Chapter 4 To Indian Country

The Run to Farmington

It was about four hundred miles for the run to Farmington.  They fitted out three pickups with a trailer; one carried a gas tanker with about seventy gallons, and another truck was a diesel - they could pick up diesel on the way; and a nice new rough-country auto.

One truck was a beaut, a rancher's pride - a brand-new Ram Pickup, top-shelf, 6.2 liter.  A present from Captain Trips, through the dealership down in Denver.

They took a summer route down by Pagosa Springs, up across Del Norte and South Fork.  The drive was beautiful late Spring in the Rockies; the flatlanders kept wanting to rubberneck, and lookie-loo on the way.  There was time for that on the return.

They had five Westerners along - Montanan and Wyoming fellas, who were joyful to get out of the frying-pan flatlands - Jack Sokoloff and Walsh; three Coloradans - Wayne Sandoval and Seth Locklear, two who lived in the mountains, and a flatland medic from Fort Collins, Tony Westerfield, who could keep his mouth from running most of the time; Judy, of course, she was the organizer of the little expedition, and a quiet older fella out of Jemez Springs.  He still went up for elk with his grandsons; not young enough for heavy lifting, but he would be fine.  His name was Martinez.

They hauled out by six AM, "to beat the traffic," said Westerfield, and then prudently shut up for the rest of the trip, to everyone's approbation.  Still, Westerfield was banished to drive the car solo for the first part of the trip - the fear of a Chatty Cathy on a seven-hour trip filled everyone with dismay.

The car was for the nice things, the gifts and such.  The heavy gifts and other stuff went in one of the pickups.  Ten thousand rounds of .30-06 and a thousand each of shotgun, bird in various gauges.  A thousand .308 for the odd long-gun round.  Plenty of medicines, especially antibiotics, bandages and dressings, scrubs and gloves and disinfectant.  Folks who live in a part of the country where the Plague still exists, do appreciate their disinfectant.

Plague, actually, beats down quite well with tetracycline.  Get it at the horse and cattle supply; it's no different than the people stuff.  Of course, the FDA and CDC would scream and holler if they thought people were using horse drugs.  In sad irony, there WAS no FDA or CDC anymore, they'd been wiped out by a plague that was their own damn fault, sort of.

Hard candies, stuff that would do well out in the truck; some sugar and flower, and nice spices here and there. Cumin and oregano are always welcome.  A couple bags of pinto beans and some rice, and dried corn.  A little masa harina, a little nice cooking oil, some canned goods here and there.

Into Center, Colorado

They rolled down the valley into Center near Alamosa in late morning; stopped for a piss, gas and nibble, and a well-deserved stretch, and a little shopping.  Not much there, but it was the produce aisle, sure.

If you were the only people left in the world, which they damn near were, and had never seen the Alamosa basin and the San Luis valley, you might suspect that you were in the middle of the world, ringed by high mountains still bonneted with snow.

Taters weren't up yet, but some carrots were fine, and some tomatoes.  Twenty, thirty pounds in the back of the car, which was cool enough with the windows down to bring vegetables.  Sidestepped Durango, and made it down to Aztec by three.  They picked up the gorgeous Animas that ran down out of Durango and followed into town.

Into Aztec, NM

They stopped in town for a pee and a stretch.  The town, like everyplace, was utterly vacant and without a hint of life; the tumbleweeds blew marvelously through the hot streets.  They drew the trucks into a circle up at the Wal-Mart parking lot in Aztec, and heated up some canned black beans and carrots over a small campfire in a grassy island.  No chance of a fire going anywhere, surrounded by a dozen acres of asphalt.

Jack had rode down with Judy all the way, and when she went off for a girl pee, he muttered - "You know, that gal don't say three, four words all the way down.  It's unusual, but I been looking forward for some one to talk to."

They all had ten years on her, Mr. Martinez thirty; but she was the purpose of this whole trip, and had an air of command that was surprisingly smooth and effective for an expedition of rugged and independent men.

She come back, and Tony , Doc - he wasn't a real doc, but he had been a combat medic, and all the company called him Doc - anyhow, Doc/Tony whispered,  "Something's making me feel kinda funny."

Walsh roared at that.  "Something's making you look kinda funny, too, but you should blame your parents."

Doc flipped him the bird, friendly-like, and said - "You gettin' a feel - how empty Aztec is here now?"

Sandoval looked at him all straight, and said, "We've been meaning to tell you, son.  There's been a real bad epidemic called Captain Trips...Are you just picking up on that, 'migo?  Walsh snorted a bean out his nose, and rolled back, grabbing for his bandanna and laughing.

"No, I mean - fuck you - I mean, kinda TOO empty - like we're being watched?"

Judy spoke up.  "Mr. Westerfield's right.  We are being watched."  She always called them Mister Somebody - a blend of Western manners and commander's protocol.

"We come in to Navajo lands, and we best be on our good behavior.  I haven't talked to an Indian since the epidemic, and they've gotta be twice as jumpy as we are.  Whatever we come across, we have to back down, turn the other cheek, be nonviolent no matter what.  If something goes down, that will keep us alive."

