The Grave Robber by Western

The Grave Robber
by
� Western_Drifter

This story, like most of my stories, is based on a true event (happened about 1890 or thereabouts) but quite liberally embellished in my own retelling....

"Those who are familiar with the Dene people (more commonly known to outsiders as the Navajo) are aware that they do not like to be around dead people. It is believed that the ghosts of the dead are rarely friendly toward the living, regardless of what the relationship may have been when both were alive. It is considered prudent, then, to avoid having any more contact with the dead than is absolutely necessary. Deceased family members are usually buried as quickly as possible, in a remote and out-of-the-way location, and are rarely mentioned again. The hogan in which they died is often burned, along with any of the recently departed's personal belongings that were not buried with the body.

"Given this custom, the recent wave of crimes that summer seemed all the more horrible. Someone -- or something -- had been digging up fresh graves and mutilating the bodies. It was obviously the doing of a local resident; no one else would know who had recently died or where to look for them. But who among the Dene could possibly commit such an act?

"Ned Haske meant to find out. A twinge of intuition had told him that the burial place of his much beloved little sister had been among those desecrated -- and the intuition had been right. Peering down at the gravesite from a nearby hill, Ned's fears were confirmed. There, lying beside an open hole in the ground and a pile of fresh earth, was the body of twelve-year-old Maria....and, as had been the case with the others, her head was gone.

"There on the hill, with tears of outrage in his eyes, Ned swore that he would find the perpetrator of this hideous act, and didn't care whether it was man, animal, or demon -- Maria and the others would be avenged."

"Every fresh grave in the vicinity of the community of Wolf Post had been similarly desecrated within a few days of the bural. It was always the same; the body was completely exhumed and left lying on the ground -- minus the head. The only clue to the identity of the ghoulish fiend responsible was the presence of coyote tracks in the vicinity. Of course, no ordinary coyote could or would completely dig up a corpse, decapitate it, and carry off the head. This had to be the work of a witch, temporarily assuming coyote form to do its dirty work. But for what purpose? None of the family members of the deceased had been contacted for ransom of the heads, and why else would they be wanted? It was truly a mystery.

"Sid Richardson, operator of the local trading post, had naturally been a suspect when the crimes had first started. Richardson had lived among the Navajo for most of his life, spoke their language fluently, and had always been honest in his dealings with them -- but none the less he was an outsider, and therefore under suspicion. No one could imagine what reason Richardson might have for stealing the heads of corpses, but then, the ways of the White man are not always clearly understood. As the months passed, however, most of the local people lost their suspicions of the trader -- the witch was obviously one of their own.

"Richardson, had, in fact, proved quite an asset to the community during these troubled times. As a non-Dene, he was immune to the attacks of restless ghosts and could therefore safely rebury the headless dead. Many times recently he had been asked to perform this favor, and young Maria Haske was merely the latest of his �clients�. While Richardson was thus engaged in reinterring the girl's body, Ned Haske was preparing himself for a mission....

"The coyote witch must be destroyed, and young Haske knew that this was a feat he must accomplish alone and unaided. Although there were many brave men in the area, most of them would draw the line at fighting a supernatural enemy -- and, to make matters even more difficult, one of the local people obviously WAS that enemy. Ned could trust no one, could ask for no assistance, until he had discovered the identity of his foe.

"The first order of business was to obtain a weapon, one capable of slaying either human or coyote or demon, depending on what form the enemy might assume when the time for battle arose. Ned stealthily borrowed an old war bow from an elderly uncle (it wasn�t exactly stealing, as he intended to return it when his mission was completed). The long arrows he made himself, tipping each with a silver blade. Ned�s much-admired silver ring and bracelet were sacrificed for the cause, melted down and reformed into arrowheads. Finally, he was ready -- the ancient war bow fitted with a new string, the silver-tipped missles filed to razor sharpness; Ned Haske stood on the hill overlooking his sister�s grave and swore to himself, once again, that he would avenge her.

"Now, Ned was ready to face the witch. He had weapons, he had a plan, and, most important of all, he had the burning desire within his heart to see justice done. The only thing he was lacking at the moment was bait to lure the creature out of wherever it was hiding -- and the only bait that would serve this purpose was a fresh grave.

