Boy Made of Dawn

by R. Allen Chappell

  Pete Fish seemed preoccupied as he pulled out of the parking lot and pointed the Suburban west on US 64. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the rearview mirror. He had not spoken a single word of greeting, just turned up the volume on the radio station, then adjusted the squelch on the two-way to silence it. Charlie took this as a foreshadowing of things to come and kept his thoughts to himself. Pete’s eyes were hidden by sunglasses. His lips moved, but silently, and not in sync with the radio’s music. A slight sweat had broken out on his brow, and he wiped it occasionally on his shirtsleeve.

  They reached the Arizona state line in less than thirty minutes and soon after veered left on 160. Pete pulled into the trading post at Mexican Water and sat a long moment, as though in a daze, staring at the long white building.

  “Let’s get something to drink,” he said finally. Not waiting for an answer, he climbed down from the SUV and, without looking back, went into the store.

  Charlie looked after him, thinking at first he would just stay in the car but then changed his mind.

  Inside the store he spotted Pete Fish just coming out of the restroom. Charlie turned to the refrigerated cases of cold drinks and selected two bottles of water then a soda, which he opened and took a long, slow swallow, causing the carbonation to burn all the way down and make his eyes water. Pete came up behind him and chose a soda but no water.

  “I’m Hungry.”

  Charlie agreed with a nod and pointed to a selection of burritos that could be heated in the microwave oven which sat beneath a huge arrow painted on the wall, indicating the appliance. The proprietor had apparently grown weary of pointing out the obvious.

  Pete removed his dark glasses to read the labels, and Charlie was taken aback at his hollow bloodshot eyes. Pete seemed unable to focus in the fluorescent light of the store and moved several packages back and forth in front of his eyes. Finally, he seemed to give up and just went with whatever he had in his hand.

  “I could go for one of those breakfast burritos myself,” Charlie said, keeping one eye on Pete, who moved over to the microwave without comment.

  After the two men heated their food, Pete Fish turned to the counter, where he paid only for himself before moving to the door without a backward glance. Charlie hadn’t expected Pete to pay for his; he had always been tight of pocket, usually the last one in line at the cash register in hopes someone else would pick up the tab. Charlie was surprised he had not lagged behind this time, proving once again, Pete Fish’s mind was somewhere else.

  Back in the Suburban, Charlie stowed his bottles of water in the door pocket and began unwrapping his burrito. Pete had already crammed half of his down and, with eyes watering from the green chilies, gulped down a long swallow of soda.

  “Hard to believe, maybe,” Pete said, still choking a little, “but I was born only a few miles from here.” He waved a hand at the desolate scenery as he took another bite.

  “Do you get back much?” Charlie didn’t really care, but the answer surprised him.

  “I’ve never been back—not since I was sixteen anyway. I went to the mission school when I was eight, then boarding school, and then the university.”

  “Didn’t even go home during the summers?”

  “Home wasn’t much,” Pete said, cleaning up a few crumbs. “I liked school. I guess I was about the only kid who did.”

  “Are any of your people still here?”

  Pete Fish just nodded his head and started the car.

  “They’re here.”

  At Tes Nez La’ Pete turned the big Chevrolet north on a little used dirt track.

  “So are you going to tell me what we’re doing up here?” Charlie had waited long enough and thought it was time for a few answers.

  “You’ll see soon enough. Just sit back and relax. You don’t get to see something like this every day.”

  See what? Charlie thought but left it unsaid. He could see Pete Fish drifting off again to some other time and place.

  They were well off the highway when the Suburban made one final turn to the west and began a steep accent toward a long hogback ridge. The rocky track was probably an old access trail to some forgotten camp or maybe a woodcutter’s road that had run out of wood. The Suburban pitched side to side and occasionally bounced the frame off the shelving rock. Charlie was glad it wasn’t his truck.

