The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  In the old days, it was common for elderly people to refer to any meal as “lunch.” Paul seldom used the term in that way anymore, but it was still in the distant corners of his mind and surfaced more and more these days. When Caleb and Ida Marie thought some of the things Paul said were funny, they would smile and exchange secret looks, though both children remained very fond of their grandfather. This morning he seemed especially lively and talkative, almost his old self and Lucy was left to wonder what caused these obvious swings in mental acuity.

  “How are you feeling…?”

  “Okay, I guess, I am getting hungry though. You know it’s way past time to eat?” The old man looked over at Thomas. “What’s for lunch?”

  Lucy sighed, “Yes, we know. Dad, I was just on my way to the kitchen. Is there anything special you might like?”

  Paul T’Sosi rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, we haven’t had fried rabbit for a while. Isn’t Caleb going hunting anymore?” He snorted, “Why, when I was a boy we almost lived on wild cottontails. Nothing sticks to the ribs like Gah.”

  Thomas turned from the window where he had been looking down at the corrals and the children working the sheep through the chutes. They were checking for ticks. He disliked the thought of filling the old cement long-tank with sheep dip and spending hours running them through. They hadn’t had much trouble with ticks in the last couple of years, but he knew it was the season and that it’s always wise to catch them early.

  “Caleb knows it’s not time for rabbits to be good yet Paul, we really shouldn’t mess with them this late in the summer. They might still carry the fever now. I expect it will be a while till we have rabbit again.”

  The old man frowned. “When I was a boy we ate Gah anytime we were hungry. The jackrabbits got warbles this time of year, that’s true, but the cottontails were still good to eat. People are too damned picky these days.” Paul got a faraway look in his eye as he gazed out the window and across the sage flats. “I bet I have eaten a pickup truck full of rabbits in my day and look at me.” The very thought of all those rabbits made the old man shake his head. “There were plenty Gah back then; they were everywhere, and a damned good thing, too. The government was making us cut back on the sheep and without those cottontails we’d a gone hungry a lot of the time. We sheep people were hell on coyotes back then and had them thinned out pretty good I guess. That made for lots of rabbits.”

  Caleb and his sister, also thinking it time to eat, had come up to the house and unnoticed slipped into the room as the old man was talking. Caleb was all ears—he thought just about everything Paul said was interesting. He didn’t think the old man was losing it at all.

  The boy slipped up beside his grandfather. “How did you thin out those coyotes? Acheii, I haven’t been seeing many rabbits lately. I think they are all about eaten up now. People say it’s hard to get a shot at a coyote, but I still see them every once in a while. I think it’s time I had a bigger gun; that .22 doesn’t hit hard enough for coyotes.”

  Paul T’Sosi turned to look at his self-adopted grandson and gave him their secret smile. He kept his voice low so only the boy could hear, “Back in the old days we had Coyote gitters—that’s what the government hunter called ’em.” Paul searched his memory and finally ran across a fleeting image of that old reprobate hiding there among a tangle of unrelated synapse. “Now, there was a rough looking old white man for you, all he ever did was hunt varmints and drink whiskey, and the government paid him to do it, too.” Paul chuckled, “I expect that was about all he knew how to do…but he was good at it. I never doubted that. The government paid him for each coyote’s scalp he brought in, kind of like they used to do for some Indian scalps in the old days.”

  The boy’s eyes widened at this unknown bit of information.

  Paul brought his mind to bear on how things were back then. “That old man was so lazy…and almost never sober,” he laughed. Oh, he’d set a few traps in the culverts under the highway; that was easy enough. He could run those in his truck, but mainly he just handed out gitters to us sheep people here on the reservation and we did the real work.”

  Trying to think further back, Paul shook his head for a moment. Though once considered to have a photographic memory, that ability had faded with time and the old fellow had to tap the front of his head to jumpstart his memory. He thought that helped.

