Mojado

by R. Allen Chappell

  The approaching dawn found him well down a narrow canyon, and he passed through pockets of warmer air from the red walls that still held a bit of heat from the day before. As he came to a turn in the path, he saw below him a mud hut nestled in the crook of a tiny ribbon of water, no more than a trickle. He hunkered down and studied the dwelling. He had not seen one like it—more just a mound of earth covering a stone-and-stick frame, as far as he could tell. There was a black iron kettle suspended over a small fire, and to one side a coffee pot sat in the heat of the embers. There was no one around that he could see, not even a dog or sign of livestock. He would have thought the camp abandoned, if not for the fire and a small loom beneath a cedar tree. There was something half finished in the frame, but the light still was not enough to discern what that might be.

  Luca took his time easing down the trail, pausing every little while to study the camp as ever more light played into the canyon. Whoever lived there was either inside or was away from the area entirely. He could see the camp quite clearly now, and there was no sign of any living thing. He approached as closely as the sparse cover would allow and crouched behind a little piñyon tree, and watched through the branches… and listened. Only the faint crackle and pop of the fire disturbed the silence. The odor of fresh coffee floated on the tiniest of breezes, and his mouth watered at the thought of it. He leaned his rifle against the tree and had almost decided to move closer to the fire, when a woman’s voice asked, “What do you want?”

  He did not whirl about as most would have done. In his experience that might provoke instant aggression—for all he knew, she was holding an axe above his head. He remained motionless and took his time assessing the situation. It was a small voice, not particularly threatening, and showed absolutely no fear—there was no need for violence, not just yet.

  “Coffee,” he murmured.

  The woman swept past him without another word, went to the fire, and without looking back, busied herself with the pot.

  When she turned, they saw each other’s face for the first time, and neither was impressed, nor concerned, with what they saw.

  He rose slowly and moved to the fire. She was not at all like he had imagined from the voice—taller, older, plain looking, and absolutely nothing about her reminded him of Tressa.

  The woman was watching him from the corner of her eye. “You are him… the one they are looking for down below.” It was not a question.

  There was no reason to deny it. “Yes.” He reached across the fire, took the cup she offered, and sipped, almost daintily. “Where is you man… tu familia?” he asked and was curious beyond what the question implied.

  She answered, nearly spitting the words, “I have no man… no people.”

  This information bothered him and he couldn’t be sure why. “Not even a dog?”

  “Not anymore… he’s dead… snakebit.”

  He considered this, then squatted down on his heels and sighed from deep in his lungs. “You don’ got no caro… no trucke? How you get to town?”

  “I’m a witch,” she said simply, as though it were common enough.

  Luca raised his hands and waved the fingers in appreciation. “Un Bruja? You fly off to town on a broomstick?” He made a worried face. “How you carry you groceries home?” He chuckled, which caused him to cough. When he spit into the fire, there was blood on his lips, and he wiped his mouth on one sleeve.

  The woman saw, but said nothing. She had seen tuberculosis many times on the reservation—but the man looked too healthy for that. There was something else wrong with him. One arm seemed barely usable, and there was evidence of other injuries as well—those things she might fix. But there was little she could do should it be tuberculosis. “You a Mexican?”

  “Si… un Mexicano.” He looked her over. She wore a blue velveteen blouse and long skirt of the same material, but darker. “You an Indio, I guess, like me. What you call these Indios ’round here?”

  “Navajo… but I’m some Piute too.” She raised her eyebrows and pushed her chin to the north, from whence her mother had come and watched to see if being part Piute mattered to him as much as it mattered to others.

  In those long ago times when the Navajo moved against the Piute from the south, and the Utes made forays from the north. They, between them, had torn her people apart. Life was cheap back then. The two more powerful tribes carried off women and children in plenty, and horses, trading them back and forth like silver conchos from a leather belt.

