by David Crow
Except for Dad’s beatings, nothing had ever frightened me more. Oddly, after Tommy stopped Cal, it was easier to face the hogan and trailer kids in Mud Flats. I knew they wouldn’t try to kill me.
CHAPTER 29
WITH EACH PASSING DAY, DAD acted more like a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike anything in his path. During one of our weekend drives to Gallup for groceries, a truck passed us and moved in front of the Rambler too close for Dad’s comfort, so he raced in front of him and slammed on the brakes. The truck nearly crashed into our rear end, missing us by inches. Dad jumped out of the car and pounded on the driver’s side window. “You Navajo punk, get out and fight me like a man.”
Then when we stopped for gas, Dad claimed the attendant overcharged him and threw the money on the ground. “I’ll kick your ass, you son of a bitch,” he yelled, putting up his fists to fight as the attendant walked away.
A couple of weeks later, we had to stop for gas again, this time near where we used to live in Ganado. It was a bright, sunny Saturday, and Dad had rounded up Sam, Sally, and me to go with him to meet one of his BIA friends. He told us they needed to talk over some business in private, so we sat in the car and waited.
When we drove away, Dad noticed that the Rambler was nearly on empty. Bumping along on a narrow pockmarked dirt road, we found a gas station that amounted to a rusted-out trailer with a warped plywood sign that read, “Black Bear Gas Station.”
In front of the trailer, an adult black bear stood in a chicken-wire cage so small he could barely move. The poor animal had matted fur, droopy eyes, and a sagging mouth—a hungry-looking version of the big black bear Dad brought back from his hunting trip years earlier.
Two pumps sat in the dirt several feet from the trailer. A Navajo family in a pickup was already at one of them when we pulled in. Four skinny kids huddled silently in the bed, their faces tired and bored, like they’d been there for hours.
As all of us piled out of the car, the owner—a fat Mexican man not much taller than Shorty John—scurried out of the trailer and stuck the nozzle into the gas tank and scurried back inside. Sally and Sam took off for the wooden outhouses behind the trailer. I walked around the pumps, stretching my legs, and looked over at Dad.
He was staring at the pitiful bear in an almost trancelike way and then jolted awake and in two strides was at the back of the car, rolling down the window, his eyes fixed on the bear. With a loud grunt, he pushed up his sleeves, leaned in, and rummaged through his toolbox. When he straightened up and turned around, I broke into an instant sweat—he had all the signs of what he called pure, unadulterated fury: bugged eyes, throbbing Y vein, and puffed chest. I caught a few mumbled words: “chicken shit,” “son of a bitch,” “dead man.”
He strutted like a prizefighter toward the cage, wire cutters in his hand. My mind flashed back to the trapped coyote—Dad was on a rescue mission. Like the coyote, the trapped bear was an animal being exploited by man.
Dad started clipping the wire.
The Navajo man in the pickup grabbed the nozzle out of his tank and sped away. I ran to the outhouses. “Sam, Sally!” I shouted. “We’ve got big trouble. Get back to the car. Now.”
Racing around to the front, we saw the bear stick its large paw through the opening Dad had just made. As we hurried into the back seat, the owner flew out of the trailer. “You no take bear,” he yelled, his thick black glasses bobbing up and down. “I find him. He mine. Go away.”
Dad laughed and continued clipping.
The guy shook his head and lunged at Dad, his arms flailing. “Leave bear alone. No . . . no . . . no bear.”
What was he thinking? The little man stood less of a chance with Dad than I did with Gilbert.
Dad dropped the clippers, turned his shoulders square, and ripped a hard left hook into the guy’s fleshy face, launching him into the air, his glasses in one direction, his body in another. He landed on his back with a loud thud. Blood squirted from his nose as he lifted his head to see Thurston Crow glowering over him.
“Get up, you fat little prick, so I can finish stomping the shit out of you.” Dad shook his fist. “You’re a real chicken-shit son of a bitch, trapping a defenseless animal.”
