by David Knop
Oso lowered his eyebrows. “Just staying close to my roots.”
I was about to ask what he meant when the dirt road suddenly became as crowded as a Denver freeway. A convoy of pickups and sedans passed. I counted a couple trucks bearing the two-feathered logo. Nineteen heads total.
“Show time,” I said. My watch glowed ten-thirty under a straight up moon.
Oso sat sullenly; corners of his mouth pulled down.
No Name said, “Alright.”
The Lakota’s enthusiasm made me wince.
We gave the travelers distance before pulling on to the road, then followed with headlights off. The convoy turned right a half-mile south and we followed down a dark farm road until light glowed from behind a hill. We pulled off into a stand of trees and hoofed over a small, wooded hill that climbed steeply, levelled off, then ascended again. On the far side, farm lights coned the ground in front of dark buildings.
A stream of red lights moved towards one of the buildings, an old Grange Hall. Other buildings included a barn and a ranch house that, even in the dim light, had seen better days.
The convoy parked and engines stopped. Doors opened and riders stepped out. Someone pulled a drum, four feet in diameter, out of a truck. Headlights and kicked up dust gave the drum skin a mystical glow as if to announce its purpose at the sacred ceremony. Two men carried it inside. Men gathered, bottles passed, people laughed and talked, but their words were too heavy for the breeze to carry them our way. I made out silhouettes of rifle barrels. Coyote rebroadcast his presence with a long, soulful howl from far away.
The drums started at eleven sharp. Utes crowded into the Grange meeting hall. Compared to my count of the convoy, two were missing. Only seventeen of the nineteen men had entered the building. Two unknowns. Two surprises. I thought they were probably guards. I had to know where they were before we could identify the Utes safely. Apprehension squeezed my chest.
I finger-signed the count to Oso and No Name, then circled a hand in the air and pointed toward the house, then to my eyes, indicating I would circle the area to get a closer look. With a palm I signaled them to stay here.
Oso shook his head. I took off. They followed.
The dark waters of a pond mirrored the moon. The outbuildings, sheds, and junk autos reflected its light. I circled around the pond keeping distance from the building. Using a barn and corral to screen us, I led them behind a derelict RV. We waited in place while I scanned for the two guards, but neither sound nor shadow betrayed them. I turned my attention to the dance.
Drums pulsed from the house accompanied by shrill chanting in the same way as the dances earlier today. I slipped from behind the RV, crept toward the back of the hall, using stacks of irrigation pipes for cover, then hid in an orchard fifty feet from the building’s windows.
The sound of bells, whistles, and drums came from the building, the tempo louder and faster. The dancers whooped and ululated as the pulse increased.
Photography was too risky, so, I needed to see inside to imprint these faces on my memory. I signaled and the three of us pressed up to the building. I peeked through one window; No Name took another.
No Name mouthed, “Aw, fuck!”
Four nearly naked men leaned against hooks piercing their chests. Taught ropes attached the hooks to the ceiling. The dancer’s skin stretched six inches from their rib cages. Blood seeped from the wounds and dripped dark on the floor. The sight made me wince. The hooked men seemed in a trance while others, shirtless and bootless, danced around the supplicants to the sun, yelling encouragement in their Uto-Aztecan language.
The sight stunned me. I’ve always loved my culture’s rituals, but this dance wasn’t the benign prayer to Nature I was used to. This ceremony spoke to a warrior’s thirst for sacrifice. I could not come to any other conclusion: the bleeding, sweating, glaze-eyed dancers meant violence.
“Hey! You motherfuckers doin’?” Someone yelled from behind a tree.
The man ran for the other side of the building towards the door, but I beat feet and tackled him before he made it. He grabbed for a gun at his hip. No Name ran up and stopped the man with a swift kick to the head. I grabbed the pistol and tucked it into my belt. No Name tied a bandanna across the man’s mouth, then we dragged him away from the building. The bright moon allowed us to find bailing twine on the ground and we tied the gagged man like a calf.
