  Sandy had expected that the opening of bids for leases on thousands of acres in the Navajo reservation would be an exciting occasion, something like a country auction. Instead, he found it a great bore. Scores of bidders in their shirt sleeves lounged on hard straight-backed chairs in the stuffy meeting room of the Indian Service building, or chatted, smoked and told jokes in the corridors. Kenneth White and other representatives of the Indian Service sat behind a long redwood table, opened piles of envelopes, compared bids, held long whispered conferences with grave, leather-faced members of the Navajo Council and their advisers, and very occasionally handed down decisions. “The bid of $3,900 per acre made for 200 Navajo acres in San Juan County, northeast, southeast of Section 27-24 N-8 is accepted,” White then would drone. Or: “A bid of $318 per acre for 125 acres of Section 18, 42 north, 30 east is rejected by the Council because it’s too low. Another bid may be made at the August meeting, if desired.” After an hour of this, Sandy was counting the cracks in the floor, watching flies buzzing against the windowpanes, and wondering whether he dared ask Mr. Hall to be excused. He hesitated about doing this because the oilman was following the bidding with tense interest and making endless notes on the backs of old envelopes that he kept dragging out of his vest pockets. “Ssst!” Ralph whispered from the seat behind him. “This is murder. How about having a second breakfast with me? “We never should have come down here this month when our well needs watching every minute,” the young Indian added after they had entered a nearly empty diner and ordered ham and eggs which neither of them really wanted. “The big companies have the big money, so they’ll gobble up the best of the acreage, as usual. We poor boys will get some small tracts, if we’re lucky. And I don’t think John Hall’s outfit is going to be lucky today.” “Why is that?” Sandy asked. “Because most of our bids are for land that’s under dispute between the Navajos and Hopis. They can’t be accepted until some sort of settlement is reached between the tribes. I don’t know why John keeps putting them in. Well—” Ralph finished his coffee and slid off the stool and onto his feet in one motion, like a big cat—“let’s go back and learn the worst.” There was a strange tenseness in the meeting room when they entered. Cavanaugh and White were standing facing each other across the table. All eyes were riveted on them and not a sound was being made by the onlookers. “Mr. Cavanaugh,” the Indian Agent was saying, “neither the Service nor the Council can understand the meaning of the bids you have submitted. Some of them are for small tracts around the Pinta Dome area in Apache country where there has never been the slightest show of uranium-bearing ore. I don’t want to tell you your business, but....” “Thank you for that, Mr. White,” the redhaired giant growled. “Let the bids stand.” “Very well. They are accepted. But this other bid—for a thousand acres in the bed of the San Juan River. You must have made an error. It is submitted directly to the United States government, instead of to the Navajo Council. Do you wish to correct it?” “I do not,” snapped Cavanaugh. “But it cannot be accepted, since the stream is not navigable.” “I challenge that statement, Mr. White. Under the law it cannot be rejected until the stream is proved not to be navigable. If you won’t accept it, let it stand as a prior claim. Is there anything else?” “Nothing else whatsoever,” White answered mildly, but between stiff lips. “That suits me fine.” Cavanaugh lit a long black cigar in defiance of a NO SMOKING sign, and strutted out. All heads turned to watch him go and a buzz of conversation started. “Wheeuw!” Ralph said in Sandy’s ear. “That Pinta Dome area had a big helium strike some years back. Wells in that region are all closed in now, and the government is very hush-hush about the whole thing. What’s Cavanaugh up to?” White picked up another bunch of bids and called Hall to the table. “You know, John, that bids on land in the disputed Navajo-Hopi area can’t be accepted. I’ve told you so again and again. So has Chairman Paul Jones of the Navajo Council. Why do you keep submitting them?” “Because I’m a stubborn man, Ken.” Hall grinned, tilting his gray head as he always did when he was being stubborn. “And because I think there’s oil under those lands. And because I also think the tribes will get together soon. You just let my bids stand and tell me where I can locate Jones.” “Hosteen Sandez, do you know where Mr. Jones is today?” White asked a lean old Indian who sat next to him. “Gone to Chinle,” was the reply. “Two families there having dispute—with shotguns—about irrigation water. He trying to settle it before Navajo police come.” “Thank you,” said Hall. “I think we’ll just mosey on up Chinle way.” The jeep followed a good paved road as far west as Ganado, but when it turned north toward Chinle it got back once more on a trail made of stones from which none of the corners had been removed. They were driving through a wild country of mesas, washes and canyons which made conversation almost impossible. “What do you expect to gain by talking to Jones, John?” Donovan asked once when the road became smoother for a few miles. “I’ve been reading so much about summit conferences,” Hall answered, “that it just occurred to me we might set one up out here. I want to suggest to Jones that we get some of the more important chiefs of the two tribes to meet out here in the desert somewhere, where there are no reporters or members of the Land Resources Association hanging around. I’ll bet we could accomplish something.” “Good idea,” Donovan agreed. “If the tribes weren’t continually stirred up by white men with