“We need to get out of here,” Niyol said. “We have to tell someone.”
“Who?”
Niyol shrugged. “Chief of Albuquerque. Or Benjamin Hatathlie, if he’s campaigning. Someone who can take it to the president.”
“What will they do?”
“If these guys are American army, it might not matter what they do. But they don’t seem like army.”
He remembered meeting one of the codetalkers who was out recruiting. There was a certain distance to him, a faraway look in his eye, a comfort in silence. Like Diné, but more. These men seemed just…men.
“Wait until they’re asleep, then head back?” Wallace said.
Niyol looked at Wallace, his eyes reflecting sparks of stars. “Exactly.”
“I’m not a sellout.”
“I know that,” Niyol said softly. Wallace saw the curve of his smile and grinned back.
Wallace looked back down the road, east toward Albuquerque. The glow had long since disappeared behind them. Wallace had never been so far from home. But they hadn’t gone that far. Not with all their stops. If they walked fast, they could be in Albuquerque by morning. They could wait outside the town adobe and wait for the chief to come in.
They’d be heroes.
Wallace wondered if there might be a reward.
In the perfect darkness, Wallace felt a hand on his arm. He jumped and almost cried out.
“It’s time,” Niyol said.
Wallace felt his face go hot. He’d fallen asleep! If it was up to him, they’d have slept until morning, and been trapped with the men for another day. Some hero.
“I…I…,” Wallace began.
“Shh,” Niyol said.
Niyol pushed the flap of the tent open, and starlight slashed into the tent. The moon was only a tiny sliver, but to Wallace’s dark-adjusted eyes it seemed almost as bright as day.
Wallace followed Niyol back to the road. It stretched in front of them, a stark relief of charcoal and black in the low-slanting moonlight. They walked softly until the camp had disappeared behind a low rise, then picked up the pace.
“I’m sorry,” Wallace whispered.
“For what?”
“For getting us into this.”
“No harm done,” Niyol said. “In fact, if Dinétah can do something about it, you may have done us all a great service.”
Pride swelled in Wallace, and he walked a little faster. Maybe he would be a hero. Maybe there would be a reward.
They crested a low rise. Ahead of them was a small campfire, casting long flickering shadows from four men. Two horses stood alongside, heads down, enjoying the new grass. The sound of laughter, low and rough, carried on the night breeze.
Wallace had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. “Go back,” he hissed, grabbing Niyol’s arm. Niyol nodded and turned around.
Wallace glanced back at the four men. One now stood. He shielded his eyes and looked toward them. The sliver of moon sat low on the horizon ahead.
They can see us, Wallace thought.
From behind them came rough cries.
Wallace ran off the road, toward thicker scrub that might have some chance of hiding them. He heard the crash of Niyol’s feet behind them. Then, moments later, hoofbeats.
The horses galloped past them, throwing up white moonlit dust. The riders brought them around to a quick stop in front of Wallace. He skidded to a stop, and Niyol stumbled to the ground beside him.
Both horses carried two riders. One hopped down and approached. In the dim moonlight, his face looked familiar. The chubby Diné from the guide shack. Gerald Manycows. Many cows, many hogans, Wallace thought desperately.
“Where were you two going?” Gerald said. “Did you already steal all their money?”
“We got homesick,” Wallace said, squeezing his eyes shut and willing tears. He snuffled and let the tears cut channels down his cheeks.
Gerald laughed. “Sure,” he said. “We believe that, don’t we?”
Titters from his companions.
“What do you want?” Niyol said.
“The money.”
“What money?” Wallace said.
Gerald stepped closer. His breath smelled like sour beer. “Everyone at the airfield saw money change hands. Don’t make me hurt you.” He pulled a long knife from his belt.
Wallace dug in his pockets and handed Gerald the sweat-slick bill.
Gerald held it up in the moonlight. “Twenty dollars? Twenty dollars!”
The others drew closer, as if pulled by invisible threads.
