Talking God Part 2

He had arrived early, as had Chee, a little before sundown in that recess between the afternoon singing in the medicine hogan and the dancing of the yeis yeis, which would begin only when the night was totally dark. He was driving a green four-door Jeep Cherokee which bore a Farmington car rental company's sticker. Chee had identified him at first as a belagaana belagaana, that grab bag of social-ethnic types which included whites plus all those who were neither fellow members of the Dineh (Navajos), nor Nakai (Mexicans), nor Zunis, nor Hopis, nor Apaches, nor Utes, nor members of any of the other Indian tribes who lived near enough to the Navajos to have earned a name in the Navajo language-which had no noun for "Indian." Thus Bad Hands was belagaana belagaana by default. Bad Hands wasn't the only white attracted by this ceremonial, but he was the only one who defied Chee's personal cla.s.sification system. by default. Bad Hands wasn't the only white attracted by this ceremonial, but he was the only one who defied Chee's personal cla.s.sification system.

The handful of other whites standing around the bonfires or keeping warm in their vehicles fit neatly enough. Two were "friends." They included a lanky, bald-headed man from whom Chee sometimes bought hay at a Gallup feed store, and Ernie Bulow, a towering, gray-bearded desert rat who'd been raised on the Big Reservation and had written a book about Navajo taboos. Bulow spoke coherent Navajo and had developed close personal relations.h.i.+ps with Navajo families. He had brought with him today in his dusty station wagon a fat Navajo man and three middle-aged white women, all of whom stood beside the vehicle looking cold, nervous, and uncomfortable. Chee put the women in his "tourist" category. The remainder of the belagaana belagaana delegation were mostly "Lone Rangers"-part of the liberal/intellectual covey. They had flocked into the Navajo Mountain territory and declared themselves spokesmen for, and guardians of, the Navajo families facing eviction from their lands in what had become the Hopi part of the old Joint Use Reservation. Lone Rangers were a nuisance, but also a source of anecdotes and amus.e.m.e.nt. There were three of these, two males not much older than Chee and a pretty young blonde woman with her hair rolled atop her head. All wore the ragged jeans, jean jacket, and horse-blanket uniform of their clique. delegation were mostly "Lone Rangers"-part of the liberal/intellectual covey. They had flocked into the Navajo Mountain territory and declared themselves spokesmen for, and guardians of, the Navajo families facing eviction from their lands in what had become the Hopi part of the old Joint Use Reservation. Lone Rangers were a nuisance, but also a source of anecdotes and amus.e.m.e.nt. There were three of these, two males not much older than Chee and a pretty young blonde woman with her hair rolled atop her head. All wore the ragged jeans, jean jacket, and horse-blanket uniform of their clique.

Bad Hands' necktie, his neatly fitted business suit, his white s.h.i.+rt, his gloves of thin black leather, his snap-brim felt hat, his fur-collared overcoat, all disqualified him as a Lone Ranger. Like them he was a city person, but without the disguise. Total disinterest in the ceremonial ruled him out as a tourist, and he seemed to know no one here-most of them Bitter Water People of the patient's maternal clan. Like Jim Chee, Bad Hands was simply waiting. But for Bad Hands, waiting was a joyless matter of enduring. He showed no sign of pleasure in it.

Chee had first noticed him when he emerged from the Jeep Cherokee. He'd parked it amid a cl.u.s.ter of shabbier vehicles a polite distance from the dance grounds. He had stretched, rotated his shoulders in his overcoat, bent his knees, bowed his back, went through those other movements of people who have been confined too long in a car. He gave no more than a glance to the men who were unloading saw mill waste from the tribe's lumbermill to help fuel the fires which would warm the spectators and illuminate the dancing tonight. He was more interested in the parked vehicles. These he inspected carefully, one after another. He had noticed Chee noticing him, and he had noticed Chee's police uniform, but he showed no special interest. After stretching his muscles he climbed back into his vehicle and sat. It was then that Chee noticed his hands.

He had opened the door by grasping the handle with two fingers of his left hand, then pressing in the release b.u.t.ton with a finger of his right hand. It was obviously a practiced motion. Still it was clumsy. And as he did it, Chee noticed that the thumb and little finger of the right glove jutted out stiffly. The man was either missing that thumb and finger, or they were immobilized. Why then didn't he open the door with the other hand? Chee couldn't get a look at it.

