Cloud Swallower

By David Fowler

A Zuni legend, a 500 year old grudge, fi ve violent deaths, a romantic and cultural reconnection, arson, a Canadian mining company, and identical twin brothers following different, confl icting paths to aid in the survival of their Northern New Mexico pueblo all form the tapestry of this book Cloud Swallower

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 10, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469117683

David Fowler

This message should inspire you to find your God given talent and apply it to your life. The author applied his talent to achieve the dreams of his own life. He is a published poet in the National Library of Congress in Washington D.C. He is known for spiritual and carnal messages. His main passion is poetry and you can find some of his writings at www.originalpoetry.com, where he enjoys sharing his talent, under the pen name redbloodink.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

When the world was young, they say, a giant lived in the cliffs above Canon de Chelly. The food he lived on was human beings, and he caught the clouds and squeezed them into his mouth for drink. The people called him Swallower of Clouds, and the bravest of the men tried to destroy him. However, anyone who went to kill the giant was never seen again. The Hero Twins saw what was happening. We will go and kill Swallower of Clouds.

Zuni

The 1963, yellow Ford truck sped northward through New Mexico’s

Arrojo County. It swerved to the left and to the right of the white center line. At one moment it was on the brink of catastrophe, and then, in the next moment, it rededicated itself to the journey ahead. The headlights, weak from over thirty years of service, were just barely able to probe the darkness at 1:00 A.M.

The truck shuddered over this uneven road as it was pushed to perform beyond its capability. Outside the truck’s cab, the early morning April air was cold and dry. Inside it was hot and steamy. The smell of beer, sweat, and hate filled the gray interior. The driver and passenger roared at each other in unbridled anger.

You bastard, you will never get away with this! I go to them tomorrow and you are finished, you hear me, finished! The passenger screamed at the driver.

The driver instantaneously turned toward the rider and struck him with his right fist. Fuck you!

A sudden high pitched squeal of tires broke the morning stillness of this high desert country as the truck fishtailed and then jerked to a halt. The smell of burnt rubber tainted the air.

Get the fuck out you drunken shit! Your not going to tell anyone anything! The driver quickly turned in his seat and brought his right booted foot up to kick at the face and chest of the rider.

The passenger door flew open, heated air spilled out to meet the cold. The rider tumbled out through the haze and landed on his back. He rolled to his right side and slowly pushed off the sandy shoulder of the road and lurched to his feet. In one last angry declaration, he grabbed the truck’s door with both hands and flung it at the cab’s frame.

A car burst out of the darkness behind them and hurtled past, the headlights skimmed the yellow truck, and for an instant, revealed the man who stood along side. A moment later, a second car sped by. As if by reflex, the truck burned rubber off the back wheels as the driver moved to as fast a get away as the old Ford could muster. As the truck sped northward, the silhouette of a raised middle finger was caught between the dashboard lights and the oval, rear cab window. Through his blurred vision, the lone figure recognized the finality of that gesture and watched as the truck’s red taillights were swallowed up by the darkness.

As he tried to focus, he saw that he was next to one of the many short, low highway bridges over one of the hundreds of dry arroyos that meander their way to the Rio Grande River. He knew this road well, for he had traveled it many times to and from his pueblo. Part of it ran through a valley full of orchards originally planted in the sixteenth century by the first Spanish settlers.

He tried to stop the night from spinning more out of his control and sat on the cold pavement, his back against the metal bridge railing. At six thousand feet, in high desert country, the early spring morning chill began to work through the beer and the anger. The man stood up disoriented and shivering. A cold wind penetrated his blue, fleece jacket and worn out jeans. He pulled his black cowboy hat down tighter on his aching head and jammed his long black hair into the space between his neck and his jacket collar. Old, thinly soled cowboy boots couldn’t keep out the cold of the cement pavement. The shivering became more violent as his muscles jerked in short, random spasms. His beer soaked brain somehow managed two thoughts: hypothermia, find shelter. He had to get out of this wind, and as quickly as he could, he slid down the dirt embankment to the arroyo. He was forced to crouch as he made his way under the low bridge. His world spun.

