Wild Indigo (22 page)

I switched on my little LED headlamp and took the lead on the trail, Diane falling in behind me and Kerry bringing up the rear.

Tanoah Pueblo lies at the mouth of a wide, flat valley at the foot of Sacred Mountain and the southward joint of the Rockies. Where the People live, and have lived for at least a thousand years, the land is kissed by the sun and riddled with springs and brooks fed by mountain snowmelt. In these watercourses, old cottonwoods stand with gnarled authority, their trunks wide and weathered. For much of the year, their leaves shimmer in the sunlight, and then turn pumpkin-colored in late autumn before they fall to the ground. Chokecherries and wild plums rise in hedges along the banks of streams. Only a few fields of hay and alfalfa are still farmed by the tribe, and these solitary gems stretch bold and green under a beautiful blue sky. Gardens of squash, chiles, and corn grow from water diverted through
acequias
, and sheep and horses graze in rich fields of ricegrass, wild spinach, and green shoots of native asparagus, watercress, and the indigenous mint called
poléo
used to make cures and teas. Even in winter, the sun shines on the pueblo, and the days are generally pleasant because of this. The tribe lives in a beautiful oasis of light and water, shielded by the mountain and nourished by the springs. In contrast, just a few miles to the west, an enormous high desert covered with sage and chamisa, broken only by scrub piñon and juniper in coarse outcroppings or deep arroyos, stretches for miles without interruption.

Just as stark a contrast from the soft and gentle valley was the trail up the mountain toward the Indigo Falls. In the foothills, a spare forest of juniper and piñon marked the interface, but as the way ascended, the flora changed to ponderosa and lodgepole pine, spruce and cedars, and even higher, aspen. In the dusky dawn light, the long views from the valley across Grand Mesa diminished to the section of path before and behind us, with occasional glimpses through the trees at a sea of pinetops below. The trail wound along a singing creek, and as the forest deepened, the light lessened.

As Hunter had said, the sky was sinking. A close, silvery mist hung about us, and the air grew cooler as we advanced upward. The canopy of pine boughs made the pathway dark. Along the edges of the stream and around the bases of tree trunks, huge, colorful mushrooms grew—some the size of dinner plates, and in a variety of shapes and hues. I saw great red domes spotted with bright white polka dots; twisted, bonsailike wood mushrooms; blue, alienlike tall stems with little Chinese hats; and enormous pale yellow saucers—all fungi reveling in the dark, moist riparian oasis of this mountain brook.

We passed a branch off the main trail, a narrow footpath that led into thick forest. We'd agreed to get out of sight of the pueblo before we attracted any more unwanted attention, and then find a place to stop and regroup. I could hear the loud chattering of a raven up ahead of us.

“At least it's not hot like it was yesterday,” Diane said from behind me. “I'm actually a little cold.”

“Think it's safe to stop now?” Kerry called from the rear.

I found a wide place under a dense canopy of trees and hawed the filly to the side. Kerry and Diane pulled in beside me.

“What's our plan here?” Kerry asked, unfolding a Forest Service map as he chewed on a stick of jerky. “I noticed we passed a little path that cut off to the east back there. Should we split up, or do you think this kid has gone up higher than this?”

I took a drink of water from my bite valve. It tasted stale. “I don't know. He's old enough to have gone on several of the pilgrimages by now, so he probably knows the way.” I leaned over to look at the map. “There are quite a few places, up above, where the trail divides—I know because I've worked the other side of this mountain.” I pointed to a faint dotted line on the map. “If he's following this track, he could end up anywhere after it forks up ahead if he stops or gets lost. But if he sticks to the path to the falls, he's going to have to go clear up to the top—here”—I pointed again—“and follow that ridge to the rim of this box canyon back in here to the falls. I'm guessing the Indians come up
here
, then dip down into their land
there
, at this place near the source. There will probably be some kind of gate or marker where Indian land begins, and the trail will be closed there.”