In the scuffle, I hadn’t noticed that Oso had disappeared. Or that the drums had fallen silent.
The sounds of yelling and running feet burst from the meeting house. No Name and I stood over our hostage in the orchard in an indefensible position and unarmed. The snick of many rifles dominated. “Let’s get back to the hill,” I said to No Name, but he had gone, running toward the hill carrying our captive over his shoulder like a bag of beets.
We made the hill without being followed and crumpled behind a log. “Where’s Oso?” I asked, puffing like an old dog.
No Name said, “Don’t know.”
Our hostage groaned.
“He okay?” I asked. The Ute prisoner was our only leverage. No Name had trussed him up so tightly the man had trouble breathing.
The big Lakota shrugged.
I’d expected our respite to be interrupted by a charge of armed and furious Utes. Instead, screams and rifle shots erupted on the other side of the Grange Hall. People ran to their vehicles. More shots. More screaming. Another roar. Engines ignited and car doors slammed. Trucks sped from the parking area. Those that backed out hit other vehicles but didn’t stop. One hit a tree, then sped away. A pickup, with lights off, hit a running man and kept on. A second thumped twice over the fallen man without stopping. At least three men ran down the road on foot.
“Something scared the shit outta them,” No Name said.
The sight of armed men running in panic was pathetic. These young pretenders wanted to bring back the old ways and running in fear was not a Ute warrior’s way.
The .38 pressed under my belt. I said, “Keep an eye on our hostage,” before heading for the meeting house. Halfway, I realized No Name crept close behind me, anyway. I motioned him back to the hostage with my barrel. He replied with a middle finger. We retraced our steps aware that whatever was big enough to scare away these wanna-be warriors could still be near.
We moved slowly, taking advantage of the sparse cover. A brilliant moon lit the way but did not aid our secrecy. We reached the meeting house, pressed up against the siding and scanned through the window. Four dancers leaned against hooks imbedded in their chests, backs bowed, arms splayed in a swaying crucifixion dripping with blood. The room was otherwise empty except for the drum, and a pile of abandoned shirts and boots.
No man is my enemy when helpless. In the kitchen, I found a knife and cut the ropes while No Name supported the men’s weight. We lay the unconscious Utes on the ground, one by one.
I pressed my head to the chest of a kid who couldn’t have been sixteen.
No Name checked another’s pulse, a kid of nineteen years, and said, “Resurrection. Rebirth. Honor the past.”
The color of the third participant had returned to his face. No Name attended to the fourth man, shook his head, but before he could speak, a loud groan came from the orchard. I ran outside toward it. No Name followed. Oso was sitting against the base of a tree.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Dizzy.”
No Name tried to help Oso to his feet, but Oso said, “Give me a few minutes.”
A quick scan of the area verified we were alone. I turned to head back and stumbled over a body lying in a shallow ditch.
Gripping the pistol at my side, I said, “Hey, buddy.” His features were hidden in the dark, but I could see his eyes were open. He did not answer or move, so I pulled his legs, limp and unresisting, until the moon light revealed detail.
“Oh man,” I said, stepping back. A series of four parallel slashes identified an
assailant that possessed enormous paws, an eight-inch spread with claws as big as cigars. They had ripped his face, tore his clothing, and slashed open his gut. His intestines trailed off toward the far side of the orchard.
I listened as my pulse red-lined and my knees quivered. Nothing interrupted the quiet night, the monster, if still near, had to have been as stealthy as a cat. A breeze hissed through the trees. Something thumped in the orchard and I froze. The pissy little .38 in my hand felt useless.
I rushed back to No Name who had Oso up and walking.
Noise came from the meeting house as we manhandled Oso up the hill to our former hide. I suspected some of the Ute dancers might’ve returned. Oso dragged his feet. No Name and I pulled, pushed, and cajoled Oso, lubricating the progress with foul language. No Name propped up Oso’s right arm while I suffocated in Oso’s left arm pit. At the top of the hill, we found our hostage where we’d left him and cut him loose. I helped him stand until blood returned to his legs, then he ran like Rabbit to the Grange Hall, taking off in the remaining truck.