The vomit burst from his mouth, spraying the concrete retaining wall, and then again his evening’s gluttony rushed from deep inside him to spill out on the sandy bottom of the wash. Later, dry heaves came one after exhausting other. The back of his throat burned. Hunched forward on his knees, his head rested on the sandy gravel. Despite a certain numbness, he could feel each small pebble of the sandy wash pressing against his forehead.

He felt the vibration through his skull first; the pebbles acted as transmitters. Then he heard the hum of a vehicle. It approached the bridge, and stopped. A chance to get out of here? His head throbbed body drained of energy. Painfully he shifted into a crouched position, and dug his hands into the sandy gravel for support. Every pebble was like a needle that pressed into his flesh. Nausea swept over him; he sank back to his knees. On the bridge above him, he heard the unconcerned idle of the vehicle’s engine. In one mighty effort, he pushed up off the sandy bottom, got his legs under him, and heaved himself upward. Instantaneously, he smashed his head into one of the steel beams on the underside of the bridge.

Back on his knees, he fought unconsciousness. Warm blood flowed down his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and into his half open mouth, the warm, salty taste comforting. The crunch of gravel behind him brought him into a fuller consciousness. He turned his aching head and looked over his right shoulder. His hands now buried in the gravel, still supported his weight. A look of surprised recognition came across his bloodied face as a bent figure come toward him and slowly came into focus.

CHAPTER 1

Jack White Deer started his morning routine. It was 6:30 A.M. on Tuesday, April 11, when the door of his white and tan trailer flew open. Two young dogs burst out of the trailer through the metal frame of a screen door whose thin wire mesh they had long ago shredded. The German Shepherd, Wolf, grabbed Red Dog, a mix of Rhodesian Ridge Back and local mystery, by her collar and drove her into a frenzy of growls, barks and whimpers. Close behind the dogs came a husky man, six feet tall in his sheep skin slippers, who implored Wolf, as he did every single morning, not to harass Red Dog. To keep out the morning chill, he wore black fleece sweat pants and a thick, worn, white wool sweater with a large, green letter D on the front. Jet black hair fell loosely over his broad shoulders and framed a handsome, brown oval face.

This morning he was tired. He had arrived home at 1:30 A.M. after a long weekend, which included Monday, up north, fishing the San Juan River. He liked to be out of touch and had left his cell phone at home, had not read the weekend news, and had not checked his answering machine, despite the blinking light.

He stood still for a moment as his dark, brown eyes looked east to the Sangre de Cristo mountains. He raised both arms above his head and whispered, I am a bear. I hold up my hands waiting for the sun to rise. As soon as the sun touched his face, Jack White Deer moved to open the chicken coup to let his eighteen free range chickens move into a small fenced in orchard. The chickens were a recent cause of embarrassment for Jack. Last year’s purchase of early spring chicks had turned into sixteen roosters and two incredibly harassed hens. Something had to be done about this, but not today. He moved onto the orange newspaper holder and collected the Santa Fe New Mexican. Back in the trailer, he yelled a good morning to his African Gray parrot, Caliente, who responded with her usual, Buenos Dias.

Jack opened Caliente’s cage presented his index finger followed by the command—Step up. Jack never was sure if the bird would step onto his finger or clamp down with her powerful beak. This morning she stepped on to Jack’s finger and was transported to a perch near the stove. To Caliente’s repeated word yum, yum, Jack fixed a breakfast of scrambled eggs covered with green chile, two pieces of toast, coffee and orange juice. He always shared his meals with the bird. The trailer door was kept open. Jack liked to feel the crisp New Mexico spring air as it warmed.

He was midway through his first cup of black coffee and still on the front page of the paper when he saw a familiar name. Robert Aviles was his best friend. They had just worked on the first phase of training for the members of the Yuqui Pueblo’s environmental office in the use of biological techniques to determine the health of their rivers. Surprise turned to shock and disbelief as he read out loud to Caliente.

