The Wham Curse

By Virgil Alexander

A legendary cold case from Arizona history may help solve the suspicious death of an Apache boy in this mystery series debut.

More than a century ago, Maj. Joseph Wham was killed during a payroll robbery in Arizona Territory. The case was never solved, leaving behind a legacy of death and distrust. Now the mysterious killing of a young Apache boy has local law enforcement wondering if the tragic incident might be connected to the curse of Major Wham’s lost payroll.

For Dep. Bren Allred and Apache Tribal Policeman Allen Victor, the nineteenth-century mystery may be their only hope for justice. But the two law officers must contend with local politics, cultural differences, and limited resources.

As dangers mount, so does their list of suspects—which includes ranchers, activists, and an unknown horseman. Against the expansive backdrop of historic places, open vistas, Native American culture, and rural life, The Wham Curse tells an authentic tale of the Old and New West.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Dec 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781504090124

Virgil Alexander

Virgil Alexander is an award-winning author who bases his writing in the American Southwest, where he has lived and worked his entire life. In addition to his five-book Deputy Allred & Apache Officer Victor series, Alexander has written about Western history for numerous magazines, newspapers, webpages, museums, and the Arizona History Convention. He was also the co-editor of Miami: A History of the Miami Area, Arizona.

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9781504090124.jpg

the wham curse

deputy allred & apache officer victor

Virgil Alexander

Chapter 1

The Southeastern boundary of the San Carlos Apache Indian reservation in central Arizona is located in a remarkable mixing and jumbling of geology, as if the Apache ga’an (mountain spirits) had stirred these ranges, mesas, canyons, plateaus, and broad valleys with huge trowels into a great practical joke on puny man. Among these features, seemingly occurring with total randomness along canyons and washes, are peculiar cliffs consisting of large river rocks of many types and colors mixed into a matrix of hard pale-tan caliche.

The cliffs have a rugged texture consisting of many protruding rocks and holes of varying size and depth where boulders have been eroded free of their surrounding matrix. Some rocks fell long ago to the sand wash below the cliffs and some remain in their little cave created by wind and rain. These holes are used by insects, snakes, rodents, and birds as nesting places. And sometimes by man as a place to stow or hide something.

Earl Boy Begay lived in his grandma’s home on the reservation and often played and explored along the bottom of these cliffs. He liked nothing better than mysterious places. He was close enough to Klondike Road that he would occasionally hear a ranch truck or school bus, but far enough from it to be free of the choking dust. Sometimes Boy would find bird nests, small animal dens, or interesting insects in them—sometimes only rocks and dust. Today, after using the steps provided by lower holes and protruding rocks, eight feet up in one of the larger holes, he found a cloth bag. As he pulled on the old canvas, it tore and a few silver and gold coins fell out, one falling to the sand below him.

Boy pushed away from the wall, landing on his feet, and scooped up a silver dollar, looking in amazement at what he had found, comprehending only that it was something unusual. He smelled a horse a moment before his world went black and he crumpled to the ground with the force of a large rock smashing the top of his skull.

The horseman had thrown the rock at point blank range into the young Apache’s head. It was an improvisation; a crime of convenience. The rock was there and should knock the Indian out and look like an accidental rock fall. Among his other limitations, the young Apache had poor hearing, so he never heard any sound as the horse drew close, the sand muffling the hooves; and the angle of the sun kept the area near the cliff in shadow so there was no change in light as Boy was approached.

The horseman didn’t know how unnecessary the attack was. His assault on the teenager was a reaction to seeing the gold and silver coins spill from the bag. Standing in the stirrups and using his jacket to contain the coins and scraps of canvas, he carefully removed every coin, the remnants of the bag, and every lose thread. He brushed away any sign that anything had been in the hole, and wiped some of the rocks and gravel from the top of the hole, letting them fall to the bottom, giving it a more natural look. He then turned his horse tightly back in the way he had come and tied him to a palo verde a hundred yards away. The money was much heavier than he had anticipated and he worried that it might tear through his jacket. He set the bundle on the bank and tied it with a dally he had on his saddle.

It was going to be hard to carry this, but he wasn’t about to leave it. He pulled off his boots and carefully went back to where the boy lay. He never touched him, but filled in the hoof prints and those of his stocking feet with sand. He was careful but fast for fear the victim would regain consciousness before he could get away from the scene. Surveying his work, he was pleased that he was leaving what could only be taken as an accident scene.

