Less Than Human (16 page)

Manny shook his head no. "Shit no, that thing smells worse than you. I'll take one of them beers, though."

Jesse gunned the pickup, causing Manny to spill the beer all over himself. Manny retaliated by shaking the beer and spraying everyone in the cab. They hit the blacktop with the sound of burning rubber and raucous laughter. Yes sir, it was going to be a hell of a night. One hell of a night.

Chapter 9

A
mos rode toward Chester Roberts' ranch.

"Amanda, I'm drunk," he said to his horse. "Falling-down, throwing-up, pissing-on-yourself drunk." This seemed to strike Amos as funny for some reason, and he almost choked as he paused to take another drink from the bottle. Whiskey streamed from his mouth.

The clicking of Amanda's hooves was a gentle, insistent rhythm as she picked her surefooted way along the trail. When they crossed over a ravine, a few stones, loosened from their perches, rattled down, echoing hollowly. A full moon stared down, giving everything hard, sharp edges. Stunted piñon trees, patches of wiry grass, and an occasional barrel cactus were the only things dotting the silvery landscape. They might have been crossing the moon.

The land rose gradually, finally cresting on a mesa dotted with a few scraggly pines. Not much lived here. Not much could.

Down the slope was a huge, dark depression in the earth, with long ridged gashes that appeared reddish in the moonlight, as though the earth itself were bleeding from a wound. Amos felt sorrow. The crater, and that's what it was, a crater, stretched out at least ten miles, maybe more, and each day it grew, like a cancer out of control. The wind changed, blowing the smell of dust and diesel fumes back to Amos.

A low growling reached the old man as he rode the edge of the rim. Bright lights crawled around in the distance, no bigger than the fireflies he had chased as a child.

The lights belonged to huge earth-moving equipment used for strip-mining coal.

Amos grimaced. His own people, the Navajos, were raping their land for the white man's money.

Amos paused on the edge of the crater and stared out at the distant, insect-like earth loaders that crawled back and forth, holding his people's heritage in their clawed embrace, dumping it into the trucks to be carried away. Gone. Never to return. He turned away, saddened and disgusted at what he saw. Someday the money would be gone, the land violated. Someday, if their gods should return, what would his people say to them when they asked about the sacred land?

Amos didn't think they would be pleased with the answer.

The night air was definitely taking on a chill, and Amos had to take another drink to fortify himself against it. Or maybe against the pain he felt. He knew he didn't have enough whiskey to do the job.

Amanda trotted along the familiar trail, her smooth gait lulling Amos into a doze. Somewhere in the night an owl hooted, yanking Amos awake. A shiver passed through him. Ancient Navajo lore said that when a warrior heard an owl, a ghost or an evil spirit was nearby. Amos didn't really believe that, still it was hard to shake the teachings of youth. The old man peered into the darkness and realized he had ridden a lot farther than he had thought.

Up ahead was the reason Crowder Flats existed. A graveyard, split in two. Separate graves for the whites, one huge common grave for the Indians. How it came to be here was a story every school kid in three surrounding counties knew. One hundred nineteen years ago, Crowder Flats had been wiped out, along with a small band of peaceful Navajos who had been camping nearby. Of course, the town wasn't known as Crowder Flats then. All had been massacred in their sleep, killed down to the last man, woman, and child.

All except for one. A Navajo boy—Amos's grandfather.

According to what Amos's grandfather had said about that night, the killers had appeared as though they were ghosts. They were dressed in blue, he said. And quiet. The wind made more sound than the blue men. As best anyone could figure out, the Navajos and townspeople had been killed by Union soldiers. They were probably deserters from General George Crook's army, headed for Mexico.

Still, no one could ever figure out how the soldiers had managed to catch the Navajos unaware. Guards were always posted. If any of the soldiers had been killed, no one had ever found any evidence of it.

The Right Reverend Jebediah Crowder and his band of followers had been the ones to find the massacre. They too had been on their way to Mexico to spread the Lord's word to those godless Mexicans, as Jebediah was fond of saying. The carrion birds had pointed the way to the dead from high in the sky for a day before anyone knew what had happened.