  Finally, at the top of the ridge the trail leveled out as it angled off across a narrow mesa at the end of the hogback. It ended at a promontory overlooking several hundred square miles of reservation. It was quite a drop—straight down, as far as Charlie could see.

  Pete Fish stopped the car and turned to him, an expression akin to disbelief on his face. “I have now come full circle,” he said pointing to a mound of rotted cedar logs and adobe mud just back from the rim. “I was born right in that hogan.” He got out and moved to the front of the car to relieve himself on a small bush.

  Charlie felt now as though he were watching a poorly directed movie, one that would likely have a bad ending. He freed the .38 from its holster and moved it to the side pocket, then taking a bit of toothpick from his burrito wrapper, jammed open the transmit button on the two-way radio. He watched as Pete Fish walked unsteadily to the edge of the rim and stood there, looking over the edge as if examining something. Apparently satisfied, he returned to the car and sat a moment dead still, staring into some parallel universe known only to himself. Finally, he turned in his seat and moved his chin to the west.

  “There’s a little spring that bubbles up out of the rocks,” he pointed beyond the ruined dwelling, “just over there. My father said no one had ever seen a spring up this high…but as you can see…” he pointed at a little green bit of foliage beyond the ruined dwelling. “He thought this a sacred place because of that water. He wouldn’t leave, no matter what. The place would only support a few head of stock. They both would have slowly starved to death living here.”

  “So did they finally move away?”

  “Oh no…they didn’t move away. He wouldn’t leave.” Pete Fish rubbed his chin. “I came back when I was sixteen…walled them up in a crack in the cliff down below. There wasn’t a single piece of turquoise to put with them, except his ring…and I took it with me.” He grimaced. “My father called it his ‘lucky ring’ and always said someday it would be mine.”

  “So they finally died then. That must have been awful for you to find them that way.”

  “No, they weren’t dead when I found them. They were still hanging on, living as though nothing was wrong, hardly able to make it to the spring each day. No one even knew they were up here. They were too proud to ask for help.” A single tear trickled down Pete Fish’s cheek. Charlie would not have thought him capable of tears, but there it was. “I couldn’t leave them here like that.”

  “Pete…do you mean you killed your own people here?”

  “You do understand, I couldn’t just leave them out here like that,” he flicked the tear away, “with me away at school trying to study, make a new life and all. No, I couldn’t have stood that. It was better they be safe, so I didn’t have to worry about them so much.” He brushed a sleeve across his eyes and nearly smiled. “You probably thought I brought you out here to do you some harm too, didn’t you?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  Pete peered thoughtfully through the windshield across the far expanses of barren country.

  “Sue would never marry me, would she, even if you were out of the way?”

  “No Pete, she would not. We are going to be married soon.” Charlie shook his head and forged on. “Sue would not have gone with you, no matter what happened.” He knew now he was treading on dangerous ground.

  Pete Fish sighed and looked away. “That’s what I thought. I had planned to kill you but then finally realized it wouldn’t get me what I really wanted.” He raised a large caliber pistol from the driver side pocket and swung it to cover Charlie, who threw up his left arm like a chicken’s wing.

 
“I didn’t bring you out here to kill you, Charlie; I brought you out here to kill me. I’ve thought about it a great deal, and I think this would be best in the long run. I’ll get more satisfaction out of it this way.

  “Pete, let’s go back to town. You need to get some help,” Charlie whispered.

  “You don’t understand, Charlie. I wouldn’t have any problem killing you. I could have made a lot of money, in fact, killing you.” He looked Charlie square in the eye. “But that money wouldn’t mean anything. I know that now. My peace must be made right here.” He made a little motion with the muzzle of the gun. “I will only kill you if you make me.” He blinked his eyes several times as though trying to clear his mind. “I want you to suffer Charlie, the way you have made me suffer. I want you to have this on your conscience for the rest of your life. It will be my revenge and, in the end, maybe even my salvation.”

