custer himself, on the other hand, desperately wanted a drink and was pretty sure he knew where to get one.
Thomas Begay grubbed sagebrush from the low mound of what had once been a middens or refuse heap for the ancient village. He tried not to be jealous of Harley’s suddenly elevated position. He had learned long ago that jealous thoughts led to a loss of hozo. It seemed strange that this change in fortune should come about mainly through drinking. In any case, Thomas felt content with his work and remained thankful for any job in these tough times on the reservation.
The Hopi girl and the woman from South America were helping with resetting the grid markers and laying string from one stake to another. The professor watched the Indian girl with a quizzical, somewhat critical eye, possibly indicating the girl might not have been his personal choice for this project.
When lunchtime came, Thomas and Harley carried their sandwiches and bottles of water over to the shaded log by the professor’s tent; they thought it too warm in the mess tent. Mess duty was a revolving responsibility, and today’s crew was not as experienced as the one the night before. Those cheeseburgers and baked beans had been delicious, in Harley’s view, and he could hardly wait until it was he and Thomas’s turn to cook. He had a few tricks up his sleeve, he told Thomas, if he could just get his hands on the right stuff.
As they munched their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Thomas thought again of the girl with the moccasins but could not recall her name and finally asked Harley, “Did you happen to catch that Hopi girl’s name?”
“Yes,” Harley said, thinking only a moment, “it is Tanya… Tanya Griggs but she is called “Little Bird” by the Hopi.” Harley’s memory was remarkable and it never failed to surprise Thomas. Back when the two had been drinking and Thomas could sometimes barely remember his own name, Harley Ponyboy—while just as drunk—would help arresting officers correctly fill in all Thomas’s details on the detention form.
Harley grinned. “From what the professor says he didn’t even know she was coming ’til she got here.”
“That’s right,” George Custer, declared, lifting the tent flap. “I didn’t know she was coming.” Both Navajo jumped slightly at this, neither knowing the professor was in the tent and listening
. The professor threw back the flap and came to take a seat in his camp chair. “She was a last-minute addition to the roster by the department head. There was still a position open when I left, and the old bastard felt this girl was qualified. He seemed to think we might be shorthanded without her. There was no way to get in touch with me at the time, of course—for obvious reasons.” He smiled and went on, “Something has been bothering me about that girl from the moment I laid eyes on her. I didn’t recognize her name—and still don’t for that matter. He eyed the camp, then continued. “I was just having a look at her resume when I heard you boys talking.” Here he lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder. “Turns out I may know something about her after all.” There was a good bit more the professor might have said, but he caught himself and didn’t. He regarded the pair silently for a moment, turned abruptly, and entered his tent without comment, pulling down the flap behind him. Thomas looked at Harley, smiled and shrugged—white people.
~~~~~~
Charlie arrived at the wash below the camp just as a little wall of foaming water hissed and spit its way out of a side canyon to spread out across the floor of the wash. He shifted into four-wheel drive and tried to stay out of the ruts. It was not raining here yet, but Charlie knew it was raining upstream somewhere. This wash could easily become dangerous if it continued.
Two of Custer’s work crew had just managed to pull their vehicles up to slightly higher ground as Charlie eased up out of the wash. The pair stood on the upper bank and stared suspiciously at him until they spotted the tribal emblem on his truck. They waved him on up the slight incline and guided him into the only space left on the little bench. Charlie thought, Good thing someone had the good sense to see this coming. This was the sort of late spring storm that could bring a real gully washer. He was glad he had taken his old yellow rain slicker off his saddle and hoped the others in camp were equipped for the coming weather as well.
When he and the two volunteers finally straggled into camp, the rain had begun in earnest. The rest of the crew was ditching around tents to divert the runoff and retrieving clothes and blankets that had earlier been hung out to air.
Charlie spotted Thomas and Harley across the camp, helping unroll thin sheets of Visqueen plastic to throw over the ridgepoles and down the sides of the tents. The professor maintained it was the only way to keep them snug and dry in periods of wet weather. Once again George Custer’s foresight and experience in this rugged and isolated country had shown him to be the right man for the job.
Thomas saw Charlie first and shouted across for him to drop his duffle in the mess tent and come help. By the time the tents were secured, everyone was soaking wet and gathered around the big cook tent’s wood stove, which was woofing and rattling smoke up the stovepipe. The smell of blazing cedar on the damp breeze was comforting to those who had spent a portion of their lives in such a camp.
George Custer was still in his tent finishing some paperwork, but Thomas and Harley immediately came to clap Charlie on the back and congratulate him on the new ahwyh.
Just the week before Thomas, had gone to Blanding for supplies and took the opportunity to call Charlie “collect” from the payphone outside the market. He wanted to know all about the baby and when assured all was well, said that would be a load off poor Harley’s mind. According to Thomas, he had thought of little else the past week.
When the cooks announced the meal was nearly ready, Charlie volunteered to go for the professor—he wanted to surprise him. He had told Thomas on the phone that he would be there as soon as possible, if only for a few days, but Dr. Custer had no idea he was coming. As Charlie, in his yellow slicker, noisily slogged his way through the storm, he saw a movement from the corner of his eye and imagined he saw a shadowy figure at the back of the professor’s tent. The apparition became aware of Charlie at the same instant and melted silently into the woods. Charlie stopped, caught his breath, and then ran to throw open the tent-flap expecting to find—he knew not what.
George Armstrong Custer looked up from his makeshift desk in astonishment and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Charlie!” he shouted and grinned hugely at his former student.
