Mojado
R. Allen Chappell
Acknowledgments
As always, many sincere thanks to those Navajo friends and classmates who provided “grist for the mill.” Their insight into Navajo thought and reservation life helped fuel a lifelong interest in their culture, one I had once only observed from the other side of the fence.
Cover art by Labrona & “Other”, from the Painted Desert Project on the Navajo reservation.
Cover design by Terri Chappell.
Graphic work by the Kayla Agency
Editing by John Baker Limited.
Author’s note
In the back pages you will find a small glossary of Navajo words and terms used in this story, the spelling of which may vary somewhat, depending on which expert opinion is referenced.
Dedication
This book is for Frank Begay, who taught me about his people, and for Jimmy Birdsell, who taught me about my own. May they both now walk in beauty.
Copyright © 2015 R. Allen Chappell
All rights reserved
Third edition
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, including electronic media, without express permission of the author or his agent.
Table of Contents
Fix
Naked
The Gathering
The Investigation
The Wreck
The FBI
The Hunt
Tressa
The Chase
The Devil
The Cat
The Loss
The Ingraciado
The Witch
The Spell
Treachery
The Twist
The Search
The Storm
Redemption
Glossary
1
The Fix
By sundown he had come quite far for one afoot in that country, sun-blistered and worn to the limit of endurance. One arm hung limp from the shoulder and swung useless as he turned to search down canyon. None of these things seemed cause for concern, however. He was from a hard land, accustomed to hard times, and knew no better.
The ragged pants, the tattered shirt unworthy of the name, and the muddy shoes coming apart at the seams—all these things he put in the fire. A fire built with wood he’d found so neatly stacked. He arranged the clothing around the periphery of the flames in such a manner they should cause little smoke and yet be totally consumed. The other clothes (he now considered them his) were draped over a juniper to dry. Everything else he gathered round him, and speculated on the role each might play in the days to come… knowing his life might well depend on them.
~~~~~~
The heifer finally decided something was amiss and allowed herself a moment to reflect and ruminate on the whereabouts of the troublesome little creature. She put her snotty bovine nose in the air and bawled for the calf, listening for the delinquent to come scrambling up the back-trail, where some trifle had diverted his attention. The day was hot and she was loath to turn back down the rocky path in search of that which might appear of its own accord at any moment. It was her first calf, and she was still uncertain what his purpose was. There was, nonetheless, the nagging worry she shouldn’t allow him out of sight. True, he’d been nothing but a bother and hindrance throughout their short relationship, but still, there was this thing inside her that demanded she find him.
She had no way of knowing her calf had gotten himself into such a fix, and would not have known what to do about it if she had.
Even before she realized the calf was gone, he was well above his belly in quicksand. Now, nearly up to his muzzle, he had managed to take in a mouthful of the soupy mix, the whites of his eyes showing as he tried to make that little noise which usually attracted the cow, but he could produce no more than a gurgle. Where was the cow?
~~~~~~
By mid-morning, Harley Ponyboy and Thomas Begay were beginning to regret taking the job. They had been on the trail since daylight, leaving the truck and trailer well up the trailhead toward Pastora Peak, and starting their gather horseback at the base of the Carrizos. They had already passed several little bunches of stock but figured to sort those on their way back. This particular young cow, however, was worrisome. She had outpaced the others and seemed determined to quit the country altogether. The sharp clean tracks showed her to be young, and she had a calf. It was almost too late in the year for a calf. That’s how first-time heifers are, though—they’re the ones you have to watch.
“What the hell you suppose has gotten into her?” Thomas sat sweltering in the heat of a sun already high and hot. “Did Annie mention any of these cows was fresh bought?”
Harley Ponyboy reflected a full minute before answering. “Not that I recall, but this one does seem ta be thinking of home.” He grinned. “Home must be somewheres else.” Harley knew cows and was well aware they often make up for their lack of intelligence by way of sheer determination. This one seemed to be in that frame of mind. Bullheaded, that was the word. It described this cow perfectly, and he could see now how the term came about.
Annie Eagletree’s cattle had not been well tended that spring and now were scattered across rather a large area, thanks in part to Annie’s second husband, Clyde, whose disinterest in the actual work involved in the cattle business was now becoming apparent. Clyde considered himself more of a gentleman stockman, preferring to spend his time lounging around the sale barn, expounding to his friends on his rising fortunes. He was determined to better himself, he said, and while he admitted it was costing his Annie a good bit of money, he said she would eventually be well rewarded… and just left it at that.
Annie Eagletree’s previous husband had succumbed to radiation poisoning, an affliction not at all uncommon among the reservation’s uranium miners. Applicants were often poorly informed regarding the dangers of the occupation, causing a disproportionate number of them to later regret it. Annie’s husband had lasted longer than most—long enough to file his claim in the ongoing class action suit against the mining operation. The posthumous settlement had made Annie Eagletree quite well off by reservation standards, and after a proper interlude, she rewarded herself with this dapper little man. He was quite spry for his age and of a gregarious nature. She thought she could eventually make something of him, and had high expectations in that regard. Clyde did, she admitted, drink a bit from time to time, and while she would have preferred someone who didn’t, it still was little enough to pay for a man with so many possibilities.