The Mexican picked up his glasses, dabbed at the blood on his nose with his fingers, and scrambled back to the trailer. The door slammed, and I heard the sound of a dead bolt sliding into place. Dad pounded on the door as he tossed out more insults, and the lights went off inside.
“I’ll be back in one hour,” Dad shouted. “If the bear’s still here, he’ll feast on your fat brown ass. Comprendo, dipshit?”
Dad tossed the wire cutters into the toolbox, rolled up the rear window, and then threw the nozzle on the ground and hopped into the car. The bear was tearing at the torn wire in the cage as the Rambler took off down the dirt road, the three of us bouncing in the back seat. The Mexican man had to be more afraid of Dad than the bear, and I figured they would both be gone before Dad got back.
After driving to Mud Flats and dropping us off, Dad returned to the gas station. When he got home, he told us, “The wire cage had been opened, the bear was gone, and the trailer was padlocked. That’s the last we’ll see of the useless sack of shit.”
Later, we heard that the man moved the station, a wise decision on his part. As Dad often said, “I’ve killed for less.”
THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND, SAM, SALLY, and I were back in the Rambler with Dad driving near the Petrified Forest National Park. He visited a friend in Holbrook, who let us come inside his trailer and watch TV. On our way home, Dad pointed out a petrified log at the side of the road and pulled over. He got out of the car and looked all around. No other vehicles were in sight.
“David and Sam, let’s rock this thing out of the dirt and load it into the trunk. It only weighs about a hundred pounds. But we need to hurry so no one sees us.”
Dad loved rocks of all kinds but especially petrified wood. It was protected by federal law—signs along the road said so—but Dad told us that the law applied to Anglos, not Indians.
“You and Sam take one end,” Dad said, “and I’ll take the other. We’ll put this in the house for decoration. Look at the red and black markings. They’re beautiful.”
We grunted, pushing and pulling until we broke off a five-foot chunk of petrified wood. Scorpions and lizards hiding beneath it scampered away. The three of us lifted the log and shoved it into the back of the Rambler, scraping paint off the bumper as we jockeyed it into place. The chassis sank low to the ground.
Our prize stuck out, so Dad grabbed a rope and tied the trunk latch to the trailer hitch. “It’s too heavy to fall out,” he said, rocking the car to make sure. “It’ll work if we nurse the Rambler home slowly.”
On the horizon, a trail of dust appeared and moved swiftly toward us. Dad told us to get back in the car, and he quickly slid into the driver’s seat. Soon a Navajo Police Department GMC pickup truck pulled up behind us. Two uniformed Navajo police officers got out and walked to our car, flashing their badges.
Dad rolled down the window. “Yá’át’ééh, hosteens,” he said, greeting them in the familiar “Hello, mister” vernacular to show he was one of them. Without responding, the officer with salt-and-pepper hair pulled out a small notebook from his pocket.
“Show me your driver’s license, sir,” the younger officer said to Dad. He stepped aside and spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Bringing him in now for questioning,” I heard him say.
The senior officer recorded the Rambler’s plate number and peered inside the car. The three of us stared back at him. “You have in your possession a stolen artifact from the Navajo Indian Reservation,” he said to Dad. “This is a federal offense. You’ll have to follow me to the Navajo Police Station.”
Pulling out his BIA identification badge, Dad jumped out of the car and thrust it into the surprised officer’s face. “I am a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, an authorized officer of the US Bureau of Indian Affairs, working on my sister reserva
tion, and I’m taking this log to my Navajo home where it will remain after we leave. We’re all Indians here, so cut the crap.”
The young officer looked at the badge and back at Dad. “Remove the log,” he said. “And follow us to the police station.”
Sam and I got out to help unload it, but Dad pushed us away. He pulled the log out of the back, yelling, “This is complete horseshit.”
Driving behind the police cruiser, Dad muttered about having to stomp the crap out of these dumb sons of bitches. I’d never seen his head and shoulders shake so much. About ten miles down the road, we pulled up to a small building with a sign that read, “Navajo Tribal Police.”
