“Oh, that. Nothing decided there yet. But before we get into religion and politics, well, I need a favor.” Dashee cleared his throat. “I’ve got to tell a family to move some livestock.”
“A Diné family.” Chee said it as a statement, not a question. Many Navajos had been displaced when a court ruled that they had to leave land they had long considered theirs. Some observers believed the problem wasn’t the Navajo or the Hopi, but coal companies that wanted to mine Black Mesa, where the families lived. The US Congress had passed the relocation act, and, agree with it or not, it was an officer’s job to uphold the law.
Dashee rested his fingertips on the edge of the table. “They’re the Bitsois. Mainly the mother lives there, although the children and grandkids show up to help. She only speaks Navajo, or at least that’s what she claims when I try to talk to her. That’s why I need some help.”
Chee cut another bite of fry bread moist with beans and chile. Not the healthiest thing on the planet, but why argue with delicious and warm? The room was warm, too. He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, all the while pondering his answer.
“Don’t you guys have a cop who speaks Navajo?”
“He’s on leave.” Dashee took a spoonful of his stew. “I don’t wanna be the bad guy, but I have to do my job. You know how that goes.”
Chee did know. Sometimes, it really was a matter of someone not speaking English. Sometimes, it was a case where the person knew some, but not enough to serve in complicated conversations. Sometimes, the language issue bought time to figure out a complicated situation.
“We Navajos don’t have any jurisdiction there. That’s your turf.”
“If you could come with me, well, I think it would make it easier on the family. I don’t want to arrest anybody, and having you along to explain things would help.”
“Two cops show up at the place instead of one? Yeah, that always helps people relax.”
Dashee chuckled. “I figured you’d be out of uniform, sort of a translator, explaining the situation to Mrs. Bitsoi and whoever else of the family shows up.”
Chee let the conversation sit as he finished his meal. “When do you need to do this?”
“Soon. Maybe in a day or two. After the protesters get tired.” Dashee grabbed the bill. “I’ll get this.”
“Trying to bribe me?”
“Nah, if I wanted to sweeten the deal, I’d ask you to the Niman dances.” In June, Hopi people living away from their ancestral villages returned to help with the event and visit relatives and friends during the sixteen-day Niman ceremony.
Chee smiled. Dashee invited him every year, but either he or Bernie always, always had had to work. It had become a joke between them. Whatever the day, something happened in Navajoland that kept them from the Hopi mesas. The last time, Dashee said he’d surprise Chee with the date and hope for the best.
The dances, held at the summer solstice, celebrated the departure of the Katsinas, Holy People of the Hopi, for their summer home on the San Francisco Peaks. Chee knew the mountain as Dook’o’oslííd, one of the four sacred mountains that defined the Navajo world and home of Talking God.
Dashee pushed back his chair. “Think about it, will you? I’ve got to go to the Hotel Hopi to stay warm with our delegation until the session starts. You working out there in the cold?”
Chee nodded. “Only until the mediator arrives, then I’m inside as a bodyguard.”
“I thought you drove him to town last night.”
“I mean from the hotel. His clan sister is bringing his dress-up clothes and she’ll give him a lift to the Justice Center.”
“I bet he was nervous as a one-eyed cat after the explosion.”
“You’d lose. He was calm and collected. Bernie said he was upset about his car, but not especially worried about some jerk trying to kill him.”
He watched Dashee make his way across the street, Highway 264, the route to the Hopi Mesas. The other road at this intersection, US Highway 160, marked an informal boundary between the Hopi reservation and the Navajo Nation that surrounded it. Highway 160 stretched up to Colorado and east to Missouri, but in Chee’s mind, this was its most interesting corner.
He called Palmer to check on him and learned everything was fine. Katie had arrived without incident and would drive him to the session in about half an hour. Chee noticed a missed call from Bernie and listened to her voice mail. She had a couple days off and might come to Tuba City. He called her, but her phone went right to message. “Great,” he told the electronic voice. “Can’t wait to see you.”
He walked back to the Justice Center. A few people had gathered outside the building, some bundled up in hats and coats and others less warmly dressed. He noticed a handful of Indians in the mix but didn’t see anyone he recognized. They all had assembled by the main entrance and piled their professional-looking signs on the sidewalk near the front doors: “Save the Confluence,” “Love the Grand Canyon,” “Ban the Resort,” and “Developers = Exploiters.” He wondered if they were from Save Wild America. He assessed the group, looking for a leader. No one stood out.
“You have to step back, folks, and put your signs somewhere else. You can’t block the entrance.”
A potbellied man came up to Chee. “We have a right to protest.”
“You do. But you have to move back so people can safely get into the room for the meeting. We don’t want anyone tripping over one of these sticks. That doesn’t do any good.”
“Did you make up that rule about the sidewalk?” The man wore a short-sleeved shirt. His nose and the tops of his ears had reddened from the icy wind.
Chee memorized the face. “It’s a safety issue and common courtesy.” Looking at the protester made Chee happy he had his jacket. “Where are you from, sir?”
The man looked surprised at the question. “That’s none of your business.”
Wherever the man lived, Chee thought, it fell short on good manners. “Well, welcome to Navajoland.”
“Why do you care where I live?”
“I figured you could be from someplace where it doesn’t get very cold. You might want to put on a hat to protect your ears from frostbite.” It was too warm for frostbite, really, but Chee wanted to make a point.
The man said nothing.
“Those signs need to be off the sidewalk so someone won’t fall over them.” Chee was tempted to add, And lighten up while you’re at it.
The man nudged the pile of signs with his foot, moving them barely to the edge of the sidewalk.
About ten minutes later, an Arizona Highway Patrol car pulled up with a couple of men Chee had seen at the meeting. As discussed, they would take charge of the building’s front entrance and help the Navajo cops with parking lot security.
The taller man, Officer Albert Anderson, turned his back to the civilians and spoke in a low voice. “Are these the activists the captain was talking about?”