Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (25 page)

“Will we be able to see the drones?” Terri whispered, worried someone might even be close enough to hear normal conversation.

“I doubt it, although Nick did claim to have shot one of them down.”

The campfire proved therapeutic, it’s licking flames and crackling embers helping settle the couple’s nerves. They even relaxed enough to sing Hunter a few songs.

Terri announced she was turning in, the youngster’s yawning reaffirming the notion.

“I’m going to lower the fire and then circle the camp once. I’ll be in the hammock.”

“Is that a good idea? To patrol?” Terri inquired.

Bishop shrugged, “If I was on the dodge and trying to avoid the authorities, I’d remain pretty diligent. I don’t think it’s out of character.”

Terri nodded, “If you say so. Being a desert thespian is harder than I thought.”

Twenty minutes later, Bishop returned, scanning the campsite one last time before turning in. He’d rigged his survival net with paracord, stretching the mesh tight between the truck and a nearby boulder. It wasn’t as high off the ground as he preferred, but it was better than crowding his wife and son inside the 2-man tent. Body odor and snoring aside, it was tight in there.

Another length of cord was stretched taut above his hammock, a black, plastic leaf bag draped over the higher line. While the Texan didn’t figure on any rain in the forecast, dew wasn’t unheard of in the desert. Waking up with damp clothes in the middle of the night wasn’t a recipe for a well-rested bandit.

He’d also taken the precaution of heating a pile of baseball-sized rocks near the fire. If it became too cold, he could stack them under his suspended bunk and keep nice and toasty warm.

He rolled into the net, resting his rifle across his chest. He did his best to sleep, but every sound of the night had the Texan gripping that weapon.

Dawn found Bishop already up, rekindling the fire and heating water for coffee.

Terri’s head appeared from the tent’s flap, rubbing her eyes and sniffing the air. “Where did you get the coffee, Mr. Bandito?”

“I stole it in the last town we passed through.”

“Did you happen to pocket any eggs while on that crime spree?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bishop smiled, producing a handful of white ovals.

“And that’s why I love you,” she grinned.

Mother and son soon joined dad for breakfast. While they ate eggs and home-fried bread, Terri questioned their meal. “Should we be splurging like this? I mean, would crooks have coffee and eggs?”

“Those of us on the wrong side of the law have to eat, too,” Bishop replied. “Maybe that’s why were on the run – we robbed a grocery store.”

“Well, Mr. Gangster, the next time you knock off a market, would you please remember to get some toilet paper?” she teased, eyeing the nearest berm.

“Don’t pay any attention to the drones,” Bishop said as she went over the rise.

Terri paused, her eyes going to the sky. “Pervert drones… that’s all a girl needs,” she mumbled, continuing on.

As Terri picked up around the camp, Bishop went for the academy award fussing over the truck. He did everything typical of a stranded motorist, starting the engine, kicking a fender, and issuing a string of creative cursing.

“Well, the truck’s shot, my love. I guess we better start walking before the sun gets too high.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Terri winked.

An hour later, they had everything packed, Hunter not sure what to make of the makeshift papoose Terri crafted out of apparent scrap cloth gathered from their luggage.

In reality, the couple had spent a significant amount of time carefully preparing their hiking equipment.

“Ounces equal pounds, and pounds equal pain,” Bishop reminded his soon-to-be walking partner. “Since you will have Hunter most of the time, I’ll have to carry the majority of our water and sleeping gear. We’ll eat off the land as much as possible. The only special food we’ll need is for the baby.”

Terri glanced at the nearby mountains, the road ahead daunting. “How far?” she asked as if having second thoughts.

Bishop followed her gaze, “Actually, right on the other side of that rise we’ll be in pine forest. According to Nick, it’s quite the beautiful place if you’re not dodging drones and war parties.”

“We’ve got someone out in the desert,” the young Cochiti reported, his eyes studying the laptop computer’s display. “Looks like two adults and a child,” he added, puzzled by the family’s arrival.

An older man appeared over his shoulder, the announcement unwelcome given the turmoil of the last few days. “Rewind the recording. I want to see it all.”

Ten minutes later, the two Natives had studied the video thoroughly. “It looks like their truck broke down,” observed the senior man.

“Could be some sort of trick?”

“Maybe, but who brings along a baby if it’s a military probe?”

“I still think we should let Grandfather know. I can ride up to the cabin with the drone’s video card. Grandfather will know what to do.”

“Launch another flyer before you go. Let’s keep an eye on them… just in case.”

An hour later, Hack pushed back from the table and turned to the Apache. “In the video, it looks like a nomadic family to me. The man’s got a long gun, but their equipment is anything but military issue. What do you think?”

Apache Jack was skeptical. “Even if you’re right, we should send out some men and chase them away. We’ve seen our share of thieves, beggars, and other scum. Or we could just kill him and turn the woman and child over to one of the tribes. Better safe than sorry.”

Hack considered his friend’s words. He was probably right, the logical course of action being to dispatch the intruders and get on with the hundreds of checklist items that consumed his day. But there was more to it than that.

At one point in time, he’d had high hopes of the project attracting people from far and wide. He’d envisioned engineers, doctors, scientists, and other skilled professionals joining the tribes, lured by an abundance of food and water.

