The woman had not taken any of the money or food he had laid out for her that night… but the next morning they were gone just the same.
16
Treachery
Clyde dropped the three of them off at Charlie’s truck as the sun broke just above the edge of the sage flats. A mist lay across the grey-green scrub until the first rays caused it to disappear. The old woman, She Has Horses, was gone when the two went to see about her, and there was only a sad emptiness in the vacant eyes of the hogan and open-gated corrals.
Thomas and Harley started for the hidden canyon where Thomas had turned loose the horses. But they would first see if the people at the sheep camp knew where those horses might now be. When last Thomas had talked with the herder, the young man said he would try to locate the animals and put them in with their own stock until someone came for them. Harley carried the old Krag rifle with the intention of returning it to his distant clan relatives and hoped, with their help, to gather the saddles they’d left behind. They were to meet Clyde that afternoon down country, then the thought was to possibly rendezvous with Charlie.
Thomas had remembered to borrow cinches and other tack to replace that which the mojado had destroyed, as they would still have to ride the horses out to the trailhead. Harley thought they could cut many hours off their previous trip by going cross-country. He worried at how far the mojado might be getting ahead of them and what mischief he might be up to.
Clyde was supposed to be waiting for them with a stock trailer at the lower trailhead that afternoon. In the meantime Charlie would get Samuel Shorthair on the radio and see what the tribal policeman might have learned, though he rightly figured Sam would not want to disclose any critical information over the radio. Charlie would, in the end, probably have to run by the command post set up for the searchers, and he would have to do it early, if he wanted to catch Sam Shorthair before he left. It would be a long day for all of them, and Charley asked Thomas again if he was up to it.
“I’m up to it, all right.” Thomas grinned. He knew Charlie needed to stay with the radio for at least a while yet that morning, and then too, Harley would need help with the horses.
Lester Hoskinni had told them the authorities gathered their forces each morning not far from the Hoskinni camp. Charlie figured Sam Shorthair was already en route and FBI Agent Mayfield probably was as well. That might prove a bit sticky.
When Charlie was finally able to get through to Sam, he could barely make him out, even though he was not that far away. “Sam, you’re breaking up…” The red sandstone ridges that separated them were hard on radio waves. Some said it was the iron oxide that blocked the signal; still others thought it some sort of magnetism inherent in the formation. Maybe it was both. He only knew he was out of luck this morning. His radio sputtered and popped and sounded like bacon frying in a pan, and after trying for nearly ten minutes to decipher odds and ends of conversation, Charlie reached down and silenced the unit with a twist of the squelch knob—his ears needed a rest. Near as he could tell, Sam had said he would be there in about an hour, but he could have meant something else entirely. He wondered if Sam Shorthair knew about the “witch woman” up Little Water Canyon.
As he approached Lester Hoskinni’s place, he saw him out in the yard with an older man. They appeared to be unloading firewood from the day before. On impulse, Charlie pulled into the yard and beeped the horn, which set off the dogs, and Lester turned to threaten them with a stick before walking over to Charlie’s truck. The older man, who looked a lot like Lester, must be his father, Charlie thought. The man stood looking across at them with a frown. He wanted his truck unloaded and for Lester to be on his way back up the mountain. He liked to keep a good supply of wood on hand—if the roads got muddy, they might not be able to get back up there for a while. They were calling for rain on KTNN, “Voice of the Navajo Nation” The old man was a believer and took no chances.
Lester was grinning as he looked at the tribal insignia on the truck. “You didn’t say you were the law.” Anyone with an official truck was “the law” to Lester.
“I’m not.” Charlie smiled back. “If I were, I would have arrested you yesterday for drinking.”
Lester, still grinning, turned to see if his father had heard, but saw no sign of it. “He’d kick my ass if he knew I had a bottle.”
“And he should too,” Charlie said, and didn’t smile when he said it. “Anybody been up the road this morning?” he asked as he looked up the highway toward the access road.
“No, not that I’ve seen, and I’d of seen them if they had.” He paused and reset his baseball cap, which was turned around with the bill in the back. He pushed his chin toward the highway. “Several tribal trucks went by earlier, and one of them stopped by. Tribal policeman asked had we seen anything suspicious.” He reset his cap again. “Hell, my dad thinks everything’s suspicious, but he don’t talk much to cops, so I told the cop everything was about like it always was.” He chuckled. “He told my dad, in Navajo, ‘to be on our guard, and be on the lookout for strangers,’ like we don’t have a radio, and don’t know what’s going on. I doubt anyone would get by our dogs anyhow.”
Charlie looked at the dogs, big mixed breeds both of them, and nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe you better take one of them with you this morning.”
Lester’s father was motioning for the boy, and Charlie waved a hand his way. “Looks like you better get back to work. The cop was right. Be careful up there today. Nobody knows where that guy will show up next.” He hesitated as he turned toward his truck. “…And lay off that bottle! You might not be so lucky next time you give someone a ride.”
