by David Knop
Johnston turned sheet white, slumped back on to the sofa. Leslie, No Name seemed more appropriate somehow, filled an empty beer bottle with water from the bathroom and gave it to Johnston. He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, lit it, gave him that, too. Johnston inhaled deeply, blew out, then coughed.
The deep rumble of an eighteen-wheeler echoed across the hills, sounds bouncing off the rocks. The noise could have come from miles away. Through the window, I studied the darkness. Sirens warbled, but this noise was close, not an echo. “We gotta get out of here,” I said to Leslie No Name.
“What about him?” No Name asked, pointing to Johnston. The man’s mouth slacked open, his breath rasped coarse and shallow. The cigarette had burned past his fingers, but he hadn’t dropped it.
“Done all we can,” I said. Sheriff’s comin’.
The Lakota shook his head. “I’ll badge ‘em.”
“I got better odds with Grizz than the sheriff,” I said, showing the keys I’d taken from the Chiv’s trucks, I said, “Out front.”
Red and blue lights flashed far downhill as No Name and I hopped into a Ford F-150. I drove up the trail we’d taken before. As we rolled, the moonlight showed Oso’s vehicle on its side, the 2,500-pound truck lacerated by claw marks.
Leslie No Name let out a grunt and dropped his jaw at the sight.
I drove on to find Reel. This was her case and she needed to know both Wookie and Grizz had put new faces on her investigation.
Chapter 22
Reel sat at the command center’s conference table reading a stack of papers, when I told her about Wookie Gutierrez’s appearance at the Chivs’ hangout.
“Chivingtons?” Her face colored. “What were you doing near the Chivingtons?”
I’d just stepped in it.
“My investigation led me there,” I said, seeing no reason to tell her that Leslie No Name, a member of her own staff, dragged me there. She wasn’t about to fire me.
“I gave you explicit instructions to find members of the Southern Ute Tribe who may be involved in the upcoming demonstration against the hospital groundbreaking,” she said, voice pitched. “That did not include the white supremacists.”
“You know I go where evidence or suspicion leads me. You should be more interested in what Wookie is doin’ than what I’m doing.”
Reel kept her composure, but her frustration broadcast heat. I stepped back.
“Confine your investigation to the Utes from now on.”
“That’s not the way I work.”
“Wrong, Officer Romero. That’s the way you will work.”
I wanted to say, Like hell I will, but a frontal assault on her never worked. I reverted to a time-tested tactic: tell her what she wanted to hear, then do as I damn well please.
“Yes, ma’am.” I clicked my heels.
“Don’t get smart with me, Peter.”
I let off steam with a short huff. “There’s another thing, besides Wookie. Grizz.”
“Colorado has no grizzly—”
“Grizz mauled at least five men, maybe more, in the two camps.”
She stared at me seeming to be without words. Might have been a first. Then she asked, “You have Oso look at the victims?”
“Oso’s in the hospital.”
“No, he checked himself out. The doctor called me livid, says he won’t take responsibility for Oso’s recovery.”
My jaw dropped. “He was hurtin’ bad when we took him in. Gunshot.”
Reel shook her head. “Haven’t heard from him. I’m worried, but I can’t leave the command center. Check on him. I want you under his close supervision from now on.”
How about I keep an eye on Oso? “Right.”
“Thanks for the tip on Wookie,” she said, when I walked out of the RV.
Oso’s cabin lay in the hills and I headed there. I’d asked around for Leslie No Name, but he’d disappeared. No way I was going to wait for him. Reel had pissed me off by demanding I limit my investigation and that wasn’t going to happen. I was glad to get away before I opened my big mouth and told her so.
Oso’s self-checkout from the emergency room troubled me. The man had spent his entire career in healthcare. Too many things could happen with an unhealed wound. I knew better and he knew better.
The mountains and canyons offered general directions to Oso’s place. The roads, though, zig-zagged in confusing ways due to the legacies of miners, loggers, and off-roaders. The canyon I travelled seemed familiar, but tracks crisscrossed and paralleled the one I drove. It didn’t help that No Name had driven here the first time and I’d slept part of the way still groggy from all night in the emergency waiting room.
