Dead Horses

by David Knop

  Swiveling in my chair, I said, “Why me?”

  Her expression told she knew more than she would say. “I know what you can do.”

  “You must think I can become invisible, or something.” I said, teasing her.

  “I only have one week to prepare. I trust you and need you.”

  From where I was sitting, she sounded almost affectionate. I let that sit for a while. “True, but I’m not unknown in town.”

  “Stay on the reservation Peter. The sheriff has no jurisdiction here, but I do.” She stood. “I have complete faith in you.

  Oso stepped into the room on cue.

  “You’ll work with Oso,” she said.

  She grabbed a thick binder off a shelf, handed it to me. “Memorize this. If you need support, call.” She hurried out of the trailer.

  She stopped when I shouted after her. “What if I said no?” She started walking again. “No, goddammit!” But she was gone.

  Oso said, “Just like a woman.”

  “What?”

  “Won’t take no for an answer.” His laugh went from guffaw to poorly hidden church-giggle.

  Jean was right. She only had to look for trouble to find me. And now, I had as much trouble as I could find: Jean Reel.

  Chapter 17

  I steamed as I looked through a black ring binder over an inch thick. Mugshots of Indian men were arranged six to a page. More than a few looked angry, some were clearly underaged. Some photos were booking shots, some were taken with the subject unaware. I paged through it until everyone looked alike. “How in hell I’m supposed to memorize this?”

  Oso shook his head, said, “You’re not. We’re gonna dance. C’mon.”

  “Hell of a time for a party,” I said.

  Oso led me out of the trailer. No Name, who’d been outside smoking, followed as we headed up the narrow path to the truck.

  Oso chuckled. “Big with the talk, back there. No! No, goddammit! Hah!”

  “Fuck you, Oso.” Truth was I never wanted to disappoint Reel. She knew more about me than I did. And my motivations were selfish; she was my best hope for beating a cop-killer rap.

  “She wants me to ID Traditional Utes who could cause trouble at the hospital groundbreaking.”

  “Troublemakers? Piece of cake, we’ll just ask around.”

  “Subtle,” I said.

  I glanced back at Reel’s mobile command center, a gray-on-gray Pierce forty-footer with Federal Bureau of Investigation lettered in yellow on the side. The rig had a firetruck cab with an expandable body and had enough antennas to communicate with every law enforcement agency in Colorado, New Mexico, and DC, if need be. A big truck for a big operation.

  Oso drove back the way we came, me in the middle, my stitches reliving the pain. “How ‘bout finding a smooth part of the road?”

  “Sure,” said Oso.

  No Name chuffed.

  Oso aimed for the potholes. As we bumped along, the truck squawking like geese, I replayed the actors in Reel’s investigation. Chivs: white supremacists with a your-land-is-my-land agenda. Punks: cartel-connected boarders. Corrupt cops paid to look the other way, and kill, if necessary. Traditionalist Utes who opposed development on their sacred land no matter the cause.

  I know what you can do, she said. I questioned her confidence in me but accepted it more happily than I wanted to admit.

  Sun reflected off the white peaks of the San Juans to the north confirming my location on the Southern Ute reservation. I wasn’t sure what I was doing here but at least I knew where I was.

  I finally accepted that escape from Reel’s project wasn’t optional. Every cop around here with quick tempers and hair-triggers was looking for me so I was safer on the rez. Reel’s tasks should keep me alive until I could figure what to do about the dead-cop rap. Weighing options is easy when there are none.

  “Wanna know where we’re going?” Oso asked. I didn’t answer. He was going to tell me anyway. “Utes. At the Sun Dance going on right now. We call it, ‘standing thirsty’, tagu-wuni. Each dancer goes for four days without food or water, then dances to gain spiritual power from the Great Spirit.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Bear Dance is my favorite.” He laughed then said, “Marks the beginning of spring, rejuvenates the tribe, you know? Given to us by Bear after hibernation. New year, new cycle. Traditionally, it’s done before the Sun Dance. Pretty cool concept, ya think?”

  Oso plowed through a succession of ruts and potholes that made me wince.

