by Sandi Ault
“[A] striking debut…Scenes of the high, dry, glittering landscape are as clean as sun-bleached bone, and there are thrills galore…But Ault is no less artful at depicting the marriage customs, funeral rites, and religious ceremonies that have drawn Jamaica to this tightly knit world and made her lose her heart to its people.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Read this for outdoor adventure and take a walk on the Wild side.”
—The Rocky Mountain News
“Wow! This novel is why readers like to read! It has everything…Read this one, and eagerly anticipate the next.”
—Tulsa World
“Rich in Indian lore and lovely description…this powerful start shows great maturity and portends great things from Ault.”
—-Richmond Times-Dispatch
“[A] smashing debut. BLM Range Rider Jamaica Wild (and her wolf, Mountain) are formidable new players in outdoor mystery fiction, and Ault’s intense knowledge of Pueblo culture is [a] bonus.”
—C. J. Box
“Sandi Ault uses her knowledge of the high, dry West to give us a look at Pueblo Indian culture.”
—Tony Hillerman
“[A] strong debut…Tinged with mysticism, this artfully told story should appeal to fans of Nevada Barr’s National Park Service Ranger Anna Pigeon as well as Tony Hillerman’s Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee series and Margaret Coel’s Wyoming Wind River Reservation novels.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ault blends the traditions and ceremonies from several Pueblo cultures, immersing the reader in Pueblo life and the beauty of northern New Mexico. An enjoyable series debut for fans of Nevada Barr and Tony Hillerman.”
—Booklist
“Ault’s portrait of Pueblo life and the conflict of cultures she dramatizes are integral to her rousing debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Reviewers and readers will draw parallels between Ault’s enlightening, well-researched debut, set in northern New Mexico, and the mysteries of Tony Hillerman, Nevada Barr, and Aimee and David Thurlo.”
—Library Journal
“An auspicious debut…Ault has a sure franchise in Wild…and the series is purely her own.”
—Westword
Wild Indigo
Sandi Ault
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
WILD INDIGO
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2007 by Sandi Ault.
Photo on page v by Tracy A. Kerns.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0662-1
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For Mountain
In Loving Memory
Nunca hay caballo ensillado que
a alguno no se la ofrece viaje.
There is never a saddled horse that
does not offer a journey to someone.
—Old Vaquero Saying
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Wild Animals
Chapter 2
Momma Anna
Chapter 3
Truth or Dare
Chapter 4
The Wolf
Chapter 5
Talking with the Stars
Chapter 6
The Elders
Chapter 7
The Bake
Chapter 8
Bone Man
Chapter 9
Tecolote
Chapter 10
The Scar
Chapter 11
The Nachi
Chapter 12
Diane
Chapter 13
Good Hunting
Chapter 14
The Apparition
Chapter 15
The Ruins
Chapter 16
Learning Pueblo Ways
Chapter 17
Saving Face
Chapter 18
The Hole in the Top of Everything
Chapter 19
See No Evil
Chapter 20
The Invitation
Chapter 21
The Carving
Chapter 22
The Professor
Chapter 23
No Good News
Chapter 24
The Alliance
Chapter 25
Yellow Hawk
Chapter 26
Super Natural
Chapter 27
Cry, Wolf
Chapter 28
Wicked Things
Chapter 29
High Tech
Chapter 30
Looking for Clues
Chapter 31
Family Feast
Chapter 32
Animal Wisdom
Chapter 33
Saddling Up
Chapter 34
The Lay of the Land
Chapter 35
The Fog
Chapter 36
The Fork in the Trail
Chapter 37
Unkind Ground
Chapter 38
Guiding Spirit
Chapter 39
Getting Out
Chapter 40
The Journey
About the Author
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction, and the characters herein are figments of the author’s imagination, representing no one. Likewise, Tanoah Pueblo does not exist. Whatever similarities may exist between the imaginary Tanoah Pueblo and other pueblos are a blending of my research and experience, including travel and study concerning a variety of southwestern pueblos. I have intentionally alluded to myths, traditions, and rituals from several different Pueblo cultures, and I have mixed and changed patterns, t
imes of year for these rituals, and cultural habits—as well as relied on imagination and invention—in a deliberate effort to keep this purely fable.
