by J. M. Hayes
Jujul explained his side of the Larson incidents. He hinted at unsatisfactory encounters with Anglos in the past. For just a moment, Mary saw raw emotion burning in the old man’s eyes like nothing she’d seen there before. But he hid it quickly and, just as quickly, acknowledged that what a man looked like on the outside had nothing to do with the person within. Good or evil could not be equated with race or language or culture.
J.D. explained the draft law. Mary had already done it, but the marshal knew far more details and could answer Jujul’s probing questions. J.D. argued that the literacy requirement alone guaranteed none of Jujul’s people could presently qualify to serve in America’s armed forces. He reluctantly admitted that the rules might change if war actually came. Surprisingly, Jujul seemed relieved, not at the revelation but by his honesty.
J.D. explained that he had been authorized to guarantee the elimination of federal charges if Jujul would surrender to him and his people would comply with the registration process. Larson’s criminal charges, unfortunately, were another matter. He promised to bring all the pressure he could on Larson to have them reduced or dropped altogether, but he had to admit it was something he might not be able to control. He couldn’t guarantee that Jujul or a few of his men might not have to serve some jail time, only that he would do his best to see that it was minimal or nonexistent.
There came a time when it had all been said. Mary and J.D. exchanged a knowing glance. It was up to the old man to weigh their words, consider his impressions, and make his decision. There was nothing more they could do to influence it.
Jujul sat stiffly on the edge of J.D.’s sofa and listened to a caco-phony of incomprehensible sounds—the hum of the refrigerator from the unseen kitchen, the ticking of the clock on the mantel across the room, the occasional surf of tires on pavement, and the distant call of a railroad locomotive. It seemed this monstrous village never totally slept. Painful memories wrestled with equally painful logic.
Jujul’s eyes traveled slowly around the room, taking in its marvels and mysteries one last time, then came to rest on Mary. “Tell him I accept,” he said, his voice almost too soft to hear. He took a deep breath and, if possible, straightened his ramrod spine just a fraction more.
“I accept,” he said again, in a voice from which all doubts had been banished. “I will need three days,” he told Mary as she translated. “One day to return to my village, and one to persuade my people to agree to what I have done. On the third, I will bring all my men of the appropriate age to Burns’ Ranch. Will that be an acceptable place for them to register with your Selective Service and for me to surrender myself to you?”
“Whatever place and time will be most convenient,” J.D. replied diplomatically. He would have a draft board registrar at the ranch and do his best to quash any outstanding warrants before Jujul’s people arrived. Then, if there weren’t any hitches, as soon as the registration was complete Jujul and his men could simply go home.
They shook hands. It was a custom Mary had explained to Jujul while she lived in his village. The clock on J.D.’s mantel chimed the half hour, and Mary glanced at it and the adjacent calendar. It was 3:30 A.M. on Saturday, January 4, 1941.
“We’d better get going,” she told them, each in his own language. Then, just to J.D., “We’ve got a long drive and some riding to do. I don’t know about Jujul, but I’m too old for all nighters like this.”
“I’ll drive you,” he offered.
Mary was tempted. Maybe she could nap. But no, she was too keyed up, and, being close to J.D. would keep her talking for the whole trip.
“I don’t mind, and anyway, this way I’ll be there to drive you back,” he said.
“Back? I’m not coming back. I’m going with Jujul. I may not get the dissertation I had in mind, but I should be able to put one together about a Papago village in crisis after all this.”
“No. You can’t do that,” he said, taking her by the arm. “You can’t disappear again.”
She was touched, but she was also determined. She translated the gist of their argument to Jujul who’d been standing by, courteously quiet but obviously curious.
“She will be in no danger with us,” Jujul said. “I will guarantee this. If she wants to come, to observe how we resolve our problem, it is something I owe her.”
J.D. wasn’t happy. He looked in her eyes and tried the most persuasive argument of all. “Please don’t go,” he said.
“I’ve got to,” she told him. “It’s only for three days, closer to two and a half now. I’ll be there on Monday. If you can keep things quiet, there’s no reason Larry needs to know I’ve come out then. At least not for a few days.”
