They sat watching the shadows grow deeper on Ship Rock, and then Mr. Tso spoke. “A man came in that car that burned. I saw him out there on the ridge when I was checking on the fences. It was in T’??chi?, so the snakes were waking up. It was near dusk.” T’??chi? was the Navajo calendar’s equivalent of late March and early April, Bernie knew. The sun set early.
“I saw him walking on the ridge. I wondered what he was doing up there, and I thought that I should tell him to beware of the snakes. But when I looked again, the man was gone. An animal, dark and bigger than a dog, was on the ridge in his place. I remembered it for many months. Then when the weather grew warmer, I saw the car again, parked over that way again.”
He stopped talking for so long she thought he might be finished. When he resumed, she heard the fear in his voice.
“I looked toward the ridge. I saw something up there, something alive, big and black. Not a man. Its eyes glowed like fire. Then, the day the car burned, it happened again.”
Mr. Tso turned his face toward the sky. The last of the sun’s rays gave his skin a pinkish glow. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again.
“It came to me that the creature who rode in that car was not afraid of the snakes because they could not hurt him.”
Bernie heard the muffled sound of a distant vehicle. “Is Aaron coming to see you tonight?”
“No. My daughter said they both will come again on Saturday. Tell me about your mother. Is she still weaving?”
“No. My mother’s hands don’t work very well anymore.”
“She misses it, then. My wife would make rugs until she couldn’t see so well. She sold them to those traders in Fruitland, the Hatch Brothers. She would sit where you are now, and we would talk. She had some sadness that we never had more children, but her sister’s children were ours, too.”
As Mr. Tso talked on about the extended family he and his wife raised and other adventures that happened before Bernie was born, she watched the vehicle make the turn from the highway onto Mr. Tso’s dirt road, a rooster tail of dust rising behind it to hang over the route. At that distance, she couldn’t tell if it was a car or a truck.
The monologue over, Bernie rose. “I enjoy your company, but I need to get going now.”
Mr. Tso stood too, and made his way to the side of the porch. “Look down there. You take those things. Give them to your mother. She’s getting old now. She could use them.”
When Bernie stood next to him, she could see that the little glass boxes on the posts had started to glow. Pretty. They reminded her of light in a jar.
“Maybe your daughter would like them,” she said. “They’re new and useful.”
“You take them. See if they can fit in your car.”
“I can’t take them now because I really need to get to Mama’s house. I’ll get them later.”
“That makes me happy. I have another visit with you to look forward to.”
Mr. Tso sat on the bench again. “That one coming might be a friend of my daughter or my grandson. Sometimes those young men come here looking for him. Sometimes my daughter asks her people to check on me. They want to make sure that I’m still keeping an eye on Tsé Bit’a’í.”
Bernie could see now that the vehicle was a white minivan, exactly the kind of vehicle she’d expect one of Roberta Tso’s middle-aged lady friends to own. If she had left a few minutes sooner, she could have driven off with a wave to whoever was in the car. Now, though, it would be rude not to stay to greet Mr. Tso’s visitor before heading out. A few minutes wouldn’t matter that much. She dreaded the conversation that awaited her with Darleen.
The road stopped at Mr. Tso’s house, except for the rutted track where she’d gotten lost and that Aaron said ultimately led to the highway. There were no occupied homes on the way here. Mr. Tso’s place was not a spot a person came to by accident.
“Could you bring me some water?” Mr. Tso asked.
“Of course.”
“Maybe, if you aren’t tired, you could make us some coffee.”
“I will. Would you like one of those plums, too?”
He smiled. “A soft one. Maybe our visitor will have one also.”
She went into the house, happy that she still had enough daylight to work with without the bother of using his kerosene lamp. Mr. Tso lived in one room, and he was a good housekeeper. His bed was made, the couch clear, and the kitchen area free from clutter. The only thing that seemed out of place was a pile of white papers on the table, a manila envelope next to it.
Bernie added water and some of the coffee she’d brought to the old coffeepot and found a match to light the propane to fire up the burner. She noticed Mr. Tso’s can opener, the old-fashioned kind that involved stabbing into the can with a sharp point and then peeling up the metal along the edge of the circle. The pungent fragrance tempted her to change her mind and make a cup for herself. But no, she wanted to talk to Mama and Darleen before it got too late. She’d say hello to the visitor, let the guest serve the coffee, and be on her way.
She heard the car door open and then a man’s voice speaking English. “Hello, sir.”
She thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar. As she searched for a spoon to measure the coffee, she worked to remember who it was, wondering whom she and Mr. Tso would know in common. Mr. Tso’s bench creaked, and she assumed he was rising to meet the visitor.
“I would have called, but you don’t have a phone. I have to talk to you about something very important, and we don’t have much time. That’s why—”
“Doo yá’ásh da!” Mr. Tso spit out the words.
Why, she wondered, did he think this man was evil, intending to harm him? Was it his dementia?
“I don’t know any Indian.” The stranger’s voice sounded tenser now. “But I’ll take that as welcome. That’s my buddy, Buddy, sniffing around. Hey, hold on there.”
She heard the crack of the shotgun, a high-pitched animal cry, and then, “What the heck? You crazy old coot. Wait a minute now, don’t shoot me.”
Bernie rushed to the porch and pulled the weapon away from Mr. Tso. The elderly man was shaking. “Stop. No more shooting.”
“Yeenaaldlooshii.”
Bernie spoke in Navajo. “No. He’s not a skinwalker.” She looked at the visitor, recognized him. “See, he’s not even Diné.” There might be non-Navajo skinwalkers, but she had never heard of one on the reservation.
Bernie leaned the shotgun against the wall and helped Mr. Tso sit down.
She switched to English. “Mr. Miller, are you OK?”
Miller looked confused and shaken. “He shot at my dog.”
Mr. Tso stared at the porch floor, clearly avoiding the possibility that Miller might look him in the eye. “I saw the yeenaaldlooshii. I shot it.”
Miller stayed where he was. “What’s he talking about?”
“He thinks you and your dog are cursed.”