Pueblo member found dead and mutilated. His right foot severed just above the ankle. My God, Jack thought, they haven’t even found the foot. Jack noted further that the State Office of the Medical Investigator (OMI) still hadn’t released the cause of death. Pueblos were sovereign nations, thus the office had no jurisdiction over Indians. The BIA and the family must have asked for an autopsy. No cheap request. It costs about$2500.

Robert Aviles had attended a party Sunday night, April 9, at the San Fidencio Pueblo with his twin brother Barney Aviles. Jack shook his head. He knew Barney.The brothers had not gotten along recently. He turned back to the article.

Apparently, due to continued argument between the brothers on the drive home, Barney Aviles left his brother off near the site where the body was found. Damn, Jack thought, they must have been very drunk and very angry. Jack continued to read out loud to Caliente. She cocked her head in mock understanding.

Barney Aviles returned to the site Monday, April tenth, at 9:30 A.M. and found the body.

Jack also noted that his friend Major Enrique Españosa of the state police worked the case.

This is Tuesday. Why hadn’t somebody called him? Then he remembered the blinking light of his answering machine. He saw that three calls had come in. He pushed the button. There were calls from his father, his friend, Major Españosa of the state police, and Carl Methoon of the Yuqui environmental office. They had called with the same message: Jack’s best friend had been found dead and mutilated.

Jack was intimate with the Yuqui Pueblo and the Aviles family. Jack, Barney, and Robert Aviles, and even Major Españosa had all gone to the same high school. Jack, however, was closer to Robert than to Barney since they had spent two full summers together when they had volunteered to do environmental work at Jack’s pueblo, Pueblo Verde.

Before Jack had time to reread the newspaper article, his phone rang. He checked his watch, 8:45 A.M., Tuesday, April 11. By the third ring, Jack had finally found the portable phone.

Jack, this is Enrique. Where have you been? You heard what happened to Robert?

Jack could feel his throat tighten. It had been only last week when they both had such a great time together. He had loved Robert as a brother.

I know. I just read about it. How could a thing like this happen? I got in early this morning from a solo fishing trip to the San Juan. I just heard your earlier message. I can’t believe Robert is dead. I just did some work for him at the Yuqui Pueblo. We even got a chance to go fly fishing on the Rio Grande.

I know how much you cared for him. You know Barney is in Jail? Enrique asked.

For what?

He was the one that dropped him off and later returned to find Robert. He called the police. Still wasted from the night before, he gave the police some crap. They threw his butt in the Arrojo County jail.

Jack shook his head. His hot temper never did him any favors.

I tell you, Jack. I have come to believe it’s almost impossible to change a person’s personality.

Barney isn’t a suspect, is he?

Not yet, but while he is in jail, there will be follow up on him.

We sure are all a long way off from those high school days together, Jack noted.

He felt he needed time to absorb this tragedy. Jack ended the conversation. I’ll see you later, Enrique. Thanks for the call.

Bueno.

Before he could down the last of his now cold breakfast, the phone rang again. He picked the phone up, as he quickly gave the breakfast remains to Caliente.

Jack. This is Barney Aviles.

Barney sounded totally relaxed. Jack knew he would react very differently if he was in jail.

I just heard about Robert. I’m so sorry.

This is my one phone call. Jack, I need your help. I know you have worked with Robert. I also realize we have not seen each other in years, but I have always trusted you.

Jack was quick to respond. I’ll do whatever I can.

I’m in the Arrojo jail. Right here with that prick, Sheriff Archuleta, who used to bully us all. The state police will keep me here as long as they can while they try to complete the investigation of the crime scene and get the autopsy report. I know they think I strangled and mutilated my brother. Murder and mutilation—for Christ’s sake! It was a rotten mess. I wouldn’t do that to my own brother, but there are no witnesses. They know that we didn’t get along, and then there was this argument at the party. All this has left me as a good suspect.

How can I help? Jack paused while he tried to refer back to a course he had taken at Dartmouth College on criminal law. The police can’t hold you in jail unless they charge you.

