The Wailing Wind Part 2

Hostiin Yellow was also an authority on what the scientists out at the Chaco National Monument called "ethn.o.botany." Maybe he could tell her something about the various stickers and seedpods she'd found on the victim's pant legs and socks. Which was why, she told herself, she was going to visit him. That and family duty. She glanced down at the speedometer. Eleven miles over the limit. Oh, well. Never any traffic on 371. The emptiness was one of the reasons she loved to drive it. That and pa.s.sing the grotesque monuments of erosion of the Bisti Badlands, and seeing the serene shape of the Turquoise Mountain rising to the east. Pretty soon now it would be wearing its winter snowcap, and monsoon rains of late summer had already started turning the grazing country a pale green. Enjoying that, she forgot for a moment how arrogant Sergeant Chee had acted, but the memory of it came right back again.

"And just keep your mouth shut about it," Chee had said, giving her his stern "I'm your boss" look. He had taken the tobacco tin from her hand, put it in a plastic evidence sack, and placed the sack in his shirt jacket pocket, and said: "I'll see what I can do about this," and walked into Captain Largo's office. When he came out he gave her another of those looks and told her to go home, take the rest of the week off, and: "For G.o.d's sake, don't talk to anybody about this."

That was it. He didn't even have the decency, the respect, to tell her she was suspended. Maybe she wasn't. Just take the rest of the week off, he said-looking very dour. Big deal. That was just a day and a half before her shift ended anyway. What had Largo said after Chee told him about the tobacco tin? The captain had already been angry after his meeting with the FBI guys. Not that he chewed her out much. Just asked a bunch of questions. And glared at her. But then he hadn't known about her taking the tin away-a tin that Chee seemed to think would have had prints on it. Hers now, if none other.

Hostiin Yellow wasn't at his place behind the Tsale Trading Post. The lady there said he was supposed to be doing his botanical talk for the kids at the Standing Rock School. Bernie took the dirt road shortcut thirteen miles over the mesa and saved about thirty minutes by driving too fast. She caught him coming out of a cla.s.sroom, trailed by a swarm of middle-school kids, and steered him into the room reserved as a faculty lounge. There they went through the ritual of family concern and affection. But she could tell Hostiin Yellow had sensed instantly that this was not a casual "drop in on the way" visit.

He put the big cardboard box holding his collection of botanical and mineral specimens on the table, sat himself in one of the folding chairs, and eyed her curiously while she completed her recitation of family news.

And finally she said: "And how about you? You look tired."

And he said: "Girl Who Laughs, stop chattering now and tell me your trouble."

Thinking about it later, she decided hearing her war name spoken did it-broke through her dignity and reduced her from woman to niece. Hostiin Yellow had given her that secret name-to be revealed to no one outside the bosom of her family. It was the name of her sacred ident.i.ty and used only in dealing with the Holy People. If it became known to witches, it could be used against her.

She sat in the chair he pointed her to, dug out a tissue to deal with the unwelcome tears, and told him everything. Of finding Doherty's body curled in the cab of his truck; of possibly losing her job because she hadn't handled it right; of taking away the old tobacco tin, which turned out to have tiny bits of placer gold mixed with the sand in it, and how that was getting her into trouble with everybody; of her mother being unsympathetic and telling her she never should have gone into police work. Her mother saying this trouble was good, maybe it would bring her to her senses. And when she told her mother how curt Sergeant Jim Chee had been, she had taken Chee's side. Called him a good man. Said Bernie should start treating him better.

When the lightning storms ended and the Season When the Thunder Sleeps made it possible, she would ask him to do for her the proper sing to protect her from ghost sickness.

Finally, with that said, Girl Who Laughs became Officer Bernadette Manuelito again, and she got to the reason she thought she had come to look for him, knowing now it was just a cover story-just an excuse.

She took an envelope from a pocket and poured its contents onto the tabletop. Hostiin Yellow looked at the little litter of seedpods and burrs, and up at her.

"When I reached in to see if the victim had a pulse, to see if he was still alive, I noticed his socks and his trouser legs had picked up all sorts of stickers," Bernie said. "Chamisa seeds, for example, but no chamisa grows way up there where we found his truck. The same with some of these other seeds, so I thought maybe they had come from where he was when he was shot."

Hostiin Yellow had reached up and extracted a pencil from his tsiiyeel, tsiiyeel, using the bun in which traditional Navajos wear their hair as a holder. Now he was using the pencil tip to sort Bernie's botanical material into separate bunches. using the bun in which traditional Navajos wear their hair as a holder. Now he was using the pencil tip to sort Bernie's botanical material into separate bunches.