Kerry studied the map. “There's no way a seven-year-old can do that. Especially not on foot. I don't even know if we can get back in that canyon on our horses. They must leave them here”—he pointed to a stretch of flat mesa on one side of the summit—“and then walk in the rest of the way to the falls. I can't see how a little kid could even make it up to where the trail forks. It's just too far.”

Diane used the opportunity to remove her pack and dig out a wad of denim. She unfurled a jean jacket, pulled it on, then wrestled her way back into the pack. “How do you know the kid's up here, anyway?”

“A child told me,” I said. “Sam's best friend, Angel.”

“Angel Santana?” Diane said. “Son of the recently deceased?”

“That's right. He told me last night that his friend had run up the mountain to hide. I'd talked to you before that, had you checking at the school in Santa Fe. So later, when you told me that Ismael Wolfskin had been looking for the Dreams Eagle boy, and that the grandma said he'd run away, I figured Angel's story was right. And now I'm not so sure that Sam's alone up here.”

Kerry snorted. “Wolfskin? That old guy Serena was talking about? Doesn't sound like he's any likelier to make it up this trail than a little kid.”

“No, think about it, guys,” I said. “Wolfskin's not alone in this. Santana gets drugged by somebody—let's say it's Wolfskin—and he gets put out in the buffalo confine where he gets trampled to death. First of all, it sounds like the old guy couldn't have gotten Santana out there on his own. And the only witness may be this little kid, Sam. But why would Wolfskin, a guy who's no longer practicing peyote chief, give drugs to Santana in the first place? Somebody else maybe used the old shaman to do it. Serena said she thought she'd heard his mind wasn't right. Maybe someone manipulated him.”

“What's the motive?” Diane asked.

“I don't know.”

She threw her head back in exasperation. “Great.”

“I think it has something to do with Santana's computer lab.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, his computer there has been wiped clean.”

Diane drew up. “How do you know that?”

“I got in there yesterday; his wife helped me. We booted his hard drive. All the files have been erased. And both the widow and Momma Anna talked to me about some guy named Ron…‘
Seedy
Ron,' I think he's called.”

“Seedy Ron?” Kerry said. “What kind of a name is that?”

“Maybe someone associated with that filthy hippie you had me looking for,” Diane said. “I went out to his rottedout Winnebago on the side of his bone pile. No one was there.”

“So you didn't get any information on Wolfskin?”

“
Nada
. We ran the name, no record. And it's not like the bone peddler has a job or a phone where I could track him down and question him. You think he's in on this some way?”

“I don't know. I just thought he might be able to tell us more about the old shaman.”

“What about that Yellow Hawk guy? Think he's involved?”

“I do, but I'm not sure how. He disappeared the day after Santana died. I think there might have been foul play—I went by his house on Sunday to leave a small gift of condolence and found his horse all packed and saddled, ready to go. Later, I learned that Yellow Hawk had gone missing and the horse was left there until it almost starved. Doesn't sound like he made a quick getaway, but more like someone interrupted him when he was trying to leave.”

“I got nowhere on that one, too,” Langstrom said. “Moon Eagle said nobody had filed a complaint, and that the old guy was prone to wandering off for days, so no one was all that worried. He got right on the missing kid, though.”

“Momma Anna asked me to find out about her brother Yellow Hawk. And her son Frank asked me again at the feast tonight—or was that last night? Is it officially morning yet?” Suddenly I felt the fatigue of two nights with almost no sleep.

“I think so,” Kerry said. “Doesn't look much like it, though. It's been getting darker since the sun supposedly came up. The sky looks saturated, and the trees block most of the light.”

“So, what's our plan here?” Diane said.

Kerry put a finger on the map. “The trail divides right up ahead. I don't think a seven-year-old kid could make it much beyond that on his own. If that far. We could go up to that fork, try to split up and come back down in a spread pattern, but we'd have to come through some thick woods.”

“I don't know what you were thinking. If he ran up here to hide,” Langstrom added, “it would be almost impossible for us to find him anyway. It's dark, the visibility is getting less and less by the minute with this sinking fog. If he doesn't want us to find him, I don't know how we could. I thought you had some kind of insider information or something, Jamaica. We're not ready for a search like this. We need dogs, a search and rescue team.”

