Dark Reservations Read Free Page B

Joe’s wrinkled khakis sat atop a pair of tasseled loafers. No doubt boots would have been a better choice. “They’re old.” They weren’t.
    The officer seemed to be waiting for something.
    â€œYou want to show me what you found?”
    â€œIsn’t there anyone else coming? You know, to process it.”
    â€œI need to check it out first.”
    Officer Bluehorse looked down the road one last time, as though willing there to be more attention to his find. Then he walked to the north side of the road and set off through the woods. Joe followed.
    This was the high desert, six thousand feet above sea level, just enough rainfall to support life. The trees were spread far apart, with a sprinkling of sage, rabbitbrush, and brown grass between them. The scent of sage was strong, almost overpowering. Joe studied the distance between trees. He guessed a car could zigzag a path through these woods if the driver didn’t care about beating the vehicle to hell.
    â€œI plan on putting an application in with BIA or FBI when I finish my bachelor’s,” Bluehorse said.
    â€œGo with the FBI. They offer dental.”
    â€œReally?”
    Joe smiled, something he’d not done in some time.
    â€œWhich would you recommend?”
    â€œEither,” Joe said. “FBI if you don’t care where they send you. BIA if you want to work reservations the rest of your life.” And don’t mind being screwed over once in a while by your supervisor.
    â€œI think I want to work reservations.”
    Enjoy the screwing.
    â€œSo how did you find the vehicle?”
    â€œWe were searching for a missing hunter, and I just came across it.”
    They arrived at a shallow arroyo. Joe slid down and could feel loose soil spill into his shoes. When they climbed out on the other side, he was breathing hard. It had to be the elevation and not the four or more beers a night—usually more—he told himself.
    â€œHold on.” Joe leaned against a tree and took off his shoes, one at a time, shaking them out as he filled his lungs. “What made you run the vehicle?”
    â€œThe bullet holes.”
    â€œBullet holes? Why didn’t you tell me about them when I called?”
    Bluehorse shifted his weight to his other foot. “The car’s been here a long time. They could be from hunters having target practice. I didn’t want to sound the alarm. And you didn’t ask any questions.”
    â€œI shouldn’t have to ask.”
    The officer lowered his gaze. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
    Joe hadn’t meant to come off so harsh. “The news didn’t mention bullet holes.”
    â€œI haven’t turned in my report yet. I wanted to keep that and the location quiet until you arrived.”
    â€œThat’s great, but how did the story even get out?”
    â€œThis is Navajo land,” Bluehorse said. “There are no secrets. I guess someone in the department talked.”
    Joe slipped his foot back into his second shoe. He patted the trunk of a tree. “Is this oak?” he asked, trying to stretch out the break a little longer.
    Bluehorse perked up. He peered toward the tree’s canopy. “A real fine one, too.” He touched the bark with his hand. “There’s a lot of oak here, mostly down by the canyons. The name Chi Chil Tah means ‘where the oaks grow.’ My grandpa was Hopi, a kachina carver. Do you know what they are?”
    Joe did. Small colorful carvings of Indian dancers representing various spirits.
    Bluehorse continued in a soft, almost sad voice. “He used to take me out this way when I was a kid to gather wood. Most kachinas are made from cottonwood root. It’s soft and easy to carve. But my grandpa made a special oak kachina for men with what he called ‘the wandering spirit.’ Oak is heavy, he’d say; it plants the man firmly with his family. He also made it for people who suffered great losses