Wyman 2 - Blasphemy by Douglas Preston

Author:Douglas Preston
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pan Publishing
Published: 2012-04-10T19:40:51+00:00

37

ON FRIDAY, AT THE BREAK OF dawn, Nelson Begay leaned against the doorframe of the chapter house and watched the first horse trailers arrive. The horses were stirring the dust up into golden fire-clouds, the riders unloading their horses and saddling up amid the jingling of spurs and slapping of leather. Begay’s own horse, Winter, was already saddled and ready to ride, tied in the shade of the only live piñon in sight, eating from a morral. Begay wished he could blame the Bilagaana for all the dead piñons, but as far as he could tell, the television news was right: bark beetles and drought hadn’t needed any help.

Maria Atcitty, the chapter president, came up. “Nice turnout,” she said.

“Better than I thought. You coming?”

Atcitty laughed. “Anything to get me out of the office.”

“Where’s your horse?”

“Are you nuts? I’m driving.”

Begay went back to watching the motley collection of horseflesh gathering for the protest ride. Aside from a couple of fine quarterhorses and an Arab, they were mostly reservation canners, unshod, skinny, white-eyed. The scene reminded him of his uncle Silvers’s place over at Toh Ateen. Silvers had taught him the

Blessing Way

, but he’d also been a bronc rider, working the Santa Fe–Amarillo rodeo circuit until he busted his back. Afterward he kept a ragged bunch of horses for the kids to ride; that’s where Begay had learned all he knew about horses.

He shook his head. It seemed like such a long time ago. Uncle Silvers was gone, the old ways were dying, and the kids nowadays couldn’t ride or speak the language. Begay was the only one old Uncle Silvers had been able to talk into learning the

Blessing Way

.

The ride was more than a protest about the Isabella project; it was about recapturing a way of life that was rapidly disappearing. It was about their traditions, their language, and their land, about taking responsibility for their destiny.

A decrepit Isuzu pickup pulled up, pulling a stock trailer too big for it. With a whoop, a rangy man hopped out, wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off. He pumped one skinny arm into the air, hollered again, and went around to unload the horse.

“Willy Becenti’s here,” said Atcitty.

“Hard to miss Willy.”

The horse, already saddled, stepped down onto the dirt. Becenti brought him around and tied him to the tongue of the trailer.

“He’s packing.”

“I see it.”

“You going to let him bring that?”

Begay considered that for a moment. Willy was excitable, but he had a good heart and was solid as a rock when he wasn’t drinking. There’d be no liquor on this ride—that was one rule Begay was going to enforce.

“Willy’ll be all right.”

“What if things get nasty?” asked Maria.

“Things aren’t going to get nasty. I met a couple of the scientists yesterday. Nothing’s going to happen.”

Atcitty said, “Which ones did you meet?”

“That one who calls himself an anthropologist, Ford, and the assistant director, a woman named Mercer.”

Atcitty nodded. “Same ones I met.” A moment passed and she said, “You sure this is

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