Abducted Innocence (Emily Etcitty)

by Sandra Bolton

  25

  Saturday, April 14, 1990

  Chipeta Longtooth’s Camp

  Colorado Backcountry

  Emily heard the familiar wop-wop-wop-wop of helicopter rotor blades and pulled herself into a sitting position. She surveyed her surroundings and saw that the sandstone cave was tucked behind a thick stand of Gambel oak and juniper. It would be impossible to spot from the air—but if she could make a fire, someone might see the smoke. The rain had ceased, and bright sunlight broke through the clouds.

  Chipeta was nowhere in sight. Emily loosened the straps holding her leg steady and slid her body off the travois. Her broken leg, heavy with the weight of the mud cast, hit the sandstone floor with a thud, and Emily bit her lip to keep from crying out. After the first wave of pain had passed, she used her arms to drag herself to the rim of the fire pit, where a few remaining coals still smoldered.

  She could no longer hear the helicopter, but thought maybe it would make another pass. She began looking for dry twigs or grass, anything that would burn. A basket sat near the edge of the pit, and Emily dumped the contents, tuberous roots of some kind, onto the rock floor. She put the basket on the coals and, lying down, blew lightly until the embers ignited the dry reeds. The grasses began to smoke, and a small flame appeared. Her eyes darted around the cave, looking for anything else to burn, when a large moccasined foot stomped on the basket.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said Chipeta as she retrieved her singed basket from the ashes. She carried two branches cut into crutches, but tossed them on the ground. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to make one of these?” She continued stomping until there was no longer any smoke.

  Near tears, Emily lay on her back and closed her eyes. “They’re looking for me. And all you care about is your stupid basket. I have to get out of here, Chipeta. Those girls . . .” She covered her eyes with a forearm so the Ute woman could not see her cry. “Why won’t you help me so someone can get those children out of there?”

  Chipeta sat on a mat, her legs folded under, and gave Emily a serious look. “The big ranch bordering the north side of the wash—is that the place you’re running from?”

  “Yes. A madman—calls himself ‘The Prophet.’ His followers believe he has a direct link to God, and if they obey him and practice his teachings, they’ll be blessed with eternal glory or some other bullshit. They practice polygamy to increase the flock, and since there aren’t enough women, they steal young girls as soon as they reach puberty.”

  “Well, how’d you end up there? I know you’re way past puberty.”

  “I had been investigating an earlier kidnapping of a young Navajo girl while she was doing her final Kinaaldá run. You must have something similar in your tribe when a girl reaches puberty. When I learned another child was having a ceremony, I decided to dress in the traditional way and run with her, for protection. But . . . they took me, too.”

  “I rustled a calf or two from there, took some apples, but never knew what went on behind those walls. Shit, if I’d known, I would have stolen a lot more.” Chipeta stood and put her hands on her hips, scowling at the dead fire.

  “The women are used as slave labor. They turn all their money from government-assistance checks to the man who claims to be the Prophet, and they are forced to work all day. They have no voice, no choice, but they are so indoctrinated into the beliefs of this cult they don’t resist.”

  Chipeta stopped pacing, sat down again, and exhaled a heavy sigh. “I will tell you a story because, before you can share it with anyone else, I will be gone.” She settled herself into a comfortable position. “My grandmother raised me; I don’t know who my parents were or what happened to them. Grandmother never talked about it. We lived much as I am living now. When I was a young girl, about thirteen, three men came to our camp claiming to be servants of the Lord. They stayed for a few days and tried to persuade my grandmother to let them take me away, to provide an education, a better life—‘God’s blessings,’ the one in charge said. I didn’t want to go, and Grandmother also had become suspicious. The men didn’t act like men of the cloth. When she refused to give her permission, they stabbed her and tied me with rawhide straps. They stole whatever they could carry and took me away. When they stopped to set up camp, they raped me, took turns, then got drunk. One man, their guide, was a Ute. He did nothing to help me. At night, when they were passed out, I saw the knife the Ute carried and used it to free my hands. The Ute woke up, and I stabbed him and the one who called himself the ‘head missionary.’ I took the gun of the third man and prepared to shoot him, but he managed to get away in the darkness. I heard the thunder of his horse’s feet and knew he would report what I had done, but not what happened to my grandmother and me. That same night, I took the other two horses and left the bodies to feed the buzzards. When I found my way home, grandmother was dying. She had a dream, she said, telling her I would come back. I stayed with her until the end, and then washed and wrapped her body—buried it in the mountains she loved and piled rocks on the grave so the animals couldn’t find her. I burned her wickiup and stayed in this land, but never in one place for long.”