"I thought maybe you could help me find where it came from," Bernie said. But even as she said it, she knew it was an impossible job. The stuff she'd collected could have grown just about anywhere that was hotter and drier than the Chuska Mountain high-country zone. About anywhere in the millions of acres of tundra from which the mountains rose.

"Chamisa seed," said Hostiin Yellow, inspecting the fragment held between thumb and finger. "Chamisa needs some salt. In the old days, before people could buy salt blocks for their sheep, they used to have to drive them down out of the mountains to the halbatah halbatah-the 'gray lands' where the salt-holding plants grow. No salt in the high country soil. The runoff from the melting snow leaches it out."

He glanced at Bernie. She nodded. She knew all this. Hostiin Yellow had taught her as a child.

"If there are no salty plants, sheep start eating the stuff that poisons them." He held up another seed. "This sacatan gra.s.s grows down in the Halgai, in the flatlands. There used to be plenty of it everywhere. Good food for the animals, but they bite it off right down to the roots. So pretty soon it's crowded out by this." He held up silvery needle-gra.s.s seeds. "Not even goats will eat this unless they're starving."

Hostiin Yellow finished his descriptive inventory without seeming to Bernie to add anything that would help pin down the location of the source.

"You think all of these came from the same place? Why do you think that?"

"Well," Bernie said. "Not a very good reason, I guess. Jim Chee said there was a new Zip Lube oil-change sticker on the windshield and the sales slip in the glovebox. It showed he had the oil changed the morning he was killed and he'd driven only ninety-three miles from the station in Gallup. And from the Zip Lube place to the truck it was thirty-five miles. So that leaves fifty-eight miles to get to where his socks collected the stickers and from that place to where we found him."

"That's the shortest way from Gallup? The thirty-five miles?"

Bernie nodded. "North out of Gallup on six sixty-six, then northwest to Nakaibito, and then up that gravel road past the Tohatchi lookout, and on toward Cove."

"So," said Hostiin Yellow, "this poor fellow collected his stickers quite a ways from where you found him. Down the mountain. East side or west side. Either New Mexico stickers or Arizona stickers."

He stared past her, out the window, looking at the mountains, lost in thought.

"Was this all you got? Any other seeds you didn't bring with you?"

Bernie shook her head. "Well," she said, "I noticed a bunch of those goathead stickers in the soles of his sneakers."

"Goatheads? You mean the puncturevine, I think. Dark green, spreads very close to the ground. Seeds usually have three long sharp thorns?"

She nodded.

Hostiin Yellow frowned. "That doesn't fit well with the chamisa and the spikeweed and the other plants," he said. "Puncturevine likes more water, loose soil. Gets crowded out where there's too much heat."

He leaned back, stuck the pencil back into his bun. "You know, I think this man must have been walking up some sort of drainage, an arroyo, or a narrow canyon, where the puncturevine would have some damp sand and some shade. You know anything that might fit that idea?"

That thought interested Bernie. Placer mining required runoff water, didn't it? And sand, of course. There was sand in the Prince Albert tin. The one Chee had ordered her to keep her mouth shut about.

"I found an old tobacco tin not far from the body. The sand in it had a little bit of gold dust mixed in it."

"Gold dust, was it? I think ..." He stopped, studying her. "How bad do you need to find this place? Can't you just let the other cops do it?"

I need to find it to save my dignity, she thought. To restore my self-respect. To show those jerks I'm not a dummy.

"Pretty bad," Bernie said. "I need to save my job."

Hostiin Yellow was pushing the piles of her seeds into a single heap, returning them to her sack. He said: "I need to say something to you about this gold. Gold has always brought trouble for the Dineh. It makes the belagaana belagaana crazy. General Carlton thought we had a lot of gold in our mountains, so he had the army round up us Navajos and move us away on that long walk to Bosque Redondo. They drove the Utes out of Colorado to get the gold in their mountains. And drove the tribes out of the Black Hills, and pretty much killed the California Indians. Everywhere they find gold, they destroy everything for it. They tear up our Mother the Earth, they break the cycle of life for everything." crazy. General Carlton thought we had a lot of gold in our mountains, so he had the army round up us Navajos and move us away on that long walk to Bosque Redondo. They drove the Utes out of Colorado to get the gold in their mountains. And drove the tribes out of the Black Hills, and pretty much killed the California Indians. Everywhere they find gold, they destroy everything for it. They tear up our Mother the Earth, they break the cycle of life for everything."

Bernie nodded.

He handed her the sack. "It makes people crazy," he said. "And crazy people are dangerous. They kill each other for gold."