axes to grind they’d soon be able to agree on that boundary line.” “Don’t mind me, palefaces,” said Ralph as he spun the wheel to avoid a particularly hard-looking stone. “But I doubt it. I know both tribes, and....” Crash! The jeep bucked like a pinto pony and the motor roared. “There goes the second muffler in three months,” Ralph shouted, pointing backward to a heap of junk on the trail. After that, all conversation was impossible until they pulled into the little town of Chinle—and learned at the trading post that Jones had already departed for Tuba City! “Say, John,” Ralph said, as they were standing around waiting for a “shade tree mechanic” to dig a muffler that would fit out of a rusty pile of spare parts that leaned against his hogan, “we can’t possibly drive back to the well tonight. Why don’t we put up at the Canyon de Chelly camp so I can show Sandy where his great-uncle fit the Navajos?” “Good idea,” said his employer. “You’ll have time to show Sandy the cliff dwellings tomorrow, too. Chief Quail lives over in the Canyon de Chelly neighborhood. I want to sound him out on my idea for a summit conference.” The sun was sinking in golden glory behind thousand-foot-high red sandstone buttes when they drove up to the Thunderbird guest ranch at the entrance of the Canyon de Chelly National Monument area. There they obtained two pleasant double rooms furnished after the rugged style of the Old West. When they had showered most of the dust off themselves, they gathered for a fine meal in the timbered mess hall. Then, in the cool of the mountain evening, they went over to a big campfire where a National Park Service Ranger was lecturing to a group of tourists. “These canyons housed one of the great centers of the Anasazi, or Basket Maker, civilization,” the Ranger was explaining. “During the first several centuries of what we call the Christian era, Basket Makers occupied the whole drainage basin of the San Juan River. In addition to baskets, they made fine pottery and woven sandals, but they used dart throwers instead of the later bows and arrows. They built peculiar circular homes with floors sunk a foot or more into the ground. You’ll see one of those tomorrow when you visit Mummy Cave. “When the Basket Makers vanished early in the eighth century, Pueblo Indians occupied the canyons. They built many-storied cliff dwellings over the old caves. They were farmers, but they also made beautiful pottery, cloth, stone tools, and ornaments of copper and gold. “Coronado, the Spanish Conquistador, may have been looking for this place when he came up from Mexico in 1540 to search for the fabulous riches of El Dorado and the Seven Cities of Cibola. He never found anything but thirst and death.” “Were the Pueblos and Basket Makers related?” someone asked. “Yes, they were both Shoshones, like the modern Hopis,” answered the Ranger as he threw more wood on the fire. “More distinguished ancestors for us Utes,” Ralph whispered to Sandy. “Seven or eight centuries ago,” the Ranger went on, “the Pueblos grouped their cliff dwellings into large ‘apartment houses’ situated on sites that could easily be defended. Tomorrow you’ll visit White House, Antelope House, and Standing Cow, which are their finest structures. Let me warn you, though, that only people accustomed to conditions in the canyons should drive cars into them. The spring rains are late this year. There is very grave danger from flash floods and quicksand. In past years, many covered wagons and other vehicles drove into the canyons, got caught in a sudden storm, and were never found. I suggest you rent a car and guide from the Thunderbird Ranch operator.” “What became of the Pueblos?” a tourist asked in an awed voice. “Nobody knows. Some people think a great drought hit this part of the country and they had to move to an area where there was more rainfall. Others believe that an enemy—possibly the fierce Aztecs—came up from Mexico and killed all the inhabitants. Terrible battles were fought here, we know, before the end. Sometimes Pueblo mummies with weapons still in their hands are found when a new cliff dwelling is explored. The Navajos say the whole place was deserted when they moved in, more than 200 years ago. Now, I want to tell you about the troubles that they had with the Spaniards and Kit Carson.” “We’d better go to bed, I think,” Hall said to the others in his group. “Ralph knows a lot more about recent history than this fellow does. He’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” Sandy and Ralph crawled out of their bunks shortly after sunrise, but they found that Hall had already departed. A note under their door read: “Have located Chief Quail. Don and I have him cornered and are trying to talk him over to our side. You can use the jeep to explore the canyons this morning but be back by lunchtime, so we can hunt for Hopi Chief Ponytooth. He’s up in this neighborhood, Chief Quail says. Happy cliff-hanging.” After a brief argument with the Ranger, who repeated his warnings about flash floods and quicksand, Sandy and Ralph got under way. “I know this territory like the palm of my hand,” the driller said as he drove carefully into dark gorges where the sun shone only around noon. “There really are four separate canyons, you’ll notice. From right to left they’re Monument Canyon, the Canyon de Chelly proper, Black Rock, and the famous Canyon del Muerto, which means Death Canyon. That’s the one where the Navajos made their last stand against Kit Carson.” “How did he ever drive them out of a place like this?” Sandy marveled as he stared up at towering cliffs that rose almost straight up from the grass-covered canyon floor. “One man on a cliff should have been able to stand off a regiment by rolling rocks down on their heads.” “That’s where your great-uncle