  “Those gitters looked like little steel pipes that could be set in the ground, near an old sheep carcass maybe. It had a cyanide capsule with a blank .22 cartridge under it. A little strip of cloth came out of the top that you put coyote pee on. That was the trigger. When Ma’ii came along and pulled at it, the .22 shells would fire the cyanide gas right into their face, and in just a minute, no more Ma’ii. No one was supposed to have those gitters except the government trapper. Still he would pass them out to us sheepmen for free—all we had to do was bring him the scalps.” Paul was on a roll—having one of his “good” days.

  Caleb found it hard to believe anything was ever thought wrong with him. His Acheii was a “Singer” with dozens of complicated ceremonies stuffed in his head; maybe his brain was just filled up?

  The others, not listening to the old man’s talk, started for the kitchen, Paul holding back a little to catch Caleb as he passed. He reached out and plucked at the boy’s sleeve as he watched the others file out of the room. The old man squinted one eye at the boy and motioned him closer; putting a finger to his lips he whispered in the boy’s ear. “That old trapper is dead now but his son is still alive. I have been knowin’ him since he was little. His mother was Diné, a friend of my wife’s, they died only a year or so apart.” Paul dropped his head to think on that for a moment, and when he looked up there was a glint of moisture in the old man’s eyes. “The last time I saw that boy he was a grown-up man. It was at the Co-op and he told me he still had a sealed case of his father’s gitters. He mentioned he would give me some should I ever need ’em.” Paul bobbed his head at the boy and grinned. “Who knows if they are any good anymore…but maybe?”