When the reverend and his people arrived, they found dead bodies strewn everywhere and the town burned to the ground. They searched in vain for survivors.

They had been stacking the dead like cordwood in the open pit when they had found one who was still breathing, a boy trapped beneath his dead mother. That was, of course, Amos's grandfather. The reverend and his followers took it as a sign that they should stop there and rebuild the town. A sign from the Lord, Jebediah was quoted as saying. Old Scratch would not have his way as long as the reverend was there to fight him.

Now all that remained from that long ago day was a white cross inscribed by old Jebediah Crowder, himself, that said simply: Washed in the blood of the Lamb. And of course, the Frontier Days celebration that Crowder Flats threw every year to commemorate the rebuilding of the town.

In moonlight the color of blued steel, Amos looked around the desolate spot high on the mesa, at the Joshua trees that raised their twisted, spiked arms to the white man's heaven, at the cross of Jesus. All for the white man. But what of the red man, what of the murdered Navajos who were buried here? Did their spirits rest easy? Amos thought not.

The huge mass grave was surrounded by a rock wall that was falling down in spots. Amos was the only caretaker the place had ever had, and even he didn't like coming out here. The wind blew constantly in this place, a high keening sound that spooked him if he stayed very long. He kicked Amanda in the ribs to hurry her along.

There was business to take care of.

Tonight was not just another trip to Chester Roberts' ranch to chase off a few horses. Chester was gone on a stock-buying trip to Dallas and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. That meant Bobby was in charge of the ranch. And that meant the Ridgebacks would be running loose. They were only supposed to be used for keeping the coyotes away from the stock during calving season, but that wasn't the reason Bobby had talked his father into buying the huge attack dogs. The boy was pissed at Amos.

Jesse had told Amos that the kids at school had laughed at Bobby because Amos, who was only an old drunken Indian, had chased off Chester's horses. It made Bobby look foolish in the eyes of classmates, especially Amy Warrick.

To make matters worse, Jesse said someone had let out a war whoop when Bobby had entered algebra class. And someone else had drawn a picture of a scalped Bobby on the blackboard.

That night Amos and Jesse had sat in their old trailer laughing, and Amos felt that for a moment that Jesse had been proud of him.

Instead of ashamed.

Soon Jesse wouldn't have to be ashamed of his grandfather.

Amos, in his drunken logic, had determined he would make one last raid on Chester Roberts' ranch, and this time he intended to die. The guard dogs would see to that. He had seen the animals, huge black-and-brown brutes that could tear a coyote to pieces. Or a man. There were five of them roaming the grounds.

Being a full-blooded Navajo who no longer quite believed in the old ways, Amos was determined to die in the old way.

In battle.

In his mind's eye, he saw the fight with the guard dogs as the only way to die with honor. The two bottles of Jack Daniel's he had consumed tonight played a big part in his decision. He was ready for battle. Daubed across his face were a few streaks of red war paint that had come from an old lipstick tube he had taken from Amanda Oliveros ten years ago. Tied around his neck was a razor-sharp machete. Tied to his saddle was his war charm necklace, which consisted of obsidian, red beans, a yellow bird's head, and two black eagle feathers. He had brought the only other things that meant something to him: his horse, Amanda, and his dog, Custer. They would accompany him on his journey to the next world.

Another ten minutes and a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel's brought Amos to Chester Roberts' place. He studied the ranch from high on the hill, looking for the dogs.

They didn't seem to be running loose. Maybe he had been wrong about Bobby. Maybe the boy wouldn't turn the dogs loose on him.

Everything looked normal. The horses stood sleeping in the corral. A single light on a pole burned down by the bunkhouse, attaching long shadows to everything, but the main house was dark. This was Saturday night and that meant everyone was over at Jake Rainwater's place, drinking and dancing, shooting pool, maybe playing some cards in the back.

Still, there would be at least one hand here. Chester never left the ranch deserted.

Time to make a little noise.

Amos opened the corral gate and rode in among the sleeping animals. A sleepy nicker or two greeted their presence. The smell of warm horseflesh met Amos's nose. "Sorry to do this, my friends." He shook loose the rope from his saddle and began lashing the horses.