  Charlie edged toward the door. “Now Pete, you need to get hold of yourself. This is crazy talk!” His right hand was hidden at his side, clutching the .38 tucked safely away in the side pocket. He was already easing it to his side when he heard the cold, hard click.

  Pete Fish thumbed the hammer back on the big automatic and leveled it at Charlie’s head. “What say, boy?”

  Charlie’s revolver fired almost of itself right across his belly. He felt the concussion clear to his backbone. There was no aiming or hope of accurately placing a shot. He wasn’t even aware he had pulled the trigger. It was all instinct, and the will of the little revolver to do what it was designed to do—shoot someone in the belly at very close range.

  Pete Fish should not have been surprised, but he looked surprised nonetheless. No matter how much you expect it, getting shot in the belly is always a surprise. It instantly sickens one, like a kick in the private parts. Reflex alone caused Pete Fish to pull his own gun’s trigger. The .45 slug exploded past Charlie and through the side window, taking a small piece of Charlie’s ear with it. It was that close. Pete Fish was still alive, but the fight had gone out of him, being shot in the belly and all. The gun dropped from his fingers, and he gripped the steering wheel with both hands. One might have thought him barely wounded, should they not understand how these things work.

  A .38 makes a nice, neat little hole going in but seldom has enough power to exit a man like Pete Fish. The gut then slips a little and seals the hole. Belly fat alone may plug it up almost instantly. Many times there is hardly even any blood, and bystanders commonly think the person was not hit at all.

  Law enforcement officers, at one time, carried .38 caliber revolvers almost exclusively. After the movie Dirty Harry came out, however, they all got bigger guns. They could see the advantage then in having a hole on both sides of a person when they shot him.

  These were just some of the thoughts running through Charlie’s head as he opened the car door. He could feel blood oozing down the side of his own face. He was deaf since the muzzle blast but figured if he was still able to think and move, he must not be too bad. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket with his left hand and pressed it against the side of his head. He tightened his grip on the .38 with the other and kept a sharp eye on Pete Fish, who didn’t appear to be getting any worse.

  Charlie reached over and took the keys, then turned the squelch down on the two-way and un-keyed the microphone. There was instant chaos on the air, static, and the squeal of feedback from everyone opening their mike at the same time. “Well, that’s good,” Charlie said under his breath. “Some of what just happened may have got out.”

  Almost immediately dispatch broke through urgently demanding his “20.” Charlie pinpointed his location as closely as he could and told them they had better send in Medivac out of Farmington. This ridge shouldn’t be too hard to find from the air.

  He walked unsteadily around to the other side of the car and asked Pete Fish if there was anything he could do for him until the chopper got there. Pete squinted and blinked several times. It was hard for him to say very much. “Water!” was all he finally managed.

  Charlie retrieved a water bottle and tried to give him a little sip. Pete shook his head, indicating the spring with a wave of his hand.

  Charlie sighed and emptied out the bottle. The greenery around the spring was easy to see, and the old path from the ruined hogan was plain even after all these years. It wouldn’t hurt to humor Pete Fish a little bit. He doubted this sacred spring water would allow him to jump up and run off. He could see where someone, many years before, had hollowed out a little basin now filled with clear, cold water. In this harsh, dry land, where water is life, he could imagine how someone might think this spring a miracle. When he returned to the car, Pete Fish was sitting up a bit straighter, and Charlie gave him just a sip of the spring water. Pete smiled then, and Charlie knew he had done the right thing.