I would like to thank Sam Des Georges, Multi Resources Branch Chief, Taos Resource Area of the Bureau of Land Management, and Matt Wahlberg, United States Ranger, for their generous time and assistance with my research for this work.
Prologue
I got there too late to save Jerome Santana.
The pueblo was closed, but I’d had a report that the buffalo herd was wandering out of its confines up on the foothills to the northwest of the reservation. And that land was in my jurisdiction—or the BLM’s anyway. I work for the Bureau of Land Management as a resource protection agent. It was my job to check out the report.
Santana stood in the center of the herd, his arms outstretched and palms facing skyward. He was looking into the azure sky beyond the purple crest of Sacred Mountain. The bulls sniffed around him and pawed the ground, huffing angrily at this intruder. Santana’s long black hair was tied into a rope of red cloth at the base of his neck, and his black traditional apron covered the lap of his jeans. His chest was bare, and his shoulders and back were laced with thin red welts.
The long gate on the north side of the ten-foot-high fence was open, and many of the cows and their calves had wandered into the fields of open scrub that led up to forest land and beyond. But the bulls saw the man as a threat, and they stayed—angry, circling.
I slowed my Jeep to a crawl, not wanting to provoke a stampede. I parked beside the tall hogwire fence and eased out the door, leaving it ajar so I didn’t make much sound. I called to Santana, “Get out of there. Walk slowly toward me.” I reached into the backseat and drew out my rifle, being careful not to make any sudden or abrupt moves.
Neither the bulls nor Santana took any notice of me, and I raised my gun and found the brave in my sights. One of the bulls closed on him and rammed him with his head. Santana fell forward, then started to get up. I sighted my gun on the bull, knowing that if I fired, they’d stampede and the man would be trampled. “Move slowly!” I screamed, but Santana made no sign that he heard. He staggered to his feet and again stretched out his arms and faced the mountain.
The bull came at him again, and butted him hard, catching the tip of his horn in Santana’s thigh. I saw red blood cloud the denim of his jeans, the color swelling and growing against the faded blue. I started for the open gate, moving as quickly as I dared. “Santana! Do you hear me?” I yelled.
For just an instant, his gaze fixed on me. His face was full of a strange wonder, almost joy. Beyond his dark eyes somewhere within was a heaven all his own, and he was no longer here at all, his body just an encumbrance that kept him from being fully spirit. He smiled, a sad sweet smile. And he closed his eyes.
It seemed to happen in slow motion, the way his body flew high into the air when the bull scooped him up like a giant shovel and tossed him away. Santana’s lifeless form struck the back of the bull with a dull thud, then bounced against the side of another as the bison began to run, their hooves making huge clouds of dry dust rise around their legs as they almost floated above the landscape. They surged against the gate, against the fence, mowing it down, their huge bodies moving together like one mindless fury against the confinement of their kind, as if all the years of freedoms lost had risen within their blood and caused them to rebel in concert, all of them notes within one song—one screaming chorus of anger and longing. As the bulls drove forward in the direction of Sacred Mountain, the body of Jerome Santana bounced and fell among them, and was finally trampled beneath their hooves like the once-tall white grass and the dust of red earth.
I had to run like hell to avoid being trampled myself, back along the hogwire toward my Jeep, the fence poles just behind me being snapped off at the ground one by one, making loud popping sounds like gunshots. I threw myself onto the hood of my vehicle and then scrambled for the top just in time. A section of wire flew across the hood and the fence post smashed into the windshield, causing it to shatter. One of the bulls caught the front quarter panel with his shoulder and the whole Jeep rocked and threatened to tip as I clung for life to the edge where the open door would have fit. That door was somewhere north of here now, lying on the ground in the wake of the bison, who were well on their way up the foothills, the cows running with them now, the calves crying as they struggled to keep up.
I peeled my fingers off the edge of the roof and raised myself to my hands and knees. A blue pickup was barreling along the road toward me at high speed, a fog of dust billowing behind it. I got down and began to walk toward Santana’s inanimate form and the pickup squealed to a stop beside me, its worn brakes obviously metal to metal. Two men I recognized—War Chief Ruben Rael and buffalo wrangler Sonny Warm Hands—got out of the truck’s cab, each of them carrying a rifle.