But now Chee's curiosity was clicked up a notch. He prowled the dance ground the Tsosie family had cleared, he chatted with people, he watched the fire builders build the stacks of logs and waste wood which would line the dancing area with flames. He talked to the husband of the woman whose mother was the patient. Yellow was his name. Yellow was worrying about everything going right.

Chee helped Yellow check the wiring from the little generator he'd rented to provide the electric lighting he'd rigged up behind the medicine hogan. Chee kept an eye on five boys wearing Many Farms football jackets who might become trouble if their group became large enough to reach teenage critical ma.s.s. Chee prowled among the parked vehicles on the lookout for drunks or drinking. He stopped where Cowboy Dashee was parked in his Apache County Sheriff's Department patrol car to see if Cowboy was still asleep. ("Wake me when your criminal gets here, or wake me when the dancing gets going," Dashee said. "Otherwise, I need my rest.") But always he wandered back to where he could see the Jeep Cherokee and its driver.

The man was sometimes sitting in it, sometimes leaning against it, sometimes standing beside it.

He's nervous, Chee decided, but he's not the sort who allows himself to show his nerves in the usual ways. When the light of an arriving car lit his face, Chee noticed that he might be part Indian. Or perhaps Asiatic. Certainly not Navajo, or Apache, or a Pueblo man. In the same light he saw his hands again, gloved, both of them, this time resting lightly on the steering wheel. The thumbs and little fingers of both hands jutted out stiffly as if their joints were frozen.

Chee was standing beside the medicine hogan thinking of these odd hands and what might have happened to them when Henry Highhawk arrived. Chee noticed the vehicle coming over the rim of the mesa and jolting toward the parking area. In the reflected light from the fires it seemed to be small and white. As it parked he saw it was the white Ford Bronco he had been waiting for.

"...Wind Boy, the holy one, paints his form," the voices behind him chanted in rhythmic Navajo.

"With the dark cloud, he paints his form.

With the misty rain, he paints his form...."

The vehicle disappeared from sight in an irregular row of mostly pickup trucks. Chee strolled toward it, remaining out of the firelight when he could. It was a Bronco, new under its heavy coating of dust. Its only occupant seemed to be the driver. He opened the door, lighting the overhead bulb. He swung his legs out, stretched, emerged stiffly, and closed the door behind him. In no hurry, apparently.

Neither was Jim Chee. He leaned against the side of an old sedan and waited.

The cold breeze moved through the sage around him, whispering just loud enough to obscure the ceremonial chanting. The fires that lined the sides of the dance ground between the hogan and the little brush-covered medicine lodge were burning high now. The light reflected from the face of Henry Highhawk. Or, to be more accurate, Chee thought, the man I presume to be Henry Highhawk. The man, at least, who drove the prescribed white Bronco. He wore a s.h.i.+rt of dark blue velvet with silver b.u.t.tons-the s.h.i.+rt a traditional Navajo would have proudly worn about 1920. He wore an old-fas.h.i.+oned black felt hat with a high crown and a band of silver conchas-a "reservation hat" as old-fas.h.i.+oned as the s.h.i.+rt. A belt of heavy silver conchas hung around his waist, and below it he wore jeans and boots-the left boot, Chee now noticed, reinforced with a metal brace and thickened sole. He stood for a long time beside the car in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, oblivious of the cold, engrossed in what he was seeing. In contrast to Bad Hands, this visitor was obviously fascinated by this ceremonial event. Finally, he reached inside, pulled out a leather jacket, and put it on. The jacket had leather fringes. Of course it would have fringes, Chee thought. Hollywood's Indian.

Chee strolled past him to Cowboy's patrol car and rapped on the window.

Cowboy sat up, looked at him. Chee opened the door and slid in.

"They ready to dance?" Cowboy asked, the question m.u.f.fled by a yawn.

"Any minute now," Chee said. "And our bandido has arrived."

Cowboy felt around for his gun belt, found it, straightened to put it on. "Okay," he said. "Away we go."

Deputy Sheriff Cowboy Dashee climbed out of his patrol car and followed Navajo Tribal Policeman Jim Chee toward the crowd gathering around the fires. Dashee was a citizen of Mish-hongnovi on the Hopi Second Mesa, born into the distinguished Side Corn Clan, and a valuable man in the ancient Hopi Antelope Society. But he was also a friend of Jim Chee from way back in their high school days.

