Stealing Fire (10 page)

I had planks and a shovel in the bed of the truck in case we needed to dig out. August monsoons had been heavy, and the air hadn't blown the earth around enough to fill in the gaps. The Hamblers had a few small cottages in the back for guests. Trading season was about over, so they'd have room to put us up. I was looking forward to quiet time and good talk with old man Hambler by his fire. He was a normal guy, exactly what I needed.

He'd installed a Delco generator, so there was a refrigerator going and he'd have cold beer. Like I said, I don't take to drink. But it's not every day I toss FBI agents around and pull a gun on them.

I had backtracked and turned up the road that heads through the Chuska Valley to his trading post. A familiar and raggedy-worn road to Indian people. I had it in my mind to keep as far inside Indian land as I could.

Around here, roads are measured by time, not distance. Forty miles on Route 66 is not the same as forty miles on any Indian Route. And when you're on a one-track road making stops to dig out, that's time automatically figured in.

I topped off the oil and water the one chance I got. We were doing fine on gas. Late afternoon, and it was getting chilly. I pulled over, we relieved ourselves, and I took the blankets out of the back of the truck, tucking them around my grandfather and Mr. Wright. They both resisted, and they were both glad of the warmth.

Silence stretched across the hills and rippled into the ruts of the road for over an hour. It had relaxed into a comfortable silence. I wasn't thinking about that beer anymore, and Grandpa had stopped smoking stale Luckies.

It was him that broke the silence. His voice was gentle and strong.

“Yazzie, you've had several chances, and several reasons, to leave this job of taking care of Mr. Wright.”

“That's the truth.”

“You decided to stay on. I respect that—it's the decision of a good man. But I have a few words to say about it.”

“Go ahead.”

He turned to Wright. “Frank,” my grandfather said, “I did not survive a stroke, and I did not work like hell to recover from it, so that I could die because of some predicament of yours.”

“I wouldn't want you to.”

“I'm enjoying this part of my life, and I want to keep enjoying it.”

“I feel the same way.”

“You are pure genius, you have a grand life, but the same is true for me.”

“Of course.”

“Yazzie has a child on the way. This child will have a father, something my grandson never had.”

I looked at my grandfather. Was he making this up?

He caught my look. “Believe me, Iris is going to have a baby. I raised you without a father, and I need you alive. I haven't got the juice to raise another boy, okay?”

“You're dead wrong on this one.”

“I'm not sure she knows yet,” Grandpa said to me.

“But you do?”

“One hundred percent sure.”

“Yazzie, your grandfather's right.” That was Mr. Wright. “Your grandfather and I—”

I said, “After you get to be a certain age, and birth and death have walked together through all the roads of your life?”

They looked at each other. “You know,” they said with one voice.

I said, “You two could drive a person around the bend, that's what I know.”

Grandpa said, “That hope is what keeps me going.”

Mr. Wright laughed and spewed out, “Hey, take a long walk off a short pier!”

I took my eye off the road for a minute. Grandpa and I both looked at him as if he had a few screws loose.

“I heard one of the students say it. The image stuck with me,” he said, “and I've been waiting for a chance to say it.”

“And
I
was the one who had a stroke.”

 

Fifteen

We pulled into Hambler's trading post just as it was coming on dusk. Old man Hambler was sweeping off the porch, and we could smell dinner cooking. It was the cozy feel of a hidden home and spices and sage—many things I missed when in Santa Fe.

I pulled up to the gas pump and filled her up so we'd be ready to hit the road bright and early. Also filled my cans of oil and water. Not too much radiator trouble this time of year, but you want to avoid car trouble—too much distance between here, there, and anywhere else.

My grandfather and Mr. Wright got out, stretched their legs, yawned and arched their backs like a couple of old lions. We waited to be invited inside, to sit by the fire, to eat.

But when he came out, Hambler was real fidgety. He asked if we wanted a cabin for the night, and I said we did. Then he whispered to me, saying to go ahead and stay at his place. He gave me the key to his house and told me to let Mr. Wright and Grandpa in through a small side door. Said an extra room was all made up and his son had gone to Gallup.

Something was definitely off. Hambler was always the heart of generosity, and normally he would have put down his broom and pulled out more rocking chairs. Giving us the key to his house, to what looked like a basement, instead of a cabin? No offer of dinner? And no excitement about talking with visitors? They're always a treat for the far-off posts, especially when folks stop by who speak English—not so common, and it's nice to speak the tongue you grew up with. The whole picture didn't make sense.

“Quick. Take the old gents downstairs in my place, and tell them to stay put. And,” he said, “I'd appreciate you coming upstairs with me.” Maybe a flutter behind the curtains, I wasn't sure. “And bring your weapon.”

“Sounds like we're walking into danger, and I'm happy to help you out.”

“Yes. Let's not talk too long.”

“One thing,” I said. “Did you get that phone put in here?”

“Last month. I can't remember how many people I had to strong-arm to get it. It's the only phone within a hundred miles—for many it's a lifeline.”

“If that's the story you used, it's the truth.”

“Other things, too. But right now, please, get the old men moving, come inside, and make that gun of yours visible.”

I handed Grandpa the key to Hambler's side door, gave him a short summary, and asked him to keep Wright under control.

We walked through the trading post door, Hambler in front of me. Next to Hambler's cozy woodstove was one of the largest Ute Indians I have ever seen, wrapped in a very pricey blanket, sitting in a rocking chair. Must have been Hambler's blanket—it was a Two Grey Hills design.

I stared at the man. Then I looked away. Looked back at him. He was surly. I didn't know if that was his usual mood, but it was then.

We nodded to each other.

I said, “You visiting Hambler?”

He wore disgust like it was painted on his skin. “Out of gas,” he said. “Car won't go. Cold outside.”