“I think I know where we'll find him,” I said.

My two companions looked at me in silence.

“I think he's gone around the other side, to the top.”

“Another way into the falls?” Diane asked.

“An old way.”

“Well, if we keep heading upward, we're going to get up to the road in to the falls, and the trail will be blocked. You think we should keep riding up that direction?” Kerry said.

“I do.” I pointed to the map. “The trail winds around the mountain to the northwest at first, but after it splits off and goes up to the falls, there's this other track that leads around farther and back toward the east, all the way to the top.”

“And you think a kid could make it up there on his own? That's got to be almost ten miles! We're talking about a seven-year-old boy.”

I remembered Hunter Contreras running at lightning speed across the field to bring us our packs filled with water. “Pueblo boys train from as soon as they can walk to run in their footraces. I've heard they used to be able to run for a hundred miles at maturity. I'm not sure how far Sam Dreams Eagle can run, but I know he was training for the footraces. He told me so.”

“Well, I doubt the little guy got that far, but we won't find him sitting here. Let's go.” He folded up the map and stuck it in his jacket pocket, dug his heels into his horse, and the mare started up the trail.

Diane followed after. “I meant to ask,” she called back over her shoulder from ahead of me. “How's Mountain?”

The mist began to settle on us as we moved upward, into darker and deeper woods. My sweatshirt felt damp and heavy, like a cold, reptilian skin clinging to my own. With my throat still sore and raw from the smoke of the cachana root, I felt insatiable thirst, and my infrequent sips from my water bladder seemed only to increase the sensation. I tried to measure my drinking so my supply would last, but I felt like I could easily down it all at once and still want more. My lips were dry, and the skin of my throat felt like rough paper. My tongue ached for water.

Ahead on the trail, visibility decreased to a matter of feet, with low-hanging branches looming up and surprising me, forcing me to duck at the last moment or crash into them, stinging my face. Kerry warned of these a few times, but soon the mist covered even the sound of his voice, and there was nothing but my own senses to alert me.

At the same time, the sound of horse hooves on the trail seemed amplified, their shoes striking an occasional stone like a ringing gong, and the pounding of the dirt and pine needles like the beating of giant drums. The spotted brown rump of Diane's horse ahead of me churned in a rhythm of muscular locomotion. Our saddles creaked in a call and response, like a leather chain gang at work. Ruby, the excitable filly I rode, flared her nostrils and held her head back, easily alarmed by any unusual sound or sight. Her breath came and went like a pulsing steam engine, her neck and withers quivered. We dropped into a little gully, and going up the opposite bank, she made to break full out into a gallop, then fought the bit, gnashing her teeth as I tried to rein her in.

A soft rain began to fall. The tiny drops made little splatting sounds as they hit my sweatshirt and jeans. I pushed my hat back off my head and let it hang down my back from the thin leather thong used as a chin cord. I sought the raindrops to moisten my face, which felt hot and inflamed. I was so thirsty! I wondered if I was running a fever.

I heard Kerry call “Hoah,” and I saw his black-and-white jib a little as Diane pulled in beside him. I came alongside the others.

“The trail forks here,” Kerry said. “Shall we all go left, or do you think there's any value in splitting up, checking out the other way, just in case?”

“I'm going left,” I said, “toward the falls. And I don't think Diane rides well enough to go on her own. If you want to check out the trail to the east, you can, but she needs to stay with one of us.”

“I'm okay either way,” Diane said.

“Why don't you two ladies head up toward Indigo Falls? I'll take the right fork and follow it for a little bit to see if there's any sign of the boy. I won't go far—in this fog, it's too hard to see much anyway, and I don't think we should get strung out too far apart. But I think we ought to at least scout the trail for tracks or any other sign. I'll take no more than an hour, then I'm coming up this way, right behind you.” He pulled the map out of his pocket and unfolded it again. He checked his course, traced a line on it with a gloved index finger. “Here, you take the map,” he said. “I can find you, if you take the trail straight up. It's all lefts, just remember that. You guys got ponchos in your packs? It's starting to rain some now.”