"There he is," Chee said. "The cat with the reservation hat, leather jacket with the Buffalo Bill fringes."

"And the braids," Dashee said. "He trying to set a new style for you guys? Replace buns with braids?"

The driver of the Bronco was standing very close to a squat, elderly man in a red plaid coat, leaning over him as he first talked, then listened attentively. Chee and Dashee edged through the crowd toward him.

"Not now," Plaid Coat was saying. "Old Lady Tsosie she's sick. She's the patient. n.o.body can talk to her until this sing is over."

Why would this belagaana belagaana grave robber want to see Agnes Tsosie? Chee had no idea. That irritated him. The big shots never told working cops a d.a.m.ned thing. Captain Largo certainly didn't. n.o.body did. Someday he would walk into something and get his head shot off because n.o.body had told him anything. There was absolutely no excuse for it. grave robber want to see Agnes Tsosie? Chee had no idea. That irritated him. The big shots never told working cops a d.a.m.ned thing. Captain Largo certainly didn't. n.o.body did. Someday he would walk into something and get his head shot off because n.o.body had told him anything. There was absolutely no excuse for it.

Bad Hands walked past him, approached Highhawk, waited for the polite moment, touched the man's shoulder. Highhawk looked startled. Bad Hands seemed to be introducing himself. Highhawk offered a hand, noticed Bad Hands' glove, listened to what might have been an explanation, shook the glove gingerly. "Let's get him," Dashee said. "Come on."

"What's the hurry?" Chee said. "This guy's not going anyplace."

"We arrest him, we put him in the patrol car, and we don't have to worry about him," Dashee said.

"We arrest him, and we have to baby-sit him," Chee said. "We have to haul him down to Holbrook and book him into jail. We miss the Yeib.i.+.c.hai dance."

Dashee yawned a huge yawn, scrubbed his face with both palms, yawned again. "To tell the truth," he said, "I forget how you talked me into coming out here anyway. It's us Hopi that have the big tourist-attraction ceremonials. Not you guys. What am I doing here, anyway?"

"I think I told you something about all the Miss Navajo and the Miss Indian Princess contestants always coming to these Yeib.i.+.c.hais," Chee said. "They haul them in from Albuquerque and Phoenix and Flagstaff on buses."

"Yeah," Dashee said. "You did say something about girls. Where the h.e.l.l are they?"

"Be here any minute," Chee said.

Dashee yawned again. "And speaking of women, how you doing with your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?"

"That good-looking lawyer." Dashee created curves in the air with his hands. "Janet Pete."

"She's not my girlfriend," Chee said.

Dashee put on his skeptical expression.

"I'm her confidant," Chee said. "The shoulder upon which she weeps. She's got a boyfriend. In Was.h.i.+ngton. Her old law professor down at the University of Arizona decided to quit teaching and be a millionaire. Now she's back there working for him."

Dashee's disappointment showed. "I liked her," he said. "For a Navajo, that is. And for a lawyer, too. Imagine liking a lawyer. But I thought you two had something going."

"No," Chee said. "She tells me her troubles. I tell her mine. Then we give one another bad advice. It's one of those things."

"Your troubles? You mean that blue-eyed little schoolteacher? I thought she'd kissed you off and moved back to Milwaukee or someplace. Is she still your trouble?"

"Mary Landon," Chee said.

"That sure has dragged along," Dashee said. "Is she back out here again?"

"She did move back to Wisconsin," Chee said, thinking he really didn't much want to talk about this. "But we write. Next week, I'm going back there to see her."

"Well," Dashee said. The breeze had s.h.i.+fted now and was moving out of the north, even colder than it had been. Dashee turned up his coat collar. "None of my business, I guess. It's your funeral."

The screen of blankets had been dropped over the doorway of the patient's hogan now and all the curing activities were going on in privacy. The bonfires that lined the cleared dance ground burned high. Spectators huddled around them, keeping warm, gossiping, renewing friends.h.i.+ps. There was laughter as a pinon log collapsed and the resulting explosion of sparks routed a cl.u.s.ter of teenagers. Mr. Yellow had built a kitchen shelter behind the hogan, using sawed telephone poles as roof posts, two-by-fours and particle board for its walls. Through its doorway, Chee could see dozens of Mrs. Tsosie's Bitter Water clansmen drinking coffee and helping themselves from stacks of fry bread and a steaming iron pot of mutton stew. Highhawk had drifted that way too, with Bad Hands trailing behind. Chee and Dashee followed Highhawk into the kitchen shelter, keeping him in sight. They sampled the stew and found it only fair.

