Ancient Blood

by R. Allen Chappell

  It was little wonder that Professor Custer had not immediately recognized Myra Santos’s daughter. It had been some years since he had last seen Myra, and her new last name had not rung a bell either. He remembered her being rather dark, with the short stature of her people, while this girl, Tanya, was lighter and slightly taller than most Hopi and with finer features. She had obviously thrown to her father’s side of the family and might well have been taken for a Hispanic, or even an Anglo, in the context of other surroundings. Still, she did resemble her mother in many subtle ways, and the Professor felt remiss in not picking up on them. Her eyes were much like her mother’s, and she walked in the same graceful manner. Her resume revealed she was an undergrad student with a double major in both anthropology and archaeology. She came to them from Arizona State with impeccable references and very good grades. Given her parents accomplishments there would have been little reason for the department head to deny her a place on the project.

  ~~~~~~

  The next morning dawned cloudy with the promise of more rain. A sharp north wind tore the clouds to rags and sent them flying across the canyons like witches. Charlie Yazzie, along with Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay, tried once more to pick up the trail of the previous evening’s intruder but found it impossible to determine more than a general direction of travel, and even that turned out to be a ruse. While the rain-washed tracks circled away to the south, it was soon clear they later swung back to the northeast, just as the original assailants tracks had. Harley Ponyboy was most interested in the size of the tracks and the wild wailing noises Charlie had described. Harley was a confirmed fan of the “Sasquatch” genre of TV movies. “Big foots are real,” he declared and would not be convinced otherwise. Charlie and Thomas Begay smiled at Harley for this, though Thomas was not as confident as Charlie. Thomas still believed in Shape-Shifters or Yeenaaldiooshii, just as Harley did. If such as them were out-and-about, why not Big Foots?

  Thomas brought up the original interloper they had tracked, the one making the big tracks. “What about him, Harley? He could have made those tracks. Tracks always look bigger in the mud. You know that.”

  “Yeah,” Harley hedged, “but we don’t know he wasn’t a Bigfoot either.”

  Thomas and Charlie just looked at one another and shook their heads.

  ~~~~~~

  The camp was taking a “lay” day due to the weather, and there was very little activity at the excavation site. About half the crew had forgotten to bring rain gear, and there was a run on the supply of black plastic garbage bags from the mess tent. With holes cut for the head and arms, they made fairly efficient rain protection. Harley and Thomas both had one and thought it silly that some people spent money on expensive rain suits. Rain gear was not generally considered a requirement for reservation living.

  After lunch, the three Navajo met with Professor Custer to go over a set of topographic maps of the area. Charlie was particularly interested in the old gas-well location the original intruders were tracked to. He whistled when he saw the distance from the well head to the nearest maintained road and said, “It’s hard to believe these people would make such a rough trip in here on a regular basis. It’s pretty much a given that they have had this camp under surveillance for a while.” Charlie tapped a finger on one particular area of the map. “I’m thinking they have their own camp somewhere down the east side of the mesa.”

  Thomas thought he might be right. “When this weather lifts, I think a couple of us should take another little jaunt over there and scope out that lower canyon. They might be using that ‘rock crawler’ just to get up the mesa and then come in here from a base camp on foot.”

  Charlie studied the map a bit more and concluded, “It’s still a hell of a long way over here, even from that wellhead.” He shook his head. “These people are deadly serious.”

  George Custer leaned over to study the area Charlie was talking about. “There is also the chance they could have a small spike camp a lot closer than we think. There is some very rough country just to the east of us.”

  As the professor leaned over and traced out several vague trails through the far canyon, Charlie got the distinct impression he could smell alcohol. Charlie hated to think the professor would take such a risk again, and so soon after his near disaster.

  Charlie had accepted Dr. Custer’s offer to bunk in his tent, partially to keep an eye out for trouble and partially because the available space in the mess tent had shrunk. The wet weather had driven Thomas and Harley inside the last few nights, and the other tents were full as well.

  George Custer looked at his packing-box desk with its pile of papers and sighed. “There should be a fresh pot of coffee over in the cook tent. Why don’t you boys go have some and warm up?”

  Charlie grabbed his slicker off his cot and asked, “You coming George?”

  “No, I have some paperwork I need to clear up. I’ll be along for supper.”

  When the three were once again back out in the rain and about halfway to the mess tent, Charlie turned to Thomas and asked, “You didn’t buy the prof. any booze when you were in town, did you?”

  “So you smelled it too!” Thomas confirmed Charlie’s suspicion but was a little put out that his friend would suspect him—but then, he did have a track record.

  Charlie caught the tone of his reply but went on, “Who else went to town for supplies last week?” Charlie saw this new wrinkle as an added complication to an already serious situation.

  Thomas didn’t have to think about this and said, “Only Harley and that anthropologist woman from Silver City—Neva Travis. They were the only ones to come along with me.”