“Why did they give you twenty dollars, kid?”
“They set the price, not us,” Niyol said.
Gerald shook his head and turned away, muttering something that Wallace couldn’t hear.
“How much more money do they have?” Gerald asked.
“I don’t know,” Wallace said.
“Maybe a lot, if they’re dumb enough to give you this.” The calculation of greed spread an ugly grin on Gerald’s face. Wallace’s stomach flipped over. He imagined that was what he’d looked like, when he’d told Herbert and Frans they were worth thirty dollars.
“Search the boys,” Gerald said. “See if they’re holding back.”
Wallace and Niyol were disrobed and thoroughly groped. The night air froze Wallace’s skin, and his teeth clacked and chattered. The flunkies noticed this and laughed. After an age, they were allowed to get back into their clothes.
“What now?” Niyol said.
Gerald laughed. “You’re going to help us get the rest of the money.”
“How?”
“We’re all friends here. You can introduce us to your other friends.”
“They’re asleep,” Wallace said.
“That’s even better. Maybe nobody gets hurt.”
Wallace saw the men, their throats slashed, their bodies buried in shallow graves. Like the stories you sometimes heard, Diné gone bad, imagining all the old conflicts. “You don’t need us.”
Gerald laughed. “I don’t need you telling the police, either.”
“We wouldn’t do that!”
“Not after helping us.”
“They’re looking for uranium,” Niyol said. “We left so we could turn them in.”
Gerald frowned. “They’re looking for what?”
“Uranium. What they make atomic bombs out of.”
For a few moments, there was silence. Then Gerald shrugged and said, “I don’t care if they’re looking for Changing Woman herself.”
“But—“Niyol said.
“Shut up,” Gerald said, and punched Niyol in the face. Niyol fell to his knees, grabbing his nose. Blood seeped through his fingers, black in the moonlight.
“Any more questions?” Gerald said.
Wallace shook his head.
Gerald remounted his horse. One of the other riders stayed dismounted, to prod them along with a knife. They made their way back to the Americans’ camp, silent except for the snuffle of the horses and the crunch of their feet on the dirt.
The two tents stood silently under the moonlight. The big Ford sedan was painted white like a ghost. The fire, long dead, still telegraphed the scent of smoke into the night.
Gerald had them all dismount when they spotted the camp. Gerald’s knife prodded Wallace forward. Wallace thought of yelling to try to warn the men, but he couldn’t make his mouth open. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Niyol. He knew his friend’s accusing eyes would be dark and sad.
Diyin Diné, I ask your help, Wallace thought. If we escape this, I will learn to be content.
Gerald had them stop by the Ford, positioning it between them and the tents. The front flaps of the tents faced the car, making it easy to see if anyone emerged. Gerald told them all to stop moving. Silence descended. No sound came from the tents.
“Look at all the stuff,” one of the flunkies said, pointing inside the car. Tools glittered, spilling from an open bag on the backseat.
“Neat,” Gerald sai
d. One of the others opened the trunk. It popped open with a metallic bonk that was incredibly loud in the still night.
“Even better,” Gerald said, looking at the bags. “We do the car first, then the face-to-face.”
“Maybe the car’s enough, Gerald,” one of the flunkies said.
Gerald shook his head. “I’ll say what’s enough.”
“But they might have guns.”
Gerald turned to Wallace. “Do they have guns?”
“I didn’t see any,” Wallace said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because you’ll be first in line if bullets come our way,” Gerald said, watching Wallace.
Wallace just looked at him.
They cleaned out the car first, gingerly easing the heavy bags out of the trunk and carrying them over to the horses. Wallace kept hoping for them to drop one of the bags and raise the alarm, but they made little noise other than a few muffled thuds and a quiet whinny from one of the horses.
“After this, you introduce us to your friends,” Gerald said. “Just remember, you’ll be standing in front.”