“Go sit in the waiting area while I straighten out these idiotic assholes,” Dad said to us. “They’ll be sorry they ever messed with Thurston Crow.”
Ignoring Dad, Sam walked behind the station, gathered a pile of rocks, and threw them into a ravine, stirring up weeds and lizards. I decided he couldn’t get into trouble as long as he didn’t try throwing rocks toward the police station, and I left him alone. With her latest library book in hand, Sally went to an empty office, escorted by the secretary, who offered her a cup of water and a quiet place to read.
I sat watching Dad and listening to the senior police officer. “A man living nearby saw you and your sons stealing the log. They called us to investigate.”
When we had gotten out of the car to get the log, a truck appeared behind us, but he was on a dirt road at least a quarter mile away. I couldn’t believe he saw what we were doing.
Both officers, along with a third who had been at the station when we arrived, stared at Dad. Were they waiting for him to confess or apologize and swear he would never do it again? That’s what I would have done. I glanced behind me at the two empty jail cells. If Dad didn’t do something, he’d get locked up in one of them. And maybe the three of us kids too.
“Your police department has no jurisdiction over me or that log.” Dad slapped the counter. “I’m as Indian as you are.”
He flexed his muscles and leaned toward the officer. “We can take this up at BIA headquarters if you’re stupid enough to mess with a Cherokee operating fully within his ancestral rights. Who was here first, we Indians or this Indian reservation?”
The three Navajo officers looked at one another, and something passed between them. Their intense body language relaxed into resignation. Either Dad’s bullying tactics worked or they decided that arresting him would have been too much bother. In any case, they let him go, warning him not to steal any more artifacts from the reservation.
But as usual, he continued his attack.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he yelled. “We Indians own these rocks. It’s our right to move them around. You have no authority over them or me. As Navajos, you should know that. I won’t be intimidated by you.”
Dad’s face twitched the entire ride home. He’d had so many confrontations in recent weeks that I worried jail, or even death, wouldn’t be far away.
CHAPTER 30
ON A SATURDAY MORNING IN MAY, Dad told Sam and Sally that he and I had to go run errands without them. When they complained, he waved them away and said, “Cut the crap.”
As we pulled away in the brown sedan, Dad started mumbling to himself, the lines on his forehead bouncing up and down. He was in no hurry. I seldom knew where we were going or what we would be doing on our stealing trips. My job was to keep my mouth shut and be his lookout man.
When we reached Yah-ta-hey, New Mexico, Dad turned south on Highway 666. That meant we would be going to Gallup first before heading north to the BIA warehouses—and that meant we’d probably stop at the post office, get some food, and visit one of his “lady friends.”
Dad always had several young women he strung along, usually waitresses or hairdressers making very little money. “A man’s got to have some fun,” he’d say. If he had enough time, he would take me inside where they worked. I could tell Dad wanted to kiss them, and they’d let him. It was disgusting. My siblings and I didn’t have nice winter coats and warm shoes, but he would buy them all kinds of things, like turquoise necklaces and rings.
I’d have to sit there listening to Dad trying to impress the women with wild tales, as I expected him to do today. It was embarrassing, and we both pretended it never happened when we got back in the car.
When we got to Gallup, we went to the post office on Second Street, where Dad kept a number of boxes for “special mail.” Before getting out of the sedan, he surveyed the parking lot and counted on me to do it too. Dad seemed to think I had a talent for spotting out-of-town cars and trucks that didn’t belong to tourists. Vehicles from Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado were probably safe, he said, but if I saw a Kansas license plate, I needed to get his attention immediately, no matter what he was doing. And I always had to watch for a man who seemed out of place, especially if he was staring at Dad.
I figured he meant George. He’d met George and Mom in California, but it was likely that his partner in crime had come from Kansas. Or maybe the man was someone else Dad had double-crossed. All he seemed to be doing lately was making enemies. The petrified log incident had emboldened him. He kept picking fights, acting like no one could stop him.