Shit, she thought, he hasn’t offered me anything even remotely like that. What if I’ve misread him? What about Larry? Then she saw the answer in his smile, and none of the rest of it mattered. Desire was an easy winner over a confused blend of comfort and obligation.
They were just standing there, making eyes at each other like a couple of kids. Jujul misunderstood. He thought they might still be arguing about her safety and that J.D. didn’t trust him with it.
“Tell him I will give him one further evidence of my confidence in him and assurance for your well being,” he said. “Tell him my true name is Coyote Among Thistles.”
She told J.D. and tried to explain what it meant for a Papago to reveal his true name, especially to someone who could be an enemy, what a powerful weapon he was placing in J.D.’s hands. J.D. was suitably impressed. She remembered telling Jujul that J.D. had a secret name of sorts as well.
“It would be a nice gesture to give him your real name,” she suggested, after explaining.
He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “OK, but it requires some explanation and it may be difficult for Jujul to understand.
“My father was a notorious and vociferous agnostic. There was nothing he liked better than casting his doubts on everyone else’s religious waters. His father disowned him, off and on again, with some regularity. I gather I was conceived when Father was once again being disclaimed by the family. My grandfather apparently promised to acknowledge the prodigal, as it were, if my father would name his first born son from the books of the Bible. He’d long ago cut Father out of his will, but Father was his only offspring and he wanted, as he colorfully put it, to pass along the fruit of his labors to the fruit of his loins. If my father would agree to the bargain and promise not to change the name later, grandfather would make me his sole heir and name Father as administrator until I reached legal age. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was a sizeable estate until the Depression hit. My parents were surviving well enough, but Father eventually decided he couldn’t turn down an offer of security for his unborn child. He agreed, but he couldn’t help turning it into a joke in the process.
“My grandfather expected me to be named Matthew John, or the like, but he reckoned without his son’s perversity. My name is Judges Deuteronomy Fitzpatrick. I don’t think Grandfather ever spoke to Father again after he saw the birth certificate, but the old man honored the bargain and I inherited. The greatest kindness my parents did for me, however, was in never telling anybody else what my name was. I was always just J.D. They didn’t even tell me till I was old enough to appreciate the whys and be wary about who I shared it with. Maybe you can explain to Jujul that, from my own point of view, I’ve given him a weapon also, a very different sort than he’s given me, but nothing casual or unimportant.”
She explained it briefly to the old man, then asked him to wait for a minute in the truck. She promised to explain in detail as they drove back.
As soon as Jujul was out the door she and J.D. began their private goodbyes. She told him her own secret name and that she thought she loved him. He told her he was long past thinking about it. He was sure he loved her. She started to give him a hint of what he could look forward to on Monday, and then, before she knew what she was doing, her hands were on his buckles and buttons. They collapsed on the floor in a tangle o
f hastily shed clothing. It was as quick, as frantic, as any experience she’d ever had, but this time it was her need that demanded and received instant satiation. It wasn’t remotely like any of her sexual fantasies, but it was infinitely better than anything she’d felt before. She wanted to try it again, with variations, but Jujul was waiting. She struggled back into her clothes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Monday,” she whispered in his ear, a whisper full of promise. She went out the door and ran to the truck.
A Metropolis to Rival Many Chickens
“His name’s Pete but they call him Talker,” Parker said as he locked the office door behind him. “Not because he’s got much to say, but because he tends to brag. He was working on a ranch near Sasabe. Knifed a White Man and ran for it. He’s been hiding out in a village near the east edge of the reservation. Jujul’s people were passing through pretty regularly. When he figured out who they were, he tracked them.”
Parker’s battered Plymouth was in the lot behind his office. It looked like a car that made regular trips over unimproved desert roads. The paint was scratched from contact with stones, branches, and cactus needles. The glass was glazed from blowing sand. It had a couple of extra spares tied to a luggage rack on the trunk and a pair of canvas water bags hanging from the front bumper. Parker opened a door for him and walked around and climbed behind the wheel. The Plymouth started on the first try and sounded better than it looked.
