Sam spoke quietly and watched the man’s reaction as he asked, “Is she alone up there this morning?” Without waiting for an answer, he asked, “Was anyone else around that you saw?”
“She’s always alone. I’ve never seen anyone else up there, and didn’t this time either.”
The old man had developed an intermittent tick, first in one eye and then the other. Sam didn’t think it unusual considering his age.
“She told me she would be through gathering the plants a little early this year,” the man went on, deciding he was not through talking. “Said she has nearly enough of everything she needs now.” Hosteen Nez pulled at one ear as though to help him think. “She wants me to come back for her next week, if there’s not too much rain. You can’t get back in here if it rains much.”
Sam nodded and said, “We’re with the search party looking for the person doing these killings they’ve had lately. I suppose you’ve heard about them, haven’t you, sir? …We’d like to make sure everyone knows.”
The old man nodded, narrowed his eyes at Sam as though he thought there might be more to it than that. “Oh yes,” he said finally, “it’s all over the news. They’re warning everyone to be on the lookout. The woman knows, all right. I doubt there’s anyone in this part of the country who doesn’t know about the killings.” He cocked an eye at Charlie and asked, “Are you a policeman too?”
Charlie spoke for the first time and assured him he was not. “I’m with Legal Services. I’m just helping out, volunteering, I guess you could say. We mainly just wanted to make sure the woman up there is all right and knows about the fugitive.”
This seemed to satisfy the old man, and he turned back toward Samuel Shorthair. “If that’s all you need from me, I need to get on my way. I’ve still got a long trip home.”
“That should do it, Mr. Nez. Thanks for the information, and you have a safe trip.”
The old man pulled past them, and without taking his eyes off the road, lifted an index finger in farewell. He didn’t smile or look back.
Sam brought out a notebook and began jotting down the information from the form he’d filled in. “Arizona license… Man’s name is Hosteen Nez. License says he’s from Kaibito, all right.” Sam’s expression became pensive as he put away the notebook and stood looking after the retreating pickup. There was something bothering him about the old man, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was… and that bothered him even more.
“So what do you think, hastiin?” Charlie inclined his head in the direction of the truck. “Are you okay with what the old man told us, or do you still want to go take a look for yourself?” He smiled. “I’m good either way. Witches don’t scare me.”
Sam Shorthair looked at the ground and mulled it over before answering. “We’re going up there.”
They found they could drive within a hundred yards of the camp but had to go the rest of the way on foot. Thomas Begay had Charlie’s .38, and Charlie had left the rifles borrowed from his Aunt Annie under the rear seat of his truck back at the highway, he figured Sam to be well enough armed for both of them.
Sam had his service revolver on his hip but at the last moment plucked the police-issue shotgun from its stand next to the center console, handed it to Charlie, and with a quick lift of his eyebrows, said, “You’ll need to put one in the chamber… and I’d do it now.”
Charlie nodded and jacked in a shell. “Double-ought buckshot?”
“Yep, deadliest load on the planet.” Sam frowned. “You should carry one of those pumps in your truck.”
Charlie hefted the scattergun. “I’m not called on to shoot many people in my job.”
“Me neither, but ya just never know, now do you?”
As they moved closer to the camp, Charlie scanned the ground for tracks—his time with Harley and Thomas had, by now, made it almost second nature to look for sign. Sam was almost to the hogan door when Charlie stopped abruptly and gave a grunt of surprise. He pointed. “This hiking boot track is his,” he said simply.
“What? The killer?” Sam had turned and now looked where Charlie was pointing. “Well, I’ll be go to hell… are you sure?” Sam unsnapped the safety strap on his holster and lowered his voice. “Are you sure it couldn’t have been old Hosteen Nez?”
“No, there are some smaller boot prints here. I noticed them when we parked the truck. I think they’re the old man’s. These others are the killer’s, all right. I’ve been following them long enough; I should know.” Both men quickly scanned the underbrush and looked long and hard at the ledges above the camp. Charlie Yazzie felt a sinking sensation in his stomach and grimaced. “I doubt he’s still out there, or one of us would already have a bullet in him.”