Barney hesitated. I was still a little drunk from the party. I didn’t think straight. My brother dead and cut up like that. When the staties responded to my call, I didn’t like their line of questions. It sounded as if they thought I was guilty! I was the one that reported the situation to the cops! I got a little physical when they wanted to get me in a patrol car and hit one of the cops. So I am in jail. On top of that, they looked up my record. Not good. A couple of DUI’s, driving without a license, and parking tickets not paid. I need your help. You must know some lawyers. I need a good Indian lawyer.

Jack felt drained. He had to work his mind into action to come up with a tangible way to help Barney.

I knew a student at Dartmouth, a Navajo, who was on her way to becoming a lawyer. That was four years ago, but I have tried to follow her career, and I think she lives in Ship Rock. Her name is Elizabeth Begay. I’ll see if I can locate her. If she can’t help, maybe she can refer someone else to me.

Thanks, Jack, I hope you have luck soon.

I’ll start now and get back to you.

CHAPTER 2

Fifty year old Floyd Sienno, a representative of the Stoga Mining

Company of Canada, his fleshy body shoe-horned into a shiny, blue silk suit had just finished a 7:00 A.M. breakfast of Huevos Rancheros at the La Fonda hotel in Santa Fe. He was a formidable presence, two hundred forty pounds of readjusting fifty year old flesh, six feet tall, with a butch haircut that topped a round, ruddy, puffy face. His watery blue eyes revealed nothing except his drinking habits. He sat in the corner of this bar/breakfast room, a dark room located deep in the interior of the hotel. Sienno noticed only one other customer who sat at the bar, but he couldn’t tell if he still used the place as a bar or for an early breakfast. As he put down Tuesday’s, April 11, newspaper, he shook his head in disbelief. He lit his fourth cigarette of the morning and finished off his third cup of black coffee. His mind was in a state of serious over activity. He sat back, closed his eyes and tried to steady his nerves. The seven thousand feet of altitude, breakfast stimulants, and the news he had just read caused a spell of rapid heavy breathing. Finally, Sienno had caught his breath, but he still kept his eyes shut. Behind his closed eyelids, he saw the events of one o’clock Monday morning played out before him.

At that same moment, in the town of Salcedo, thirty minutes north of Santa Fe, two teenagers, Ernesto Baca and Nicholas Archuleta, had just finished their breakfast of bean burritos smothered in cheese and green chili. They were outside Alicia’s Restaurant. Both leaned on Nicholas’s low rider, a bright blue coupe, red flames painted on the sides, a picture of La Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe painted on the hood. They were tough looking kids. A thin Ernesto Baca had his brown hair cut very short, a pair of expensive sunglasses hid his dark, nervous eyes. His face was thin and angular, but even with a small mustache and scrawny goatee, he looked younger than his eighteen years. Despite the cold spring morning, he wore a black silk shirt, the top two buttons left open to reveal a hairless brown chest highlighted by a gold cross that dangled from a thick gold chain around his neck. His black pants hung tentatively from his hips. A steel chain was connected from his pant belt loop to a black leather wallet in the back pocket. Double heeled, steel toed, black work boots gave him two more inches in height.

Nicholas Archuleta was bigger and one year older. In his black motorcycle boots he stood five feet ten inches. He was thicker through the body. Dressed all in black from his boots to his backward turned Raider’s cap, he seemed a more ominous figure than his friend. His black mustache and full goatee made him look much older than Baca. His long, black hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail. Tuesday’s, April 11 newspaper lay open on the hood of the car.

Baca’s head moved in the direction of the paper. Hey bro. This is the best that could have happened.

Si, those bastard Indios and their anti Oñate Popéans have done enough damage. They can’t change five hundred years of history. We rule! Their clench right fists touched in celebration. Now, one brother is involved in the death and mutilation of his twin brother. Perfecto. He folded his arms across his black shirt.

Baca had a quicker sense of the reality, and his voice was suddenly less strident.

The cops will probably start poking around Salcedo. They look our way every time something happens.

Archuleta smirked. But, bro.They won’t find anything in this dump of a town, just a bunch of Chicanos.

"Si, but whenever the cops try to find one thing, they seem to find something else. Remember that drug raid?