The boy looked at the old man. He had never seen an Indian with hair on his chest and was thinking Paul might be teasing him. “Have you got hair on your chest?” he wanted to know.
“Not yet, I haven’t, but when we finish this orange juice, I might.” He took a drink from the open jug and looked down at his shirtfront. “I can’t wait to see if I’ve got any hair on my chest tomorrow”
The boy nodded, finally taking the juice jug. He took a long swallow for a little boy. “We’ll see who’s got the most hair on his chest tomorrow,” he declared, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Paul smiled but was thoughtfully watching a dark-colored SUV stopped by the side of the distant highway. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the vehicle except this was the second time it had passed by, stopping each time directly across from the single track running up to the camp. No one got out or even rolled down a window.
The Revelation
Hiram Buck’s meeting had not gone well, and for good reason: not only had he failed to silence Charlie Yazzie, but now another key witness, Sally Klee, thought to be in their pocket, had gone missing. Also half their insurance, in the form of Sally’s son, was in other hands. The heavyset man in the black suburban nervously fingered his bolo tie, telling Hiram he did not see how things could possibly be worse. He went on to say Hiram had one week to somehow realign the stars in their favor. It seemed funny talk to Hiram, but he got his meaning and brusquely assured the man things would be different going forward. His visitor now thought it a huge mistake—trusting Hiram to carry out this critical part of the plan—and was not hesitant in saying so.
“I expected a lot better from someone who came so highly recommended.” He sniffed. “You’re making me look bad…and I don’t like it.” He did not get out of the Suburban to say this, however, as Hiram’s reputation for volatility, ending in violence, was well known.
Hiram, not used to being talked to in this fashion, put his two big hands on the windowsill and leaned forward. “How would you like me to jerk you out of there and kick your ass, little man?”
This outburst did nothing to allay the man’s fear. He had made a bad choice in Hiram Buck. There was nothing for it now, however. Hiram Buck knew too much, and changing horses midstream was not an option, at least not yet.
Hiram knew there would be no money until the upcoming trial was decided. The one exception being that should Charlie Yazzie be eliminated once and for all, that portion of the funds would be instantly forthcoming. They had told him so several times. The man in the bolo tie wanted Hiram to focus his attentions on Charlie Yazzie.
As the Suburban spun out of the yard in a cloud of red dust, Hiram fell into a truly murderous rage, mentally cursing his nephew George Jim for this horrible predicament. Nevertheless, he knew this same nephew was now his chief hope of eliminating the Navajo investigator.
Hiram hardly had time to settle his nerves before the state brand inspector’s truck pulled up the lane. “This is all I need right now!” he said, bracing for his second confrontation of the morning.
Brand Inspector Dan Cleaver was well acquainted with Hiram Buck and his clan and learned to keep a sharp eye on any paperwork involving the family. The matter of the questionable heifer Hiram tried to run through the sale barn earlier had piqued his interest right from the start. The paperwork stated Hiram raised the animal, and she did carry a somewhat botched Buck brand. Mistakes occur during branding, and brands do get mangled from time to time, but there was something about this one that just didn’t set right with the brand inspector. He had been a brand inspector for a long time and knew what he knew.
“Morning, Hiram! Didn’t Aida Winters tell you I was looking for you about that heifer?”
Hiram stared at the brand inspector with a blank look on his face. “I haven’t seen that woman in weeks. We’re not exactly on the best of terms.”
“Well anyway, I’ve got a heifer down at the sale barn that I’ve got a few questions on.”
“Yeah, I saw she got a pass for brand inspection. What didn’t you like about it.” Hiram knew exactly what Dan did not like about it but played dumb, even knowing the inspector knew better.
Dan Cleaver looked him in the eye for a long moment and said nothing.
“Let me get my tally book,” Hiram said at last. “I can show you exactly what mother cow it was out of and when she was dropped.”
Dan was sure Hiram would have doctored his books by now and sighed, waving him up to the house. While Hiram fetched the records, Dan looked the place over as carefully as he could without appearing too obvious. He had the right to search the entire corrals and outbuildings should he see fit, but he was not inclined to raise a fuss quite yet.