Sam pulled his service revolver and eased up to one side of the hogan door while Charlie raised the shotgun and covered him. Sam hesitated only a moment before throwing open the blanket at the entrance. He counted to ten and, with clenched jaw and revolver at the ready, entered the dim interior.
Charlie waited nearly a minute before calling out, “You okay in there?” A minute is a long time under those circumstances, but still he wasn’t quite ready to follow Sam in.
When he did come out, Sam’s face was as grey as an Indian’s face can be, and he sucked in an audible breath before murmuring, “Well, I guess that old myth about witches being bullet-proof doesn’t hold water.” It was clear Sam was shaken, but he maintained his game-face when he looked Charlie in the eye. “Looks like she was first shot from a distance, and from up high. It was a poor shot—he had to come down and finish her with a knife. It was after that she was dragged into her hogan.”
Charlie moved to the door and peered in. After his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior, he saw what must be Margaret Hashkii, face up on a layer of sheepskins and clearly shot in the shoulder by a large caliber rifle. Charlie could easily see the deep slashes across her midsection, mute evidence of the power behind the blade. Behind him, Sam Shorthair peeked over his shoulder and said he figured she’d been dead less than two hours—possibly even less. She might even have been dead by the time old Hosteen Nez had arrived with the groceries. There was a backpack leaned against the far wall, and Charlie went over to it, studied it in the dim light, but before he could touch it, Sam spoke from the glare of the doorway and waved a finger back and forth, “I wouldn’t do that, Charlie. The FBI’s hell on no one disturbing the crime scene.”
Charlie didn’t like it and inclined his head in such a manner Sam could see he didn’t like it. After a few moments contemplation he said, “I’m fairly certain that’s the backpack taken from the first victim. It fits the description, according to what the backpacker’s wife told the FBI.”
Sam was adamant. “I know it does. I read the report too, but we have to leave it for the feds.”
Charlie shook his head. “There could be something important in there… might help us right now.” Charley knew this was flying in the face of his own admonishments to Thomas and Harley, but things were different now. He wanted this guy to go down, and he wanted it to be at the hands of the Navajo Nation. He sighed finally and shook his head. “But I’m going to defer to your judgment as the official investigating officer, and leave it be.”
Sam didn’t like it either, “We’re already in enough trouble with the FBI and I don’t want to risk a full-blown shit-storm.” He changed the subject. “Didn’t it seem a little strange to you that Hosteen Nez didn’t get out of the truck when he pulled up. Most people around here do… And then he just kept on talking, telling us things we hadn’t even asked about. Most people in this country are pretty close-mouthed when it comes to talking to the law, especially old people.”
Charlie reflected back. “No, I hadn’t thought about it ‘til you mentioned it, but I can see what you’re saying.” Charlie pointed to the backpack. “I do know one thing—that gear being left here tells me he no longer needs it… and he’s not coming back. He’s gone, Sam. We missed him.”
“Well if
he doesn’t need his gear, did he walk out of here? It’s a long way to the highway on foot.”
“He’s not on foot, Sam. He was in Hosteen Nez’s pickup truck.”
Sam snorted, “He wasn’t in that truck—it was a single cab, and you saw me check the interior and even the bed… a few old cardboard boxes was all there was in it.”
“Sam, that truck was the same model as that old government truck I used to have. There’s a pretty healthy storage space behind the seat, for tools and such. Remember when that tourist-lady turned up missing in the campground over at Kayenta? That’s where they found her, in a space just like that, when they stopped her husband the next day down in Shiprock. The man looked so harmless and in such distress over his wife’s disappearance that it didn’t occur to anyone to look behind the seat.”
Sam bumped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I remember hearing about that and wondering where he’d hid the body in a single cab truck, especially one that had already been through two check points. Everyone thought she had been kidnapped… She was no midget, either, as I recall.”
“If that’s how it is, we better get a move on.” Charlie indicated Margaret Hashkii’s body with a nod of his head. “You’ll have to call this in on the go… assuming we can get out on the radio.”