  “The Sun Dance outlawed long ago,” I said.

  At one time, the ritual was feared by whites throughout the West for its brutality and as a prelude to rebellion. Meant as a sacrifice to honor Mother Earth, some of the Sun Dance practices could be hard to watch. Participants would dance around a pole to which they were fastened by ropes with hooks piercing their chest muscles. Often, skin and sinew were pulled six inches or more away from the body.

  “People are trying to bring the ceremony back,” Oso said. “Respect for the old ways, you know. A lot of Traditionals think the tribe is going to hell, so they want to bring back the old ways, show more respect for the spirits and the land. They don’t like gas pipes desecrating the rez, you know?” He nodded.

  My own reservation could use a little of that kind of desecration. And income. “You gotta tell me, Oso, how come you don’t know these people, already?”

  “Twenty-eight years in the Navy didn’t bring me around Southern Colorado much. We got a whole generation in the tribe I haven’t even laid eyes on.” His voice caught when he said it.

  “So, we gonna stare at these people for four days?”

  “Just one day. Don’t get your hopes up.” Oso grew silent as we drove into the Sky Ute Fairgrounds outside Ignacio. He entered through a back way, keeping an eye out. “Can’t be too careful,” he said.

  The fairgrounds consisted of an RV park full of all manner of vehicles, three horse barns. an indoor arena for equestrian events, ceremonies and tribal gatherings, and an outdoor grandstand facing a racetrack. All new. The Los Piños River flowed to the east, and Ignacio bordered the west.

  We parked in a sea of cars and trucks next to the indoor arena. Inside, seats were full of Utes and some whites, I guessed a thousand people. Since 2003, most tribes no longer allowed non-Natives to attend the sacred ceremony and seeing the sprinkling of whites surprised me. The sound of whistles filled the barn and bells jingled to the steps of a dozen feathered and sweating bodies. To get a better view, we sat in an upper row of the grandstand.

  On the dirt floor, highly decorated dancers stomped, hopped, strutted, twirled, twisted, and bounced to a drumbeat booming over loudspeakers. The dancers wore their finest feathers of red, yellow, blue, and white fanned to half circles down their backs, full circles on their arms, and behind their heads. The drummers, eight to a drum, beat and chanted a shrill song in Uto-Aztecan, a language I didn’t understand.

  The sight, the sound, the energy swelled my heart with pride. I have seen many such ceremonies throughout the Southwest and each time I have marveled. These dances, like the cultures that produced them, have withstood the test of time, natural catastrophe, discrimination, and genocide. Today’s Indians value their endless capacity for survival.

  We scanned for people who could be violent extremists. Spectators milled about while drummers and dancers stood aside until they were called to perform. Everyone seemed focused on contributing to the communal prayer the ceremony was meant to deliver.

  Oso elbowed me, rubbed his neck, talked so I could barely hear him. “Don’t look when I say this. Over there, against the far wall, behind a woman in jeans and white hat.”

  I waited, shot a glance at the man, medium height, black braids, tats peaking above the collar of a checkered short-sleeve, a wide belt, jeans and boots. “Yeah. Hard lookin’ dude, late forties, early fifties? Nasty scowl.”

  “Younger than he looks. Posey Trujillo, mem
ber of Colorado AIM. Trouble follows him like an STD. Known him most of his life but he’s not the kid I knew. Tours with Delta Force in the Gulf fucked him up. Spent time at Cañon City. Poster boy for PTSD.”

  No Name stared at Trujillo like he knew him.

  “So?” I had my own issues with PTSD, and I knew what the American Indian Movement was, too: an assembly aimed to right wrongs against Indians. Fair enough, but in a few cases, good intentions backed by righteous outrage has led to murder.

  Oso said, “Trujillo gets people excited when they don’t need to be. Seen trouble around here? Bet your next paycheck he was mixed up in it.”

  Trujillo moved about the arena while I kept an eye on him from the grandstand. I made eye contact with no one in the crowd. If people looked at me, I glanced away. Trujillo talked to a teen by the concession stand, then stood in line, bought a drink. He left it on the counter to talk to another man. He wandered around the arena paying little attention to the dancers, spending his time scouting, then talking to various men, all of them late teens or early twenties with quick eyes and waist-length black hair.