"It was considered a serious breach of etiquette among the Dene to inquire about the health of the sick or elderly, as mentioning such things aloud was considered to be inviting further trouble. Consequently, Ned Haske was unable to actively pursue any �leads� concerning where the grave robber might next strike. However, he discreetly kept his eyes and ears attuned to any hint of impending death among the people of Wolf Post..... He couldn�t help but feel slightly ashamed, for in a way he found himself almost hoping that someone would soon pass on. These pangs of guilt only added fuel to his already-burning hatred of the grave robber, for were these unkind thoughts not also the fault of the monster? Now he was not only desecrating the dead, but also tainting the conscience of one who was still living.

"It wasn�t long before the moment arrived. An elderly woman, neighbor to the Haske family, died in her sleep and was quickly buried in a small box canyon several miles from the village. It was a perfect situation from the aspect of the witch-slayer: the old woman�s gravesite could only be reached by one narrow route into the canyon, and there were ample vantage points from which to watch, unseen, for the foul creature to make its appearance. Ned Haske took up the vigil.

"For five straight nights, he watched. Every evening, shortly before sundown, Ned would remove his bow and arrows from the brushpile where he cached them and settle in for a night of grave guarding from a nearby hill. The elder Haskes assumed that their son was spending the hours of darkness in secret rendezvous with a woman, and berated him for his behavior. Ned took this verbal chastisement in silence, afraid to reveal his secret even to his own parents -- not that he suspected them of any involvement, of course; but one never knows who might be listening. Eventually, though, the sleepless nights began to take their toll on the boy. For nearly a week, Ned had waited for his enemy to show; in all that time there had been no sign of it. Finally, he could endure no more -- he fell asleep at his post.

"Ned Haske awoke with a start, unsure of what had roused him from his slumber; brushing the sands of sleep from his eyes, he saw that his worst fears had been realized. There, in the moonlit canyon below him, lay the woman�s headless body beside a pile of freshly-dug soil. Cursing himself for a weakling and a fool, Ned gathered up his bow and arrows and slowly began to walk back home. He had failed in this first battle, perhaps -- but the war was far from over.

"Another two and a half weeks were to pass before Ned was again granted a chance to slay the witch. The �bait� this time was Old Denetso, one of Wolf Post�s most elderly patriarchs. He had been laid to rest in a remote area about eighty miles from the Haske hogan, and Ned realized that this would mean an extended vigil.

"Without a word to his family, Ned packed his saddlebags with parched corn and jerked mutton, filled the waterskins, and rode off. Once again he experienced a slight pang of guilt, this time for neglecting the work he knew needed doing -- there was a garden to weed, sheep to tend, wood to gather. These things were not as high a priority as the slaying of the witch, however. Gardens and sheep and wood could wait.

"This time he would not be cheated by fatigue. Ned made a rough campsite for himself a few miles from Denetso�s burial place and napped away the afternoon. Shortly before sundown he concealed himself as best he could in a mesquite bush -- not the most comfortable of vantage points, but there were no hills nor other cover nearby.

"It was a moonless night, and even the stars seemed dimmer than usual. Several times Ned�s overwrought nerves made him think he saw someone approaching the grave, but each time it was a false indication. Finally, against the darkness, he discerned the movement of a somewhat darker shape. The witch had arrived!

"A shiver shot up the boy�s spine as the apparition grew nearer. It appeared at first to be a huge misshapen coyote, surely a demon in fleshly form, and he began to question his previous confidence in the war bow and silver-tipped arrows. As he continued to watch, the hellish creature shuffled over to Old Denetso�s grave and began to paw at the earth, its intentions clear. The witch was seeking yet another head.

"Half frozen with fear and revulsion, Ned continued to watch as the coyote-thing methodically scraped away the layers of earth and brush covering Old Denetso�s remains. Suddenly he realized what the grave robber really was -- a man, wearing a robe sewn of coyote hides, with the head of one of the skins covering his face. Coyote paws had been fashioned into crude gloves and footwear to mask the villain�s tracks. Apparently the grave robber was a witch-man of no small power. With the proper magic, such a person could shield his true identity from vengeful ghosts by disguising himself as a coyote.