Charlie’s mind was filled with possible scenarios as they raced to the truck, buckled up, and braced themselves for the treacherous downhill run. Sam spun the unit around and gunned it downhill, barely missing assorted rocks and small junipers.
This has to be it, Charlie thought. It’s the only possible thing that makes any sense.
Sam gripped the wheel with both hands and was jumping gullies they had previously only crept across on the way up. It was a nearly new truck, but Charlie knew it couldn’t take the pounding Sam was handing out, not without breaking something. That could mean big trouble.
Immediately Sam seemed to channel Charlie’s cautionary thoughts and slowed the truck considerably, Still, Charlie thought his driving was on the edge. When Sam glanced over at the Legal Services investigator, he saw him clutching the pump shotgun tight to his chest, eyes wide, and feet braced, and taking this as a cautionary indicator, slowed the vehicle even more, causing Charlie to relax his grip on the shotgun somewhat. Sam hoped the gun’s safety was on. Charlie had never ejected the live shell in the chamber that he could recall.
Fleetingly, Charlie wished Harley and Thomas were there. They each had more reason to be in at the kill than him. Then thought, What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I want my two best friends here, where they might very likely get shot? He could see Sam gritting his teeth as he manhandled the truck, still barely keeping it on the road. From time to time and even at this lower speed, the truck threatened to plunge off the edge.
Sam swung wide to navigate a treacherous outside corner and thought for a moment he had lost it. He wrestled with the wheel and managed to straighten the truck in the new direction. As they came about, Samuel Shorthair’s eyes widened and he hit the brake pedal.
Charlie, too, couldn’t help but suck in his breath at the sight of Hosteen Nez’s blue pickup, crosswise of the road, a rifle across the hood, and behind the rifle the devil incarnate. Though they were still a good distance away, Charlie knew instantly and without doubt who the shooter was, and what was about to happen. “Look out!” he choked as he lurched to one side and threw his arms up to cover his face. Sam Shorthair instantly swerved the truck, but not in time to avoid the heavy lead bullet that came smashing through the windshield. The truck ran itself partially up the embankment before lurching to a stop against a juniper tree.
Charlie, when at last he became aware of his surroundings, was partially propped up against a front wheel. He could feel the rough treads of the tire against his back and mentally checked himself over before opening his eyes. He thought he was going to be all right––felt surprisingly little pain—certainly not pain of the caliber he had expected; he was fairly certain that would come eventually. He was careful when he opened his eyes, afraid things might be worse than he thought… and they were.
The mojado squatted just in front of him, with what might pass for a concerned look on his face. His rifle, at half cock, lay across his knees, and he rocked back on his heels as he contemplated his adversary.
“You not hurt too bad? No?” He watched Charlie intently. “Don’ you die on me now, you cabron.” Concern was indeed evident in his voice as he reached out and gently shook Charlie’s shoulder. “You one a those Indios who been following me, no?” He squinted one eye, half-smiled, and knew it was so. “I think you one of ’em, all right. I think you the one always draggin’ ass behind them other two. You shouldn’ let that lil’ fat one get ahead… make you look weak, hombre.” He held up Charlie’s badge. “You a policeman? You don’ got no special shirt… You don’ got no gun… but, you got this badge hombre. How is that, amigo? How you come by this badge?” He turned the badge over and over and polished it a little with his hand, holding it to the light of a darkening sky. He attempted to read the inscription, but it was beyond him, and finally he could only shake his head at the unfamiliar words.
Charlie stared back and thought carefully before he spoke. There was the chance his life just might hang on it. “I’m not a policeman. I work in an office. I was just out here helping look for some cattle.”
“Well, then why you followin’ me, hombre?” He shrugged. “I don’ got you cows.” He looked up and down the road as though to assure Charlie there were no cattle. “I don’ know nothin’ ’bout no cows. Pero… what I do know, is you not gonna get off so easy, like you other compadre.” He grimaced. “You save him a good cuttin’ that night, amigo… How he’s doin’ now? He don’ die from bein’ too scared, huh?” He smiled at his little joke. “Don’ you worry, my friend. I won’ cut you. I think I gonna need you pretty quick.”