Gerald popped the car door open and handed the tool bag out. He left Wallace and Niyol in the care of one of his companions and disappeared into the car, running his hands under the seats, looking for more loot.
The flunky in charge of Wallace and Niyol took no chances. He held them close, pressing twin blades against their necks. He breathed heavily, and Wallace could see his eyes darting back and forth.
There was a sharp crack and the flunky’s head exploded in a fountain of gore. Wallace felt warm blood spatter his cheeks. The flunky made a single surprised sound, something like a sigh, and the pressure of the knife at Wallace’s throat fell away. The flunky crumpled to the ground.
Wallace moved without thinking, snatching the knife out of the flunky’s hand. Niyol watched, wide-eyed, then bent and did the same.
The flunky who had been watching the tents moved fast to get behind the car, but he wasn’t fast enough. Another crack split the night, he went down, clutching his stomach and screaming. Another crack and muzzle-flash from the tent, and the screaming stopped.
Gerald wriggled back out of the car, like a fish on land seeking water. He saw the boys huddled in the lee of the car. He saw their knives. He grabbed his own knife out of his belt and held it at the ready. Wallace tried to copy him, crouching below the roofline of the car. He knew nothing about knife fighting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wallace saw movement. The tent flap opened, and Herbert Noble emerged. He pointed a long rifle out at the car.
“Come on out,” he said. “This is a thirty-ought-six. I’ll shoot right through the car if I need to.”
Gerald just ducked below the level of the windows. Wallace and Niyol copied him. Three knife points faced one another in the Ford’s shadow.
“I’m not kidding,” Herbert said. “I’ll shoot you right through the car.” His voice was dead calm, as if it was something he said every day.
“First we dance,” Gerald said, lunging at Wallace with his knife. His face was an insane mask of anger.
This is the last thing I’ll ever see, Wallace thought.
“Stop,” Frans said from the scrub behind Gerald. There was the click of a pistol cocking.
Gerald snarled and turned away from Wallace. Wallace saw Frans lying in the scrub, holding a small pistol. Somehow, he’d gotten out of the tent and circled the back of the car and they hadn’t noticed.
There was another crack from the direction of the tent, followed by a thud. Wallace risked a glance in the direction of the horses, and saw Gerald’s third flunky crumpled there.
“Drop the knives and stand up,” Frans said, getting to his feet.
Wallace and Niyol dropped their knives. Gerald grabbed his tighter and rushed at Frans. Frans frowned and squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Gerald rocked back and fell dead at Frans’s feet.
Frans prodded Gerald once with his shoe, then turned his gun on Wallace and Niyol. Herbert came around the other side of the car, his rifle held at the ready.
He raised his rifle and pointed it at Wallace. Wallace felt the world go swimmy and gray. He clutched at the door handle, his legs suddenly weak. Diyin Diné, I am sorry if I offended you, I should never have helped the outsiders who can never understand.
“What were you doing?” Herbert said. “Trying to leave us?”
“No…we were…we…”
“Bullshit! We saw you leaving!” Herbert screamed.
“We were scared!” Wallace said, closing his eyes against tears. “We wanted to go home!”
The barrel inched closer. “How true is that guide crap you fed us? Do we really need you?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Why?”
“Some Diné shoot without asking. Some only help Diné.”
Frans put a hand on Herbert’s rifle barrel, forcing it down. “They are only children,” he said.
“We’re sorry!” Wallace said, letting the words pour out of him. “We won’t try to leave! We’ll be good guides!”
“We were just homesick,” Niyol whispered.
That was enough. Herbert’s rifle barrel dropped the rest of the way.
“Time to clean up the mess,” Herbert said.
The two men made Wallace and Niyol help them dig a long, shallow grave. Wallace dug steadily, trying not to think about what kind of men could be so unaffected by the killing. Army? He didn’t think even the army could be so cold.
But that’s what Americans do, his father had always told him, in the days before he drank his mind away and disappeared. They’re always fighting. That’s just how they are.
