THE-SPIRITS-IN-THE-RUINS.Pdf
Total Page:16
File Type:pdf, Size:1020Kb
A SEDONA MYSTERY THE SPIRITS IN THE RUINS A SEDONA MYSTERY THE SPIRITS IN THE RUINS by C. Descry Copyright © 2000, 2013 by C. Descry All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author. Well written! Well researched! Hold your emotions!!! History and mystery combined! About the Book Arnie Cain, called to investigate the body of a Native American found in a shipping crate in an old Sedona trading post. The trail leads Arnie, and his wife Susan, from Arizona to southwestern Colorado and the Ute Mountain Ute Indian Reservation. Forces are organized to stop the telling of history that may come to light as a result of the investigation. Cain’s probing exposes the horrors of the antiquities trade---including the trade in mummified bodies. Norman Beardancer, dynamic spiritual leader of the Ute people and, his wife Regina, work with the tribal elders to recreate the history of the Weminuche Utes. They try to find out who the man found in the shipping crate was. They are opposed by forces that do not want the Ute history told. Doctor Ferner Getts, grandson of an early 20th century grave robber and antiquities trader. A pompous academic who has “edited” historical records to protect major museums and antiquities collectors. George W. Avery, now Advisor to the President for Indian Affairs, his stereotypes and bigotry reflect U.S. policy toward the Ute Tribe. Anasazi Bill, one of Sedona’s ‘underground people,’ has been trying for years to learn who killed his father. Now, Cain’s investigation leads him back to the reservation to help recreate the times when his father traded with the Utes. The Willis Clan, pot hunters, antiquities traders and grave robbers! They formed a trade network with Sedona, Arizona as the outlet. v Grateful acknowledgment is given to the following: Lois Eggers, The Ute Mountain Ute Tribe, UMUT CETA Students, UMU Elementary Education Program at Crow Canyon, Southwest Research and Education Services, Inc., Cortez Public Library, Sedona Public Library, America West Center at the University of Utah, Crow Canyon Archaeological Center, the Great Mandini, Jo, Alex, Nate, Lew Davis, and myriads of supportive friends. This is a work of fiction set in the environs of Sedona, Arizona and Towaoc, Colorado. Names and descriptions of humans are solely the creation of the author unless they are historical figures. No connection to living persons is intended or implied. References to historical data and tribal or other entities is used with artistic license and does not imply permission of the agencies, tribe, or officers of government or law enforcement. This mystery is a work of fiction with a historical basis. A special note to those who know the Ute Mountain Ute Reservation, Sedona, Arizona and other locations used in this work. The author has intentionally changed or made-up locations to create this work of fiction. Descry, Conun born: 1939 THE SPIRITS IN THE RUINS 1. Mystery-thriller 2. Historical mystery-Arizona & Southwest Colorado 3. Adventure/suspense/action Edited by: LEW DAVIS Cover by: Eljay vi Chapter 1 I knew the history of the sacking of Pueblo ruins. It is one of America’s more disgusting stories. A LOCAL SIDEWALK SUPERINTENDENT told me that the rock building had been built in the late 1940s as a trading post and then, in the ‘60s, had become a fruit storage shed. Whoever built it went to a lot of trouble for apples and peaches. The old structure was built with attention to detail...the way one might build a home for the family to pass down through the centuries. The contractor who was doing the renovation of the building was a fine craftsman. His crews were preserving the rock work and the rough-hewn timbers. When I arrived, I stood with a group of locals who were perusing every move the contractor made. I looked around for my architect friend, Dean Arbor. Susan had received his urgent call. He told her he wanted me at the remodel project right away. She relayed the message. I gathered my gear and got over there. I owe a lot to Dean. He helps keep bread on our table. He employed me after I quit working for the sheriff’s office last year. He has me do investigative jobs; not cloak and dagger stuff, but boring things like researching land abstracts and finding survey markers. My work with Dean, and Susan’s part-time work at Friendly’s