“Little bastard likes money, wants a chance to earn more. He’s trading me Jujul’s whereabouts for getting him clear of a murder charge. The irony is, not only did the guy not die from the wound, he didn’t even report it. Big mean bastard, I’m told, who planned to find Talker, wherever he might get to, and take care of things personally. Only he and some of his pals rolled their pickup on the way home from a drunken binge on New Year’s Eve and he had the misfortune to end up in one of the places it picked to roll. I suppose I should have told Talker as soon as I found out, but he can’t read maps and I might not be able to follow his directions. So, I’ll wait till he takes us where we’re going.
“I’m glad you happened along when you did. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with this information. Only person I could think of who might be willing to pay for it was a BIA man who wouldn’t have come up with near what you did. Besides, that might have hurt my conscience from time to time, and if it ever got out, wouldn’t have done my reputation any good either.”
They pulled around the building and paused beside the spot where Sasaki had nosed the DeSoto up near the door. “Need anything from your car,” Parker asked, “or want to lock it up?”
“I’ve got everything I need, and locking it won’t be necessary.”
“No, you’re right,” Parker observed. “You could leave an unlocked car for a month here in Sells without anybody bothering it.” Sasaki doubted that, and he’d left the keys in the ignition to make it easy for anyone who wanted to prove otherwise. Not that he expected anyone to be able to link him to it, or that it would matter if they did, once he got where he was going, but if it disappeared there would be just one less loose end.
Parker had stashed Talker in a clapboard hut on the outskirts of Sells. It looked like the first strong wind would carry it off, along with Parker’s distant relatives to whom it belonged. The attorney was keeping them in moonshine in exchange for Talker’s rent and, as long as the booze held out, they were willing to be accommodating and forgetful.
Talker proved to be a nervous little man without much interest in the cause of Indian rights, but plenty of interest in the ten dollars Sasaki offered for his services. The three crowded into the Plymouth and took the road toward Tucson. It wouldn’t have seemed so crowded if Talker had picked up the Anglo habit of bathing regularly along with his greed.
About twenty-five miles east of Sells they turned off onto a dirt track that headed northeast. Sasaki wouldn’t have noticed its existence if it hadn’t been part of their route. They left a pair of swirling dust clouds in their wake, an easy spoor to follow. It didn’t concern him. No one was trailing him. He’d made sure of that long ago. And if anyone was keeping an eye on either of his companions, they would leave their own smudge on the clear blue sky. Parker drove, and the only pursuers Sasaki noticed were occasional vultures. Their company seemed appropriate.
They drove through two villages and stopped to replace one flat tire before reaching the community called Many Chickens. Unless the fowl were well hidden, it was a misnomer.
Sasaki made them haggle over the price of the horses they’d have to use to go on from there. Not that he cared what the fee was, he just didn’t want Parker and Talker to have any reason to think they were making a one-way trip.
They rode east until dusk and camped at the base of a stunted hill with only a forest of saguaros for company. It had been almost a year since Sasaki had last ridden a horse. The next morning he ignored a set of aches with which he’d been long unfamiliar. Climbing back in the saddle took real effort. Parker had the same problem, but he complained about it with a bad joke about building the calluses he would need for his seat at the head of the tribal council.
About mid-afternoon Talker asked whether they wanted to sneak in or not. Sasaki told him not. They rode down an incline, crossed a narrow valley, topped a rise, and there it was. A metropolis to rival Many Chickens lay at the foot of a jagged little range, one of the reservation’s more impressive examples of topography. An occasional improbably verdant patch attested to the presence of sporadic water.
The citizens weren’t glad to see them. Almost a dozen men hung around in the background, cradling a collection of antique rifles and shotguns in their arms as the trio rode in. None of the other villages they’d passed through had shown a need to defend themselves. Sasaki decided their guide had probably brought them to the right place.
A tall young man greeted them, if that was the right word. Parker translated.