Wallace let his body settle into the pattern of digging. He cursed the tiny folding shovel as blisters formed and began to run. He didn’t dare look at Niyol. He could only imagine the black disgust on his face.
When they were done, Herbert transferred the bags from the horses to the car. “What do we do with the horses?” he asked.
“Take their saddles and let them go,” Niyol said. “Someone will be happy for the gift.”
“We shouldn’t shoot them?”
“I don’t think we can dig a grave that deep.”
Herbert frowned and unbuckled the saddles. Wallace noticed that he was wearing Manycows’s knife in his belt, as if it were some great prize.
They buried the saddles with the bodies. Gerald Manycows’s blank eyes looked up at them, his mouth open in a silent scream. Wallace winced as the first shovelful of dry earth struck the chubby man’s face.
Light painted the eastern sky when they were done covering the bodies. Wallace wanted nothing more than to crawl into the tent and sleep, but they had to pack up the camp and move on.
As they bounced along the dirt path south of the San Mateos, Wallace realized he’d never pulled the twenty-dollar bill out of Gerald Manycows’s pocket. It was now under a couple of feet of dirt, miles behind them.
He felt laughter welling up inside of him. He clamped it down. If he started, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.
Instead, he remembered Frans Van der Berg’s words.
They are only children.
Later that morning, they had to swing the car off the road for a small caravan of three elephants, weighted down with heavy bags and crates. A merchant sat on a thick padded platform atop the lead elephant. He wore a bright white shirt and new blue jeans. Two children rode the other elephants, frowning as they bumped along the road.
Wallace looked at Niyol, daring him to say anything. Niyol just shook his head.
The merchant waved at the car as he passed, offering a puzzled grin. Probably wondering why Diné and white men were sharing a car in the middle of Dinétah. Wallace waved back, trying to smile. He wanted to get out of the car and tell them, It’s all a mistake, I only did it for the money, but I don’t even have the money now, can I take it all back, can I go with you.
“They may
be impractical, but they are impressive,” Frans said, watching the elephants recede into the distance in his rearview mirror.
They stopped at a long channel that had been cut by runoff coming out of the San Mateos. The land at the base of the hills was rugged and rutted, carved into fissures where raw rock and earth showed. Nothing like the unearthly beauty of northern Dinétah, but better than flatland and scrub.
The men had Wallace and Niyol stay close. Herbert wore a pistol in his belt, and Frans used the Geiger counter openly. They dug deep into the riverbed and appeared excited when they found some yellow rock. But the Geiger counter clicked only slightly faster when they placed the wand near it. Frans wiped off the yellow dust and frowned.
Maybe they won’t find anything, Wallace thought. Maybe we’ll get out of this yet.
After seeing the guides die, though, he doubted it. Wallace rubbed at his face, remembering the dried blood he’d washed off that morning. He still felt unclean.
No. They will keep you around as long as you’re useful, and then they will dig two more graves.
Unless they could find a chance to escape. Wallace tried to catch Niyol’s eye, but his friend wouldn’t look at him. When he tried whispering in Spanish, Herbert frowned and told them to speak in English.
They took the car farther into the mountains. Another stop. Another slow clicking from the Geiger counter. Lunch came and went. They passed a Diné man leading a group of donkeys, heavily laden with bags. He stopped and watched the car pass, his head swiveling to track them. His expression didn’t change, and he didn’t try to wave.
Another stop. They were well into the foothills. A ravine rose nearby. Wallace kept looking at it, wondering if it was a possible escape route.
Niyol saw the direction of Wallace’s gaze and shook his head slowly. Wallace looked away. Niyol was right. Even if he made it to the ravine before he was shot, he didn’t know how deep it would go. He imagined Herbert following him until the ravine narrowed, his own Canyon De Chelly.
The Geiger counter clucked a little faster this time, but the men still looked disappointed. Wallace suppressed a grin as they walked back to the car.
The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy Page 3