  No Name and Oso remained seated when I left the grandstand.

  “Good plan,” I said. No Name was not Ute and would draw attention. Oso’s size and tobacco-colored horn-back alligator boots would not be overlooked.

  I followed Trujillo around as he talked to young men. The noise of the crowd, pounding drums, and whistles drowned out most of Trujillo’s voice, but I got the gist of what he was saying. Trujillo impressed me as an opportunist of discontent. Each member of the group wore a serious expression as the older man laid out the true way. Hormones pumped up their broad shoulders and filled muscled arms with a jittery energy as they listened. As I step closer to hear, listeners edged away in spite of my feigned attention to the whirling floor show. When Trujillo gave me the stink eye, I turned my back and strolled away.

  The increasing drum tempo signaled a climactic point in the ceremony. Singers pitched up in octave and volume, Utes in feathered and frilled buckskin whirled to the beat. Sweat drenched their clothing. The spectators quieted as the song grew. The color, sound, and movement mesmerized me. I imagined a time long ago when such ceremonies preceded war, celebrated victory, or gave thanks to Mother Earth.

  When I refocused, Trujillo’s crowd had vanished. I spotted one of the young Utes in Trujillo’s awe leave the building. I followed. Outside, young men had gathered again with the evangelist at the center.

  As I tried to pick up Trujillo’s words, he eye-locked me. I tapped a man near me, asked for a cigarette. I’ve never smoked but I had to come up with something. The man pulled out a pack from his breast pocket, shook one out, offered a light. I inhaled. It took all I had to suppress a cough. I took another puff, blew out. Trujillo lost interest in me.

  The Trujillo’s group talked while I continued smoking. Trujillo looked my way again. Just then, a member of his crowd walked to one of the portable toilets lined up like plastic, blue teepees near the parking lot. I followed and waited in line. Trujillo’s glare heated my neck.

  The portable became available. Inside, I sat wondering how watching participants at the Sun Dance would help us find any militants until a disembodied voice from the portable next to me said, “You heard Trujillo, right?”

  “Couldn’t hear shit,” another said.

  “Tonight. County Road 324, the farm. Eleven sharp. The whole Capote clan.”

  The reply came back, “Epic, man. Got it.”

  My interest already piqued, skyrocketed when the first man said, “Bring guns.”

  When returned to the seats, I told Oso what I’d overheard in the portable. He said, “Sounds like a bunch a crap.” He nudged No Name who managed a grin.

  “Think about it, Oso. Who else would say things like that if they didn’t mean something by it?”

  “Capote clan is mountain people. Lot of hunters in that clan.”

  “We got a month before the season starts.” I flipped my braid to the front.

  “What’s the chances of you shittin’ next to one of the guys we’re lookin’ for?” He growled, turned his attention to the arena floor.

  I didn’t like being blown off like that. As dancers whirled, and howled on the arena floor, I, again, questioned my reasons for letting Reel shove this assignment up my ass. This was taking time away from finding horse killers and murderers and, at least, finding them came with a paycheck.

  “Okay.” Oso jarred me out of my thoughts, “You might have something there, something to think about. Maybe.”

  “No shit,” I said. A small victory. “Stake out County Road 324. Tonight.”

  When a performer dropped to the ground, I lost the attention of both Oso and No Name. Some officials ran into the arena and dragged the man off, trailing his heels in the dirt. We continued to watch the dancers all afternoon without speaking. We discovered nothing new and saw no one else we recognized as trouble. Reliving the port-a-potty conversation in my head, my gut told me we would find all the trouble we needed tonight.

  Chapter 18

  We had dinner at El Amigo, a place near the center of Ignacio, a small home repurposed as a restaurant. Serapes, sombreros, and paper flowers decorated the walls.

  Oso and I sat at a booth while No Name smoked outside keeping watch for deputies on the prowl. Being out in public for the first time since the police shooting made me nervous. I wanted a strong drink to calm my nerves, but I had faced that devil years ago and settled for water. I ordered the nightly special combo: taco, tamale, a little burrito, and enchilada smothered in red chilé sauce with beans and rice.