  Harley piped up, “She said the womens needed supplies, you know, ‘lady stuff’ an’ I didn’ want to know no more.” He screwed up his face at Charlie. “I din’ buy no booze neither. I didn’ even have no money.”

  “Ya know,” Thomas mused, “I been suspecting several of these people of maybe having a little nip now and then. They been way too happy, in my opinion. Any of them could have brought it in with ’em.”

  Harley, who seldom spoke ill of anyone, said, “All’s I know, that Neva Travis woman makes damn fine chili.” And that was his final word on the matter.

  The woman in question was at the cook stove when they went into the mess tent and, after pouring themselves steaming cups of coffee the three Navajo took seats at the far end of the table by the sugar bowl and canned milk. As they adjusted their coffee (heavy on the sugar), they cast furtive glances at the anthropologist and each evaluated her, individually, and differently.

  Finally, Charlie wondered out loud if the professor might still have a bottle hidden out from when they hauled him away the first time.

  Harley pondered this, “Maybe, he is a very smart man an’ is good at plann’n’ ahead.” And then he sheepishly admitted, “One reason I came to town was I thought the booze was about gone anyway.”

  Thomas sighed and admitted, “I guess a hideout bottle is a possibility. I know I used to keep one myself.”

  Harley, a staunch defender of Professor Custer when he had anything to work with, volleyed back, “Well, ya know, the doc is hell on patting on that stuff, Bay Rum, after he shaves, or when he don’ have time to clean up good.” He slapped the table. “Maybe that’s what you two smelled.”

  Thomas squinted one eye at the canvas ceiling and was silent. Charlie nodded and smiled. “Maybe, Harley… maybe.”

  As the crew filed in for supper, Charlie covertly appraised each in turn and occasionally asked his companions something regarding one or the other of them. The two knew very little, actually, and had, so far, worked with only a few of those in question.

  Harley was counting them off as they came in and whispered “Nine” when the last one took his seat. “Hmmm, Thomas and me makes eleven, and ta professor makes an even dozen.” Then his eyes widened, and he turned to look at Charlie Yazzie with a hint of suspicion. “You make thirteen, Charlie…” and waited for the implicati
on to sink in. Even Navajos view the number 13 as being unlucky, or worse.

  Charlie rolled his eyes, but Thomas looked suspiciously at him now, as well, and said seriously, “That could be a sign, Charlie,” and paused to grin, “A sign that Harley is a nut.” and broke into a laugh. “But, we already knew that!” Several of the nearest white people turned their heads and glanced their way. There was a lot of curiosity about these Indian friends of the professor.

  Harley Ponyboy scowled at his friend and shook a finger. “Someday you gonna find you are not so smart as you think!”

  Professor Custer came in about then and took his place at the head of the table. “Folks there are just a few things I think we should address this evening.” He stopped to gaze around the table. “Some lion tracks have been spotted outside camp, and you may have heard it squalling. It appears he’s intent on hanging around, and until we decide otherwise, I believe it would be prudent to only leave camp in pairs. I know we often see lion sign out here, but this may be an old male that has lost his ability to bring down a deer. He may be looking for easier prey—that could be you. So just keep an eye out and try not to be out there alone.” He rubbed his healing eyebrow with the back of his hand. “And if you notice anything unusual, please let me know.”

  There was a general murmur among the crew but no real concern—most all of them had seen lion tracks over the years.

  Thomas grinned at Charlie and whispered, “Well, that should cover the noises in the night and any strange sign out there.”

  Harley smiled grimly and whispered back, “I tol’ you he was smart.”

  The professor had almost sat back down when he thought of something else and stood again. “After dinner this evening I will give a short talk on the main thrust of our work here and what it is we are looking for. I know you all read your ‘introduction’ to the expedition when you signed on.” He canted his head and grinned. “At least I hope you have.” This brought smiles and light laughter. “But I have some further and more detailed information I would like you to bear in mind as excavation continues.” He waved a hand at the assemblage signifying he was indeed through speaking this time and sat down.

  After the meal everyone helped clean up and then returned to their places at the table. Cups of fresh coffee were passed around, and there was a platter of Oreo cookies at each end of the table. Harley gathered a small pile of them on a napkin and placed them between him and Thomas, then smiled and gave George Custer his full attention.

  “People,” Dr. Custer announced as the conversation fell off, “as you know, our expedition goal is to verify this site as one of a string of transitory waypoints along the final migration routes.” He paused for emphasis. “When certain bands of Anasazi found it impossible to maintain their agrarian lifestyle in this area a general exodus ensued, eventually leaving the entire Four Corners virtually abandoned. This may have taken no more than fifty or sixty years, which is remarkable when one considers the scope of the exodus.” The professor took a sip of coffee and looked pointedly about the table, his gaze seeming to linger on the young Hopi woman, Tanya Griggs, as he said, “It was not a gradual withdrawal taking many generations, but rather a concerted, relatively rapid transition, exacerbated by violence and fear.”