  Charlie thought to himself, “That water must taste just as it did when he was a boy.”

  ~~~~~~

  In the hospital, Charlie was treated, then after showing his badge, was allowed to hang around waiting for the surgeons report on Pete Fish. Word was a long time coming, but three hours later, when the doctor finally did come out, he seemed pleased and noted what a lucky man Pete was. The damage might have been irreparable left untreated even a few minutes more. Now, however, there was a good chance he might recover. Pete was, in fact, already conscious. Charlie went in with two federal investigators, who also had been waiting.

  The investigators quickly convinced Pete Fish the transmitted radio conversation alone was enough to send him away. They reminded him too there was no statute of limitations on the long-ago murder of his parents. In the end, with nothing more to lose, Pete Fish confessed all and, in the process, implicated Councilmen Donald Benally and Robert Ashki in the plot to murder government witnesses. They too would now be key figures in the ongoing Grand Jury conspiracy indictments.

  Sue arrived earlier and was still waiting for Charlie. It was chaos at work, and reports on his condition were so widely conflicting she wasn’t sure what to expect when she finally saw him. Charlie tried to call several times, but the switchboard had been jammed with traffic, and he could not get through.

  Later, as Sue drove Charlie home, he told her everything. He almost felt sorry for Pete Fish. He heard a lot of sad stories on the reservation, he said, but few sadder than that.

  “I guess so,” Sue murmured. “It’s kinda hard for me to feel sorry for someone who killed his own parents though.”

  “Well, you know, it was once very common among the people. When it was time to move camp, and the old people were too frail or sick to go along, then they were often just left with a little food and fire. The family just left them behind. The old people expected it too. It had always been that way. It was for the good of the family. When it was time to follow the game or move quickly to avoid enemies, there was no recourse. Remember, this was in the olden times before horses and social security.” Charlie was just rambling on now, enjoying the ride with Sue and looking forward to what he hoped would be a pleasant afternoon.

  “But still, in this day and age, you would have to be off your rocker to do such a thing,” Sue insisted.

  Charlie touched his bandaged ear. “I know. I suppose there’s a limit to what you can forgive in a person these days.”

  “Speaking of that,” Sue arched her eyebrows at him, “I heard you say on the radio that we were getting married soon.” She smiled her serious smile. “It may have just slipped my mind, but I don’t recall you asking.”

  Charlie flew into a fit of coughing and, finally, with watering eyes, he said, “I was going to ask you tonight when we were out to dinner in town.” And when that got no response, “You did remember we were going out to dinner tonight, didn’t you?”

  “So you figured you better tell Pete Fish first, huh?”

  “It seemed an opportune moment, what with him wondering should he just kill me and hang around to marry you himself. I thought I better nip that in the bud.”

&n
bsp; “Nip it? Well, there are about 30 people who heard you say it. It’s going to be pretty hard to get out of now.”

  “I don’t want to get out of it.” There was a light buzzing in his bandaged ear. He hoped his hearing was coming back. “I meant what I said.” Charlie turned to the window, and she could barely make out his next words. “At the time, I thought it might be the last chance I would have to let you know how I feel.”

  Sue watched a small dust devil whirling its way across the road. She slowed slightly to miss it, then turned to Charlie and said softly, “Well, I suppose that’s about the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Her smile caused a small flutter in his heart. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift off to that little place in the country and how he was going to make a corral for his new horse. He would find a horse for Sue. Horses just seem to do better when there are two. Pretty much like people.

  Sue glanced over at Charlie as he nodded off. She thought they would do well together. It was time they moved forward in life—together.

  ~~~~~~

  Aida Marie Winters rose that morning to a brilliant pink glow across the eastern horizon and went to feed the horses. Charlie and Thomas would be picking them up about mid-morning, they said. At last she would see Sally’s children. Possibly the first and last time she would ever see them, she thought. It wasn’t Sally’s fault; she never even learned to drive a car and was, in many ways, like a child herself. Well, at least her children would have better opportunities. Aida had seen to that.

  She would take the children up the hill behind the house to see their mother’s grave. She figured they were too young to have picked up the Navajo distaste for death, especially considering all the time they had spent with the Ute, who had no particular aversion to it—at least not the ones they had been around. She would let the children place fresh flowers on the grave if they liked. Some of those flowers were perennial, planted years ago by Sally Klee herself. It was fitting her children should carry them to her.