"As slowly as ice melts, Ned Haske began to extricate himself from his thorny surroundings. He needed to get closer to his enemy for an accurate bowshot, but knew that the slightest hint of his presence would spook the quarry away. It seemed an eternity before his cramped muscles would respond to his racing mind�s requests to move; another eternity to inch forward towards the enemy. Suddenly the coyote mask was turned in his direction -- did the witch see him? He froze into immobility once more, his heart pounding in his ears like a drum. No, he remained undetected; the ghoulish creature began digging once more. Ned continued to inch forward on his belly. Finally he was within arrow range.

"This was the moment of truth. Ned suddenly rose to his knees, the war bow drawn, and at the same instant the coyote-witch jumped to its feet and began to run. The silver-tipped arrow flew in pursuit -- there was a barely audible thump and a muffled cry of pain -- and then the creature was gone, vanished into the blackness of the night. Ned collapsed to the ground again, totally drained by the night of tension and terror."

�The situation had changed considerably. Ned Haske now knew exactly what he was up against -- unfortunately, so did the grave robber. Ned wondered if he had been recognized -- true, his enemy had gotten only a fleeting glimpse, on a very dark night; but he seemed to be blessed with senses almost as acute as those of an actual coyote. In addition, the grave robber was obviously a local resident, and probably a shaman of some importance. If he knew who Ned was he could easily eliminate him from the picture one way or another, either with a bullet in the back or by sending a chindi (a demon) to attack him in his sleep. Things were likely to get bad.

�The only advantage Ned Haske could see was that he knew his enemy was wounded (he just didn�t know how badly). A careful search of the area the next morning revealed no trace of blood on the ground, but the coyote skins no doubt had absorbed it before it could spill. There was also no trace of the silver-tipped arrow, which meant that it had penetrated the witch�s body. In the enemy�s rapid retreat he had not been able to place his tracks as lightly and carefully as he had in the past; there was now the discernible outline of a man�s foot surrounding the pawprints.

�Carefully considering all the facts, the boy decided he now had no choice but to ask for help. He still didn�t dare reveal his mission to any of the people of Wolf Post -- the word would surely reach the grave robber. Who could he trust? First, though, he felt he must get Old Dinetso�s half-opened grave restored, before a disgrauntled ghost was added to his list of problems. Straddling his pony, he headed towards the trading post.

� �Hosteen Richardson? Are you here?� Ned called from the door. � Be right out�, came the reply from the back storeroom. Sid Richardson soon emerged into the main room, wiping his hands on a blood-stained white cloth -- and walking with a noticeable limp. Ned froze in his steps. �Had a dang big ol� boil on my hindquarters that was irritatin� me half to death,� the trader commented by way of explanation. �Finally decided to lance it myself and be done with it. Now what can I do for you today, Ned?�

Without a word, Ned turned and walked quickly away. He mounted his pony hastily and set off at a trot towards the agency headquarters at Window Rock. Richardson stood in the doorway and watched the boy ride off, his face an expressionless mask.

�Ned had ridden away from the trading post in a state of near-panic, convinced that Richardson was indeed the grave robber. Now, with a few miles behind him and more time to think logically, he was no longer so certain of his suspicions. True, the trader had been limping -- but could that have been simply a coincidence? After all, people did get boils on their �hindquarters� now and then.

�The boy�s mind was a sea of conflicting theories. If Richardson was, indeed, stealing the heads of corpses, what possible reason could be behind it? Was there a secret market for heads somewhere, that only White men knew about? Ned then recalled hearing once that the Whites in the cities often constructed whole buildings in which they displayed the skeletons of men and animals, as well as objects looted from ancient graves. Was Richardson supplying one of these operations with the skulls of Navajos for White people to stare at? But if this were true, why had he been wearing the coyote skins? White men didn�t fear ghosts, so the disguise would not have been necessary. But then again, the trader had lived among the people for so long that he may have adapted to their beliefs. No, if that were the case, he wouldn�t have been so unconcerned about reburying the dead after the graves had been robbed. And if Richardson had wanted the heads, he could easily have taken them in a more subtle manner, with no one aware of it -- why leave the graves open and the bodies exposed? The more Ned pondered, the less he understood. His head began to hurt.

�Only one thing was certain -- if Richardson was, indeed, the grave robber, Ned could not simply slay him. The local authorities frequently overlooked an Indian killing another Indian, but the death of a White man would not be so easily dismissed. The only recourse now was to turn the matter over to the tribal police at Window Rock. As had been happening so often lately, Ned�s feelings were mixed -- on the one hand, he was somewhat relieved that he would no longer carry the full responsibility; on the other he was a bit ashamed of himself for not exacting the personal revenge he had sworn to.