  Caleb couldn’t help smiling to himself as he watched his Acheii follow the others to the kitchen. He was thinking how much fun he and his grandfather would have thinning out a few coyotes—some now so bold they were coming to the corrals at night, hoping to steal a lamb, or take a bite out of an unwary goat.

  ~~~~~~

  Young Ida Marie Begay was the first to spot the Yazzie’s pickup truck coming up the road. The thirteen-year-old watched with interest as the car following them parked in front of the house. So this is the FBI woman that has such an interest in Mama Lucy’s weaving. She is certainly pretty enough—in her designer jeans and expensive sneakers. Ida Marie was unabashedly bold in her assessment of people and decided she would stay close to this New York woman, maybe pick up a few pointers on city ways. Not that I have money for any fancy clothes right now…but someday maybe…

  The girl and her brother spent a portion of each summer at their white benefactor’s ranch near Cortez and were becoming well tutored in white ways. Aida Winters had been their natural mother’s self-appointed guardian even before they came along. She loved the young Sally Klee as a daughter and later couldn’t help having a strong interest in her children. Aida had stood by Sally even after she ran off with Thomas Begay, back when he was a drunkard. He had carried the girl off down country to the Diné Bikeyah, where they lived a somewhat sketchy sort of life near Farmington. Thomas was either drunk or in jails much of that time making for a more or less pitiful existence for the young Sally Klee.

  Aida had no children of her own and intended to someday leave Caleb and Ida Marie Begay a portion of her considerable estate. Already she had set aside money to help with their education. In fact, the children only recently returned from their vacation stay with Aida and were home and with the usual array of sturdy no-nonsense school clothes their benefactor insisted they have. The two thought of Aida as their grandmother and so did Aida. Some people around Cortez thought it a strange so
rt of thing, a well-off old white woman taking in Indian kids and all, but that was the way of it. After a while most came to accept the relationship…more or less.

  Thomas Begay opened the door for the Yazzies, Carla Meyor following close behind. Everyone was introduced in turn, but Old Man Paul T’Sosi hung back and studied the white woman for a few moments before coming forward.

  “I hear you study Diné weaving and have heard of my wife?” the old man said and in so serious a manner the woman stopped to think before answering.

  Looking directly at Paul, Carla smiled and put out her hand. “That’s right, I do know of her, and I’m somewhat familiar with her work as well. And you are a Singer, am I right?” Paul acknowledged her with a curt nod of his head.

  It perturbed the old man to think this woman from New York knew who he was, and even more so, of his long-dead wife. He hadn’t expected that and shook hands in a somewhat hesitant manner, barely able to return her steady gaze. There was something about the woman that bothered him, and it wasn’t because she was white. No, it was something else; something that was eluding him for the moment. He backed away and took to his favorite chair; watching, he thought to himself it might come to me by and by…there’s something about this woman…

  Later, Thomas, seeing the old man had drifted off to sleep, went outdoors without waking him, and took over the grill, arranging the blazing wood to suit himself. Charlie joined him and only moments later Harley Ponyboy came around the corner of the house. The three of them began laying cuts of lamb to braise over the glowing coals. The men stood back as the meat sizzled and popped. Harley raised his nose, sniffed, and smiled as he smacked his lips.

  Thomas sneaked a glance at the Legal Services Investigator and then lifted his chin in the questioning gesture so familiar to those who know the Diné. “So…Charlie, have you heard anything new on Clifford Johnson’s murder? I’ll bet the FBI knows more than they let on, huh?” Thomas was forever poking and prodding for information he thought unavailable to the general public.

  Harley looked over at the lanky Navajo and grinned. “Charlie’s not going ta tell you nothin’, Big Boy. You’d be better off waiting for your Nephew ta come…he’s invited ain’t he?”

  “Billy said he’d be here but might be a little late.” Thomas was still looking for Charlie to reply and when he didn’t, frowned down at the grill and murmured, “Billy Red Clay probably knows something.”

  Harley snorted at this, “Ha! Billy’s worse than Charlie, here, when it comes ta letting out any ‘privileged information’ as he calls it. I wouldn’t expect much from him.”

  Charlie, silent during this exchange, picked up a long fork and poked at the end cuts on the grill. “Why don’t you two ask Carla Meyor? I would like to hear what she has to say”?

  Thomas smiled. “Well, then you should be the one asking her. Harley thinks she has an eye for you.”

  Harley chortled, “I’d be careful not ta let Sue see you paying too much attention ta that woman. I think she’s already a lil’ jealous.”

  Charlie frowned at the pair. “You two better not get anything like that started… I think Sue’s curious enough about her as it is. Lucy must have told her something about the meeting yesterday—none of which, by the way, she was supposed to mention.” He grinned when he said this but meant it as a friendly warning as well.

  Thomas didn’t deny any of this but was quick to defend his wife. “I doubt Lucy told her much…she knows better than that.” It wasn’t unusual for the three of them to get into an argument over some little thing, but this particular subject might turn into more than that.

  Charlie wasn’t up for that and changed the subject. “Doesn’t look like Billy’s going to make it?”

  Thomas looked down the road and silently nodded agreement. “Something must have come up, it’s not like Billy to be late to the table.”

  Carla Meyor and Lucy, still in the house, headed for the living room where the loom was set up. Lucy beckoned for Sue Yazzie to follow. She had hung back, not certain if it was meant to be a private conversation. Sue was pleased to be included and chatted along with them as they passed the still sleeping Paul T’Sosi. Lucy smiled at her father and shook her head. “When he dozes off he doesn’t hear a thing. We won’t be disturbing him.”

