Mrs. Bitsoi set her cup on the table. “The dibé and my grandmother’s mother lived here before the law said we could not stay. Our president, he will be down there.” She pointed with a nod of her head toward Tuba City. “I didn’t vote for that man, but he needs to know what’s going on. That’s why we will walk to Tó Naneesdizí.”
Bernie said, “This summer, I saw someone moving her sheep. The dogs tried to keep the flock together, keep them off the highway, but there were too many cars and the road was narrow. Her son was in his truck and he had his flashing lights on to warn drivers, but someone came on the other side, driving too fast, and she couldn’t stop in time to avoid hitting one of the sheep. By the time I got there, the sheep was dead.” The road where she’d seen the disaster was Highway 87, the way to Hopiland from Winslow. But the road Mrs. Bitsoi planned to take her sheep along carried just as much traffic or even more.
Mrs. Bitsoi kept her gaze on her cup.
Bernie said, “I have read about other Diné in the same situation as you. Some of these also resist, but the law has not changed despite their wish that it would.” The Navajo Nation had argued against the land settlement back in the 1970s and lost. When the appeals were exhausted, it was time to move on. “The Hopi policeman who has been talking to you about this. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you or the sheep, but he has to do his job. You told me your job is to take care of the wooly ones out there.”
Mrs. Bitsoi raised her cup to her mouth, took a swallow, then spoke. “My grandmother’s mother, she raised the ancestors of my sheep. She saved a few she loved most from the bad time when so many were killed.”
Bernie knew that many elderlies had experienced firsthand what history books called “livestock reduction.” They remembered watching government agents herd the animals into side canyons and kill them. The meat, which could have fed many families, and the wool, which could have been spun and woven, was left to rot. The old ones probably still saw dead sheep in their nightmares.
When Mrs. Bitsoi spoke again, Bernie heard the determination in her voice. “My grandmother and my mother taught me about the sheep. Sheep are my life, my family. We will stay here. If that Hopi policeman needs to take me to jail, well, what can I do about that?”
Bernie drove back to Tuba City in the dark, feeling like a failure. She thought of another elder of strong opinions, Lieutenant Leaphorn. She’d tried to call him before she left for Mrs. Bitsoi’s place and missed him again. When she got back to the hotel, she’d check her e-mail and see if he’d sent her anything about Rick Horseman’s death.
She had passed Coal Mine Canyon when her phone buzzed. Chee. Finally!
“Honey, where are you?”
“Driving back from Mrs. Bitsoi’s place.”
“So Dashee sweet-talked you, eh?”
“Oh, he knows I have a soft spot for the dibé. But Mrs. Bitsoi didn’t listen to anything I said.”
“Are you close to the hotel?”
“A few miles out. Why?”
“We have to leave for the reception in a few minutes.”
“What reception?”
“For the mediation.” She heard a touch of frustration in his voice. “Did you forget?”
“Do I have to go?”
“Palmer asked me twice if you were coming and I told him yes.”
Before she could object Chee said, “I might need your help. The Arizona officers won’t be there tonight.”
“I hate stuff like this.”
“There will be food. Once the crowd starts to thin out, you can leave.”
“Any news about the Shiprock investigation?”
“Yeah. The group from California—Save Wild America—looks clean in this case. The feds are offering a reward for information.”
“Any more threats to Palmer?” She turned on the car’s heater. The warm air felt wonderful on her frozen toes.
“No. But the heat is out in the building, and it could be sabotage. Palmer canceled tomorrow’s session, but the delegates are going to take a bus out to see the potential hotel site. What happened to Robert spooked him. He must have smoked a pack of cigarettes already today. I’ve called the hospital so much I have them on speed dial.”
“How is Robert?”
“Still in intensive care.”
Bernie remembered the young man’s agitation when he left Cameron after their conversation. “Did I tell you that Robert said Rick’s death was his fault?”
“Why did he say that?”
“He wouldn’t talk about it.” And, she thought, she hadn’t pushed.
Chee said, “Oh, Leaphorn asked us if Palmer was diabetic. I told him yes, so you can ignore it.”
“Odd.”
“I’ll asked him about that when I get a chance. I have to leave for the event in about twenty minutes. Do you want to go with me or meet there?”
“I just pulled into the parking lot. Let’s go together.”
Bernadette Manuelito wasn’t one for fancy clothes, so she was glad she could attend the reception in jeans. She wished she’d brought her special-occasion boots, but wearing the trainers would be more comfortable. Luckily, she had her heart-shaped earrings, the ones Chee’s cousin had crafted. They always made her feel special.
They met Palmer in the lobby. He wore a different white shirt, this one with silver buttons and blue edging around the collar.
“I finally heard from the hospital,” Palmer said. “Robert is still unconscious.”
“I hope he comes out of this OK,” Chee said.
“Me, too.” Bernie decided not to mention the call from Lona.
At the reception, Chee found a seat where he could observe Palmer as he chatted with the delegates and other guests. Bernie surveyed the room, already half filled with attendees.
The food looked delicious, beginning with fry bread, each plate-sized piece separated with paper towels. The hotel staff had filled the shallow aluminum bins on the steam table with other things Bernie liked: pinto beans, ground beef, and corn chips—the makings for Frito pie. She noticed little hot dogs on toothpicks, the sliced tortilla rolls, some with peanut butter and jelly inside and some with what looked like dried beef and cream cheese. She saw barbecue sauce for the hot dogs and chopped onions, red chili sauce, and grated cheese—the toppings to join the beef on the fry bread for a Navajo taco or on the corn chips for Frito pie. Then came the expected bowl of salad greens, virtually untouched. Too bad CS wasn’t here.
At the end of the food parade sat plates of perfectly round cookies, oatmeal on one side and chocolate chip on the other, a platter with grapes and wedges of oranges, and bowls of red Jell-O topped with dollops of whipped cream. A bin of canned soft drinks and a large coffeepot stood at the end.