  As a native New Mexican, I generally look down on all other forms of Mexican food as tasteless, but this was good. The peppers were wimpy, but I cleaned the plate and devoured the sopapillas with sage honey like they were the last on Earth.

  Bloated from dinner was not the best start for a stakeout but we headed off anyway as the low sun fanned the sky with yellow and scarlet rays that stained the clouds like cotton candy.

  “Man, would ya look at that,” Oso said, as he drove.

  The man’s infatuation with the evening’s beauty was intense and out of character. The truck swerved as we were nearly side-swiped by a two-feathered logo tanker blowing past us.

  By eight, we had travelled east for four miles on State Highway 151 to a flat plain with scattered farms and low, pine-covered hills in the distance. We turned south on Rd-324. Scattered natural gas pumps and tanks proclaimed proof of the Ute’s underground wealth.

  We found a dirt offshoot leading up an arroyo hiding pockets of snow from the sun and followed it until we parked behind a wind-break about a half mile out. We had a good view of the road and waited for people driving south. The truck’s clock said 8:45. The event was not scheduled until eleven, but we had no idea what to expect and could take no chances of missing anyone coming to this party.

  Coyote yipped off somewhere at the last hint of sun. The smell of dust hung over the road. When the sunlight turned purple, the temperature dropped. I didn’t have a jacket, so I sat in the truck shivering. At least, the cold kept me awake.

  Nine o’clock and waiting. I watched stars grow by the thousands and shooting stars pull tails behind them. When the moon rose in a blaze of white light, I swore I could have touched it. The smell of sweet pine drifted our way.

  A stone click. I froze. Another. I held a finger to my lips, but Oso and No Name had already alerted, eyes quick and wide. In the sideview mirror, a dark shape moved toward the truck from the rear. We’d been discovered. No one moved.

  Soon, Deer stared in the window at me. His eyes reflected moonlight, until he turned away. The animal paused to glanced back as he strolled off.

  Oso elbowed me.” Anyone you know?”

  This animal had been following me since Pokoh was shot and I had yet to understand why. “No.”

  Being surprised by Deer was distressing. “We bring firearms to this rodeo?
” I asked.

  Oso held out his palms. “Nah. These are my people. Supposed to ID them. That’s it.”

  Reel had shown me mugshots of Utes she suspected of being involved. Between the three of us, we’d be able to pick out some of them back at her command post once we were done here. That was my plan, a plan with some holes. “Okay, we observe these guys up close and they spot us. Then what?”

  “So? We tell ‘em we’re supporters, ask to join up.” Oso looked at me like I should’ve figured that out myself.

  “A hug-fest just like that? A little cozy, don’t you think?” I asked. Keeping hidden from view was a better plan. “And the younger ones who don’t know you?”

  “You worry too much.” Oso’s mood had gone sour and he almost growled at me. It seemed he hadn’t bought into this stakeout.

  “It’s your show,” I said, not meaning it. I was going to get what we came for, regardless. Reel had put her neck on the block by shielding me from the sheriff who was looking for Deputy Jones’s killer. Her ongoing conspiracy investigation would inevitably expose law enforcement involvement in the assassination attempt against me. Until her inquiry was completed, no way in hell would I disappoint her. Staying alive was pretty good motivation, too.

  But I began to question Oso’s commitment. Reel must’ve had confidence in him; she put him in charge of me, whatever that meant, so I leaned towards trusting him myself. A growing doubt told me something else was going on.

  At nine-thirty, a truck towing a cattle trailer rumbled by. It’s sudden, loud introduction got my heart moving, but it turned out to be a false alarm. More waiting. Owl and some bats proved the area rich with wildlife and provided the only reward for our surveillance.

  Ten o’clock. An hour to go and still no traffic. Coyote howled far off.

  Oso answered with a wail of his own. He appeared bigger, as if the howling had added fifty pounds to his bulk. Oso’s face reddened and exhaled hard. His body exuded an odor more animal than human. I stared at him.