  As Emily listened to the Ute woman’s tale, she felt the horror that young girl must have experienced, and a wave of compassion washed over her. “And you have been running all your life.”

  “Yes, running and hiding, always looking over my shoulder. When I was seventeen, I decided to leave the mountains, go to Denver, where no one knew me, and get a job. For a while, I worked as a nurse’s aide at the county hospital. But one day a Ute patient, someone I went to the mission school with, was brought in. He recognized me, and I knew I had to leave. There is no place for me in towns or cities or on the reservation, so these mountains and canyons are my home. I know how to survive here. Running and hiding is the only life I know.”

  Emily waited silently for more, but there was nothing forthcoming. “I understand what you are saying, but if you turned yourself in and told your story, they might dismiss the charges.”

  “No. The cops would never believe me. Those men I killed were murderers. But now I am the hunted one, wanted by both the white man and the Utes. I no longer have a tribe.”

  “The place I ran from—it’s also evil. They’re raping young girls. I escaped so I could bring help for them.”

  Chipeta’s face appeared calm, but she wrung her hands. “This man, you say he is called the Prophet, he is the devil’s spawn. Someone should kill him.”

  “No one will know about him if you don’t tell someone. Until then, he will keep doing the same thing,” Emily said.

  Chipeta stood. She looked down at the remains of the fire Emily had started, put a hand on her forehead, and shielded her eyes. She appeared to be in deep thought, perhaps considering Emily’s words. But after a few moments she shook her head. “Impossible,” she said and walked to the outer edge of the cave, gazing out at the thick undergrowth of oak and the two goats browsing on their leaves. When she turned to face Emily again, all she said was, “I brought you some crutches. You need to get up and move around. I’m tired of cleaning up after you, and no more fires unless I make them.”

  It required an extreme effort to stand and use the crutches, but once she was on her feet, Emily felt less confined. She moved tentatively at first, then slowly hopped the length of the cave, testing her newfound freedom. She tired quickly and had to rest again. Emily used both arms to lift her leg so it stretched in front of her while she rested on a stump Chipeta used as a stool. She hadn’t realized how weak her body had become in the short period of time since her fall, nor how burdensome the adobe-like cast around her leg was until she tried moving. Now her entire right side throbbed with pain. She had attempted to do too much. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the solid sandstone wall, thinking.

  It was obvious to Emily that Chipeta had conflicting emotions concerning what to do. If she notified the authorities, it would result in her arrest for murder. But she sure
ly realized there would be search parties, and they could stumble upon her camp at any time. Emily felt conflicting emotions as well. Chipeta had saved her life and nursed her back to health, but the Ute woman had never tried to tell her side of the story to anyone and remained wanted by the police.

  Would I give her away or arrest her, given the circumstances?

  She heard Chipeta’s footsteps, sighed, and opened her eyes.

  The Ute woman built a small fire in the pit, then skinned and skewered a rabbit she had trapped. Emily watched her as she pulled dandelion greens and tubers of Jerusalem artichokes out of her pouch. While the rabbit roasted over the coals, the greens and potato-like tubers simmered in a clay pot of water and herbs. Chipeta sat on a blanket and silently stared at the flames. Finally, she turned to face Emily and spoke.

