Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 Read Free Page A

Neither of them knew or worried about the dead boy’s chindi , his spirit.  They were both ignorant of the Way, of hozro , and his grandfather would be disgusted with them.
    He flashed his binoculars back to the van and saw a third man, but because of the sunglasses and baseball cap, he couldn’t get a good look at him.  In fact, George couldn’t tell if the man was particularly tall or short, slightly built or muscular, though his arms looked lean and tight.  The hair under the baseball cap seemed long and dark, pulled back by the cap.  George shook his head slightly in frustration, and then trained his binoculars back on the two men.
    He watched both men discuss something while standing on either side of the dead boy, the fat man doing most of the listening.  George shook his head, angry at how they defiled the boy, first pissing at the boy’s feet, then talking over him like they would over a kitchen table.  Finally, he watched them walk back where all three men got into the van. 
    George studied the van; Chevy, newer looking, black or navy blue, probably stolen.  His cousin, Leonard, worked out of the Tribal Police station at Window Rock, and stolen cars with stolen plates were big crimes on the rez.  So were murder, rape, rustling and everything else that went on in the world.  His grandfather had lectured him that the Dine’ were losing their way and becoming more like the biligaana .
    George didn’t move from his spot until the van had driven from sight, and just to be safe, George waited another twenty minutes before standing and stowing his binoculars in one of the saddlebags.  He took out his canteen and drank warm water, wiping some across his face.  Then he mounted Nochero, the big black stallion he had befriended two years previous, faced it down the hill and fingered the turquoise arrowhead around his neck.
    A talisman to ward off evil.
    And angry chindi .
    Just to be safe, in case the talisman didn’t work, he pulled the .22 from the scabbard.
    George stopped about twenty-five yards away, what he thought was a safe distance.  Nochero, impatient to get moving again, stomped its front hoof into the sand, flicked its tail at flies, snorting softly.  George patted the stallion’s neck and then dismounted.  He pulled off his boots and pulled out a pair of moccasins from his saddlebags.  He sat down, pulled his socks off and shook sand from them before stuffing them into his boots.  Then, after slipping into his moccasins, George stood up and faced the dead boy.
    The Navajo boy of fourteen, who stood facing the death scene, was afraid of the dead boy’s chindi .  But George reasoned that if he were to help find the dead boy’s killers and bring them to justice, the chindi would be satisfied and leave his family’s land.  The worldly boy of fourteen, who wanted to join the tribal police like his cousin, was simply curious.  He saw this as an opportunity to win respect and admiration from his family, and his grandfather, in particular.  However, George was Navajo first and foremost. 
    So in a loud, calm voice, as confidently and as friendly as he could manage, said, “I have come to help find your killers.  I want to help you.  What was done to you wasn’t right.  I can only help if you allow me to come near.  I bring you no harm.”
    He bent down, and as he walked toward the boy, picked up dried sticks and several stones no bigger than his fist.
    “I’m coming now.”
    Taking care not to contaminate the crime scene, he stepped lightly, laying down the sticks and stones two yards away from the body, well away from where the two men had stood.  He took the shirt off his back and tore it into narrow strips and stuffed all but one into his pockets.  Then he picked up one stick and tied the strip of cloth in a knot like a kite tail and stuck the stick into the ground where the skinny man had stood, marking a footprint.  He took another strip of cloth and stick, found the shell