Then the curtain drew back and the hataalii hataalii backed out through it. He walked down the dance ground to the backed out through it. He walked down the dance ground to the yei yei hogan. A moment later he made the return trip, walking slowly, chanting. Old Woman Tsosie emerged from the medicine hogan. She was bundled in a blanket, her hair bound in the traditional fas.h.i.+on. She stood on another blanket spread on the packed earth and held out her hands toward the east. The kitchen shelter emptied as diners became spectators. The socializing at the bonfires quieted. Then Chee heard the characteristic call of Talking G.o.d. hogan. A moment later he made the return trip, walking slowly, chanting. Old Woman Tsosie emerged from the medicine hogan. She was bundled in a blanket, her hair bound in the traditional fas.h.i.+on. She stood on another blanket spread on the packed earth and held out her hands toward the east. The kitchen shelter emptied as diners became spectators. The socializing at the bonfires quieted. Then Chee heard the characteristic call of Talking G.o.d.

"Huu tu tu. Huu tu tu. Huu tu tu. Huu tu tu."

Talking G.o.d led a row of masked yei yei, moving slowly with the intricate, mincing, dragging step of the spirit dancers. The sound of the crowd died away. Chee could hear the tinkle of the bells on the dancers' legs, hear the yei yei singing in sounds no human could understand. The row of stiff eagle feathers atop Talking G.o.d's white mask riffled in the gusty breeze. Dust whipped around the naked legs of the dancers, moving their kilts. Chee glanced at Henry High-hawk, curious about his reaction. He noticed the man with the crippled hands had moved up beside Highhawk. singing in sounds no human could understand. The row of stiff eagle feathers atop Talking G.o.d's white mask riffled in the gusty breeze. Dust whipped around the naked legs of the dancers, moving their kilts. Chee glanced at Henry High-hawk, curious about his reaction. He noticed the man with the crippled hands had moved up beside Highhawk.

Highhawk's lips were moving, his expression reverent. He seemed to be singing. Chee edged closer. Highhawk was seeing nothing but Talking G.o.d dancing slowly toward them. "He stirs. He stirs," Highhawk was singing. "He stirs. He stirs. Now in old age wandering, he stirs." The words were translated from the ceremony called the Shaking of the Masks. That ritual had been held four days earlier in this ceremonial, awakening the spirits which lived in the masks from their cosmic dreams. This white man must be an anthropologist, or a scholar of some sort, to have found a translation.

Talking G.o.d and his retinue were close now and Highhawk was no longer singing. He held something in his right hand. Something metallic. A tape recorder. Hataalii Hataalii rarely gave permission for taping. Chee wondered what he should do. This would be a terrible time to create a disturbance. He decided to let it ride. He hadn't been sent here to enforce ceremonial rules, and he was in no mood to be a policeman. rarely gave permission for taping. Chee wondered what he should do. This would be a terrible time to create a disturbance. He decided to let it ride. He hadn't been sent here to enforce ceremonial rules, and he was in no mood to be a policeman.

The hooting call of the Yeib.i.+.c.hai projected Chee's imagination back into the myth that this ceremony reenacted. It was the tale of a crippled boy and his compact with the G.o.ds. This was how it might have been in those mythic times, Chee thought. The firelight, the hypnotic sound of the bells and pot drum, the shadows of the dancers moving rhythmically against the pink sandstone of the mesa walls behind the hogan.

Now there was a new smell in the air, mixing with the perfume of the burning pinon and dust. It was the smell of dampness, of impending snow. And as he noticed it, a flurry of tiny snowflakes appeared between him and the fire, and as quickly disappeared. He glanced at Henry Highhawk to see how the grave robber was taking this.

Highhawk was gone. So was Bad Hands.

Chee looked for Cowboy Dashee. But where was Cowboy when you needed him? Never in sight. There he was. Talking to a young woman bundled in a down jacket. Grinning like an ape. Chee jostled his way through the crowd. He grabbed Dashee's elbow.

"Come on," he said. "I lost him."

Deputy Sheriff Dashee was instantly all business.

"I'll check Highhawk's car," he said. And ran.

Chee ran for Bad Hands' car. The two men were standing beside it, talking.

No more waiting, Chee thought. He could see Dashee approaching.