“You rent a room from him?”

“No money.”

Even if he'd had money, Hambler wouldn't have given him a room. He smelled of booze and bad times.

He looked me straight in the eye and slipped a knife down into his hand from the edge of the blanket. He made sure I saw the sharp end of it. I opened my jacket, and he saw my .45. We nodded to each other again.

We're even.

“What's your name?” I said.

“Charley Buck.”

“Charley, you and I can sit up all night, but let's start with the truth. There's no car outside except for Hambler's and mine. You're not out of gas.”

He grunted.

“There is a very nice paint out there, a stallion. That's yours.”

“I'm cold. No money.”

“Having a knife inside Hambler's blanket is not going to make him or me feel kindly to you.”

“Stuck here.”

“You got any relatives close by?”

That was a long shot. He was far from his own rez. On the other hand, there was some reason he was here.

“Got a daughter. Two miles over the ridge.”

“That's why you're here.”

“She married a Navajo.” He made the word “
Navajo
” sound like spit. Utes and Navajos hate each other.

“You've seen her?” I said.

“Her husband kicked me out. My wife is dead. Got no other kids.”

“How much money you think it would take for your son-in-law to let you in?”

He looked at me, measuring me.

“One hundred bucks.”

Hambler stood, mute, against the wall. He'd been thinking of selling the post for some time and moving to Albuquerque. His son was itching to go. I thought this would probably be the last straw, sending them off into the city. He had a lot of quality Indian art. Enough to fill a new store, ripe with goods for new tourists to the Southwest.

“Hambler,” I said, “how much is that blanket worth?”

“About two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Wholesale price?”

“One hundred, give or take.”

I pulled out fifty dollars and handed it to Mr. Buck. “Give Hambler the blanket and get to your daughter's before someone swipes that fine horse of yours. Hand her son-in-law the money, and I think you'll be welcome.”

“Maybe.”

“Take it or leave it, but you're going out the door.”

He grunted again, and sat back. Folded his arms across his chest.

Hambler and I said nothing. I put my hand on the gun barrel. He sat in silence a few more minutes.

“Okay.” He got up, left the blanket, and ambled out the door, his fist tight around the money.

I watched him mount his horse and ride to the west. “He's gone. His son-in-law will take the money, at least for this night.”

“Let's get your grandfather and the other fellow. They'll want out.”

“Your house a mess?”

“That key was to the rug room. Didn't want them inside the house in case the Ute decided to search the place or drag us there.”

“No light?”

“And no heat. I'll go let them out,” he said. “You asked about the phone?”

“May I use it?”

“Party line, and the service comes and goes—depends if Mildred Etcitty is awake and anywhere near the switchboard.” Hambler ran toward his house.

I called our home in Santa Fe. What a day! I needed a big dose of my wife's voice. It was late, no answer. I tried again. Iris picked up.

“Iris?”

“Yazzie, I have something important to tell you.”

“About the baby?”

“What baby?” Hesitation. She said, “It's about Mrs. Wright.”

“Yes?”

“We got up a few hours after you left,” said my wife. “She was gone.”

“No one took her to the depot?”

“Like I said, we were asleep when she left.”

“Cadillac still there?” I asked.

“Yes. Frieda left us a note about Mrs. Wright before she went off to class this morning. Note said she took a cab.”

“Have you talked with Frieda since?”

“No,” she said. “Your mom and I, we'd both just woken up when we found the note. Frieda must have written it fast. It was scrawly and didn't make a lot of sense—she was probably running late. You know how she is about being on time. All we know about Mrs. Wright is in that note.”

I had gotten myself into the biggest possible mess, and I didn't know how to untangle it. I would, I had to, but first things first.

“Iris, that can wait for a minute,” I said. “Grandpa and Mr. Wright both said you're, we're, expecting a baby.”

She laughed. Actually, I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. She was pretty loud. When she pulled herself together enough to speak, she said, “You have got to be kidding me.”

“That's what they said.” I was starting to feel pretty stupid.

“And you believed those two old tricksters about something like that?”

“I love you, Iris.”

“I love you, too.” Then she laughed some more.

“Have you got that out of your system?”

“Probably.”

“Okay. Read me the note Frieda left about Mrs. Wright.”

She did.

I wasn't going to breathe one word about it to Mr. Wright. Not tonight.

 

Sixteen

Hambler was worried that the Ute was still nearby. I assured him he wasn't. The trader looked pretty frail since the last time I'd seen him. Clearly, his son was now carrying most of the business.

Grandpa stormed through the trading post door, bristling. Wright followed him inside, looking like he'd lost twenty years of dignity.

“Don't ever, anyone, tell me to hide out again, understand?”

“What the hell was that about?” chimed in Mr. Wright. I think it was the first time I'd heard him swear.

“There was a Ute here,” I said, “sitting at Hambler's fire. Had a knife up his sleeve, covered himself with one of the rugs—he was cold—and he made sure we saw the business end of that knife.”

“What?” Grandpa hollered. “You should have let me at him.”

“You needed to take care of Wright.”

He looked dubious.

“I made sure he knew I had a gun,” I said.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Wright, “what is a Ute?”

Grandfather looked at him as if he had just asked, “What is a table?”

“Utes,” I said, “are Indians whose piece of reservation is right next to ours. We don't like each other.”

“Simply don't like each other?”

“We took each other as slaves, stole each other's wives or children, or both.”

“I see.” He ran that through his head for a minute. “Well, this is much more of an adventure than I expected!”

I shook my head. He was an unending source of surprise and aggravation.

Hambler grinned, which probably served to calm him down. I found my manners and introduced Mr. Wright and Hambler to each other. Like me, he'd never heard of Mr. Frank Lloyd Wright, but Wright was quite old, and that was reason enough to be generous.