“I don't want mine,” I said. “I like the rain. The moisture feels good.”

“I don't have one,” Diane said. “I'll use yours if you don't want to. I'm getting soaked.”

I reached down and unloosed the strap holding the prayer ties. I removed one rope of them and handed it to Kerry. “Here. Take this,” I said.

“What's this?” he asked, taking the strand with a gloved hand.

“A rope of prayer ties. Tecolote made it.”

“What do I do with it?”

“Spend it like gold,” I said. I reached with my fingertips to touch him, and he reached back. Our eyes met.

“Be safe, babe,” he said. “I'll be right behind you.”

“You ride ahead of me,” I told Diane. “That way you can set the pace, and I'll keep an eye on you in case you have any trouble.”

“Sounds good to me. It's all lefts, right? That's what Kerry said, wasn't it?”

“You got it.”

We plodded ahead up the narrow trail, dodging low-hanging limbs. The rain continued to fall in a fine mist, and the tree branches shimmered with moisture. Diane stopped; her horse stamped.

“What is it?”

“Come see,” she said.

I slid out of the saddle—my butt felt as if it had been flattened in a tortilla press. As I dismounted, I felt a swirl of vertigo, the tree branches spinning above me, the ground coming up to meet my boots too soon. I clung to the saddle horn and recovered my balance. I walked up to take a look.

Diane had dismounted, too. Ahead, in the middle of the path, a pile of stones made a tall pyramid, and the trail widened into a circle around it. From every crack and crevice in the structure prayer sticks, tiny versions of my own nachi, protruded. I saw feathers of every kind and color, in a variety of ties, splints, and mounts—some dangling from strips of sinew or leather thong, others cut into chevrons and wedged into splits in the sticks like an arrow, still more in crowns or tied to their masts. I spotted feathers of loon, blue macaw, duck, eagle, lark, oriole, bluebird, the green feathers of parrots, vivid pimiento-colored plumes from some other tropical bird. The ends of turkey and raven quills emerged from under stones placed on the ground around the shrine.

I went to my saddle bag and got out my medicine pouch. I offered cornmeal to the five directions, then—as Momma Anna had taught me—circled my head with the pinch of meal and let the dust fly from my fingers. I heard tiny crystals shatter and the sound of glass cutting air. I looked at Diane. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“You didn't hear that?”

She twisted her lips to one side. “I don't hear anything. Are you okay? You looked like you had a hard time when you got off your horse.”

I listened, hoping to hear it again, to prove it wasn't just my imagination. “Yeah, I kind of lost my balance there for a minute. I think it's because I haven't been getting much sleep. I'm so worried about Mountain”—I drew in a breath—“and I haven't had anything to eat today.”

“I'm with you there. You suppose there's a little café up ahead that serves lattes? Maybe some breakfast burritos?”

I smiled at this. “I have some energy bars, a little trail mix.”

“Thanks, I'll wait. You know, that wolf of yours is probably awake now, wondering what the hell you're doing halfway up a mountain in the cold rain instead of there with him.”

I felt a wave of guilt.
Why did I leave him? What am I doing here?

Diane read my expression. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean it that way. He's going to be all right, that's all I meant. I just have a feeling he's going to be all right. We're here to find a little kid, right? Hey, Jamaica, are you okay?”

“I'm all right,” I said. But I was thinking,
What's going on with me?
I felt drugged. Was that possible? I put my foot in the stirrup and climbed back into the saddle. “Let's get going.”

After the shrine, we began seeing turkey and raven feathers hanging from tree branches, one so covered with these that it reminded me of a Christmas tree bedecked with ornaments. Little cairns of stones appeared like sentries alongside the path. The rain picked up. Diane pulled the poncho hood over her head. I drew up my hat by the leather cord and put it on. Little rivulets of water began to run alongside the trail.