Hiram came out with the tattered record book, already opened to the page in question. He had filled in all the pertinent information any breeder might note in such a record, but it did seem to Dan the entry was a bit wedged in between two previous entries, all of which meant nothing. Hiram was free to keep his records in any fashion that struck his fancy. Dan knew the mother cow Hiram listed was probably long gone. The Bucks had shed all their cattle over the last six months. It was well known in those parts.
The inspector thought Hiram a little nervous, though the man was certainly no stranger to brand inquiries and was even accustomed to coming out on top in these encounters. None of his neighbors ever admitted to missing any stock. Wherever Hiram was coming up with these cows, it wasn’t nearby.
Dan decided to change tack. “Well, I see Aida finally got that sorrel horse of yours,” he said nonchalantly, pretending to study the tally book, but watching Hiram from under the brim of his hat.
Hiram was a little taken aback by this news of his horse and not just a little displeased. “You don’t say?” He spit in the dirt of the yard. “I hope she likes him as well as I did,”
Dan Cleaver saw he struck a nerve and smiled to himself. “Oh, I don’t expect she’ll have a chance to find out if she likes him. She sold him right off the grounds for a nice profit to some Navajo law officer from Shiprock.” He could see a twitch begin in Hiram’s left eye, a trait several of the Buck family displayed when aggravated.
Pressing his advantage, the brand inspector became more direct. “I’m going to hold that heifer until I can look into this a little further.” Then a parting shot. “Don’t even think about picking her up until I contact you personally.” With that, Dan handed Hiram back his tally book and turned to his truck.
“What was that Navajo law’s name. Do you remember?”
“Yazzie,” Dan threw back over his shoulder. “His name was Yazzie!”
~~~~~~
George Jim, just at dawn, moved up the hillside toward the timbered ridge which lead, eventually, to Aida Winter’s property. There was a spring high up on the ridge, and of late it had become the watering place for a very old mule deer buck. A buck he’d been keeping track of for some weeks now as it ranged back and forth over the two ranches. It was easy to spot with its offside, drop-tine antler. It had only two tines on each side, showing the regression of age. After a time, a mule deer buck may not add points to its antlers. Worn teeth and poor nutrition can actually cause less growth each year. Although the spread may continue to widen and the bases thicken, the rack itself grows less impressive. It’s extraordinarily difficult for a buck to reach this age at all. Some are surprised to find the venison from one of these old bucks more tender and flavorful than that of a younger more vigorous animal. Such old bucks keep mostly to themselves and no longer feel the need to pursue the does or run with the younger bucks. An old deer spends his time resting, conserving critical fat reserves, and avoiding confrontations.
George Jim kept a close eye on this particular deer for some time and thought now, in the flush of spring feed, a good time to take him. There was little feed on the overgrazed Buck property, but Aida’s place was rife with fresh growth. As he eased across the hillside, he suddenly intersected tracks which led back down toward his
own place—man tracks. Two men, it appeared, had gone down the draw, returning within hours.
Kit Carson once said a Ute Indian could track a piss-ant across a rockslide. The Ute steadfastly refused to trade their hunting skills for the plow. This fact had been pointed out to the government in 1879 by the massacre of Indian Agent Nathan Meeker and his staff at the White River Agency. Meeker thought to plow up the Ute’s racetrack, which was their main source of entertainment. The ensuing rampage by the Ute not only meant the demise of the agency but the near total annihilation of a detachment of U.S. Cavalry sent to teach the Ute a lesson. There were yet those among the Ute who retained the instinct for such things. In the service, George Jim had been much in demand as a forward scout, as well as a sniper. The military generally thinks all Indians are natural born trackers and scouts. In the case of George Jim, they were proven right.