Manuel Manny Sanchez was the newest addition to the Graham County Sheriff’s Office. He had recently earned an AAS degree in Administration of Justice with a 4.0 GPA & Phi Theta Kappa from Eastern Arizona College where he had also worked as a part-time campus policeman. He had received his Arizona Law Officers Certification. The Sheriff had a process for initiating inexperienced law officers into the work that included weekly shooting range and martial arts training, spending two months with the dispatcher, three months on jail duty, and three months working with a deputy on normal patrol duty. At the end of this 8 month apprenticeship, he would place them into the regular schedule as he determined best.

The Sheriff found Manny to be a fast learner, willing to follow orders, properly cautious, very knowledgeable in the basics of police work, and really good in martial arts and weapons proficiency. Though he was only 5’8" tall and 170 pounds, he was fit and pretty much all muscle. He had been an all around athlete in high school and was rated near the top in the state as a wrestler and boxer. He was compact and had an athletic, confident bearing; yet he was remarkably pleasant and agreeable. With dark brown, tending toward red, hair, nearly black eyes, and a boyishly handsome face, it was obvious from the reaction of the females in the office that women found him attractive. Very quiet, very intelligent, very disciplined, and great self control. This was a good one.

In Manny’s case his first assignment worked out wonderfully, for he was placed on patrol duty, which is what he wanted. Even better, he was assigned the remote southwest corner of the county. He had a four wheel drive SUV assigned to him and he could pretty much go wherever he wanted on his beat, which happens to be one of the most interesting areas in the world to explore. This is an area of natural wilderness, interesting geology, inspiring topography, dotted with a few incursions of civilization, mostly in the form of scattered ranches, abandoned mining camps, and historic points of interest.

He moved out of his parent’s home in Solomon against their protests, with the argument that he had to live near his work. It was tough because Momma was already upset that he was a policeman; far too dangerous. He rented a small trailer house in Klondyke for a very reasonable amount and now had his own place for the first time. He told Momma that there was virtually no crime in his assigned area.

The downsides were that there was no place to eat, no place to even buy food, and no opportunity for a social life. The country store that he remembered was still there, but had apparently been closed for quite some time. So he would have to buy things in town and cook for himself.

He would eventually fall into a pattern of eating with his family two or three times a week and Momma always sent food with him, so he fared all right. As for social life, he would occasionally ask a girl to dinner or a movie, but since Jenny had moved to Flagstaff to attend university after graduating from EAC, he wasn’t as interested in a social life. He felt pretty lost without her; he considered her his best friend, but she was certainly more than that.

They became fast friends after he stood up for her when other kids in the eighth grade were making fun of her name, calling her man dragon and the Dragon Lady. He said that he thought the unusual name Mondragon (mon-druh-gon with a long o sound in two syllables) was beautiful and lyrical.

The lyrical part confused the less intellectual teasers and Manny’s toughness discouraged further teasing. She told him it was a Basque name, ahd she was impressed that he knew the Basques were from the mountains between Spain and France and spoke a non-Spanish language. He never dreamed he would miss her as he had for the last eight months.

His thoughts on the pros and cons of the job always ended with the pros. Two big pros were the computer and the locale. The SO (Sheriff’s Office) gave him a new laptop with satellite connectivity, plus he would have lots of opportunity to explore historic sites. He would spend some time at the ghost town of Aravaipa, the Spenazuma mine-fraud site, and old Camp Goodwin site, if he can find it. The job fit his love of Arizona history; his patrols legitimately let him spend time at historic locations. And he’s getting paid for it.

The old cabin near Cobre Grande Mountain was supposed to be part of those plans. The Flannary’s built the cabin and developed a small mine. He wanted to take a few pictures and make a sketch of the floor plan. Upon entering the cabin he found swastikas and Celtic crosses sprayed on the walls. It was probably a bunch of kids drinking and messing around who had screwed up the historic shack, but this type of vandalism always irritated him—people should have more respect for those who lived and died in these places.

He completed his survey of the cabin and the surrounding area, including the addition to the old mine drift which Norman and Annie Flannery had driven with hand drills following a narrow vein of gold-bearing quartz. He took pictures and made notes on 3x5 cards, which he always carried. Then he photographed the graffiti; maybe he could catch some of those who are defacing and destroying these precious places. He had noticed some narrow tire tracks near the house, and noted that they looked like the tracks that his old VW Bug used to leave.