was smarter than General Custer,” answered his guide. “He didn’t try to attack. If he had, the Navajos would have massacred his troops. Instead, Kit sent small raiding parties of cavalrymen down the centers of the canyons where they were fairly safe from rocks and arrows. They had orders to shoot every sheep, goat and cow in sight. After they did that, they retreated and blocked all exits to the canyons.” “And the braves and their families just stayed inside and starved?” Sandy was really shocked. “What else could they do? See that big blue-and-white picture of a cow drawn on the canyon wall over the cliff dwelling to your left? That’s a sort of monument which the poor old Navajos made to remind them of their slaughtered herds. After they finished it, they all came out and surrendered.” “Gee whiz!” was all that Sandy could think of to say. “We have time to explore just one cliff house,” Ralph continued. “It might as well be Standing Cow. Come on.” They climbed a swaying ladder to reach one of the dwellings. This had been restored by archaeologists and looked as though its Indian inhabitants had departed the night before, instead of a long 400 years ago. There was the loom on which they had woven their cloth. Graceful pottery with decorations in glaze was stacked in a corner. A bedboard rested on two timbers cemented into the rear wall. “These were de luxe apartments, probably occupied by the chief,” Ralph explained. “They have one big drawback—no hallways. You have to go through the living quarters to get to the other rooms. Come back here and I’ll show you one of their kivas, or ceremonial rooms.” He led the way into a much larger cave that had a balcony overlooking a round hole some twenty feet across by six feet deep. Light filtered into the gloomy place through one small window in the cliff face. The driller turned a flashlight beam into the hole. Sandy saw that its bottom could be reached by steep stone stairways. A wide bench ran around the sides of this strange pit. In its center stood several stone tanks about the size of bathtubs. “When the cliff dwellers wanted to talk to their gods,” said Ralph, “they climbed down into a kiva hole like this and stayed for days without eating, drinking or sleeping. They practiced a kind of self-hypnotism, I guess.” “Maybe,” Sandy guessed, “they just went down there to take their Saturday-night baths. I don’t see any gods—idols, I mean.” “These people didn’t have idols—just those tub things,” Ralph answered. For a long time he stood staring down into the kiva, as though he were trying to picture his dead-and-forgotten ancestors there, conducting their silent worship. “We’d better be getting back to the ranch,” he said at last, shaking his handsome head as though to clear it of dreams. “That was a pretty grim thing Carson did to the Indians,” Sandy said as they drove back to Thunderbird. “It was better than a massacre. Only twenty or so Navajos were actually killed by his troops, remember. And you should not forget, either, that Kit was acting under orders from Washington.” “Those Nazi officers who killed innocent people in German concentration camps said they were acting under orders too,” Sandy pointed out grimly. “Oh, but Carson never tried to excuse his actions. At first, he thought he was doing the right thing to move the tribe onto a fine new reservation. But as soon as he had herded several thousand of them over to Bosque Redondo on the Pecos River, he changed his mind. Bosque Redondo means Round Forest in Spanish, but he found there weren’t more than half a dozen trees on the whole place, while good grazing grass was almost as rare. It was a hellhole and the Navajos hated it. They ran away or, if they weren’t able to do that, they just sat down and pined. A thousand of them died there from hunger and homesickness. “So Carson climbed on a train, went to Washington, and told the Great White Father just what was happening. When he warned that all the Navajos at Bosque Redondo would be dead in a few years, nobody seemed to mind very much. ‘Good Indian: dead Indian,’ you know. When he added that the government was spending a million dollars a year just to help them die, a few ears pricked up. But when he said that half the Navajos had never left Arizona and that they were threatening to go on the warpath to help their imprisoned brothers, Carson got action. He was ordered to return the tribe to its original reservation—this one—and was given money to help them get a new start.” “I’d like to tell Miss Gonzales what you just told me,” said Sandy. “I don’t want her to dislike me because she thinks my great-uncle was a monster.” “Well, why don’t you? Her school trailer is located only about twenty miles from our well. Drop in on her when you get a day off.” “Gee, I’d like to, Ralph,” said Sandy as they approached the ranch gate where Hall, Donovan and Chief Quail were waiting for them, “but she seemed pretty angry that night at the motel.” “Kitty’s a fine girl,” Ralph answered slowly, “even though she tries to be more Navajo than the Navajos. Fact is, I’ll let you in on a secret: My last oil royalty check from the wells in the Southern Ute reservation amounted to $12,000. When I get a few more of them in my bank account, so I can give her a big marriage gift, I’m going to ask my uncle to ask her uncle if she’ll have me for a husband.” “What have uncles got to do with marriage?” Sandy stared at Ralph in amazement, realizing for the first time that he really was an Indian and had ways of doing things that were hard to understand. “It’s just an old Navajo custom.” Ralph grinned uncomfortably. “And that reminds me: If Kitty gets uppity about Carson again, you tell her I said to be nice or I’ll ask my great-uncle to step on her great-uncle’s shadow. That will make her behave!” |
|