The search party was gathering at the state highway department’s temporary maintenance pull off, and Charlie spotted the tops of the gravel piles before the parking area came into view. Even though Lester had mentioned it, he was surprised to see how few civilian and private vehicles there were, not over a half-dozen, he thought. There were four or five nondescript hounds tied to a truck bumper and an old white man trying to untangle their leads. The dogs didn’t look all that interested in going out either. He spotted Sam Shorthair’s pickup and angled over toward it.
Sam rolled down the window and had a worried look on his face as he hung up his radio mic. “I heard you on the air earlier,” he said, “but couldn’t understand more than a few words. We’re working off the old relay transmitter up here, and the coverage is spotty at best.”
“Same here. I suspect it might be better up higher, but down there in the canyon we may as well not have radios.”
Sam indicated a black Suburban on the far side of the parking area, partially obscured by the gravel piles. “That’s FBI over there. There’s three of them now. Agent Mayfield must have called in the cavalry last night. I guess you heard I’m the new liaison officer between tribal police and the Feds. I’ve already had a little chat with them this morning… and it didn’t go well either.”
“Congratulations, Sam,” Charlie said, ignoring the last part. Privately, he thought, I don’t envy you your position. Agent Mayfield isn’t someone I’d want to spend much time with.
Sam nodded his thanks. “Well, I sort of had it thrust upon me, and I already may be off to a bad start. Mayfield insists we send everyone high this morning—said we weren’t covering the upper area like we should. I almost expected him to say ‘You lazy bastards…’ but he didn’t.” Sam grinned. “He’s from New York City, for God’s sake. The only backcountry he’s seen is maybe Central Park.”
Charlie smiled at this. “Sue said you called. I’d have gotten ahold of you last night if it hadn’t been so late.”
Sam nodded again. “Where’s your cohorts?”
“Off looking for lost horses. Clyde will pick them up down-country this afternoon, and they’re supposed to meet me back here later today—depends on how quick they come up with the horses, I guess.”
Sam took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, then carefully placed the gl
asses on the dash. “What I wanted to talk to you about is this guy we’re after—looks like he probably is from that van that rolled over last week down on 491. FBI sent the vehicle identification to Mexican Federal Police, and when next of kin was contacted, the coyotero’s brother told them there may have been a recent prison escapee named Luca Tarango in his brother’s consignment of wets. A real bad boy from what the Federales told our people. Mexican federal authorities believe he’s killed several down there. The coyotero’s brother said no one knew who this “Tarango” person was until after it was too late to do anything about it. The guy fits with these killings up here, I guess.” He looked over at the FBI car. “None of this information has been released as yet, and may never be. I’d appreciate it if you just keep it under your hat for the time being. The bureau did send off a crap-load of fingerprints from the dead illegals, but still haven’t heard back on ’em… said they probably wouldn’t hear either. I guess the system in Mexico is just pitiful when it comes to any kind of forensics.” Sam raised his eyes. “Mayfield says their main investigative technique is beating information out of people.”
The tribal officer sighed and rubbed his temples with the fingers of both hands. “From our angle, I really don’t know where to go from here.”
Charlie thought he should be straight with Sam, and keeping one eye on the FBI car, lowered his voice. “There’s a woman locals think is a witch. Her camp’s almost to the upper end of Little Water Canyon. My topo map shows it to be right in the path of anyone who might want to avoid the main trails on their way down to the highway. I think you and I should at least check on her—let her know what’s going on.” He indicated the government car with his chin. “Agent Mayfield doesn’t know this country, or the people, not like we do. It’s our reservation, and I think it’s up to us to bring this guy in.” He stared directly at Sam when he said this, much as a white person might do, and though Sam was not a traditionalist himself, the gaze made him uncomfortable, and he was first to look away.
Sam knew he would be taking a big risk by throwing in with Charlie at this point, especially in view of the FBI’s warning for Charlie to butt out. But, when Sam thought about it, he couldn’t help but feel Charlie was right; it was their people, and this was their job.
When Sam and Charlie pulled out in Sam’s truck, they had to drive right by the government car and saw Agent Mayfield start to roll down his window. They didn’t stop or even look that way. Sam didn’t want to lie about where they were going, or why. Eldon Mayfield was probably a decent enough guy in Sam’s view, but he told Charlie it might take a little time for the government man to get used to how things were done on the reservation.
For Sam Shorthair’s sake, Charlie hoped that was true.
17
The Twist
It was still early when Margaret told Luca he should go off in the brush. Just like that, she told him, and she didn’t look away when she said it either. “The old man will be bringing the supplies from town today,” she explained, “and we don’t want him to see anything that might arouse suspicion. I’ve known him a long time,” she said, “but evil has a way of worming its way out of a person when you least expect it. I don’t like surprises.” She cautioned Luca not to come back or make any sound until he was sure the old man’s truck was gone. The two of them brushed out Luca’s tracks with juniper branches, and after he left, she walked back and forth and scuffed dirt so it would show only her tracks and wouldn’t appear freshly swept.