As he was returning past the scant remains of the ghost town of Aravaipa, he got a call from dispatch that a rancher had some vandalism to his fence and salt lick. He took down the name and location and replied that he would be about half an hour getting there. He made it in 45 minutes. The location was a mile off the Klondyke-Fort Grant Road on a two-rut trace. As he approached a barbed wire fence he saw that the gate had been knocked down and run over, and was lying just off the road. A tall, thin middle-aged man in working cowboy clothes was leaning against the trunk of a tall live oak. As Manny got out of his car the man walked toward him.

I’m Deputy Sanchez, and I guess you are Mr. Martin?

Yes, I’m Jim Martin, reaching to shake Manny’s hand, Thanks for coming over, deputy. Let me show you what some S.O.B. did, Martin said as he led the way to each damaged item.

You can see one of the heavy wooden gate posts was broken and the steel gate was ruined. The jerk ran over it several times. The gate cost me $110. The fence has been cut in several places, but that won’t take much to fix. They pushed over four of the steel anchor plate fence posts. That’ll cost me another $40. He knocked down the cover for the salt blocks and poured poison, a green liquid, over the salt; smells like antifreeze. I can salvage a lot of the cover, but it will still cost another hundred bucks to rebuild.

This is a lot of damage. The guy must have spent some time doing this.

He did it all with his truck; ran everything down with a pickup truck or SUV. It might have taken him a half hour. There is almost never anybody up here, so he could have had as much time as he needed.

From the paint transfer on the posts, it was a light tan colored vehicle.

The worst thing is over here, Martin said as he led the deputy to a small arroyo cutting toward Aravaipa creek. There were the carcasses of three bighorn sheep, and ample evidence that they had been suffering severe diarrhea prior to death.

I haven’t had cattle in this range for over six months, but I‘ve kept the salt and water up for the wildlife. Pointing to a v-shaped jag in the fence, he continued, I have safety-pass wildlife gates like this one at all my tanks and troughs, so the deer and sheep can come and go, but the cattle can’t. Whoever did this either hates wild animals, or thought they would hurt my herd. It looks like this happened two are three days ago. Because this range is empty, I only get up here about once a month.

Any idea who would want to hurt your business?

All us neighbors get along good. No range or boundary disputes, plenty of water and feed to go around. There’s no trouble with anyone. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt cattle or wildlife or destroy my property. I can tell you it isn’t anyone from around here; I’d trust every one of the people in this valley with anything I have.

I’m going to call in the Arizona Game & Fish on this because of the poisoned sheep. Do you know of anything else like this happening?

No. But I’ll check around my property and ask the neighbors to do the same.

"Let me know if you hear anything interesting, or if anything else happens. My card has my contact numbers on it, but the cell phone doesn’t always work out here. You may have to call the office and have them get me on the radio. I’m going to take pictures of this evidence and write up a report. I will keep a closer watch on your place."

Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m going to go get tools and some help, and repair the damage. Mr. Martin left going east toward Bonita.

Deputy Sanchez checked his cell phone and had three yellow bars, so he called Matt Vukovich, game warden for the Wilcox/Aravaipa area.

Officer Vukovich, this is Deputy Sanchez with the Graham County Sheriff’s Office. Can you hear me Okay?

Yeah, I’m over by the Buckskin Ranch, and there’s a good signal here. How can I help you?

I’m on the Martin Range up near the springs on the Sulphur Springs/Aravaipa divide. Somebody vandalized the property and poisoned the salt. Three desert bighorn have died.

Are you going to be there for a while? I’d like to meet you at the scene.

Yeah, I’ll take pictures of the evidence and start working on the report until you get here.

Deputy Sanchez took pictures of the damage, the tracks of the vehicle that had run down the fence posts and salt shelter, and the three dead sheep. He boxed the tainted salt blocks in evidence boxes and took one of the green steel poles which had a good sample of tan paint on it and put them in the back of his SUV.

In the process of doing this, he noticed a flash of light coming from a brushy rise a mile or so away and thought it might be someone watching him with binoculars or a scope. He got in the vehicle, which had darkened windows, and from inside the truck, he trained his binoculars on the area of the flash. All he saw was drifting dust, the watcher had decided to leave.

When the game warden arrived, Deputy Sanchez gave him a walk-through of the scene. After getting the tour and briefing, Officer Vukovich asked if he could have copies of the photos and the report back on the stuff that was on the salt, and he in return would share the findings of the autopsy of the sheep.