At a fork in the road, both ways looked equally familiar and strange, but the steep hills that backed Oso’s place to the north made the choice obvious.
I drove to the right. After driving for a mile, I stepped out of the vehicle, pressed between the truck’s front fender and a fifty-foot drop off, then scouted ahead. Each turn produced another. I walked a mile uphill until it became obvious I’d picked the wrong road and would have to back down the way I came.
As I walked back to the truck, I spotted Oso’s cabin below me. By luck, the wrong road had put me at a spot directly above by fifty yards, the place I’d intended. Reel wanted me to check on Oso and submit to his supervision. I wouldn’t submit to anything, but I wanted to know how well he’d recovered from his gunshot wound.
A short, deep grunt caught my ear. I peered over the edge of the cliff. An Aspen shook, its branches quaking with no wind anywhere. At the base of the tree I spotted a brown form. Through the foliage, an animal scratched himself against a tree in Oso Walker’s backyard.
Then, Oso walked out his back door. Before I could yell a warning, Grizz lumbered at him running like a draft horse. The brute stopped in front of Oso, stood on hind legs, then scooped him off the porch with massive paws. My heart sank, Oso was about to be killed in front of me.
I waited for screams. The poor bastard had no chance, the possibility of rescue fruitless. I shrank back from my overlook ready to run for the pickup I’d stolen last night. I pictured Grizz chasing me and attacking through the pickup’s window and succeeding this time.
A roar swallowed a laugh from Oso’s yard. Another laugh. I bent down and crept close on hands and knees to the edge. Grizz stood on hind legs, towering over Oso who seemed to be enjoying the experience. Oso raised his arms and made a circular arm movement. Grizz twirled. Oso laughed loudly and cheered at the eight-hundred-pound ballerina.
On signal, Grizz dropped to the ground and played dead. Then the man clapped. The beast pushed up to a sitting position, a gigantic teddy bear. Oso swung his arms overhead in a circle and Grizz rolled over and over while Oso laughed. Oso and Grizz hugged again, then both walked into the cabin.
I was dumbstruck. The way the man and Grizz interacted was remarkable. Like best friends. Like family. Now that I thought about it, Oso’s ambling gait and gruff exterior was most bear-like. I was surprised I hadn’t realized the connection before.
A picture of Oso and Grizz sitting inside and enjoying an afternoon coffee flashed before me, a vision no crazier than what I’d just witnessed. At least, it would explain the broken furniture in Oso’s home. Now I understood why there were so many tracks around the cabin, and so many rub trees.
I wasn’t sure if Oso could be some kind of animal trainer or a shaman with spiritual power over wildlife. I didn’t imagine either being true, but I didn’t picture what I had seen happening, either. One thing I did know was that this must be the same animal that attacked the Utes two days before and the Chivingtons yesterday.
Something grunted behind me. A black bear, Kuhaya my people call them, crouched between me and the pickup. I froze. This was the second time in as many days a damn bear snuck up on me. Kuhaya sported a brown muzzle and light markings on his chest over a cinnamon coat. Black bears are not as aggressive as Grizz, b
ut this one eyed me with a mixture of fear and dislike. At two hundred pounds, the animal had twenty-five pounds on me, and an arsenal of teeth and claws that deserved respect.
Blacks are not normally belligerent, but Kuhaya swayed his head, huffed, popped his jaws, snorted, and clacked his teeth. Then, he lowered his head and laid back his ears, ready to attack.
Neither aspen nor pine offered shelter: the trees grew either below me at the foot of a cliff, or above me on the bluff. I had to stand my ground. Blacks often bluff, so I played the odds.
Kuhaya charged, but it was no bluff. In his eyes, he wanted blood. I waived my arms high to look bigger and yelled, but Kuhaya kept coming. I yelled again. I looked for a place with enough vegetation below to break my fall when I jumped off the cliff.
Someone yelled from the vicinity of Oso’s cabin. Kuhaya veered to his left and threw himself down the cliff. I peered over the edge. The animal had not only survived but seemed unhurt as he ran off. Trees shook and bushes parted as the bruin crashed toward Oso’s house.