Part of that dream was still alive, but now, with the Alliance in the picture and Washington no doubt sore over the loss of the radioactive metal, it was going to be difficult to separate the refugee-wheat from the contributor-chaff.

Hack believed human talent was the key to not only rebuilding, but creating a better place to live – an environment where the residents of New Mexico could thrive and instill the positive values of Native American society. They could build a new country, and do it right this time.

When he’d first arrived, Hack had been appalled at the region’s poverty. Like most visitors, his vision of Native Americans had been warped and distorted by a lack of knowledge and Hollywood’s inaccurate depiction. He’d expected to encounter the noble red man, steeped in tradition, one with nature, and unconcerned with many of the traditional values that were so important to the euro-whites.

Indians, he believed, weren’t all wrapped up in material possessions, greed, corruption, politics, or many of the negative aspects of western society. He anticipated a refreshing change from the rat race that had been his life in L.A. He hoped for neighbors more accepting of his exotic appearance and behavior.

What he found were third-world economic conditions, mismanagement of resources, and many of the locals living in absolute squalor.

His first reaction had been to shrug it off, justifying the tribe’s conditions with the typical list of excuses and stereotypes. The Indians didn’t care about earthly wealth or possessions. They were lazy. They were caught in a cycle of generational poverty and now suffered from an addiction to government handouts and support. Drug and alcohol abuse, inspired by low levels of self-esteem, were to blame.

Always a keen observer, Hack had watched, read, and listened to the local news and gossip. He’d visited ceremonial dances, powwows, and other local events. He’d tried his best to integrate into his surroundings.

The first hint that he, as well as most of American society, had it all wrong occurred while he’d been on a rare road trip to Albuquerque. A shipment of parts for his toys had arrived, but the parcel delivery truck had been unable to locate his cabin.

It was an especially hot day, the temperature rising as Hack wound his way down the mountain and into the lower altitudes of the desert. He passed a car that was pulled to the side of the road, one of the tires shredded beyond repair.

A short distance later, he spotted a woman walking, a toddler on her arm and another small child at her side. There wasn’t a town or pueblo for miles, and the radio had warned of a 100 degree plus day. Hack pulled up next to her.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked, trying to smile nicely.

Despite the heavy-looking child and long walk ahead of her, the already-perspiring Native didn’t immediately accept. Without a word, she studied him for several moments before nodding. “If you would be so kind,” she answered, reaching for the door handle.

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m going to visit my aunt,” she replied. “It’s her birthday.”

After a quick exchange, the traveler provided Hack an idea where the relative lived, and he was happy to deliver her. “Well, hop in. I’m going that direction and can swing by to drop you off.”

A few times during the drive, Hack tried to strike up a conversation to pass the time. His efforts were met with polite, but short answers. He wrote it off to the woman being upset about her car and wary of a stranger.

Turning into the pueblo, Hack noticed every residence had an identical cardboard and wood crate sitting at the curb. There were dozens and dozens of the containers, all of them covered with dust and road grime. Weeds grew around the eyesores, some of the sides and fronts eaten with insect holes.

“What’s up with the big boxes?” he inquired, winding his way through the narrow, dirt streets.

Her initial response was a grunt, followed by a vague and sketchy explanation, “The BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) sent each resident a clothes dryer. A big truck came and dropped one off at each house.”

“Really?” Hack replied, thinking such an event would be welcome and not understanding her negative tone.

“The people don’t know what to do with them. The trash haulers can’t take them away, so they just sit in their yards.”

“Why not use them?” he asked innocently.

“They’re gas powered, and the pueblo has never been plumbed for natural gas.”

Hack could believe it. He’d spent his entire career working with government contracts. Sometimes the bureaucracy simply messed up.

“Why didn’t the tribe’s governor ask the BIA to swap them out with electric dryers?”

She frowned, obviously frustrated by the entire affair. “Because the tribe requested them.”    

Hack shook his head, clearly not understanding. “The tribe requested gas dryers? Why would they do that?”

“Well, not exactly. A government man from Housing and Urban Development visited the pueblo. He wrote a letter to the governor suggesting that the local businesses would attract more tourists if the area’s visual appeal was improved. One of the items he pointed out was the fact that the residents dry their clothes outside in the sun. When there was grant money available at the BIA, the tribe asked for a way to dry the laundry inside. They sent the dryers.”

“So, why not just swap them out?”

“That was considered, but electric dryers require 240-volt electrical outlets. Most of these homes are older, and barely support 120 volt, so it wouldn’t have done any good.”

Hack pulled up in front of the aunt’s house, his passenger thanking him graciously for the ride.

“Before you go, I’m curious about the dryers. So why didn’t someone send them back and reallocate the funds for some other improvements?”

“It was too late,” she said sadly. “The crates had been sitting outside for several weeks, and the manufacturer refused to take them back.”

Hack could understand her bitterness. “And let me guess. The local trash trucks can’t haul them away?”

She nodded and then proceeded to thicken the plot even further. “You got it,” she answered, “so some of the people got together and contacted a scrap dealer in Santa Fe, just to get the ugly boxes out of the pueblo. But the BIA said we couldn’t do that. They said that the dryers were government property, and the equipment had something called a ‘five-year depreciation schedule.’”