My watch said two in-the-morning as the moon set. Through the pines, I had a good view of the place and kept watch for movement. No telling if the Utes would get their act together and return. Maybe the four we’d cut down had recovered enough to confront us. They could be watching now, for all I knew.
Our attempt at gathering intelligence on the Ute group had failed in an unimaginable way. We had to get out of here.
Chapter 19
It took ten minutes to drag Oso to his pickup hidden at the bottom of the hill, then another five to get him into the front seat. Oso was in no condition to drive, so No Name hopped behind the wheel. Oso slouched between us.
I relaxed a little once we reached NM-15 heading towards the FBI trailer. I pushed Oso forward and to the left and fished out his cell phone from his back pocket. Damn, he was heavy. The limpness of his big frame worried me. I called 911. The men we’d cut down and those who’d been run over by their own people needed medical attention.
I said, “That body I found back there was mauled by Grizz.”
Oso made no response as we drove and stared out of the windshield with lifeless eyes. I was worried about him. He had no visible wounds, but he looked to be in a trance. Given his bulk, I suspected a heart injury of some sort. He coughed and gasped for air.
“No Grizz in Colorado,” No Name said. “Female, killed up there in ‘79. Last one.” He pointed to my right where the snowy peaks of the San Juan Mountains glowed under the stars.
Experts say grizzlies have been driven from most of the lower 48 states, though some of the more resilient ones still held reign in the Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Park areas. I was sure they were wrong about Colorado. Hunters keep up on the grizzly population, because the last animal a huntsman wants to meet on a trail is Ursus arctos horribilis, emphasis on the horribilis.
Sightings have been reported for years, but none confirmed by Colorado Parks and Wildlife. The bears’ numbers have expanded in Wyoming over the years, so it’s likely some had migrated south to Colorado. A wildlife biologist friend photographed tracks last year, but Parks and Wildlife had not paid attention.
“P and W counts Grizz like they count Wolf,” I said. “They’re more worried about tourist-count than dangerous-animal-count. You see the wounds on those guys? You find something else that makes a set of scratches that big, let me know.”
No Name held his hands at ten and two, eyes glued to the road.
Oso moaned. A flicker of life had returned to his eyes, but his breath was labored.
I perked up. “You okay, Oso?”
“No,” he said in a sandpaper rasp.
“What happened back there?” I asked.
“Don’t know.” He coughed, grimaced.
“Oso, I heard growling. I think it caused the gun play. Did you see anything?”
He worked at forming words, then said, “No.”
“What were the Utes shooting at?”
Oso coughed. “Don’t know.”
This conversation and Oso’s condition were going south. His deterioration worried me. “I want to know what happened.”
Oso coughed again; this time deeper. Blood peppered the dash and ran down his chin.
“Get to a hospital. Push it,” I said.
No Name stomped the pedal and the old truck wheezed, but didn’t accelerate until it burped smoke, then lurched toward sixty. At seventy, the front wheels wobbled until No Name slowed.
We made it to the Ute emergency facility where I’d been confined earlier. No Name and I managed to haul Oso down to the pavement as the gurney arrived. With the help of two medics, we lifted him to the rolling bed and pushed him inside.
At the double doors to the operating theater, one of the medics pointed to the waiting room. We were the only people there beside the staff. My watch showed four-thirty in the morning.
One of the nurses, a Ute who looked like he’d been up for three days, walked over and said, “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here if you’re armed.”
“I have a permit.”
“I need to see it unless you’re in uniform.”
Police on my pueblo were not issued uniforms. “It’s on file.” A statement mostly true. I’d filed it in the glove compartment of my Jeep, my stolen Jeep, ready to present when off my reservation.
“Show me, or you’ll have to leave the building.” He pointed to the nurses’ station. “I could lose my job.”
No Name devoted his attention to an old Western showing on the wall-mounted big screen. It was the kind of movie where the cowboys played guitar and the Indians died.