"Mr. Highhawk," Chee said. "Mr. Henry High-hawk?"

The two men turned. "Yes," Highhawk said. Bad Hands stared, his lower lip clenched nervously between his teeth.

Chee displayed his identification.

"I'm Officer Chee, Navajo Tribal Police. We have a warrant for your arrest and I'm taking you into custody."

"What for?" Highhawk said.

"Flight across state lines to avoid prosecution," Chee said. He sensed Dashee at his elbow.

"You have the right to remain silent," Chee began. "You have the right to-"

"It's for digging up those skeletons, isn't it?" Highhawk said. "It's okay to dig up Indian bones and put 'em on display. But you dig up white bones and it's a felony."

"-can and will be used against you in a court of law," Chee concluded.

"I heard the law was looking for me," Highhawk said. "But I wasn't sure exactly why. Is it for sending those skeletons through the mail? I didn't do that. I sent them by Federal Express."

"I don't know anything about it," Chee said. "All I know is you're Henry Highhawk and I got a warrant here to arrest you on. As far as I know you shot eighteen people in Albuquerque, robbed the bank, hijacked airplanes, lied to your probation officer, committed treason. They don't tell us a d.a.m.ned thing."

"What do you do to him?" Bad Hands asked. "Where do you take him?"

"Who are you?" Dashee asked.

"We take him down to Holbrook," Chee said, "and then we turn him over to the sheriff's office and they hold him for the federals on the fugitive warrant, and then he goes back to somewhere or other. Wherever he did whatever he did. Then he goes on trial."

"Who are you?" Dashee repeated.

"My name is Gomez," Bad Hands said. "Rudolfo Gomez."

Cowboy nodded.

"I'm Jim Chee," Chee said. He held out his hand.

Bad Hands looked at it. Then at Chee.

"Pardon the glove, please," he said. "I had an accident."

As he shook it, Chee felt through the thin black leather an index finger and, perhaps, part of the second finger. All else inside the glove felt stiff and false.

That was the right hand. If his memory was correct, the right hand was Bad Hands' better hand.

5.

Leroy Fleck enjoyed having his shoes s.h.i.+ned. They were Florsheims-by his standards expensive shoes-and they deserved care. But the princ.i.p.al reason he had them s.h.i.+ned each morning at the little stand down the street from his apartment was professional. Fleck, who was often after other people, felt a need to know if anyone was after him. Sitting perched these few minutes on the Captain's shoes.h.i.+ne throne gave him a perfect opportunity to rememorize the street. Each morning except Sunday Fleck examined every vehicle parked along the shady block his apartment house occupied. He compared what he saw with what he remembered from previous days, and weeks, and months of similar studies.

Still, he enjoyed the s.h.i.+ne. The Captain had gradually grown on him as a person. Fleck no longer thought of him as a n.i.g.g.e.r, and not even as one of Them. The Captain had gradually become-become what? Somebody who knew him? Whatever it was, Fleck found himself looking forward to his shoes.h.i.+ne.

This morning, though, Fleck had other things on his mind. Things to do. A decision to make. He examined the street through habit. The cars were familiar. So was the bakery truck making its delivery to the coffee shop. The old man limping down the sidewalk had limped there before. The skinny woman was another regular walking her familiar dog. Only the white Corvette convertible parked beside the Texaco station down the street and the dark green Ford sedan immediately across from the entrance to the apartments were strangers. The Corvette was not the sort of car that interested Fleck. The Ford he would check and remember. It was one of those nondescript models that cops liked to use.

Fleck glanced down at the top of the head of the shoes.h.i.+ne man. The hair was a thick ma.s.s of tight gray curls. Darky hair, Fleck thought. "How you doing there, Captain?"

"About got 'em."

"You notice that green Ford yonder? Across the street there? You know who belongs to that?"

The man glanced up, found the Ford, examined it. Once his face had been a s.h.i.+ny, coffee black. Age had grayed it, broken it into a wilderness of lines. "I don't know it," the Captain said. "Never noticed it before."

"I'll get a check on the license number down at headquarters," Fleck said. "You tell me if you see it around here again."

"Sure," the Captain said. He whipped his s.h.i.+ne cloth across the tip of Fleck's right shoe. Snapped it. Stood up and stepped back. "Done," he said.

Fleck handed him a ten-dollar bill. The Captain folded it into his s.h.i.+rt pocket.

"See if you can get a look at who gets into it," Fleck said.