  Now, in more modern times, the memory of it was still there, and feelings ran deep in certain clans. Her mother had been a healer in the north-country, but her brand of Piute medicine had not been so popular with these Diné… There was always that stigma in the back of their minds, and thus the chants and magic did not work so well for them.

  “Me… I am Indio, too.” He didn’t put on airs, like Tressa. “Yaqui… maybe a little Seri.” He shook his head. “Quin sabe.”

  She nudged her chin at the backpack. “Ah, just passing through… like a tourista?” she said then smiled, and whispered, “They say you kill people?”

  He leaned forward so there would be no mistake. “Sometimes… when there is the need.” And this was enough for the woman. In that moment she made up her mind about him and knew all she needed to know. She sat cross-legged on the ground, skirts swirled around her, elbows on knees, face cupped in her hands, and she smiled as she stared silently into the dying flames. The woman’s dreams had, for a long time, foretold this coming—surely this was the person she had been waiting for.

  ~~~~~~

  Harley Ponyboy was disgusted. The three of them had spent the entire morning searching for some sign or track of the mojado, and all without the slightest bit of luck. It was as though he had disappeared off the face of the planet or “flown away like a hoot-owl,” as Harley put it.

  He might be anywhere in Thomas’s opinion. Charlie finally agreed—they couldn’t just keep wandering around without a clue. Finding him without knowing the direction he had taken would be nearly impossible. He may already have gained a half-day on them, and still they could only guess where he was headed. Probably, they agreed, he would continue north as that had been his drift all along. The road was in that direction, and therefore the possibility of a truck. The man had mentioned wanting a truck to Thomas. But they found no sign of him to the north, either.

  Finally, in a sweat, Harley threw up his hands and cursed several times, something he seldom did. “We are wasting our time here while that cholló is getting farther away. We may as well head down ta the road and see if we can’t catch up with him down there. We know he’ll wind up somewhere down there sooner or later.” He looked over at Charlie and tilted his head toward Thomas Begay. “This guy ain’t lookin’ so good.” He squinted his eyes at Thomas and shook his head. “He needs that cut fixed, and pretty damn quick too.” The wound was obviously infected. Thomas himself, when forced to admit it, said he had a splitting headache, and the vision in one eye seemed dim. Back at the Natanni’s sheep camp, Charlie had daubed the wound with a blue horse medicine from Harvey Bitsinnii’s vet kit. It was what people commonly used on both humans and livestock, but in this case it had not seemed to help, and in fact, seemed to make things worse. Charlie had also found an out-of-date vial of penicillin, the shade-tree veterinarian’s go-to cure all, but the contents seemed viscous, off color, and the rubber stopper showed signs of many needles. He decided against it.

  By the time they were halfway down the mountain, Thomas began to shiver, and though he was sweating, he complained of the cold. The trailhead, when they came upon it, caught them by surprise, and relief was plain on their faces. Still, it was another good six or seven miles to the highway, and would be a long slog out, should no one happen by and offer them a ride. Thomas was beginning to stumble, his balance seemed off, and Harley was starting to wonder if they should just leave him beside the road and hurry on for help. When he glanced over at Charlie, he could see he was thinking th
e same thing.

  As luck would have it, they had gone no more than a mile when an old green Ford pickup with a faded U.S. Forest Service logo on the door appeared, pulled over, and waited for them to catch up.

  The driver was already standing beside the truck and peeing by the time they got there. “You boys look like you could use a ride,” the boy said, zipping his pants. He had a wild shock of black hair that hadn’t seen a comb in a while, and he seemed almost too young to be driving. “I only have room for two of you up here in the front,” he said opening his door, “but one of you can jump in the back—be careful of that saw back there.” There was a good pile of firewood in the bed of the truck, and a greasy orange chainsaw nested precariously in the middle of it.

  Harley Ponyboy elected to ride in the back and shook his head as he wedged the saw into a bare spot next to the cab. How much trouble could it be to put it where it belonged in the first place. Kids.