Charlie’s nose hurt, and when he tried to touch it, it seemed oddly off center on his face. That’s when he became aware of the handcuffs—Sam Shorthair’s handcuffs. But he couldn’t see Sam and assumed he was still in the truck. He didn’t hold out much hope for his friend—It had been a solid hit. There is a different, almost hollow, sort of thump when a large caliber bullet hits the chest cavity. Charlie had hunted enough as a boy to know it when he heard it. He had always liked Sam, and now, he too had a reason to hate. There is a vast disparity in the lexicon between dislike and hate, and what Charlie felt now was the latter, quite possibly the strongest of human emotions.
“Como se llama? What you name esse? I need somethin’ to call you. Me llama es Luca,” he said by way of illustration.
“Charlie, my name is Charlie,” the investigator whispered. “What do you want from me?”
“Well… for a long time I jus’ want you people to leave me alone, you know, get off my ass. Pero, ahorita I gonna need a lil’ help… and you the only one left to do it. That old man over there by the trucke… he’s dead now. I thought maybe he could drive me where I want to go, but when I have him pull the truck across the road, he jump out and make a run for it… He was fast, too, for an old man. Puta! He damn near make it to the trees. If I had time, I woulda’ run him down… but then I hear you trucke comin’ …an I jus’ end it. Crazy ol’ cabron… he shoulda’ know’d he couldn’ outrun no bullet.” And when Luca shrugged, there was no remorse at all in it.
“So what now?” Charlie needed time to think—he would be in league with the devil, he knew, but that was the cost of the thing, and there was no help for it as far as he could see. On the wild ride down the mountain, he’d had time to try the radio only twice, and he doubted much of it had gotten out; he’d heard no answer beyond a garbled static. The search party would have already gone out, including FBI Agent Eldon Mayfield and his two new field agents. They were headed up high, Sam had said, so he expected the chances of running into any of them this low on the mountain were probably slim to none. Sam’s patrol unit was now out of action, and he doubted this Luca Tarang
o, if that was his name, would have wanted to call that much attention to himself anyhow. That left the old man’s truck, and until his body was found and the alert put out, it would be the only reasonable option. In the end, however, Charlie knew this man would decide he needed another vehicle.
Luca stared down the road for a moment and, as though reading Charlie’s thoughts, said, “No me gusta este trucke viejo,” and then remembering who he was talking to, translated, “I don’ like that old trucke. It only goes slow an’ it smokes a bunch a smoke. No, the cops will stop it sooner or later, an’ there we be. We need a better trucke—mas major—if we going to get where I need to go.”
“We? Where do you want us to go?” Charlie wanted desperately to make some sort of connection— information in Charlie’s law enforcement manual considered it crucial in hostage situations. “Why do you need me?”
“Colorado.” Luca said this with the Spanish pronunciation, just as the conquistadors said it in the beginning. “Oh… an’ I don’ drive… not like you drive in this country.” Luca didn’t want to admit he didn’t know how to read, road signs or otherwise. He was smart enough to know the slightest driving error could be his downfall. Driving was out of the question for one of his slight experience. No, he would need help.
A spark of hope was stirring in Charlie, and he considered the possibilities. Should the man be persuaded to take his truck, it might open up a few possibilities. It was still parked at the highway department turnoff, which is where he had told Thomas and Harley he would leave it if he hooked up with Sam Shorthair. He seriously doubted any searchers would come straggling in until late afternoon. Many of the volunteers’ vehicles should still be there to choose from. The trick would be to convince his captor to take his truck and not some other.
Luca came to his feet, reached down to grab the chain connecting the cuffs, and pulled his prisoner to his feet. A wave of dizziness rolled over Charlie when he came upright. The first thing he saw was Sam Shorthair, still in the truck, slumped over the wheel—and apparently lifeless.
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