Free Ghost Warrior by Jory Sherman Page B

The trail led deeper into the hills and mountains, and they saw a variety of plants: cactus, ocotillo, grass and sage, different kinds of trees. And the land began to break up into small ravines and washed-out gullies, little hills and bigger hills, a crazy quilt of patterns and designs that became bewildering passageways into a strange world, the world of the Navajo.
    The horses they were tracking had broken up, all going separate ways.
    â€œWe won’t follow tracks any more today,” Zak said. “It’s too slow and taxing.”
    â€œWhat now?” Bullard asked.
    â€œTake to the high ground. See how far we can see. Move slow and listen. Smell. That’s part of tracking, too.”
    â€œIt is? How so?”
    â€œThese Navajos are already trying to hide their tracks, or didn’t you notice?”
    â€œYou mean all them flat rocks buried in the ground, the hardpan we crossed.”
    â€œYes. They don’t want anyone following them to wherever they’re going.”
    â€œBut you don’t know where they’re headed, huh?”
    â€œI don’t know the exact place, but I might know the kind of place,” Zak said.
    â€œWhat kind of place?” Bullard studied Zak’s face. Zak’s hat brim shaded most of it, and there was a slash of light across his mouth and chin. His eyes were dark vacancies, sunk in shadow.
    â€œA safe place where they keep their women and kids. A place where they can grow corn and tend sheep. A place that can be defended with only a few men. A place where they can go in one way and out another.”
    â€œYou mean like a canyon?”
    â€œA box canyon, maybe,” Zak said, “open on both ends. Or maybe several canyons converging on a valley.”
    â€œWe ain’t seen nothin’ like that so far.”
    â€œNo, but we’ve been climbing gradually for the past two hours or so. And that sun is falling away in the sky. Dusk comes early in the mountains. The watch you carry in your pocket is no good up here.”
    â€œI reckon,” Bullard said.
    They climbed to high ground, crossed a narrow ridge and dropped down into a saddleback ravine, then continued on to another peak and crossed still another ridge. On either side were broken terrain, gullies and washes, small hills, and dry creek beds.
    Near sunset, Zak rode across a narrow, tree-choked ridge and stopped suddenly, Bullard right behind him.
    â€œSee somethin’?” Bullard whispered, his senses suddenly alert.
    â€œNo,” Zak said, “but there’s a steep drop-off just ahead and I smell wood smoke.”
    Bullard raised his head slightly and sniffed. “I don’t smell nothin’,” he said.
    Zak held up a hand. Then he cupped his right ear. He turned his head toward the drop-off.
    Bullard sniffed a few more times.
    â€œListen,” Zak whispered.
    The slight breeze was blowing in circles. Shifting, changing, as if the currents were uncertain at that altitude. Zak figured they were at about nine or ten thousand feet above sea level.
    Bullard started nodding.
    They both heard snatches of voices. Voices that faded and became almost inaudible then vanished.
    Zak signaled to Bullard to dismount. He climbed out of the saddle. He tied Nox to a small pine tree, gestured for Bullard to do the same. Then the two crept up to the drop-off, both hunched over like cats stalking a bird or a squirrel.
    They squatted at the edge and looked down. There was a wide valley below them. Smoke rose in the sky and turned to tangled cobwebs once it reached the draft blowing through. There were canyons on both sides, and they saw hogans and horses and heard children’s laughter, the shrill high-pitched voices of women, the faint tink of a wooden spoon on a clay bowl, the bleating of sheep. And at the far end were small fields with corn planted in clumps, the stalks knee-high, and tree stakes where beans climbed in spirals and jiggled in the breeze.
    Men