  There were some murmurings among the gathering, as many were aware of Dr. Custer’s reputation for unorthodox views on the subject.

  Charlie leaned over to Thomas and said, “Here it comes.”

  Then to everyone’s surprise the Professor proceeded through a rather bland talk, enumerating the various other escape routes (mainly along the great river courses—the Rio Grand, Colorado, and their tributaries). It was as though it occurred to him that he already might have divulged certain information prematurely. Many knew the Professor’s personal agenda concerned a paper—due out in only a few months—on this very subject. The professor continued, mostly regarding technical procedures and methodology that were to be applied to the excavation, notably in connection with the main kiva. “I want to caution those working in the kiva to proceed with extra care, as I expect some rather delicate material to be unearthed.” This last revelation caused another slight buzz, for they wondered what the professor might already know.

  Charlie Yazzie turned to Harley Ponyboy and whispered. “Harley, are you on the kiva crew?”

  “No,” Harley murmured, “Professor Custer said me and Thomas don’t have the experience yet for that kind of digging.”

  Thomas Begay added, “Sounds like the professor already has a pretty good idea of what he’s going to find up there.”

  Charlie, watching the professor, thought he looked tired and said quietly, “Keep in mind, this is the fourth Anasazi site the Professor has tracked on the migration route, starting with the one on Aida Winters Ranch. I think he has a pretty good idea what he may find, and will be pretty disappointed if he doesn’t.

  The next morning dawned bright and clear, with a fresh breeze out of the west. Harley Ponyboy, who was sent to check on the vehicles, reported back that runoff water had barely reached the hubcaps on the trucks, and he thought the wash would be passable again within twenty-four hours at the most if there was no more rain. This was better news than Charlie Yazzie had hoped for, but when Harley went on to say he had also found tracks on the ridge above the vehicles, he was not so pleased.

  “It was not a Bigfoot, I guess,” Harley grinned, “Unless Bigfoots wear new Caterpillar boots.”

  After talking this over, Charlie and Thomas figured it might be a good time to further investigate the possibility of an unfriendly camp—one within striking distance.

  ~~~~~~

  Aida Marie Winters had fallen under a general malaise of spirit after George Custer’s entourage pulled out, and she didn’t quite know why. Now, as she sat on her veranda watching the two children at play down at the corrals, she was further reminded of how very lonely it would be when they were gone. The two children were hanging on the top rail of the corral, discussing Aida’s current crop of horseflesh. Both children had been around horses all their young lives, and early on, learned from their Ute cousins how to behave around stock. Ida Marie Begay, like her father, Thomas, was already a good judge of a horse and could ride like a, well, like a wild Indian. Caleb Begay rode nearly as well but was not yet as fearless as his older sister.

  The sibling’s conversation, mostly in English, drifted up to Aida on the morning breeze. It sounded like the twittering of little birds. As she listened, she gazed down at the board flooring of the veranda. She thought she could almost see the stains where their mother, Sally Klee, had been shot down from the far ridge above the house. It had taken a lot of scrubbing to get those stains out of the pine boards, but there was no way to erase them from her mind. The Buck clan had paid dearly for that. The deaths of George Jim and Hiram Buck, each at the hands of the other, had caused the remainder of the clan to gradually fall apart. Slowly, almost without realizing it was happening, they began to disperse. They had come to believe the Buck property was cursed and, one by one, the families sold their small plots to Aida and moved on, a few to join their relatives on the Uinta reserve and others to nearby towns. The Bucks were not Southern Ute, as many thought, but were of the northern bands and had only settled in that country due to the good fortune of an early patriarch who had gained a foothold in the old Ute land allotments.

  Aida rose, finally, and called to the children, “Caleb, Ida Marie, come to the house now. We are going on a picnic, up to the old ruins.”

  The children came running laughing gleefully at the prospect of a picnic. Aida had promised them a picnic since they first arrived—and a trip to the ruins. Professor Custer had talked about the ruins a great deal and told them there was much to be learned there; he did not tell them the things they learned might be about themselves.

  When finally they were ready and loaded in Aida’s pickup truck, they made their way to the ranch’s far canyon rim. The rutted track had been made by her grandfather to take ric
kety wagonloads of salt blocks to the high meadows. She remembered her grandfather as a no-nonsense sort who grew up in that country and seemed more married to the land than Aida’s grandmother, a distant and slightly cold woman who showed her granddaughter little affection.

  Aida’s grandfather had known a good bit about the Anasazi, the sort of knowledge that comes only from living on the same ground and eking out a fragile existence under the same harsh conditions. He had a feel for this country, and for the kind of people it took to survive there. Aida remembered going along to haul the salt to outlying bunches of cattle each spring. Always they would stop at the ruins, and her grandfather would show her through the many rooms and point out the little things he had discovered but left in place. Unlike many area ranchers, the Winters’ family did not hoard artifacts in personal collections or sell them to the occasional dealers passing through. They left the things in situ, just as they were abandoned those many hundred years ago.