Charlie pointed a finger at him. “Stay there, George, I’ll be right back,” he said, and then rushed out of the tent and around the side. The pelting rain had already melted whatever sign there may have been. He could barely make out the large, shallow depressions behind the tent and was unable to make any sense of them. He was about to turn away when a long, thin wail came on the wind. And then nothing.
George Custer was standing beside him now, in his shirtsleeves, already soaking wet. “What!” he cried. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” Charlie’s voice was only a whisper as he peered into the darkness, then shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything like it.” He pointed into the dark. “I saw someone—or something, there behind your tent. Whatever it was ran when it saw me. And then there was that scream, or howl. Something.”
When Charlie and Dr. Custer made their way to the mess tent, the professor paused for a moment at the entrance and touched Charlie on the arm. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to the others about this. No reason to get everyone stirred up.” He looked up the incline to the ruins. “You can tell Harley and Thomas if you want. They already know a lot of what’s going on, but not the others. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
The cook tent was warm and bright with lantern light, and everyone was already seated at the long folding table. The two cooks were dishing up steaming bowls of rich, red chili con carne and passing out metal trays stacked with wedges of warm, sweet-smelling cornbread. The number-one mess crew was on duty and had kept the sheet-metal oven at a perfect temperature, a feat few others had been capable of.
Harley Ponyboy grinned because this was one of his favorite meals. He had become a huge fan of this particular set of cooks. The woman anthropologist from New Mexico was in charge, and she smiled at the praise from the tired, wet crew. She threw an inquiring glance at Thomas, but he was already stuffing his face and failed to notice. The woman seemed fascinated by Thomas and Harley. She was from far to the south and was unfamiliar with the Navajo. Most of her work had been with the southern Apache bands east of the Gila. She was curious how these Athabaskan cousins differed from one another.
Charlie was seated between Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay, directly across from the Hopi girl, Tanya Griggs. They had been introduced earlier but only in passing. Charlie looked across at her now and asked, “How is your mother?”
Professor Custer, who was sitting next to the girl, put down his butter knife and stared first at the girl, then at Charlie. “Do you two know each other?”
The girl shot Charlie a quizzical glance but remained silent.
Charlie smiled and said, “I was with the Navajo tribal delegation that visited Walpi to discuss joint tribal grazing issues. That’s been several years ago. I recall you and your mother wore traditional dress and looked very much alike.” Charlie took a sip of water and continued, “Your father, the tribal archivist, I believe, spoke on traditional rights your people felt were key to their position in the negotiations.”
The girl frowned then brightened. “Yes, I was there taking notes and helping my mother. She was translating for some of the elders.” Tanya was not at first reticent but grew slightly more guarded as she went on. “There was quite a crowd of you Navajo there that day. I don’t recall you specifically, but I do remember the meeting.” She looked sideways at Professor Custer and her eyes narrowed. “I believe you, also, knew my mother… once worked together on several projects.” She noted the professor’s raised eyebrows, “Her name is Myra Griggs now, but you may remember her as Myra Santos. She was a UNM grad student and later an anthropologist with the state.”
Doctor Custer nervously cleared his throat and feigned surprise, “Oh, of course, I remember Myra. And now I know why you seemed so familiar. You do look like your mother, now that I r
ecall.” George Custer did remember Myra Santos, and more.
There had been one person who was happy at the turn of events on Aida Winter’s ranch that summer he was called away to Guatemala: Hopi anthropologist Myra Santos. She had mistakenly thought, at the time, that his leaving might be the answer to her dilemma.
Myra Santos had petitioned his department head to be included in his expedition on the grounds her work was closely aligned with his. They had gotten along well in the beginning. Later, however, they had come to loggerheads when he made clear the direction his new research was taking. Research regarding some rather disturbing evidence found in certain kiva excavations and linked directly to the final migration period. Myra Santos felt the work had the potential to reflect badly on her people and begged him not to publish it. It was irrelevant how the research might reflect on anyone. It was a matter of science. George was adamant in that regard.
At home, in Walpi village on First Mesa, Myra Santos was called Chosovi, which means “Bluebird” in the Hopi tongue. In later years she was to become the wife of white anthropologist, Dr. Steven Griggs, who served as the Hopi cultural archivist. While Hopi women hold a high place in the matrilineal society, as a whole, there still are many cultural and ceremonial matters that are forbidden to them. It was an odd juxtaposition that, while Myra Santos had herself been refused the position of archivist on the grounds that she was a woman, her husband was hired but censored and denied certain information, due to being white.
There is reason to believe large areas of Hopi cultural information remain the secret domain of the various cloistered men’s societies. Even more discouraging for anthropologists and archaeologists alike is that a number of today’s scholars feel much of the information passed down has been so distorted by time and “word of mouth” transmission, that it is nearly useless in the context of a deeper understanding of their Anasazi forbears. The intrusion of the loose coalition of Athabaskans, who would later evolve into the Navajo/Apache around 1300, had no doubt left its genetic influence on later Pueblo people—just as the Pueblo had on the Navajo and Apache. The Spanish entrada (entrance), which may have occurred as early as the mid-1500’s, in that part of the country, was particularly disruptive of the entire Pueblo culture and further diluted the gene pool, leaving some to believe less than a ghost of similarity might remain between present-day Hopi beliefs and their ancient Anasazi ancestors. Hopi and other Pueblo people hotly deny this. Scholars point out that the Zuni and Hopi both claim the same Anasazi ancestry, but indeed are quite different people—Hopi springing from the Shosonian language rootstock and the Zuni from the Uto-Aztecan language group. Even today they are culturally quite different, with the Hopi having a much more complex culture centered specifically on a religion that affects every facet of their lives.
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