It was getting colder. Ruby tucked her head and plodded up the track. Her breath was steaming in thick clouds from her nostrils, then dissipating into thin purple wisps that hung like ghosts around her face until they were shredded by long needles of steel gray rain. Time seemed to be slowing down, stretching. I could follow the progress of a thin stream of drizzle from the brim of my hat as it elongated, hoping to stay united, unable to elasticize enough to traverse the distance to my thigh unbroken, and then finally bursting in the middle, separating into hundreds of tiny, isolated droplets. I thought of Mountain and me—separated—and felt unbearable sadness.
Peyote, I'll bet. It's really kicking in now.

Sonny halted ahead of us. Diane raised her voice against the rain. “Hey, I'm going to put a coat on. Jamaica? Don't you think you ought to put your parka on? You're getting soaked!”

I glanced around me. Threads of moisture hissed toward the ground in slow motion. I heard the rain drumming on the tree branches. I dropped my head and looked at my sweatshirt. The gray jersey was dark and saturated in places.

“Isn't that your parka rolled up under your pack?” Di asked, already off her horse and changing. “C'mon, put it on, woman! It's getting cold out here.”

We huddled under some pine boughs and I peeled off the drenched hoodie. Underneath, my damp T-shirt clung to my breasts. I shivered. I shoved one arm into my parka, then Diane helped me find the other sleeve and pull it on. I zipped up, put my hat on, and pulled the hood up over that, smashing the brim slightly.

“Do you think we should look for some cover?” Diane asked. “Maybe wait this out a little?”

“No.” I headed for Ruby, put my foot in the stirrup. “We need to go on.”

As we rode ahead, the rain began to pound louder against the tree limbs, onto the trail. Ruby slowed, her footing slipping now and then on rocks and slick mud. I couldn't see but a few feet ahead of me. I passed under a low-hanging branch. The distinctive, blush-tipped tail feather of a red-tailed hawk dangled in front of my face. I pushed it aside with my hand and rode on.

Suddenly there was an eerie stillness. I could see silver wires of rain driving around me, the vapor of Ruby's breath in the cold air, but all was silent. Small stands of aspen among the pines alongside the trail seemed so full of presence that they shape-shifted into groups of people, holding stock-still to avoid attracting my attention, keeping some ominous secret among their silent hearts. I could almost hear them breathing, whispering among themselves as we approached. I sensed that these threadlike fingers of rain were reaching from the clouds to probe our shapes so that they might discern the identity of these intruders into their domain. I felt the hairs rise on my arms, my skin tingle. We were encroaching on sacred ground.

My sense of sound had been briefly suspended, but suddenly I heard again the thunder of the downpour as it battered the mountainside. I saw Diane atop Sonny, stopped before another pyramid of stones. Strips of colored cloth were tied in the trees above it—red, turquoise, and white, the colors of the prayer ties Tecolote had made.

My stomach began to heave. I didn't have time to dismount. I leaned over Ruby's side and vomited. Water and thick mucus and a little posole.

“You're sick, aren't you?” Diane said. “I could tell. You've been acting funny.”

I wiped drool from my mouth onto the sleeve of my coat. “I feel better now.” I leaned over the side and puked again: dry heaves, a little water and stomach bile. I drank from my water tube to rinse my mouth. I could tell from how hard I had to work to get the liquid up to the valve that my pack bladder was near empty.

“Maybe we should go back.”

“No,” I said. “He's here. I know he's up here.”

Diane eased Sonny around the shrine. “I hope they don't have any snipers watching down the trail.”

“Wait!” I said. I carefully guided Ruby under one of the low-hanging branches. I reached down to the strap where I'd secured the prayer ties to the side of the saddle. As I moved my arm, I saw wisps of red energy follow it like vapor trails. I procured one of the ropes of ties and unloosed it. Reaching as high as I could to the limb above, I tied the end of the string of sinew into the tree.

“Is that for protection?” Langstrom asked.

“I hope so.”