  Charley tried to help Thomas up into the truck, but he shook off the hand and boarded without support. He was hurting, dizzy, and in no mood for sympathy.

  Charlie shrugged, climbed in beside him, and rolled the window halfway down. The cab smelled of gasoline, sawdust, and stale sweat. “We appreciate the lift. Seems there’s not many people out today.”

  “No,” the boy answered, “but there was a God’s plenty of them yesterday. Most of ’em had to go back to work today, I guess.”

  Charlie looked at Thomas, whose eyes were already closed, and he was beginning to make little snoring noises. Charlie had to lean forward and talk around him when he asked, “Heard anything about how the search for that killer is going?”

  “Well, I heard they haven’t found him yet. That’s as of this morning, when I left the house. That’s about all you hear on the Navajo station. Those white boys in charge of the search couldn’t find their ass with both hands. Most of the Indian volunteers quit the first day… said the authorities had them running all over the place… They claimed the group leaders had no idea what they were doing. And those fancy hound dogs they brought in were so confused by all the people, they couldn’t pick up a trail.” He laughed, reached down beside the seat, and came up with a bottle. “You fellas look like you could use a drink.”

  Charlie eyed the bottle and almost took the boy up on the offer, but glancing over at Thomas and then through the back window at Harley, said, “No, I guess not. These other boys don’t drink, and I don’t want to get them started… again.”

  The boy nodded wisely as he unscrewed the cap with his teeth and took a healthy swig. “I’m trying to quit myself.”

  Charley thought about pulling out his badge and lecturing the boy but was just too weary; besides, the kid had been good enough to stop for them. He’d maybe say something to him when they got where they were going. As the boy put the bottle away, he saw Harley in the rear view mirror, peering through the back window with a sad little look on his face.

  Charlie studied the boy more closely and decided he was probably a little older than he first thought, but still not old enough to be drinking. “You lived around here long?” he asked him.

  “Just about all my life, as far as I can remember.” The boy wrinkled his nose and thought about it. “We never lived anywhere else, now that I think about it.” He passed a hand over to Charlie. “I’m Lester… Lester Hoskinni.”

  Charlie shook hands and introduced himself, omitting the part about being with Legal Services. “I don’t suppose many people actually live up this way?”

  “Not hardly. The Natannii’s sheep camp is up there in the summer, but other than that, there’s only the old witch woman up Little Water Canyon. No one lives this high on the mountain year round.”

  Thomas bumped wide-awake at this mention of a witch. He’d only been dozing—he did that sometimes. He opened his good eye and fixed it on the boy. “What witch woman is that?”

  The interruption caused Lester to lose his train of thought, but only for a moment. “Her name is Margaret, but everyone around here just calls her the witch woman. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her last name… if she’s even got one.” The road got a little better and he shifted up to take advantage of it. “She’s only up here in the summers, gathers herbs and medicinal plants… stuff like that to take back home, over near Kaibito. Does a lively little trade in spells and potions over there, from what I hear. She’s been coming here every summer since I was little. Says the plants on this mountain have special powers.” He paused. “And there’s magic crystals here, too—if you know where to find them. At least that’s what my mother says the witch woman says. I was afraid of her when I was little… still am, I guess.” He turned to Thomas. “I don’t hold with witches, and neither does my family. They just don’t want to mess with them… you understand.” He cut a glance over at Charlie. “Anyways, she’s a Piute and you know how they are.”

  Thomas and Charlie exchanged squints. Charlie watched out the window, not really knowing what he was looking for, but knowing it was out there somewhere. He was nearly certain of that.

  Thomas rubbed his bad eye and knew there would be no more sleeping for him. He turned to the boy. “Do you know Annie Eagletree and her husband Clyde? They live right out by the highway. Just built a new house across the New Mexico line. They run some stock on the other side of the mountain. We were looking for her cattle when our horses ran off.”