A whoop made the twenty-odd horses bolt through the gate. By the time the herd passed the bunkhouse they were making enough noise to raise the dead. Amos was yelling at the top of his lungs, and the horses stampeded away into the night.

No lights came on, no faces appeared in the doorway, no shouts of outrage sounded. Everything stayed exactly as it was. Quiet.

Amos reined Amanda in, pissed. This wasn't the way he had seen his last raid going. There was no honor in chasing off horses from a deserted ranch. Where was everyone? Where were the dogs? Their pen was open. The wind gusted, blowing the gate open and shut, making odd random slapping sounds.

Amos picked up a stone and heaved it at one of the bunkhouse windows. And missed. The crash of the rock against the wood was loud as a gunshot in the quiet.

The quiet returned, becoming something unexpected. The old Navajo felt a flicker of unease. A great deal of the whiskey he had consumed earlier was wearing off and maybe dying didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

"Martin," Amos called out, "where the hell are you? You'd better get your ass out here or I'm gonna have to chuck another rock."

When no answer came, Amos finally decided his last raid was a bust. Now all he wanted was to find a warm place to sleep. The cold was eating into his bones, making them ache. He walked closer to the bunkhouse. Martin would give him hot coffee and a lecture about the evils of alcohol, but Martin would forgive him. He always did.

As Amos weaved nearer, he saw the bunkhouse door stood slightly ajar.

Had it been open when he had first ridden up? Amos couldn't remember. Calling out, he dropped his rock and walked inside. He felt the warmth of the stove immediately. It felt good. The bunkhouse was dark, except for a single small light over Martin Strickland's desk. There was nobody here.

The huge room looked neat and clean as always. None of the bunks were occupied. A cup of coffee sat on Martin's desk, still warm to the touch. The chair had been pushed back as though he had stood up to stretch his legs. This was curious, even to Amos's whiskey-soaked mind. He called out Martin's name again.

Only silence. A few loose boards squeaked underfoot as he walked around. Reaching into the open desk drawer, Amos fished out the whiskey bottle and took a stiff belt Papers lay on the floor. Someone had been rummaging around.

A quick look back outside showed Amanda standing patiently. Custer was, however, eating something. Amos sure hated to leave the stove, but he was curious about whatever it was that Custer was bolting down.

"Dog food." Amos looked at the busted sack lying on the ground. "Looks like somebody left in a big hurry. Maybe they went to look for the dogs." That made sense. Suddenly, feeling very much ashamed, Amos walked back and climbed on Amanda. What had seemed like a good way to die a few hours ago now seemed very foolish. "What if the dogs had been here? They would have killed me and Martin would have blamed himself. I really am a drunken old fool, you know that, Custer?"

Custer didn't seem overly concerned with Amos's repentance. Maybe he'd heard it before. This was the first time in his life he had ever tasted dog food. He decided he liked the stuff better than those stringy old jackrabbits he chased every day. It was a lot easier to catch, too.

The sound of hoof beats caused Amos to look up. He expected to see Martin riding up, but it was only some of the horses he had chased off earlier returning. They had no desire to be free, they had returned for their feed.

"We're all creatures of habit," Amos said with a sigh, climbing on his horse. A kick in Amanda's ribs and soon the Broken R disappeared behind the low-lying hills.

Custer bolted down a few more bites, started after Amos, then came back to the dog food. He would catch up with Amos later.

Half an hour later, frozen to the bone, Amos rode up to the graveyard and paused for another drink of Martin's whiskey. The liquor wasn't numbing his brain anymore or chasing away the chill. The wind blew again, causing his teeth to chatter despite the burning in his stomach.

Beneath the creaking of the pines, he again heard the plaintive call of an owl. Repeated once, twice. It was a mournful sound.

Amos stiffened when the call was followed by mocking laughter. The sound seemed to come from nowhere and yet seemed to be everywhere. Amos turned in his saddle, trying to locate the source of the laughter.

It came again. Clearer this time.

The laughter was coming from the graveyard. A shadow popped up from behind the fence and then crouched down. Amos turned and rode slowly back, clutching the machete.

"Is that you, Lefty? If it is, I'm gonna cut off your other hand." No answer. Just more laughter.