I hurried for the truck.
My elders told me long ago that animals can act as role models and teachers, appearing and reappearing at will. I had experienced this in the past, but this time was different. One of these animals had attacked and killed humans.
“Animals have much to offer, and we must listen,” Grandfather often said to me. As a child at his knee, I’d listen to him for as long as he would talk, snuggled up in an ancient blanket in a warm room smelling of piñon, the earth outside blanketed by snow. As I grew older, the more I understood his values.
But now, I didn’t know if Oso was commanding these animals or if they were just protecting him, either way, the group was deadly. I reversed down the mountain. I had a lot of questions for Oso.
Chapter 23
The road widened and leveled, so I could turn around and head for Oso’s cabin. In the distance, the sun painted snow-streaked peaks blinding-white. Chokecherry, box elder, and lodgepole pine lined my way. A slight breeze caused the Aspen leaves to quake as I inhaled the sweet butterscotch of ponderosa.
The engine began to smoke and cough. The heat gage had pegged, so I parked to the side, killed the ignition, and waited for it to cool. Backing down rough roads had taken its toll.
Both Grizz and Kuhaya were with Oso, now. I was uncertain what Oso’s reaction would be if I showed unannounced, but damn certain what Grizz’s response would be. Grizz reminded me of the Colorado legend, Old Mose, a 1500-pound grizzly that had an ambling gait that made it seem he just moseyed about. Legend had it that he walked through fences like matchsticks and killed a horse with one bite. The great “King of the Grizzlies” killed three men, and three bulls before he was taken down in1904.
The engine cooled and it’s ticking faded. I tried the ignition.
“Get out of the truck. Now.” My eye focused on a black hole just over my left shoulder at the end of a long barrel. A squinting man at the end of the rifle held it steady. The rifleman stepped back, giving me room, but no time to curse myself for being so lax about my surroundings. I pulled the handle and opened the door. Slowly.
I had a foot out of the pickup when someone yelled, “Get on the ground.”
“You gonna tell me what this is about?” I said, lowering myself to the ground. His scowl and M-16 were persuasive. I kept my eyes on him. Black hair hung past ripped shoulders. A black short-sleeved uniform barely contained his biceps.
“I need to see some ID,” the cop in me said. I inhaled dust, coughed.
“Captain Hanlon, Tribal Rangers, Ute Natural Resource Enforcement Division, Justice and Regulatory.” He patted his M-16. “This here’s my ID. Put your hands out in front of you.”
Four other uniformed men, armed, walked out of the bushes. One dropped a knee on my back, then pulled my arms behind me. He plasti-cuffed me, jerked me to my feet, then pulled my wallet from my rear pocket.
He threw the wallet to Hanlon who snatched it out of the air. Hanlon examined my ID, smiled. “Well, well. Peter Romero, uh, Officer Peter Romero, you are under arrest for violation of Title Thirteen Wildlife Code, Unlawful Taking or Possession of Wildlife.” He recited my rights. “Do you understand?”
“No, I do not. What are you talking about?”
“You are suspected of killing two wolves, a protected species on this reservation.”
“Is this some kinda joke?”
“Do you have a Title Thirteen permit to take or possess wolves?”
“No.”
He huffed, “Let’s go.”
The ranger standing next to me grabbed my arm while the others kept their firearms at shoulder ready. “Where?” I asked.
“Processing, then Durango.”
“Durango?”
“You’re popular around here. Got a BOLO on the wire four days ago. Been tracking your ass and here you are. Lucky me. Only trouble is, Durango gets first whack at you. Charges for killing a cop beats wildlife charges. Same thing, you ask me.”
One of the rangers whispered, “That the guy shot Jones?”
Someone laughed, “Yeah. Jones was a prick.”
Hanlon threw stink-eye at his troops. “Knock it off. “
I broke free of my arm holders and ran for Oso’s house. Handcuffed or not, I had a better chance with Oso and his two bruins than I did with the deputies in Durango. I gained yardage at first, but a deputy ran me down with a tackle that slid my face across gravel. He lifted me to my feet as I spit dirt.