�Window Rock was still a day�s ride distant when Ned made camp that evening. He considered it a stroke of good fortune that there were still plenty of supplies in his saddlebags, otherwise he would have gone hungry -- when he left the trading post, there had been no thought in his mind but to flee, as quickly as possible. After a supper of corn and jerky, he hobbled his pony and stretched out on a blanket, but sleep would not come easily. Although his body was exhausted, Ned�s mind would not rest. He alternated between lying awake, rethinking the confusing thoughts, and catching snatches of restless sleep in which he dreamed of severed heads and coyote demons.

�The desk clerk at the agency office was a�city Indian� -- a man with soft hands and an expression of peevish superiority. The words he spoke -- in English -- said �What can I do for you, young man?�, but the tone of his voice clearly implied �State your business and get out of my nice clean office as quickly as possible.� Once again, Ned Haske was somewhat frozen into silence -- not by fear this time, but rather by caution. Was this man still enough of a Navajo to even understand the situation? Would he laugh in Ned�s face and then arrest him for shooting the witch with his arrow? Suddenly he wished he had not come to Window Rock at all.

�As Ned and the clerk continued to simply look at each other, the silence was broken by another voice, this one speaking in the Navajo tongue, addressing Ned as �little brother�. Ned turned towards the newcomer and felt an overwhelming sense of relief.�

�The newcomer to the office was John Daw, one of the finest tribal police officers in the Navajo Nation -- a man well-known to the people of Wolf Post. In his relief to find a friendly and familiar face in this strange environment, Ned Haske began to blurt out his story with little preamble.
�Patience, Little Brother,� broke in Officer Daw. �Come, let us walk a while.� The two left the office, much to the apparent relief of the desk clerk, who immediately returned to his previous activity of doing nothing whatsoever.

Johm Daw listened carefully to Ned�s account of the ghoulish goings-on at Wolf Post, showing particular approval at the part about the wounding of the witch with the arrow, then nodded in agreement that something should be done to put an end to it. �I had heard about this matter some time ago,� he explained, �and have been trying to get myself assigned to the case.� Ned seemed a bit dumbfounded by this statement.

�Elder Brother, I�m confused -- the police know about this already, yet nothing has been done?�
�You must understand, Little Brother, that the police bureau, in fact the entire agency, does not operate in a way that is easily understood. We policemen do not decide for ourselves how to spend our time; our tasks are chosen for us by nameless others who sit in buildings far from here and spend much time reading reports of what goes on throughout the Nation. Sadly, these people attach little importance to the desecration of the dead.� �So the agency will do nothing?� Ned�s hopes, so buoyed by the appearance of John Daw, began to fall once more. �It is on their list of things to attend to,� Daw explained. �But there are many crimes and few police. Other matters -- murder, stealing horses, things of that nature -- are considered more urgent. However, I have given the grave robbings much thought of my own --� here he tapped his forefinger against his temple �-- and I think I may know what is behind it.�

Several days after the grave robbings had begun, the policeman continued, an unscrupulous Paiute
medicine man on the neighboring reservation had been arrested for possession of scalps. It had been believed, but never proven, that this particular shaman was the head of a secret society which practiced the Scalp Dance as a major part of their ceremonies, and that he had been procuring the materials for this. As no murdered victims could be found to have been the owners of the scalps, the Paiute had been released �with a warning�. However, his scalps had been confiscated -- which meant he would be trying to obtain more.

�I believe that these scalps came from your dead,� Daw explained. �But I also believe that the Paiute who had them did not gather them himself. Whenever I have some time to myself, I continue to study this matter, and I think I will soon have a suspicion who is supplying them to the Paiutes.� �But what then, Elder Brother?�, asked Ned. �Will the agency take action against this grave robber?� �Only if the facts can be proven against him,� Daw answered. �Or if he gives a confession. However, once I myself am sure of the grave robber�s identity --� here he paused to crack the knuckles on his strong, gnarled hands -- �I think I can soon convince him to confess.�
�One more thing, Elder Brother. Do you think the White man, Richardson, is involved?.�
�No, I am sure he is not. It was he who first gave us the report of the situation and asked
that something be done.�

Ned felt a little better for the conversation with John Daw. He had never wanted to suspect Richardson in the first place, but had let his imagination run away with him. Now he knew that he had at least two allies, of a sort -- the Navajo policeman at Window Rock and the White trader at Wolf Post. Of course, both were somewhat passive allies at the moment, but at least they were known NOT to be enemies -- and that in itself was a vast improvement over the previous situation.