Café, have allowed us to earn enough to live comfortably. I love the life. Dean arrived on his bicycle as I knew he would. His long hair was worn Indian fashion. His handsome, lean features and muscular intensity let him move 1 through the crowd as a Moses opening the sea. Others sensed his energy, knew that it was good, and let him pass. He was a vital man. “Arnie! Thanks for coming on such short notice. Follow me!” He was off. We ducked under the yellow tape required by the city around all construction sites, and into the back of the rock building. “This structure housed one of the first trading posts, and later galleries, as far back as the late 1940s, we figure. Owner wants to make it into a gallery again... For a time it was used as a fruit sorting shed, then it sat empty. I’m trying to get a more complete history together... Arnie, come over and take a look at this! We found something awful!” The interior was littered with splintered wood, broken laths, chunks of plaster and assorted debris. I stepped where Dean did, avoiding boards with rusty nails and jagged wood splinters. He led me across the room to a long, built-in counter that he said had been used to sort fruit. Parts of the counter were being disassembled. He stopped in front of a wooden shipping crate that had been built into the structure. He grabbed a catclaw from a nearby tool box and started prying up the lid. The nails squeaked in protest. I helped him lift the lid. Whatever was inside was wrapped in old white tent canvas. “Arnie, I was here about a half hour ago. That’s when they found the box.” He reached in and carefully moved the canvas aside. I gasped. “All I can tell is that it’s a mummified male, Indian... Look how he’s dressed! Faded red flannel shirt. Looks like jeans... This isn’t one of the ancient Anasazi people... Look at the dried blood and maybe 2 bullet holes... Arnie, it looks like this guy was murdered!” I didn’t say anything. The mummified body told me more than Dean had observed. The left side of the dead man’s face showed long scratches...tears, like he had skidded along the earth on his face. His neck showed marks I had seen before on victims of hanging---rope marks! The man had been shot, hung, dragged... I sniffed. No smell of death, the body was desiccated... “Dean, did you call it in?” “I called 911. They said they’d send someone to investigate... I thought they would be here by now.” “This man died a terrible death... Look, can we move this crate out a little. I want to see if anything is written on it.” We moved the box so that I could see all sides. On the side that had been hidden, a label was still attached. Dean read it... To: Rocks and Ruins Gallery Attention: C.J.W Sedona, Arizona “Yeah, and look at the return!” C.J.W. Box 6. Mancos, Colorado. “And the date... Looks like ‘56... Yes! August 11, 1956. And it was shipped from Mancos, Colorado. I know the place. Its a town west of Durango---between Cortez and Durango---in the southwest corner of the state.” 3 We both turned as Sam Platt, a Sedona cop, came in. Dean yelled across at him to watch his step. “Hey, Dean, Arnie, what have you got in the shipping crate?” Within an hour we had the crate on its way to Flagstaff. At Dean’s office, I borrowed the phone and placed a call a Ute friend of mine in Towaoc, Colorado. While I was looking for the number in my wallet and dialing it, I explained to Dean that Towaoc, is the Capitol of the Ute Mountain Ute Indian Reservation. “It’s located about thirty-five miles from Mancos. Lands south of Mancos, to the New Mexico state line, are Ute Indian country.” The phone clicked several times. I waited for it to start ringing. “The beaded eagle sewn onto the pocket of the man’s shirt? The blue, green and white beads? They were Ute colors. I’ll bet my pay that the deceased man was Ute!” “Norman Beardancer. Good to hear your voice! It’s Arnie Cain, I’m calling from Sedona. How are you wintering? How are the kids and grand kids? Did you get through my final report on the oil leases?” “Arnie? You call to talk or ask questions? We’re fine here. Your report was too long, nobody reads that much. I liked the conclusion... They’re going to pay the Tribe for all the materials they extracted and they gave up their plan to strip mine. Okay, you done good white man! Now are you calling to tell me that you are coming back to the center of the world?” “No, not yet.