"My uncle," Bernie said. "I think you are telling me Mr. Doherty was murdered because of that gold. And I think you know where he got all those stickers in his pants. Can you just tell me?"

He shook his head. "I'll think about it," he said. "Right now, I think you should let the other policemen find that place."

Bernie nodded. But she could tell from his expression that he didn't interpret that gesture as consent. She sat and watched him.

And Hostiin Yellow watched her. As hunter for the white men, his Girl Who Laughs had lost her laughter. Why must she care who had done this crime? If a belagaana belagaana did it, let the did it, let the belagaana belagaana punish him if they must. If it was a Navajo-one who still lived by Changing Woman's laws-then he would come to be cured of the dark wind that had caused him to kill. But no good to tell this young woman all this. She knew it. And Girl Who Laughs would live her life her own way. That, too, was Navajo. He was proud of that, too. And of her. punish him if they must. If it was a Navajo-one who still lived by Changing Woman's laws-then he would come to be cured of the dark wind that had caused him to kill. But no good to tell this young woman all this. She knew it. And Girl Who Laughs would live her life her own way. That, too, was Navajo. He was proud of that, too. And of her.

She was glancing away from him now, at something outside the window. Her face reminded him of the old photograph in the museum at Window Rock-the women who had endured their captivity at Bosque Redondo. The narrow, straight nose, the high cheekbones, the strong chin. None of the roundness here that the gene pool of the Zunis, Hopis, and Jemez had contributed to the Dineh. Beauty, yes. Dignity, too. But nothing soft about Girl Who Laughs.

Hostiin Yellow sighed.

"Girl Who Laughs, you have always been stubborn. But I want you to listen to me now," he said. "The belagaana belagaana have always killed for gold. You already know that. You have seen it. But have you thought about how some people kill for religion?" have always killed for gold. You already know that. You have seen it. But have you thought about how some people kill for religion?"

Bernie considered that, looking for a connection and seeing none. Hostiin Yellow was studying her.

"Are you hearing what I say?"

Bernie nodded again. "Yes," she said. But she really wasn't. "You mean like the Israelis and the Palestinians? And the people in the Balkans, and ..."

Hostiin Yellow's expression told her he was disappointed.

"Like people in Ganado or Shiprock or Burnt Water or Albuquerque or Alabama or anywhere," he said. "When the wind inside turns dark and tells them it must be done."

Bernie tried for an expression that would suggest she understood. It didn't seem to work.

"You have seen what the coal mining has done to our Earth Mother on Black Mesa. And other places. Have you seen what these modern placer mines do? Great jets of water washing away everything. The beauty is gone. Our sisters the plants, our brothers the animals, they're all dead or washed away. Only the ugly mud is left."

"I saw a doc.u.mentary about that high water-pressure placer mining. On public television. It made me sad. And then it made me angry," Bernie said.

"Think and consider," Hostiin Yellow said. "If it makes you angry, it might make some people angry enough to kill. Think about it. What if those are the people you are looking for? What do they do if you find them?"

5.

Leaphorn stopped his pickup beside a patrol car bearing the decal of the Apache County Sheriff's Department, which told him the scene of the Doherty homicide was officially decided to be in Arizona and not in San Juan County, New Mexico, a few feet to the east. The car was empty. Fifty feet beyond it, fenced off behind a yellow crime scene tape, was Doherty's blue king-cab truck with a burly fellow in a deputy uniform sitting on its tailgate looking at Leaphorn.

Who did he know in the Apache County department? The sheriff, of course, an old-timer, and the undersheriff, but neither of those would be out here. Once Leaphorn had known all the deputies, but deputies come and go, changing jobs, getting married, moving away. Now he knew fewer than half of them. But he could see he knew this one, who was walking toward him. It was Albert Dashee, a Hopi Indian better know as Cowboy. And he was grinning at Leaphorn.

"Lieutenant," Deputy Dashee said. "What brings you up here to the scene of our crime? I hope you're going to tell me that New Mexico admitted the Arizona border is actually over there"-Dashee pointed to the west side of the arroyo-"and San Juan County has to do the baby-sitting for the Federals instead of me."

"No," Leaphorn said. "I was just feeling curious about this homicide. I thought I'd come up and see if I could take a look."

"I can think of two reasons you might be curious," Dashee said, still grinning.

"Two?"

"One is the Bureau blaming Jim Chee's girlfriend for messing up the scene. And one is the Bureau looking for a way to connect this with Wiley Denton killing that con man. Killing McKay. You were always interested in that one."