  The boy looked sideways at Thomas and ignored the question. “You fellas musta’ got turned around some, huh?” There was a little something there in his voice, but it went away when he said, “Sure, we know Annie, and Clyde, too. Clyde bought my 4-H calf last fall. Outbid the Diné Bikeyah Cafe for him. Said he didn’t want to see such a calf made into hamburger. Didn’t mind paying for him either. Maybe you saw it when you were working their cows? He’s a big boy, Hereford. Clyde said he was going to breed him this year.” The boy was a talker for a Navajo kid; he sounded almost white, Charlie thought, and smiled when he remembered his grandmother saying the same thing about him when he was a boy.

  “Do you folks have a phone at your place? I’d like to call over to Annie’s and get one of them to come pick us up.” Charlie nudged his friend in the ribs. “Thomas here needs a little medical attention. He fell off his horse a couple days ago, hit his head, and needs to have it looked at.” Charlie usually preferred Thomas do all the lying, as he’d had more practice, but just this once and considering the circumstances, felt he was justified. Thomas nodded but said nothing—just made a frogmouth and stared out the windshield.

  The boy had been wondering about the bandage on Thomas’s head but had been too polite to ask in case it had been something embarrassing that caused the injury. Now he was glad he had waited—a Navajo doesn’t just “fall” off his horse… probably drunk, was the boy’s first thought.

  When they pulled up to his parents’ rust-streaked trailer-house, Lester again apologized for not being able to take them all the way to Annie’s. “I don’t have enough gas to get over there and back, and there’s really no place to get any fuel this time a night. My dad usually keeps a five-gallon can in the shed, but I used it this morning to go get wood. They went to town for groceries this morning, so I expect he’s already filling it in town.” He grinned. “I doubt he wants me to miss a good day of wood hauling tomorrow.”

  It was Clyde that finally came for them. He recognized the Hoskinni boy immediately and shook hands several times during their conversation. He also remembered the calf he’d bought the previous fall and assured the boy it was now big enough to breed, was in fact out with the cows somewhere right now. Clyde frowned at Thomas and Harley when he said this, as he felt the two had been remiss in not bringing at least some of those cows back with them on their first little expedition. Regardless of circumstance, it had been their job to find those cows and bring them in, not run around the country scaring up dead people. Clyde did own up to a bit of responsibility. He knew he should have already had those calves branded… that, and that ot
her little thing bull calves require to become steers—the very thought of it made him squeamish. He preferred not to think about it when he could help it. His wife, Annie, on the other hand, had no such reservations, and on branding day, usually brought back a bucket of “Rocky Mountain Oysters” to be filleted, breaded, and deep-fried. She declared them delicious and couldn’t imagine anyone not liking them. Clyde had some funny notions, she thought, but excused him on the grounds he was raised in town and was the son of a schoolteacher.

  Annie Eagletree had waited up, met them at the door, and then immediately bombarded her nephew with questions about the killings. She knew all about the search, and like everyone else was displeased with the results. “Right here on our own damned reservation,” she said, and eyed Charlie as though it were his fault. Her many hours of watching television cop shows had left her with a good bit of information in regard to catching crooks, and she thought her nephew might do better should he listen to her advice now and then. She still regarded him as “the law,” though he had many times tried to dissuade her of the notion.

  Annie Eagletree was Charlie’s grandmother’s sister, but by clan she was his grandmother too, same as her sister, and while she knew he was not big on tradition, she was determined he not forget that part at least. Annie had no children and Charlie had always been her favorite. She had often sent him money and little packages of goodies when he was away at school—just so he wouldn’t forget her. She now came close and put a hand on his shoulder. “When you find him, nephew, remember this about serial killers: they are always smarter than people think they are. Forget that, and he will kill you too.” Charlie was a little taken aback but saw his aunt was deadly serious and filed the information away in his mind. He usually didn’t pay much attention to his aunt’s guidance, but this time he did, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Annie smiled, and was not at all embarrassed.