Dark Reservations by John Fortunato Page A

of story cops shared in the locker room. Hey, you remember old Joe from BIA. He was only ninety days out when …
    He ran on, trying to clear his head. When was his last conversation with Melissa? Wednesday? Had he told her he loved her? He wasn’t sure.
    Another gun shot. Much louder. Closer. Like he was on the range without ear protection. He yelled for Bluehorse and Mark to hold up. He needed to get his bearings.
    â€œSee anything?” he asked.
    Nothing.
    He yelled again into the woods.
    No answer.
    Another gunshot. He zeroed in on the sound and rushed forward, jumping over sage and rabbitbrush. He smelled cordite in the air. That and freshly turned soil. Maybe a little burned wood, too.
    He saw a figure no more than two dozen steps ahead of him. It appeared to be a man. He held a double-barreled shotgun, his back to Joe.
    â€œPolice! Stop firing!”
    The man held the gun to his shoulder. It pointed down to the ground, to a fallen oak in front of him. Another round went off. Deafening. What the hell was he firing at?
    Joe slowed, gun at his chest, muzzle lowered. He didn’t expect to use force, but the man had a firearm. Bluehorse and Mark moved up from Joe’s right. Good. Less chance of cross fire.
    â€œPolice! Stop firing!”
    The man made no movement to indicate he’d heard the command. Instead, he broke the shotgun open and began to eject the two shells. Joe ran up behind him. With his left hand, he grabbed the man’s wrist, disabling the hand that held the shotgun. The man turned and let out a startled yelp. Joe was glad the man hadn’t dropped right there from fright. He was old enough. The warranty on his heart had surely expired a decade earlier. From the deep lines in his face and his urine-colored eyes, wide now from surprise, Joe guessed the old man had watched eighty pass him by a few years back. Hell, maybe even ninety, from the looks of his barren gum line. How had this decrepit old soul been firing a shotgun?
    Bluehorse and Mark came to stand next to Joe.
    They all looked down at the hole in the ground under the oak. A burrow.
    The old man stared at Joe and then at Bluehorse. He gave Bluehorse’s uniform the once-over.
    â€œWhat are you shooting at, Grandpa?” Joe asked, his tone giving the title respect.
    â€œHuh?” The old man cocked his head to the side, so his right ear faced Joe.
    Louder: “What are you shooting at?”
    The old man pointed to the other side of the oak. Joe leaned over for a view. A coyote lay dead on the ground, its body ripped apart from shotgun blasts.
    â€œWhy are you shooting at the hole?”
    â€œHuh?”
    Joe repeated himself, this time closer to the man’s ear. Bluehorse and Mark covered their smiles.
    â€œPups.”
    The old man had been out to exterminate an entire den. Joe didn’t agree with such wholesale slaughter of wildlife, but he knew how the Navajo viewed coyote: bad luck and a nuisance.
    Mark spoke loudly, “Damn, old man, you gave us quite a scare.”
    The old man turned to Mark. “My English bad.”
    Bluehorse spoke to the old man in Navajo while Mark left to tell the others about the situation.
    After a few minutes, Bluehorse filled Joe in on the grandpa.
    â€œHe lives a little east of here. The coyote killed two of his chickens and attacked one of his dogs, almost killed him, too.”
    â€œAsk him about the Lincoln.”
    Bluehorse spoke again in Navajo. His face was practically up against the side of the old man’s head. Several more minutes passed as they talked.
    â€œHe says the car’s been there a long time. Back when Peter MacDonald was president, before he was arrested by the FBI, before the riot. They called the police back then, but no one came out.”
    Joe knew the history. Every BIA agent did. Early in 1989, the then president of the Navajo Nation, Peter MacDonald, was suspended from office following allegations of corruption. On July 20