Free WINDWALKER (THE PROPHECY SERIES) by Dinah McCall Page A

them. All he could think was how the hell did they know we’d cross here?
    “We’ve got trouble. Over.”
    He was trying to figure out how to put a spin on their presence as he headed toward the tribal policemen, who he hoped were in charge. Law was always better than mob rule, and there was a seriously large mob in wait. He couldn’t decide whether to play dumb or pull a pissed-off attitude, but he kept flashing on an old cowboy movie he’d once seen, about a small caravan of covered wagons trapped down in a valley by the hundreds of Indians mounted on horseback, lining both sides of the rims above.
    Granted he and his men weren’t in covered wagons, and there were no mountains directly around them, but they were fucking trapped by a wall of Indians in vehicles as far as he could see. Emile Harper had seriously underestimated the Navajo nation.
    As the officers started toward him, he heard the doors opening and closing in the SUVS behind him and knew the men were getting out. So they’d been made. Big fucking deal. He would get them out of it. He opted for a happy face and raised his hand in hello.
    “Hey guys, what’s going on? Looks like quite a reunion here. Hope we didn’t mess up the group picture.”
    No one laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to be talking his way out of this.
    At that point, the tallest officer stepped up.
    “Johnston Nantay, Navajo tribal police. I want to see some identification.”
    “Look, no hard feelings here. We obviously are somewhere we don’t belong. Our bad. We’ll just turn around and leave the same way we came, okay?”
    “No, not okay. Hand over your wallets, all of you.”
    Conroy heard a distinct click behind him, like someone had just released the safety on a gun. He pivoted quickly, his hand up in the air.
    “No weapons! No weapons!” he yelled.
    When he turned around, not only had the officers pulled their weapons, but there were three hundred plus Indians spilling out of their cars, armed to the teeth. If he didn’t defuse this situation and fast, they might go down in a history repeat of Custer’s last stand.
    Conroy waved at the men he’d brought with him.
    “Drop the guns and hand over your wallets.”
    His men shifted nervously.
    The sound of several hundred rifles jacking shells into the chambers breeched the sudden silence.
    Conroy threw down his wallet and handgun, and turned to face Nantay.
    “I’m unarmed, I’m unarmed! Don’t shoot!”
    Nantay’s men began gathering up the wallets and weapons while he turned his attention to Conroy.
    “I would be interested in hearing what you thought you were going to do here,” Nantay said.
    “We have obviously taken a wrong turn,” Conroy said.
    Nantay didn’t respond as he began flipping wallets open, and the more he looked, the angrier he got.
    “You’re either a very stupid white man, or you think we are,” he said, as he tossed the wallets into an evidence bag and handed them to another officer.
    Conroy took a deep breath, but said nothing.
    “Handcuff them,” Nantay said.
    “Look here, you can’t-“
    Nantay finally smiled. “Well, yes we can, because this is our land and you, Mr. Washington, as well as Jackson, Truman, Jefferson, Adams, and all the other presidents you’ve brought with you, are going to jail.”
    “We’ve done nothing but take a wrong turn on a hunting trip,” Conroy argued.
    But the officers were through talking. They handcuffed the eight-man crew, tossed them in the back of two vans, and headed for the jail as the hundreds of other Navajo climbed back in their vehicles and began dispersing in different directions.
    Many rough miles and an hour later, the vans pulled up at the jail. The officers began removing their prisoners, who were complaining loudly of the ride and their rights.
    As they started into the building, an older man with long braids walked out, then stopped in their path. The officers yanked their prisoners to a halt as the old man approached, and