When Charlie Yazzie offered his two friends the job, he made it clear they would be in for a ride. It was rough country and his Aunt Annie’s cattle had grown somewhat independent.
Harley Ponyboy’s wife, Anita, was said to have flown into a tizzy over Harley taking the day off to gather stock that didn’t even belong to them. She thought he might better spend his time working on the roof of their trailer house, which she reminded him leaked like a sieve. She also ventured the opinion that he might be hanging out with Thomas Begay more than was good for him. Harley finally had to remind her that it seldom rained in that country and they needed the money now. He assured her Charlie Yazzie’s aunt was willing and able to pay for his time.
Charlie Yazzie, for his part, said he couldn’t afford to take off work to gather cows, nor could he bring himself to take money from his favorite aunt. The truth was, he knew Thomas and Harley were the better trackers and stockmen; he figured they were the men for the job.
Throughout the morning Thomas Begay and Harley Ponyboy continued their dogged pursuit of the fugitive heifer, right up until Thomas halted his piebald gelding at the edge of a wash and spotted something down there in the bottom he didn’t like the look of. “Uh-oh,” he murmured with a shake of his he
ad.
“What?” Harley Ponyboy scrutinized the wash and almost instantly saw what caught his friend’s attention. Only the white head and red back of the bull calf was now visible above the greyish crust. Thomas loosened his catch rope and both men spurred their mounts down the steep talus slope. Thomas, in the lead, had built a loop by the time they reached bottom and pulled his horse up just short of the treacherous bog. Harley’s mule, Shorty, had been dubious from the start, and now that he could assess the situation close up was inclined not to participate. He backed up and flattened his long ears in such a manner Harley felt arguing would be unproductive. Shorty had often proven his good sense in such situations; Harley had come to trust his instincts and didn’t press the issue.
Most people think quicksand is something found only in swamps or wetlands—certainly not in the high desert Southwest. Truth is, quicksand is not uncommon in the canyon lands. Depressions in the bedrock of canyon floors allow runoff to collect beneath an otherwise benign layer of fine silt. This sort of quicksand is often the more dangerous due to drying of the top layer, causing it to look like any other patch of sand. It is something even the savvy tourist has learned to look out for.
Thomas indicated the calf with his chin. “I’ll see if I can drop a loop on him and keep his head up… I don’t want to break his neck trying to jerk him out, though.” He grinned. “Looks like one of us is going to have to get in there and help.”
“One of us…?” Harley frowned. “Meaning me, I guess…?” But he was already out of the saddle and testing the edge of the quagmire. Harley was not one to shirk his part in an enterprise once committed, and Thomas was already holding the rope and ready to throw.
Shorty snorted and drew back another step.
“That shelf of slick rock runs just underneath this mess… I don’ think it’s too deep.” Harley said this last part with a measure of doubt but pulled off his boots and, holding on to Thomas’s rope, moved slowly out toward the calf. The calf didn’t like the look of Harley Ponyboy and began thrashing its head, covering his rescuer with muck.
Thomas backed his own horse up a foot or so, re-dallied the rope around the horn, and began shouting advice. “Reach down in there and grab a hind leg, Harley! Maybe we can ease him out of there without me having to pull his head off.”
Nearly halfway to the calf, Harley paused to wipe the mud from one eye, glared back at Thomas Begay, and then studied where a hind leg might be in that morass. “Right,” he yelled back, “I’ll just reach down in there, grab a leg, and pitch him out to you! You be careful, now, I don’t hit you with him… Nuthead!” The two had been friends a long time and neither was shy about telling the other what he thought. Harley was now in well above his knees and having a hard time pulling his own feet loose. He stayed clear of the calf’s flailing head. It was a Hereford, a good stout little fellow, capable of knocking him right off his feet should it get lucky. That might put him in line to be rescued as well—it’s not easy to regain lost footing in quicksand.
Thomas Begay spoke calmly to his horse and cautiously climbed down, leaving the nervous gelding to keep the rope taut. He had spent a lot of time schooling this horse in the rudiments of calf roping and hoped now it would pay off.
“Watcha’ do’n, Thomas? I don’ think that horse has sense enough ta hold a calf without you on him.” Harley remembered Thomas’s horse as being a little dicey when the chips were down.
“This horse will be fine. I been working with him; he’ll hold him all right.” Thomas spoke in a quiet, measured tone but watched the horse’s eyes—he would see it there first should the gelding decide his heart wasn’t in it. He inched over to Harley’s saddle, took the rope off, and moving up to the edge, threw it out to him. “If you can get this loop under his tail, I’ll try to pull as you lift—it might work.”
Harley cocked an eye at Thomas. “Might work?” he mumbled to himself as he reached down through the slime, feeling for the calf’s hind leg, which caused the calf to struggle even harder. “I think I got it,” he yelled, and gave a mighty heave.