Dad directed me to stay put and watch every car, truck, and person. If I thought anyone might mean trouble, I needed to honk the horn three times, and he’d come running. That day, the parking lot had only half a dozen other vehicles, so it would have been easy to spot something suspicious.
When Dad returned to the car, he was carrying a couple of small packages wrapped in brown paper, no doubt containing messages and supplies from his fellow crooks. The reservation had no rules and little enforcement, and neither did Gallup. Besides, Dad didn’t have anyone at home to hold him accountable—no “war department,” as he used to call Mom.
On Route 66, he found a place to park near the Eagle Café, about two blocks from Mr. Pino’s. Mostly locals and truckers ate there.
“David, check out the cars.”
He had me walk up and down the street, knowing that no one would be looking for an eleven-year-old kid. I scanned the cars and license plates for a block in both directions. “We’re good, Dad,” I said.
When we went inside, he asked for a table near the rear exit and sat facing the front. He never ate at places with only one exit. And he never sat near a window. During one of our stealing trips, he told me that when he worked at EPNG, someone took a shot at him through a window at a restaurant.
A young Mexican waitress came to our table, and Dad winked at her and smiled broadly. The bright look in her eyes told me they had met before, so she must have been the reason for our stop.
“What can I get you two gentlemen?” she asked.
As he placed his order, Dad touched her arm. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
When she brought our drinks, she stayed a few minutes and flirted with Dad. He told her we were on our way to visit his hundred-acre spread in Cibola County. He’d show it to her sometime when they could be alone, he said. I almost spit out my iced tea.
The burgers were huge. Dad and I were just about to eat when he suddenly crouched down in his seat. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath, staring straight ahead.
I followed his eyes. “What?”
“We have to get out of here!” He grabbed my shoulder. “Move it!”
We flew out the rear door into the alley. Dad turned around and walked backward for a few strides to watch behind him, and then he took off running for the sedan. He had it moving before I even closed the door.
“Goddamn you, David. I’ve told you to look out for vehicles and people that don’t belong. I saw someone in the restaurant who wants to kill me. That means you didn’t identify his car. You careless little bastard. You weren’t paying attention, were you?”
“But I didn’t see a suspicious vehicle or anyone dangerous.”
He was too busy driving to hit me. We raced
down Route 66, screeching our tires and narrowly missing trucks filled with Navajo families. Then we turned onto Highway 666 and sped north, away from Gallup. Dad’s fists were clenched, and his eyes looked like they might shoot out of his head. He kept checking the rearview mirror.
Several minutes later, after he was sure we weren’t being followed, he slowed down to the speed limit. “A guy is after me,” he said. “The asshole blames me for something we did that went wrong. I’m not afraid of the chicken shit, but it’s impossible to protect yourself from an ambush. You have to be careful and help me more.”
Had George finally found him? “Sorry, Dad, I won’t let you down again.”
“You better not.” He studied the rearview mirror again. “You need to understand what San Quentin does to a man. First of all, it doesn’t make them sorry about a damn thing, except that they got caught. They just get smarter next time. But mostly, the Q makes them mean. The guy after me was stupid and told the cops and judge he wasn’t sorry. Idiot. You have to say you’re sorry even though you don’t mean it. He blames me for getting him into trouble and the years he spent in prison—and for having a violent felony on his record. He’s probably too stupid to lie about that and get away with it. Now the son of a bitch wants revenge.”
Dad didn’t say anything more about him other than the guy would try to kill him—and probably both of us if I was with him. But I had no idea what he looked like. How would I be able to spot him?
“From now on, you make sure when we go into any public place that no one is watching us, that there’s no eye contact.”
He got quiet for several miles. Sweat trickled down my back.
I thought he was done, but then he started up again. “There are things I need to teach you, things that you need to know to survive in a harsh world full of assholes. That means you need to keep secrets. You’re pretty good at that most of the time, but not always. You think the things I ask you to do are bad, but they aren’t. You have to get a lot tougher and smarter about helping us not get caught. You understand me, boy?