As George Jim studied the tracks, he became certain they did not belong to anyone he knew. Aida often came to check the small section of her fence on the ridge, making sure George or Hiram didn’t let the fence down so their scraggly cows could get a free bellyful of grass. These were not Aida’s tracks. Something about them told him it might not even be whites. To his way of thinking, these tracks stayed too much to the cover to be whites. The tracks were at least twenty-four hours old. The slight wind erosion on both sides of the prints made this clear. Afternoon winds sweeping up the ridge the afternoon before and then the downward flow of the night winds showed a near equal blurring of both edges of the track. Reading sign in this dry country was more challenging than most other environments. One almost had to grow up here to interpret the powdery soil. He followed the trail up the ridge to the fence line and then beyond. He could plainly see where someone had hidden two horses in the trees on Aida’s land. Both horses wore shoes, but one was very freshly shod, within days he thought. It was this horse that showed a peculiar gait. It was vaguely familiar, yet he could not quite put his finger on it. He continued along the trail until he was certain. The riders had come from Aida Winters’ home place.
As he turned to retrace his steps, the drop horned buck stood perfectly still and only a short distance away. The sun edged up over the ridge as George Jim raised his rifle to examine the buck through the scope and then centered the crosshairs. The safety was already off; solitary hunters, trained in the pursuit of other men, know the split-second warning in clicking it off could mean the difference between life and death.
George Jim was trained in making split-second decisions, decisions that might incur serious consequences. He lowered the bolt action .270 and cautiously began making his way off the ridge. The shot might have been heard from Aida’s place. Ordinarily, he would not have cared. Aida didn’t hear that well in any case. Now, however, she might have company who could hear. That threw a whole new slant on the matter. A person who makes a habit of hunting out of season has good reason to consider such things.
George Jim eased his way down through the final fringe of oak brush above his ramshackle trailer. That’s when he saw Hiram’s green pickup truck pulled right up to the built-on porch of the trailer. His uncle was sitting in the shade in the aluminum lawn chair that was missing one arm. Even from this distance George could tell by his body language that Hiram was in a temper. All his life he had been afraid of Hiram and, truth be told, still was. For the second time that day, he raised his rifle and studied a target through the scope. It would make his life so much easier. Yet, once again, he lowered the Winchester in deference to good judgment and common sense. He thought about just hiding there in the brush until Hiram went away, but he needed a drink of water, and Hiram showed no sign of leaving. George Jim swallowed hard and slipped on down to the edge of the clearing.
Hiram spotted him immediately and called loudly from the porch. “Get your ass down here, George!” He stood glowering at the younger man as he approached. “Where in hell have you been? I’ve been waiting since daylight!”
“I was up there trying to get a buck!” George yelled back, though he was nearly to the porch now and he thought to himself, “I could have got two bucks this morning, by God.”
Hiram spit for the yard but hit the porch railing instead. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he shook his head. “Well, forget about deer. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.” He tried to keep his voice conciliatory. “I found out that law, Charlie Yazzie, is up in this country again…somewhere. All we have to do is find him.” He looked George up and down, noting the camo paint on his face and hands. This boy was still out there, he thought. The crazy bastard.
George Jim set his rifle up against the porch railing and walked over to the water barrel by the door. He pulled out a cool dipper-full of water, hauled from Hiram’s well. “You say he’s up here again?”
“Yes.” Hiram now carefully enunciated his words. “I said he’s up here again.” His nephew seemed closer to the edge every time he saw him. “The brand inspector dropped by yesterday morning about that heifer we rebranded. Said Yazzie bought my horse from Aida on Sunday.”
George Jim let the cool water trickle slowly down his throat and placed the dipper back in the barrel. The barrel was wrapped in wet burlap bags that felt almost cold to the touch. He wiped his hands on the wet sacking and held them to his face before turning back to Hiram. “You say…he bought your horse from Aida?”
Hiram’s eyes went flat, and he was about to scream. “Yes, you dumb sonofabitch. He bought my horse!” But something about the expression on George Jim’s face made the words catch in his throat. What he saw was an excruciating sense of enlightenment. The young ex-soldier sat himself down on the porch steps like a sack of potatoes. Hiram watched closely, fearing he had pushed him too far. He was clearly on the edge.