  “They’re looking for you, and if they find you, they’ll find me. I can’t let that happen. I’ve seen the helicopters, and I know there’s a search party. It’s just a matter of time. I’m leaving in the morning. There will be enough food and water to last you a few days. Then you’re on your own. You need to build up your strength, in case you have to walk out of here—though I wouldn’t advise it. You’d have to climb down a cliff, and with a broken leg, you won’t make it. Give me a day. When I am gone, make a big, smoky fire.”

  “I owe you my life,” Emily said. “I would never have survived without your help.”

  “But you would arrest me if you could. It’s what you do—you’re a cop.”

  26

  Sunday, April 15, 1990

  Women’s Compound

  Harmony Home Ranch

  Abe awoke as the sun peeked over Sleeping Ute Mountain, changing the sky from a rosy hue to dark lavender. He looked for Will or Hosteen. When he couldn’t spot either man or the other posse members, he cursed himself for oversleeping and quickly got to his feet. A small crowd of men, women, and children stood a short distance away, staring at him. He rubbed his eyes and found the posse gathered inside the temple. Abe sat in a pew next to Will and said, “Why didn’t you wake me? What did I miss?”

  Will glanced at him, his scarred face looking as if he had not slept a wink all night. “Nothing yet. The sheriff is waiting for reinforcements to arrive before he fills us in.”

  As he spoke, a crowd began to gather—law-enforcement officers from both the Ute and Navajo nations, more state troopers in uniform, a SWAT team from Durango, an ambulance with medical personnel, and representatives from the sheriff’s departments in neighboring counties. Phil Brewster and his wife, Tina, showed up, looking for the scoop on a breaking story. Civilians, and men and women from the Navajo and Ute Reservations, arrived as well, and among them stood Bertha Etcitty. She spotted Abe and Will and squeezed in between them.

  “Hey, Mom. Why are you here?” Will said, a concerned look on his face. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “You don’t expect me to stay at home, do you? How could I? If I can’t go out on the search for my girl, I can make myself useful here—cook meals, clean, whatever. I want to be around when you find Emily.”

  Abe knew how stubborn Bertha could be when she had her mind set on something. He gave her a resigned smile and shook his head. “There’s no talking you out of it, is there? But you’re going to have to get clearance from Sheriff Turnbull. He’s in charge.”

  Bertha crossed her arms. “I already did.”

  Once the newcomers had settled in pews and on benches along the wall, Turnbull cleared his throat to get their attention. “Thank you for making it out here so early in the morning. There’ll be coffee and eggs in the dining hall after I finish my little speech. I’d like those of you who volunteered to go on the search party for Officer Emily Etcitty to sit on the left side, and the rest of you on the right. That way I’ve got some idea of what I’m working with.”

  Abe watched while people shuffled from one side of the nave to the other. As he expected, the Native American law-enforcement officers, including Joe Hosteen and most of the civilians, had joined in the search for Emily. Bertha appeared confused as to which side she should sit on but, in the end, remained where she was. They now had a team of about fifty people, with the trooper dog trainer and Hosteen in charge. Those individuals on the right consisted of lawmen better qualified to handle the forensics and logistics of an extensive search of the compound.

  “I’m cordoning off the ranch,” the sheriff said. “Buses are on the way to remove the women and children and take them to a community shelter until DNA testing can be completed. We have reason to believe underage girls were forced into what they call ‘spiritual marriages’ as soon as they reached puberty and were made pregnant.” He paused, screwing his face into an expression of disgust before continuing. “The men will be taken into custody and questioned. If any is suspected of indulging in sex with a minor or committing bigamy, they will be charged and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And to those good people who have come to lend their support by bringing food and supplies, I thank you. I appreciate y’all coming out here to help in any way you can. Now, the search team wants an early start, so you’re dismissed to meet with your team leaders—Officer Joe Hosteen with the Navajo Police, and Colorado State Patrol Officer Mark Newman. Good luck, and God bless.”

  Bertha stood and addressed Turnbull. “I’m Emily Etcitty’s mother. I talked to you on the phone, Sheriff. I’m willing to do whatever I can. Where would you like for me to start?”