Thomas stared with rounded eyes at the sight of the blue-grey hand and arm being pulled from the mire—the thin pale hand of someone not long dead. “You better get out of there, Harley.” Thomas could barely choke out the words.
Harley froze, eyes riveted on the claw-like hand. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to flee, but that was obviously not an option. He spoke softly then, “Let’s get this calf out; the other can wait,” and after a moment’s thought, “It’s a white man… I don’ think white people have a chindi.” Harley came from very traditional people, and the Navajo fear of the dead was deeply ingrained, but he was a pragmatist as well and knew there was nothing for it now but to carry on and try not to think of what lay below the roiled surface.
Once the calf was on solid ground, it stood spraddle-legged and shaking. Blowing mud and snot from its nostrils, it looked suspiciously back at Harley still in the bog, then struggled to make some sort of sound. Thomas quickly released both ropes and pitched the lines back out to Harley who, after securing one around his own chest, again reached into the cold grey muck for the abandoned remains of whoever was down there.
When he clambered out, wiping mud from his face, and catching his breath, he was finally able to speak. “That other rope is tied ta his arm. I think he’s fresh enough to pull him out in one piece if we take it slow and easy.”
Thomas looked cautiously at the hand still sticking out of the quicksand. “I have a better idea. Let’s not mess with him. I say we just tie this end of the rope to that little cedar tree. That should make it easy for someone to locate him later, and he won’t migrate any further downstream.” He glanced up at the ridge. “It’s too far back in here to try and pack him out. The authorities can be back in by chopper before we could get him out anyway.” Thomas was not so traditional a Navajo as Harley but was just as afraid of the dead and the possibility of the evil spirits that most often come attached. Chindi are universally evil and known to be capable of all manner of bad things, should they hook onto a person.
Offered this easier option, Harley Ponyboy instantly agreed. “I expect you’re right,” he conceded, then pursed his lips toward the dead person. “Anyhow, he’ll probably keep better down there in the cold than across a horse in this heat.” Harley scoured a dry lump of mud off the back of his neck and then, almost as an afterthought, said, “That guy out there is naked.”
Thomas narrowed an eye at Harley. “What makes you think he’s naked?”
Harley Ponyboy just grimaced, shrugged, and looked away. “He’s naked.”
Behind them they heard a scrambling and scattering of shale as the fugitive cow chose that moment to come skidding down the embankment, throwing her head from side to side and clearly on the fight. She lowered her horns and slung slobber as she pawed the ground, trying to decide which of the interlopers would be first to pay. Fortunately, the calf, happy to see the cow at last, defused the situation by wobbling over to the heifer and nudging her bag, causing her to let down her milk… everything was again right in their world.
2
Naked
Legal Services investigator Charlie Yazzie looked across his corner of the office, saw Thomas Begay at the reception counter, and signaled the Bitter Water Clan woman to allow him to pass. Thomas was of the Bitter Water Clan himself, but apparently the woman didn’t recognize him—there were a lot of Bitter Water people in that country, and it was hard to tell just by looking.
Charlie kicked out the chair across from his desk and sat back to hear his friend’s version of what had happened the day before. When Thomas had called him from Annie Eagletree’s new telephone, he first thought it was one of his never-ending practical jokes—several minutes were required to clear that up. Charlie was in it then and spent the rest of the day and part of the following morning with the various legal authorities involved in the gruesome discovery.
“So, what’s the word from the feds?” Tho
mas knew tribal police would have been first to be notified, but in the end it would come down to the FBI. Though the Navajo Nation had become more autonomous over the years, the government still liked to keep a finger in the pie, so to speak. The FBI, along with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, continued to wield rather big sticks on the reservation.
“So far, not much from the agent in charge. He’s the new guy that took Davis’s place. I haven’t even met him yet.” Charlie chose his words carefully and lowered his voice, keeping an eye on the receptionist, who was known to gossip. “It will be a few days before their lab issues its findings, but the preliminary says there was water in the lungs and the body was pretty well battered. Death may have been from drowning… or it could have been from the other injuries, apparently. However, they didn’t think those other injuries were particularly life threatening.” He paused to let Thomas ponder the possibilities while he sifted through papers on his desk, looking for the fax he’d received from the tribal boys that morning.
“Harley thought the guy was naked,” Thomas interjected, wrinkling his nose slightly at the very thought. “Anything in there about that?” He still couldn’t believe what Harley had done. “He’s out right now looking for someone to do a cleansing ceremony. I told him to go see my father-in-law, old man Paul T’Sosi. He can do that cleansing ceremony as good as anyone, and he won’t charge Harley an arm and a leg either… he likes Harley.”
Charlie nodded as he continued to study the report. “Harley was right. The guy was naked,” he went on reading from the paper, “White male, about thirty-five years old, no real identifying marks on the body, and a near-perfect set of teeth.” He flipped the paper over and reread a note from tribal police officer Samuel Shorthair, a longtime acquaintance and probably the only reason he had received anything in the first place. “You remember Sam Shorthair?”
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