After a long moment staring across the barren yard, a thin smile crossed George Jim’s wide features. He knew now what had seemed familiar about that horse’s tracks: it had been favoring it’s off hind foot. “Uncle,” he murmured softly, “I believe I know where to find that Navajo.”
~~~~~~
Caleb Begay, though only six years old, had seen more than most his age. He had endured more trouble and neglect for one thing. He faulted no one in this regard, having no yardstick with which to measure any sort of life other than his own. He had no reason to believe there was anything better. He and his sister Ida were, of necessity, self-reliant and could fend for themselves should need be. When he was very small, he vaguely recalled Thomas Begay being around a good deal, and things seemed better then, at least for him and Ida. Thomas liked children and Caleb and his sister in particular for some reason. He wished Ida were here at this place with him. He missed his sister. They had been together ever since he could remember, and though she was only a year older, she had always taken care of him to the extent of her young ability. He wondered where she could be and when she would be coming back. She would like it here at Thomas and Lucy’s, he thought. She would like the old man too. Paul T’Sosi could relate to children in a way other grownups seldom did.
This morning Caleb rose extra early and went to sing his blessing song to the sunrise before making his morning run. This was a very old ritual. Traditional Dinè boys and girls learned it from an early age. He slipped off into the sand wash and ran toward the sun until his lungs burned and his legs were shaky and weak. As he sank to his knees in the sand, he noticed the dog loping along his back trail. The dog didn’t rush to jump on him, wagging and licking, as some dogs might do. This dog stopped a few feet away, crouching, tail slowly waving back and forth, watching this boy who had become a new part of their lives. The boy stared hard at the dog, causing him to lower his head and crawl forward to Caleb’s outstretched hand.
The morning was cool, but the run had brought a fine bead of perspiration to the boy’s upper lip. He stood and the dog stood with him, both savoring the morning breeze, fresh with the smell of the desert.
The dog raised his head and lifted his nose to the air currents, reading the stories they brough
t. He stiffened slightly when he smelled the rabbit. The boy saw him hesitate only an instant before leaping ahead and around the corner of the wash. By the time Caleb reached him, the dog had already caught the rabbit and was giving it a final shake. Navajo dogs, like Navajo boys, are a self-reliant breed used to rustling for themselves. In bygone days, when times were hard, these dogs had been instrumental in the very survival of the Dinè. Caleb advanced on the dog, though it growled deep in its throat and gripped the rabbit tighter. Ordinarily, the dog would not willingly part with the rabbit to anyone but the old man or possibly Lucy should he be in a generous mood. He would not have given the rabbit to Thomas under any circumstances. This boy, however, had worked his magic on the dog as he had on the people. Finally, the dog dropped the rabbit on the ground, allowing the boy to pick it up. Caleb told the dog in Navajo he had done well, and this rabbit would be good for their breakfast. He thought Lucy might be persuaded to help them cook it. The old man told him that one day he would teach him to start a fire and fix a rabbit himself, but so far a rabbit had not presented itself. Now he would see.
As the dog and then the boy, dragging the rabbit, climbed up out of the sand wash, they saw they had come nearly to the highway. They looked around somewhat surprised at how far from the hogan they now were. They immediately noticed a black vehicle parked along the edge of the road leading to their camp. The door opened and someone appeared to be getting out when a cloud of dust came boiling down the lane from the Hogan—it was Lucy Tallwoman in the blue diesel truck.
The figure in the car quickly closed the door and spun the tires getting back up on the highway. Lucy pulled up beside Caleb and, without taking her eyes off the retreating Suburban, said calmly, “Get in the back; I don’t want any fleas in this new truck.” This made sense to the boy as he knew rabbits often had fleas. At least he thought she was referring to the rabbit, but looked suspiciously at the dog as well. There was no tailgate on the truck, and the dog jumped up in the bed, followed by the boy, who first threw in the rabbit and then pulled himself up into the bed, using the hitch as a step.
Boy Made of Dawn Page 7