"Let's just say I'm like an old retired fireman who can't stay away when something's burning." He was thinking how impossible it was to keep a secret, maintain even a shred of privacy, in the small world of police work. "You're looking well, Cowboy," he said. "I haven't seen you since that Ute Mountain casino robbery business."

Their chat lasted maybe five minutes, and then Leaphorn walked to the tape, looked at the truck, and said: "Found the body in the front seat. That right?"

"Curled up on the seat cushion," Dashee said. "Head against the driver-side door, feet the other way. Like sleeping. h.e.l.l, I'd have figured it just like Bernie did. Another drunk." He held the tape down so Leaphorn could step easily over it. "In case anybody asks, I said you can't come in without permission from the agent in charge."

Leaphorn peered through the window, touching nothing. He looked in the truck bed, through the small side window into the pa.s.senger cab. Crouched to examine the tire treads and to look under the vehicle with Cowboy trailing along, watching him and talking.

"Oops," Cowboy said. "I hear my radio," and he was trotting away to his car.

Leaphorn slipped the tobacco tin from its sack and pushed it into a secluded and weedy corner. That done, he circled the truck, examining the maze of tracks left by ambulance people and the swarm of investigators who followed.

Then Cowboy was back.

"They're sending a tow for the truck," Cowboy said, moving back toward the tape. "You finished here? Seen anything interesting?"

"Not much," Leaphorn said. "I guess you noticed that tobacco tin over there by the brush." He pointed. "I thought maybe it might have fallen out of the truck when the medics were taking the body out. Then it could have got kicked over there."

Dashee examined Leaphorn a moment. "Where?"

Leaphorn walked over. Pointed.

Dashee squatted, peered, looked up at Leaphorn, nodded, and straightened up.

"Funny the crime scene crew didn't notice that," he said, looking at Leaphorn. "Don't you think?"

Leaphorn shrugged. "City boys, those agents," Leaphorn said. "Lawyers, accountants. Very good at what they're good at. How good would we be working a mail fraud case in Washington?"

Dashee was rewarding Leaphorn with a broad grin tinged with skepticism and directing him back over the crime scene tape, back toward Leaphorn's pickup, opening the door for him.

Leaphorn got in, started the engine, then turned it off.

"You said the Bureau was connecting this case with Wiley Denton killing the con man. Do they think Doherty was trying to work some sort of swindle like McKay?"

"The Federals don't confide much in us sheriff deputies," Dashee said.

"But they talk to the deputy's boss when they have to and sheriffs like to share the information."

Dashee grinned. "I've heard a couple of agents were at Fort Wingate following Doherty's tracks, and they found out he was very interested in the archives out there. And they found Wiley Denton's telephone number in Doherty's notebook."

Denton's number. Leaphorn's eyebrows raised.

"Really? If my memory is good from five years ago, Denton had an unlisted number."

"He still does," Dashee said.

Leaphorn let this new information digest for a moment.

"And those archives he was looking into. The Navajo Nation's?" The Navajo Nation had been using one of the mult.i.tude of explosives bunkers at the old fort to store its old records and doc.u.ments. But why would Doherty have an interest in those? None Leaphorn could think of.

"No," Cowboy said. "He was checking into the old fort archives. Especially records going back to the 1860s. When the prospectors were making all those fabulous gold discoveries, and coming in wanting the fort to protect them from us savage and hostile redskins."

Interesting, Leaphorn thought. "I guess you have to sign in to get access. Is that how they knew he was looking?"

"Better than that," Dashee said. "They even knew what pages he looked at. Found his fingerprints."

"On old paper?"

"I didn't believe it either. But Osborne-" Dashee stopped. "I didn't say his name. He ain't supposed to be telling stuff like this to a civilian cop. But anyway Special Agent John Doe was telling me about a technique they use now that picks up the fingerprint oil off of all sorts of rough surfaces. On smooth surfaces, like gla.s.s or metal, it evaporates after a day or two. On cloth or paper it absorbs. He said they even recovered the fingerprints off cloth wrappings of one of those Egyptian mummies."

Leaphorn was checking his memory relative to the Prince Albert can. Had he been careful enough? Probably. But how about Chee? And how about Officer Bernie Manuelito?

He heard the diesel sound of the tow truck coming to haul Doherty's king cab off to where it could be given the fine-tooth-comb laboratory treatment. He restarted his engine, waved at Dashee, and headed home. Fort Wingate, he was thinking. So Doherty's path toward sudden death had taken him there. Had McKay's fatal journey also involved a stop at the obsolete old fort? His own futile hunt for the young and beautiful Mrs. Wiley Denton had taken him there. He would pull out his old file and see if the notes he'd made on that frustrating visit to the fort would tell him anything.