  Carla Meyor glanced at the old man and some odd thought flickered across her face, but no one caught it. They followed the weaver over to the loom. The piece was less than half-finished but was clearly another Yei blanket; so far, only the five Yei-Bie-Chies legs were showing beneath the first few lines of their skirts, each of them in different earthen tones.

  Carla knew the market for these Yei weavings was insatiable and didn’t wonder that Lucy had now specialized in these to the exclusion of geometric patterns or other more common designs.

  It was as though Lucy was channeling the FBI Agent’s thoughts. She admitted the Yei pieces were bringing two to three times more than her other work. “We still owe a little money on the house and until that is paid off I’m concentrating on what I know will sell at a good price.”

  Carla Meyor was quick to agree with this assessment of the market and thought Lucy’s plan going forward to be smart business. She touched the weaving, almost reverently, noting the smooth but firm melding of warp and weft. It took finely drawn yarn to allow that. Carla was amazed at how cleverly the work was crafted. It was no wonder this woman was considered one of the finest weavers on the reservation. Carla’s admiration for the piece was both effusive and genuine leaving Lucy Tallwoman at a loss for words, her face almost glowing in the light of such praise.

  Sue Yazzie was smiling at her friend as she put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Yes, we are all very proud of what Lucy has accomplished these last few years. And we think she has an even brighter future ahead of her—there’s no one more deserving.”

  Carla nodded thoughtfully. She had many technical questions to ask and the three women talked on about dyes and carding and the many other things she was curious about.

  Sue Yazzie eventually left the pair to check on Joseph Wiley and little Sasha. She’d left them helping out in the kitchen alongside the older children. She suspected her younger daughter might be proving more of a hindrance than help. Like her brother she was proving to be a headstrong child, and at two years old not everyone could handle her. In the next room, though, she was pleased to find the girl under the apt tutelage of Ida Marie Begay who had taken charge of the younger crew. Thomas’s oldest child had fallen into the predictable Navajo pattern of assuming responsibility for those smaller than herself.

  The earlier winds had died to a gentle breeze and it was decided the meal could be served outside in the brush arbor or summer hogan. The men set up a long plank table with boards resting on firewood stumps for benches. Thomas had run electricity off the house to the shelter and now in the quiet of evening it made a fine place for a meal.

  Lucy Tallwoman made it a point to seat their guest at her side, with Thomas on her other side, and the children scattered here and there as they pleased. Charlie and Sue sat just across the table and Paul T’Sosi and Harley Ponyboy began carrying over platters of still sizzling lamb. Before seating himself at the head of the table, Paul offered a few quiet words in old Navajo thought to be thanks for the meal. But only Thomas and Harley were close enough to hear and understand what he actually said. Harley turned and raised an eyebrow at Thomas but was quickly warned off with a frown.

  “So, Carla, how long will you be with us here on the Dinétah?” Sue’s tone was warm and friendly, and she smiled as she canted her head to catch the woman’s reply.

  “Oh, not long I’m afraid, I have a few loose ends to wrap up and then some reports for headquarters. That’s about it…only a few days at the most.”

  Lucy joined in, “I hope you get to see some of the sights here on the reservation before taking off.”

  Carla laughed. “Oh, I know… I’ve seen a good many of those sights growing up. I’m from Duran
go originally; my father was with the Bureau of Indian Affairs for years and worked at several reservation schools—for a while he was even at the Navajo boarding dorms over in Aztec.”

  This surprised everyone. Charlie, Thomas, and Sue had all attended the boarding facility on the Aztec High School campus. The three searched mentally for a memory of the man but none could actually recall anyone who might be Carla’s father.

  When Sue looked her way, Lucy Tallwoman had an odd expression on her face, something secret and hidden that might have escaped anyone else.

  A speculative glance from Sue Yazzie caught her friend Lucy off guard as she passed a platter of lamb Carla’s way. “Well…a Four Corners’ girl, huh?” Sue said smiling.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s where my interest in Navajo art came from, though it took me long enough to get back to it.” Carla nodded again as though thinking about it. “I misspent a few years, I guess, before I settled on art. But in the end, I think it’s what I was meant to do.”

  Sue laughed, “Well, it looks like the FBI was a step in the right direction for you.” Then she changed the subject to how famous Paul T’Sosi was for his grilled lamb.

  Paul himself had also noticed the look on his daughter’s face but acted as though he hadn’t. He gave no notice he’d heard any of the conversation and passed the other platter around the table in the opposite direction. Thomas took a generous portion noting the blank expression on his father-in-law’s face, a look he’d seen before. He wondered if the old man was having a relapse.

  The Operative

  There is, in every scheme-gone-wrong, a time when it becomes excruciatingly clear the plan has come undone, is broken, and probably unfixable. Raul Cortiz realized now how little he actually knew about the man who would come for him—only that he was a professional who would kill him if he could. This was a given, but not the part that most bothered him. He himself could run, hide and stay hidden. His family, on such short notice, would remain vulnerable and he knew there was no help for that now. He could save himself…or he could save his family…that’s what it came down to. It was no more complicated than that.