Luca wasn’t used to taking orders from women. Even Tressa had known better than that. But he said nothing and gathered up his water bottle and rifle, disappearing up into the rough ledges behind camp. On his own, he might have handled the situation of this deliveryman differently, and more permanently, but this wasn’t Mexico. Maybe he should rethink how he approached things in this country.
Once above camp, he situated himself in such a way that he could look down on the crude dwelling and even a portion of the rutted track coming up the canyon. He thought he might have a long time to wait and fell into that secret zone that allows one to think of other things yet remain aware of the business at hand. The thought occurred to him that this witch woman might have played up to him only until she could safely get word to the authorities. But no, that wouldn’t make sense; she could just as easily have killed him while he slept, or put something in his food, or any number of other things should she have wanted to rid herself of him. No, this woman had something else in mind. She was not so bad looking that she could not have found another man, should she have wanted one in that way, but he doubted now that she had any such interest in him.
Several times he had thought her on the verge of asking him something, but their relationship, it seemed, had not ripened to the point she felt comfortable saying what that thing might be. He was certain when it came it would not be an insignificant request, and he suspected he might be one of the few she thought capable of fulfilling it.
There was a way she looked at him, when she thought he wouldn’t notice, that caused him to think of Tressa and her final treachery. He knew in his heart this witch woman was capable of much, much worse. He had no particular feelings for the woman and realized now that he must think only of himself if he was to get out of this country alive and with any hope of seeing Tressa again.
The woman did know healing. The blood no longer came when he coughed, and that little pain in his chest wasn’t such a bother now. His arm was still not perfect, but it was better, and the poultice she had provided no doubt had helped.
Then too, there was the magic charm, the crystal that would make him invisible. How tantalizing the thought of this was to him, one who made his way in the world doing chancy things. The more he thought of it, the more he wondered if such a thing could possibly be true. And then, if she had the power to do such magic, what other evil things might she be capable of. Who could say what a witch might do should she set her mind to it. This was how Luca was thinking when he heard the far-off grind of the truck. The old man was coming.
~~~~~~
Sam’s truck was well up the mountain and high enough to finally put them in range of Eldon Mayfield’s radio. Charlie stared at the two-way as the FBI agent’s voice crackled past the background static with enough punch to be understood, or nearly so. They could tell he was hot. “…what you’re up…Sam…good reason.” There was more than impatience in the words, and Samuel Shorthair lifted his brows and shot an unhappy glance at Charlie, who only shrugged and looked out the window. Sam shut the engine off, hoping that might make for better reception; still the voice faded in and out—a virtual static-storm of bits and snatches of conversation, some of them barely audible, while others were quite strong, though obviously from more distant parts of the reservation.
Charlie spoke first. “You know this is going to cost you with the bureau.” He held up a finger and wagged it. “There’s still time to turn around… This might be a wild goose chase anyway.”
Samuel Shorthair said nothing, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the seat. “No, it’s too late for that now. We’d best just go ahead on up there.” He grinned over at Charlie. “That’s the Indian talking, I guess. Not the FBI liaison officer.”
Charlie grinned back but now wondered if they were making a mistake, and he had almost resolved to let Sam know that he too was having doubts when another truck came working its way down the nearly invisible ruts. There was no room to pass, and Samuel Short Hair bowed to local custom, giving way to the uphill vehicle by backing to the bare edge of the road. The old man driving saw the Navajo police emblem on the door of Sam’s truck and slowly pulled abreast of them.
When the officer held up his hand the man stopped the vehicle and waited. Sam Shorthair got out and Charlie followed him over to the pickup, where the driver sat staring straight ahead. He obviously thought it best to let the “law” do the talking.
“Yaa’ eh t’eeh.” Sam offered the usual Navajo salutation.
The
old man looked at the pair and returned the greeting, but with little enthusiasm. “What can I help you with?” he asked in near perfect English, but directed the question to the only one of the two who appeared to be an actual policeman.
“Could I see some identification, please?” Sam looked past the driver and finished his usual cautious inspection of the vehicle’s interior, then glanced into the bed of the truck, where he noted only a few empty cardboard boxes.
The old man dug out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. “What’s this all about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Sam took the license and gave it his usual careful perusal, comparing the picture to the man, before handing it back. “Mr. Nez, we understand there’s a …uh… woman living up the head of the canyon here and wondered if you had been up there this morning.”
“Yes… her name is Margaret Hashkii. She’s from Kiabito, but comes up here to gather medicine plants. I brought her in some supplies this morning. She’s been coming up here for years.” The old man retrieved the license from Sam and peered past him at Charlie, wondering if this person might be a fellow detainee. “She stays until early summer most years. I bring her in here quick as the snow goes off… deliver her groceries from time to time.” The old man thought this pretty well covered everything the policeman could possibly want to know, and waited to hear if this was the case.
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