There were a hundred reasons why I wouldn’t give up my gun without a fight and that corny movie reminded me of one of them. As an Indian, a Marine, and a cop I cannot shake the idea that someone who wants my pistol intends to kill me with it.
“Can’t you reason with this guy?” I asked No Name.
No Name crossed his arms over his chest.
“You still packin’?” I asked.
No Name patted his holster. “Do it,” he said, “You’re safe here.”
I handed my weapon over to the nurse who locked it in a safe.
When the TV movie finished, a doctor came out of the operating theater looking glum. The double doors whop-whopped to a close behind him. Blood sprinkled his scrubs.
Muscles jumped under my skin. I rubbed the nape of my neck, grabbed at my braid so I had something to hold on to.
“How is he, doc?” I said, my voice stressed tight. “One minute he was fine, the next, he was hurtin’.”
“The gunshot wound to the thorax resulted in internal bleeding, pulmonary contusion, rib fracture, thoracic wall lacerations and sternal fracture. Some ventilatory problems, as well, but he’s stable.”
Oso must have caught one in the chest when the Ute dancers fired at Grizz. “He gonna make it?” I asked.
“Prognosis is guarded.” The doctor turned, glanced around the room and sighed. “What a night it’s been. Five with animal wounds just came in and I have more coming. Excuse me.” He turned to go.
“Grizzly?” I asked.
He disappeared behind the doors, saying, “Colorado has no grizzlies.”
Oso’s chances were decent, but not certain. “Oh, man,” I said, rubbing my face with both hands.
No Name, as usual, remained impenetrable.
Chapter 20
My head weighed a hundred pounds and my neck ached after three hours of nodding off in a waiting room chair. My mouth tasted like powdered tar but didn’t feel as rank as my worries for Oso.
The doctor emerged from the operating room’s double doors with the corners of his mouth creasing upward. “He’s improved. He’s one tough man, but you should go home and get some sleep. You look worse than he does. Both of you.” He disappeared behind the doors.
I took the good news and doctor’s orders to heart. “Know a place to cr
ash?” I asked No Name. He headed for the exit. He waited behind the wheel while I retrieved my pistol.
The twisting road gained elevation, narrowed to the width of the truck, then squeezed further, providing no room to turn around. Above, piney hills stretched upward and peaked five hundred feet higher. To the front and back, the road disappeared around rocky bends. After thirty minutes, we arrived at a small cabin near the base of a bluff just as the sun peeked over the hills. The building’s dark, stained logs and asphalt roof contrasted with the blue-gray and pink-banded rock behind it. We hadn’t passed another structure for the last five miles.
No Name pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped.
“Who owns this place?” I asked, opening the truck door.
“Sleep here,” he said.
The entry opened when I gave the knob a twist. No Name drove off. “Little weak on passing information, ain’tcha?” I asked his dust.
Dog-tired, I checked out the cabin. The place was stark, only housing a couch and a splay-legged, wooden chair leaning against it, a stove occupying the left corner along with a table, and another broken chair. A bedroom contained a single bed, unmade, but inviting. The adjoining bathroom had no privacy. Cardboard boxes, the kind movers use, were stacked in corners unopened.
A wood-framed glass rectangle with navy felt backing contained a triangular-fold American flag, an array of Navy enlisted insignia, and a collection of ribbons, medals and marksmanship badges. A small engraved plate at the bottom of the frame honored HMCM Bertrand “Oso” Walker. Another wall mounted several framed citations, all praising Master Chief Petty Officer Walker for his performance of duty. The testimony and signatures from admirals and generals impressed me, but his house was a mess. How could a man who excelled under military spit and polish be such a slob?
Out back, a small stand of lodgepole pine and quaking aspen crowded the area between the cabin and the bluffs. Several trunks had been stripped of bark and snagged with fur. Branches were broken off up to six or seven feet high. They appeared to be rub trees. I pinched some of the fur off and rubbed it between my fingers. Bear.