“What are you doing on pueblo land, Miss Wild?” Rael said. “You know Tanoah Pueblo is closed until the end of August.”
“Look, Jerome Santana is in there,” I said, pointing toward the bison pasture. “He’s either hurt or dead. We’ve got to check it out.”
Rael looked at Warm Hands. They both looked at me. “Don’t touch him,” Rael said. “We’ll take care of him.” Warm Hands hurried toward the body of Santana. Rael stayed with me, his rifle barrel pointed skyward, but at the ready. I watched the wrangler turn the body over and put his ear against Santana’s chest. He stood, spit, and said something in Tiwa to Rael.
“He’s dead,” Rael said.
“What was he doing out here?” I asked. “Why did he open the gate to let the herd out?”
“What are you doing out here?” Rael said, his voice sinister.
“I had a report that the buffalo were wandering loose. I have jurisdiction from the fence line.” I felt my chest tightening with anger. “Why are you here?”
Rael looked in the direction of Santana. Sonny Warm Hands was standing beside the body, offering a pinch of tobacco to the mountain, muttering in Tiwa.
“I got the same report as you,” Rael said. For the first time, he lowered his rifle, the stock resting in the crook of his elbow, the barrel aimed at the ground.
“Who told you?”
“Tribal police got the call. They sent someone over to the governor’s office. I was in there, so I went to get Sonny. We came as soon as we heard.”
As he was saying this, another vehicle approached, the sound of its tires crunching along the dirt road at high speed preceding it. It was a tribal police car. Rael and I watched in silence until it pulled alongside us and Officer Gloria Lobato got out. “Looks like we were too late to keep the herd in,” she said, smiling.
“That’s not all,” Rael said. “There’s a man trampled.” It was customary not to mention the dead by name. Officer Lobato’s face went slack. She did not ask, but went instead to examine the body. Rael looked at me. “We’ll take care of this,” he said. He moved between me and the others, blocking my view.
I gripped my back teeth together. “You can’t just take care of this. I have to call the FBI, you know that.”
“Yeah, the Federal Bureau of Ignorance. We’ll handle them, too.”
“And the buffalo?” I said, angrily.
“We’ll get ’em,” Rael said. “Sonny will get some helpers. They’ll round ’em up.”
I glared at him. He looked away. “By the time you could get everyone together, we’ll have the herd back in the pen,” he said. “If we need any help, Miss Wild, we’ll call you.” He turned away from me, a sign of dismissal. From behind him, I could see him reach into his pocket for a cigarette, take a pinch of tobacco from the end of it, and hold it toward the sky.
I walked back to my Jeep, the shell of it blown open where the door was torn off. I put my rifle in the back and slid into the driver’s seat. I looked through the shattered windshield, the scene beyond it in fragments like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the green of the forest land rising to the blue and purple shoulders of the Rocky Moun
tains, the high peaks watching like guardians over the normally peaceful, ancient village of Tanoah Pueblo. Here, kiva and religious rituals were being conducted now as they had for a thousand years in preparation for the annual pilgrimage to the summit of Sacred Mountain to the Eye of the Great Spirit, the Indigo Falls—where the spirits of their ancestors went to live.
Someone’s going to have to tell his mother, I thought, that Jerome Santana has gone ahead of them to the Wild Indigo.
1
Wild Animals
My field manager, Roy, slammed his truck door and strode toward me at a fast clip. I could tell he was angry—his forehead was a tight series of furrows beneath the brim of his hat, and his eyebrows were knitted together over his nose. “Jamaica, are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Boss.” I tucked my chin and began pulling my hair into a ponytail at the nape of my neck so I wouldn’t have to look into his furious face. Roy had often accused me of being able to find more trouble than anyone he’d ever known.
“You want to tell me what the hell happened here?”
“I was visiting someone. I got a report…”
“Yeah, I already heard that. What do you mean you got a report? You weren’t in the office.”
“A child. One of the pueblo children came to the house I was visiting looking for me. He said the buffalo had gotten out and were wandering onto the mountain. I drove out here to take a look.” I stopped then, realizing Roy wasn’t really listening, that he was too worked up to listen. I decided to wait, let him vent. Years of experience with the Boss had taught me a healthy respect for his short fuse. He would talk around a little, I guessed, gripe a little until he was ready to get down to it. He’d let me know.