“He’s asking what we want. Says they’re a poor village and can’t afford to offer hospitality. Besides, they’ve got sickness and it’s dangerous for us to stay. Red carpet treatment all the way.”
“Do any of you speak English?” Sasaki called out.
A child ducked behind his mother’s skirt and an old man coughed. There was no other answer, just a sullen, watchful silence. If no one could understand him, he was in trouble.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Begay,” Parker reassured him. “May not be anyone here who’s what you’d call real fluent, but several of them will speak enough for you to get by.”
“Good,” Sasaki thanked him. Then louder, to his unwilling hosts, “Mr. Parker here assures me that some of you can understand me. That is important since neither you nor I can trust either of the men with me to tell you what I say. They both know this is the village of Jujul and they have sold you to me for a price. It is lucky for you that I have come as your friend and ally. But these two are enemies and cannot be allowed to leave.”
Parker and Talker both looked shocked and angry, but Sasaki noticed a satisfactory shifting of weapons to cover them.
“What kind of shit is this?” Parker hissed. “I thought we had a deal. I wouldn’t turn you in.”
“Better safe than sorry, Mr. Parker. I’m sure you’ll understand. Jujul will probably decide to move his village again, since it’s clear his location has been compromised. Perhaps we can release you then. Whatever, you’ll leave $500 richer. I gave you my word. The fee should be worth a little of your time.”
Their conversation made them the center of attention and Talker took advantage of it. He spurred his mount straight at the nearest armed man. There wasn’t time to aim or shoot before the horse brushed him aside. Other guns came up as Talker flattened himself in the saddle and rode hard for the open desert. The man who’d acted as spokesman for the village shouted something and the guns came down after a couple of wild shots. Several men ran to the nearest corral, grabbed mounts, and gave chase.
An armed ma
n took hold of Parker’s horse. Most of the remaining guns centered on him. Talker couldn’t have done Sasaki a bigger favor if he’d been paid for it. The Japanese was still a stranger, but someone to believe. He’d issued a warning and in seconds it had proved accurate.
The young man who had addressed them before stepped in front of Sasaki’s horse. He didn’t grab the reins, just stood there looking up at him.
“Who are you?” he asked. His English was thick, awkward from lack of use, but understandable.
Sasaki looked at him and his fellows. They were a mixed bunch, some old, some fat, some young, and all together about as ignoble looking a bunch of savages as he could imagine. Their village was a poor collection of piled up rocks, mud, and branches.
“Please, who are you? What you want?” The young Indian didn’t say it with impatience, only uncertainty, as if he doubted his ability to be understood.
“I am Kozo Sasaki,” came the proud reply. “I am a Captain of the Imperial Army of Japan, and I have come to help you make war on your enemies.”
“Holy shit!” Parker said.
Historical Footnote
“You know, hosting the surrender of America’s last hostile Indians just might get us mentioned in a historical footnote somewheres,” Edith Burns said as she filled J.D.’s plate with half again as many pancakes as he could normally eat in a week.
He nodded and said, “Moof,” around a mouthful of omelet.
“I know I’m pretty excited about it, and so’s Bill,” she said, giving her husband a stack that was even bigger. Bill nodded too, though it was hard to tell whether it was the surrender or the pancakes he was excited about.
J.D. had left the office before dawn. That was pretty silly since there wasn’t much chance Jujul would bring in his people before noon, if that early, but whenever it was, he wanted to be there to greet Mary. Logic wasn’t his long suit where she came in. If he’d been logical he would have waited and driven out with the rest of them. If Jujul happened to come in early he’d wait, and Mary would want to see the thing through to the end. He wouldn’t be able to persuade her to leave until the village was registered, and Edward Larson offered and received apologies and informed the Deputy United States Marshal of his intent to drop all charges pending in the matter. Larson was going to be having about as much fun as the guest of honor at a tar and feathering, but he was going to do it. Bill Fredericks, the Reservation Supervisor, had strongly recommended the action. It was the time of year when he sent in his annual personnel evaluations. J.D. had added a persuasive argument of his own involving the rearrangement of Larson’s limbs and features, one for each day Jujul spent in jail.