They pushed me to a dark blue F-250 crew cab. A ranger shoved me into the back seat. Rangers climbed in back from both sides with me wedged in the middle. It was hard to breathe, much less move. Another sat in the front passenger side and turned to watch me. Hanlon drove. The acrid smell of sweat and stink of testosterone flooded the cab.
Salty, warm liquid ran over my lips. “My nose is bleeding,” I said.
No one paid attention. Blood reddened my shirt, but that didn’t bother me as much as knowing Durango’s deputies would have their shot at me. “Look, I can prove I acted in self-defense against Jones.” I lied. It was my word against the assassination squad.
Hanlon eyed me through the rear view. “What, Jones bite you, too?” The rangers laughed. I looked at them for some explanation, but they weren’t offering any.
Ranger Hanlon drove to downtown Ignacio and stopped at a plain, single story on Goddard Avenue that housed the city hall, municipal court, and police department. They recited my rights, then locked me in a holding cell for twenty minutes until I stood in front of a desk sergeant with a handful of forms and an attitude. I answered questions with as few words as I could. The sergeant finished, nodded at Hanlon who walked me back to the truck handcuffed, shackled, and surrounded by Tribal Rangers. I got the impression a cop killer was the biggest bust they’d made in years.
We drove off for Durango, I felt like a steer being led to slaughter. My life ran before me in a circuit of endless seasons during the thirty-minute drive from Ignacio to Durango. As I looked back, I regretted only a few things.
Mainly, I regretted how I treated Costancia. She didn’t deserve what I handed out. She deserved more respect, more maturity, more care. I wished I’d had it in me to appreciate her when I should’ve. I lamented not knowing her as deeply as she wanted, needed. I regretted that she’ll always wish I had. At the same time, like a jerk, I regretted not taking a chance with Reel. We were a team and I trusted her. That trust was what Costancia had craved the most.
I didn’t regret killing Deputy Frank Jones. I did regret being stuck in this truck.
The La Plata County Jail in Durango was a two-story, yellow brick fortress built to repress and depress its occupants. Inside, they booked and processed me and read my rights, again. The word must have spread before my paperwork was completed, because a crowd of uniformed onlookers had gathered.
Some of the uniforms smirked, but my celebrity was not all laughs. Some sneered. A name tag, Lettau, th
e shithead who woke me in the middle of the night at the sheepherder’s camp, seemed delighted to be hosting me in his jail. Had I not been handcuffed; I would have middle-fingered my thanks for his hospitality. The group’s vibe was menacing, like the pack of wolves I’d been arrested for.
Lettau, who stood a head taller than me, and another deputy led me, shackled and shuffling, through a series of access cages and down a long cell-lined corridor.
“You da man!” a prisoner hooted from his cell.
“Right on, motherfucker!” said another.
“Blue lives ain’t shit,” a third said. “Jones was an asshole.”
As I shuffled down the corridor, the sentiment for Jones, in and out of jail, seemed unanimous but offered little comfort. Unaccustomed in the role of hero to men I normally imprisoned, I only nodded at the catcalls and whistles.
My heartbeat spiked when I realized the cell they’d chosen for me was separate from the others. Lettau unshackled my legs using his left hand. A lefty, as was the tall assassin at my motel.
The deputies exited, locked the door, then uncuffed me through the meal tray port. Lettau made a finger pistol pointed at me. “Bang,” he said. It was too easy to take that gesture as an admission he was involved in my attempted assassination.
I stared at the blank, gray door as the rhythm of boots on a cement floor receded, a door down the hall crashed shut, an electronic lock buzzed, another slam, another buzz. Silence.
“Nice little place ya got here.”
I jumped, whirled, flattened my back against the door. Deer stood in front of me. It was no doubt the same deer I’d seen at Pokoh’s shooting and later when I rolled my truck.
“You?” I asked.
“Do not trust him.”
“Huh?”
“Oso. Who’d you think?” Deer twisted his head, his rack nearly touching both sides of the cell.
“I have no idea. I thought I’d find Arabian horse-killers and the perps who stabbed two men from my pueblo.” I stared at the talking buck, unconvinced I wasn’t hallucinating.