They all nodded, solemnly. If you didn't look at her, or pay attention to the pitch of her voice, she was damned good at command.  That's for sure.

Farmington, NM.

They all pulled over on the side of the road just before the "Welcome to Farmington!" sign, a puff of hot dust marking their arrival.

Judy hopped out and faced north, and they all assembled in front of her.  A few dropped to parade rest, not really thinking about it.  They waited for her to start out.

"As you know, we're here to get to know our neighbors, or establish diplomatic relations for the Free Zone, or whatever you want to call it."

"We go into Farmington, and get towards the west side of town on Main Street.  We look around for a good hotel that's worth using - they're all pretty near downtown."

"If you've been riding with a holster or sidearm, disarm and put everything in the car, if there's room.  Don't wear a duster, nothing but a denim jacket.  People will be watching you, and they will want to know if you're armed.  From now on, all weapons stay in the hotel.  If a firearm is discharged in town, we turn around and go back home, if we make it that far."

"If you see anyone watching you, ignore them.  Don't wave, and don't react if you hear any noises after dark.  We are in a reasonably safe place.  React to nothing - and you won't get hurt."

She paused, as the men started looking around at each other, uneasily.  She was asking them to place all their safety, all their trust in her hands.  And when it all boiled down to the beans, she was a twenty-year-old girl.  But there wasn't a damn thing else to do.

"Okay?" and she waited for any questions.  There were none.


"We settle in to the hotel a bit, unpack our personal belongings.  The Ram's loaded up with gifts and presents, and tarped down nicely, thankya, gentlemen.  None of the perishables are in it - no medicine or fresh produce.  We run down main street, fill it up and gas up the car - we can do that with the other trucks, but maybe later." 

"Mr. Sandoval, Mr. Martinez, clear your stuff from the Ram at the hotel.  About one hour after we arrive, take the Ram west on the 64 out of town.  Watch for a sign that says "Welcome to the Navajo Reservation.  Stop the truck on pavement, off-road if you can find it.  Don't cross the border - stop in the road if you have to.  I'll be following in the car.  That's where we leave the truck."

 "Do we need a detail to unload?"

"No.  We just leave the whole thing there, including the truck."

"You're giving them THE TRUCK, too?"  Ben Martinez pissed off.  They had picked out the best truck that they could find from the new stock in Denver.  It had just turned 500 miles.  It still had the new truck smell.  Wayne Sandoval turned and began woefully wiping the bugs off the windshield where the wipers hadn't got.  They looked like mourners wiping down a hearse.  That was a nice truck.

"Leave the truck, engine off and keys clipped on the door with a carabiner.  Unlocked."

"Is it going to be safe?" asked Tom Westerfield, always a flatlander.  "What if somebody steals it?"

Jack Sokoloff chuckled.  "Tom, IT'S gonna be fine.  IT'S gonna be around next week.  Your little pink ass, though, can't say for sure."

Jack went on.  "We're in Indian Country now, Tom.  Don't you get it?  We're at their home, and our safety is entirely dependent on our hosts.  We've rolled in unexpectedly.  Let them do what they do, on their time."

Judy nodded, as Tom offered, "Is it really proper to call it Indian Country?  I mean, shouldn't we be saying..."

Ben Martinez chimed in, "Dammit, leave all that Boulder PC horseshit at home.  Indians call Indians 'Indians' out this way, and call it 'Indian Country' or 'the Big Rez' or whatever they damn well want.  They're not on notice for our political correctness.  They're asking whether or not to let us leave alive.  White folks have been nimble with the fucking words for hundreds of years.  Where'd that get the Indian folk?  Don't call them Indians - don't call them Native Americans.  In fact, just shut up and speak when you're spoken to.  Friendly tip from a Hispano-American.  Don't be a gabacho."

Walsh, just for mostly to shake off the boredom and the aches of the road, put to boot in a little, too.  He hadn't been asked to be on his best behavior since last time he went to church.  That had been a while.

"Do you know anything about the real history of the Indians in the Southwest?  I hope to God you don't.  Captain Trips has called for closin' time and pay up, and it's the Anglo folks that pretty much gone broke and walked away.  White folks means Europeans too, ain't no difference.  Ain't no sympathy gonna that get you, anyhow.  We've walked in, and we're at their disposal.  So dummy up."

Now, nobody disliked Tom, don't get me wrong.  They were all nervous, and tired and grouchy, and needed to shake off a bit of the trail.  They'd be up sitting around, having a small nip of the fine stuff, just fine.  Except Judy. She looked like the kind of gal that didn't drink, and to tell the truth, they were all a little in awe of her.  She slid into the role of Commanding Officer, god-knows-how and hallelujah!  did it fit her fine.  Every day's a jump ball, in the New Way of Things.

Plus, she seemed to want to get rid of the Walkin' Talkin' Hardcase more than anybody; that fit just fine.  Mother Abagail seemed to like her.  That made everything copacetic, coupé septique, Mamaw might say.

So it was done.  And the evening and the morning were the first day in the Land of the Diné.