  “Mrs. Etcitty, first off, I want you to know our number one priority is finding your daughter and the two young girls. We’ll be setting up a workstation in the women’s compound. I’d like you to coordinate the volunteers’ activities, if you don’t mind. It entails communication, supplies, meals, running errands, and anything else that isn’t police work. Think you can handle it?”

  She regarded the other volunteers, a mixture of Native American women in long skirts and velvet blouses, Anglos in jeans and cowboy hats, and Mexican Americans from nearby communities. All nodded affirmatively. “Of course we can. If someone shows us the way, we’ll get started.”

  The crew looking for Emily returned to the marked-off place where the dog had lost the scent and where they’d found the screwdriver and traces of blood. From there, they broke down into two groups to search a wider area. Both team leaders had walkie-talkies so they could communicate if anything turned up. Abe and Will joined Hosteen’s group, along with a second Navajo officer. They were better prepared today with water bottles, sandwiches, and rain gear. Still, after six hours of climbing rough, rocky terrain, they had not found a single clue.

  High winds blew out of the west, stirring up clouds of sand and threatening to bring a new storm. Hosteen stopped under a cluster of piñon trees and called to Will and Abe. “Let’s take a break.”

  They sat on boulders, then pulled out their sandwiches and canteens. There didn’t seem to be much to say, so they ate their meal in silence. A helicopter circled overhead.

  Will stared at the rocky soil in front of him and squatted for a closer look. “Strange.”

  “What did you find?” Abe asked.

  Will picked up a small pellet, rubbed it between his fingers, and smelled it. “Goat shit. What’re goats doing out here? And look at this. The mesquite has been eaten down.” He squatted down and studied the ground around the mesquite bush. “Goat tracks.”

  Hosteen looked skeptical. “Could be deer.”

  “Or mountain goat,” Abe added.

  Will straightened up, a glimmer of excitement shining in his eyes. “No. This print is a domesticated animal’s—somebody’s livestock. The only mountain goats in Colorado are further north, above the tree line. These hoof tracks are blockier than deer, and the front tips are rounded instead of pointed. Let’s see if we can find more. If they’re goats, someone is tending them, and maybe they know something about Emily.”

  “I’m all for tracking this person down, Will,” Hosteen said. “But I’ve got to wonder. If someone did find her,
why haven’t they notified authorities?”

  “We’ll know the answer when we find Emily. Let’s get moving on this,” Abe said.

  Hosteen pulled out his walkie-talkie and keyed in the number for Sergeant Newman. “Mark, Hosteen here. Do you read? . . . I’m up here about two miles northwest of Navajo Wash, near a stand of piñon. What’s your 10-20? . . . Copy . . . Will Etcitty might have found something. It isn’t much, but it’s our first clue. Fan out and scour the ground for goat shit . . . Yes, you heard me right—goat shit. Let me know if you find anything. Freeman, Etcitty, and I will pursue this section . . . Roger.”

  Abe was surveying the area around the trees. “There’s a lot of ground to cover. We need to break up.”

  Will squinted at the sun. It was beginning to drop in the west. “Each one of us can take a pie slice of this area, starting right here, and work our way northwest. Make a zigzag path so you don’t miss anything.”

  “Good strategy, Etcitty,” Hosteen said. “You should have been a cop.”

  “Goat dung, rabbit dung, sheep dung, deer dung—it all looks like the same shit to me,” Abe said. Country life was still new to him. In spite of the time he spent managing the Churro sheep-breeding ranch, he knew he had a lot to learn. After all, he had been born and raised in Atlantic City, New Jersey, where he’d never had exposure to anything but bullshit.

  “Maybe Newman should join us with his dog—track the scent of the goat?”

  “Look for droppings that are not perfect spheres, a little elongated, and rounded at one end. It’s easy to tell once you get familiar with it. Here, take some samples with you.” He scooped up a few and handed them to Abe.

  “Only for Emily would I do this,” Abe said as he dropped the pellets in one of the small plastic bags he carried in his pocket.