Chapter One

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Before leaving the town for the evening, Blake and Russel were visited at the abandoned trailer on the outskirts of Kayenta, by the town Sheriff. The man was a Native American in his late forties with a weather-beaten face. He had a portly, short body like many of his indigenous race, and wore a patch on his uniform which read Navajo Rangers.

"Don't suppose you found much to take back to California," he said, getting out of his dusty Dodge 4x4 pickup.

"You got that right, Sheriff," Blake said, holding a small bag of mostly photographs of his mother and William in their younger days. "Just a few pics for my mom, really. Not much else to take back. Mostly useless stuff. We left it all over there in the trash bags."

"They'll haul it all out of here in the morning, boys. The trailer is trashed too," he said.. "We'll probably have it towed to the junk yard outside of town . . . if that's Ok with you."

"Yeah, do that. And thanks for calling my mom to clear those things up. So, did he have a car or anything?"

"An old truck. But that got stolen we figure. A few weeks after he died. Guess the thieves just saw the opportunity . . . abandoned vehicles don't last long around these parts."

"I guess not. So  any more information about . . . his death, Sheriff? I mean my mom said it might have been . . ."

"Probably murder, yes. Gunshot to the head. No traces of gunpowder on his hands. And no weapon recovered."

"I get it."

"Must be hard. Seeing your father's life come down to so little out here. Right, son?"

"Yeah, Sheriff. It was a long, sad day."

"So you two gonna stick around town for a while?"

"Not since we heard they don't serve alcohol here on the reservation," Russel said, half seriously.

The Sheriff smiled. "Yeah. That don't do much for tourism here. But rules are rules. Our native people and booze just never did mix."

Russel, an African-American who was as tall and muscular as the fair compexioned Blake, made no comment, feeling their presence there all day was already becoming unwelcome.

"Hey. I've just got to ask you, Sheriff," Blake added. "My dad . . . William. How was he treated here? I mean . . . for so long. He had no Indian blood himself. What . . . he just stayed out of everyone's way? They just so of tolerated  him?"

"Your father . . . was a good man. Quiet. Peaceful. Kept to himself mostly. He did know a couple of the old-time elders here. Knew 'em well, I'm told. They say Bill understood a lot about the early Navajo. Our people of the desert. He had a real interest in this place. Especially over in Monument Valley. Spent most of his time there just hiking, digging. Collecting his rocks. At least that's what people would say."

"Yeah. I hear he was pretty crazy."

"Or smart . . . like a fox. I always thought he was looking for something. Like buried Spanish gold. But it was rocks he seemed most interested in. Only a few of our tribal elders who knew him could tell you what he was up to. But I doubt they ever would."

Blake and Russel looked at each other.

"Christ, I saw your father here on this beat for some twelve years," the Sheriff said, nostalgically, straitening his beige cowboy hat and opening his truck door. "But yeah, he went back to the eighties, son. Liv'in in that eyesore of a trailer over there."

The two looked for the last time at the sad, weathered dwelling.

"He was a harmless soul," the Sheriff finally added. "But a real loner. Trust me when I say . . . only a couple of our Navajo people here in Keyenta could tell you much about him. Those that had similar interests. Mostly the old men with the stories . . . the history of the Navajo."

"Right. So . . . what's it like over in Farmington?" Blake asked

"Across the line in New Mexico?"

"Yeah I guess. East of here, right?"

"It's just on the other side of Monument valley. Route sixty-six. A pretty good-sized city. About an hour's drive."

"They serve beer there?" Russel asked.

The Sheriff laughed getting into his truck. 

"Boys, you can find anything you're looking for over there."

Blake reached into his pocket and could feel the mysterious key was still in his possession. The Sheriff shut his door, waved, and left them in a cloud of dust.

Within fifteen minutes the two were driving out eastward across the flatlands. They could see in their path the impressive sandstone natural monuments, rust-colored and towering in the distance.

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