If this isn’t just a one-off situation, I can get some pretty sophisticated surveillance equipment and some additional manpower to help with the case. Can we work this as a team?

You bet. I’ll be much obliged for your help and your experience—I don’t want to discourage you, but this is my first case.

"Really? Well you’ve done a good job here; very professional. I thought you were an old hand.

Graham County Deputy Sheriff Brendan Allred was dispatched to the scene of a deceased person, possibly a Native American, in a wash just east of Klondyke Road. Deputy Allred called his friend, Alan Victor, of the San Carlos Apache Tribal Police on his cell phone and told him about the call. The location was not on the reservation, but the deceased was probably a member of the tribe. Officer Victor said that he would meet him at the scene—he said they had reports of two missing teenagers. He hoped this wasn’t one of them.

Coming from just west of the Goodwin Wash road, Officer Victor got to the scene first.

There were two seventeen year old boys sitting in a Jeep; upon spotting his car they started waving him toward them. The boys hurried over to him as the tall, well muscled Apache stepped out of his SCAT (San Carlos Apache Tribe) Police cruiser. Al Victor is an impressively big man with no sign of fat on his body, thick jet black hair cut in a flat-top, dark brown eyes, and the classic high cheekbones, strong chin, and brow of his tribe. Jarret Johnson and David Chacon indicated where the body was, and Officer Victor got their names and addresses. Both were from Safford, both seniors at Safford High School. He asked if they touched the body.

No, man, we didn’t get closer than twenty feet, said David.

Then how do you know he is dead?

There’s a bad smell, and I think his head is cut off or something. It’s covered in blood, it looks really bad, replied Jarret I was gagging and David threw up.

Jarret called 911 on his cell, the lady told us to wait here and don’t let anybody go near the body, so we just waited in the Jeep.

Okay, you guys did the right thing. You look pretty pale, even for white guys, are you alright? Do you need some water?

Both answered negative with a shake of the head.

A deputy is on his way. He will want to talk with you, so stay put until he gets here. I’m going to take a few pictures.

The policeman began taking pictures of every part of the little clearing they were in, of the boys’ footprints into and out of the wash, of the overview of the location of the body and, using zoom, of the approach to it and the area immediately around it.

He was back to his car by the time the brown sheriff’s F-250 crew cab pulled up. A slender, sinewy, blue-eyed, blonde deputy, who looked like a TV ad cowboy, stepped out of the truck, calling to the officer, "Ya-ta-hey, Al, been here long?"

Hey, Bren. About 20 minutes. I was about to start taping it off. Looks pretty bad. I took a lot of pictures. Those boys found the body. Tearing out a page from his notepad, he said, This is their name and address. They didn’t mess with the scene. I’m going to tape a big perimeter, then start cutting for sign. When you get through with the kids, we can look at the body together.

Thanks, its good working with you again.

Officer Victor had no jurisdiction here, but he was a good cop and his professionalism was well known to Bren. They had worked together for a while in the Globe PD and had developed a mutual respect and friendship there.

After determining that the two boys had nothing to contribute, Deputy Allred thanked them and sent them on their way. He made his way to the body, staying in the same path that Al had used. Al had been slowly studying the ground at the tape and making notes in his notepad. He marked his spot by pushing a stick into the ground, then ducked outside the tape and entered the scene the same way as they had previously entered.

They inspected the ground around the body, and the body itself, carefully noting details, slowly moving closer and taking photos until they were at the body. Then they photographed the body from several different angles.

There actually was no sign of scavenger activity, the body had begun to swell and the smell was really just beginning to get rank. It would only have been an hour or so before the animals would have been on the scent. The face was turned slightly away from the cliff. It was partially visible and was the face of a young Native American. The top and back of his head was badly caved in, and the large oval shaped rock lying inches from the face was bloodied and had traces of flesh and hair.

Well, Bren, it looks like one of the missing kids; I think he is the Begay boy.

Begay—that’s not Apache, it’s Navajo.

Yeah, but there’s been enough intermarriage that we have Apaches with Navajo names.

So did the kid just get unlucky and have a rock fall on his head?

If luck has anything to do with it the kid has been unlucky since before he was born. He was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. It’s not obvious, but you can see it in his face. According to the missing bulletin he functioned about the level of a seven year old. Poor guy …

"Another FAS baby, huh? There are just way too many of them, and the shame is that it could so easily be prevented. So