Dark Reservations by John Fortunato Page B

of that same year, MacDonald, unhappy with his own removal, led a group of supporters to take over the Navajo administration building in Window Rock, Arizona. The few Navajo police officers who responded to control the crowd and protect property were attacked by supporters; three lost their weapons, one of which was used in a shoot-out between supporters and the police. In the end, two people were killed and several officers wounded.
    â€œHe stays away from the car,” Bluehorse said, “because evil spirits walk there.”
    â€œWhy does he think that?”
    Bluehorse translated. The old man’s answer was long, his voice quiet, as though he didn’t like the subject.
    Bluehorse’s voice had a touch of excitement. “There was blood on the seats when he found the car. The front seat, he thinks, but he’s not sure because it was so long ago. That was why he called the police. He remembers the bullet hole in the door, but the ones in the windshield were from his son, Leon, years later, after the car had been stripped. His son had just been goofing around.” Now his voice turned somber. “He thinks the car was bad luck for his son, who killed himself a few years later. The old man thinks it was because his son had disrespected the spirits.”
    S EPTEMBER 25
    S ATURDAY , 12:51 P.M.
    R ESIDENCE OF H AWK R USHINGWATER , C HINLE (N AVAJO N ATION ), A RIZONA
    Hawk Rushingwater, known as Dwight Henry before he broke ties with the American Indian Movement and founded Navajo NOW, tore open the envelope and extracted a handwritten letter and a check. He tossed the letter to Sleeping Bear, who sat across from him at the battered kitchen table. A small battery-powered radio sat on the counter behind them. A woman announcer reported the news in Navajo.
    â€œTen bucks.” He flung the check to Sleeping Bear. It fluttered to a rest next to the bookkeeper’s beer. “Donations are way down. We need publicity.”
    Sleeping Bear read the letter. “A Girl Scout in Green Bay held a cupcake sale.”
    â€œWrite her back. Tell her to try selling magic brownies. Bigger profit margins.”
    Nightwind, who sat on the couch reading a comic book, laughed. Then he coughed. He took a hit from his bong, long and deep. He coughed again and went back to reading.
    â€œWe could do a podcast,” Sleeping Bear said. “Maybe a video of you talking about the UN project.”
    â€œYeah, I like that. Like our own news channel on the Internet. Maybe we can boycott something, too. Something controversial. Beer distributors.” Rushingwater took a deep breath and pushed out his chest. “I call upon the righteous to take up our cause and put a stop to the annihilation of our people and the pervasion of capitalism. The beer industry has targeted Native American communities for genocide.”
    â€œPerversion,” Sleeping Bear said.
    Nightwind laughed. Rushingwater turned, lip curled, ready to attack, but Nightwind was laughing at his comic.
    Sleeping Bear downed the rest of his warm beer, stood, and made his way to the bathroom, a five-gallon Home Depot bucket at the other end of the trailer. He stumbled only once.
    Rushingwater watched Nightwind reading. Then something the radio announcer said caught his attention. Congressman Edgerton. Rushingwater tilted his head as though the idea formulating inside was too heavy for his neck. He grinned, a big toothy grin.
    S EPTEMBER 25
    S ATURDAY , 1:01 P.M.
    J ONES R ANCH R OAD , C HI C HIL T AH (N AVAJO N ATION ), N EW M EXICO
    Mark was back inside the Lincoln, rechecking his bullet-trajectory rig, when Joe returned to the scene. Bluehorse had accompanied the old man home so he could talk with his wife. It was unlikely she had any additional information, but it was best to be thorough.
    If the old man was telling the truth—and Joe had no reason to doubt him—then something had happened in this vehicle. Something bad. Blood put a