The ride back home was taken at a slow pace. Although his sojourn to Window Rock had not been completely in vain, many problems were yet to be confronted (not the least of which was trying to explain his recent absence to his family). Ned knew that he would also be in a somewhat awkward position when he faced Sid Richardson. And the witch was still at large. So all things considered, he was not in a particularly big hurry to arrive back at Wolf Post.

There were so many troubled thoughts occupying his mind at the moment that Ned barely realized the sun had gone down. The trail he followed passed through one of the area�s many narrow canyons, with spectacular rock formations on both sides. By daylight, these stone sentinels glowed in bright shades of orange and red; now they were merely black silhouettes against the sky. Suddenly four unusual events happened to Ned in rapid succession -- there was a sudden flash of fire on the cliff above him, he felt a searing pain in his side, he heard the crack of a rifle, and his pony reared in panic. Although an accomplished horseman, the situation caught Ned completely by surprize; he tumbled out of the saddle and onto a pile of rough stones. For a fraction of a second, the pain of landing on the rocks took his attention away from the pain of the bullet wound. In another fraction of a second, his survival instincts kicked in and he rolled behind the rocks, shielding himself from the hidden attacker.

At first all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, then he began to listen for
sounds of movement around him. Fortunately, he realized, he was not badly wounded -- the bullet had merely creased him along the lower edge of his ribcage. It stung mightily, but wouldn�t incapacitate him. But was his enemy even now stealthily approaching to finish the job? He fought back the surge of panic rising within him. Oddly, it was not death he feared so much as the revolting thought that his own scalp could soon become a prop in a rogue shaman�s inventory.

Ned wished that he had been carrying his bow and arrows on his person instead of on the horse, he would then at least be armed. Little help against a man with a rifle, true, but better than nothing -- at least then he could die fighting, like a warrior, instead of being slaughtered like a rabbit in a hole. And where was his enemy? He had heard nothing further. The urge to peek out over the rockpile was almost overpowering, but he resisted.

Time passed. Minutes? Hours? Ned had no idea. The sounds of the desert night, momentarily silenced by the shot, began to return. An owl hooted -- or was it a man imitating an owl? There, was that the sound of footsteps approaching? No, just the wind rattling a creosote bush. Or was it? Ned was unfamiliar with the word �paranoia�, but was (quite understandably) beginning to experience its symptoms. He had thought several of the previous nights were terrible -- this one topped all prior experience.

Eventually, Ned saw the sunrise; he had always appreciated the sight, but never as much as he did that morning. The warmth of daylight burned away some of the fear in Ned�s soul. He stood up -- stiffly and a bit painfully -- and then broke into tears. He couldn�t remember the last time he had cried, but that morning he made up for each and every time he had ever wanted to, but didn�t. Leaning against the rocks which had sheltered him through the miserable night, Ned sobbed and wailed and let his body spasm with the pent-up emotions of the past few weeks; then he began to heave. After that he felt much better. Wiping away the last of the salty tears from his eyes, he looked up and saw his pony staring at him quizzically. At that, Ned began to laugh, to laugh as loudly and violently as he had just cried. After that he felt beter still.

As he pondered, during the rest of the ride to Wolf Post, why the attacker had not crept upon him to finish the job, an idea began to take form. He remembered the words of John Daw -- that grave robbing was considered relatively unimportant by the police, but that murder would take a higher prority. Most likely, the witch knew this and had not intended to Kill Ned at all -- that would immediately bring the authorities into the picture. Perhaps the shot had been meant simply as discouragement; an attempt to scare the boy off of the pursuit. If this were indeed the case, one major question remained -- was his enemy such a good shot that he was able to crease the ribs of a man on a moving horse in almost complete darkness, or was he such a poor shot that he had been trying to miss altogether and accidentally hit the target? It would have been nice to know.

Ned wished that he had been carrying his bow and arrows on his person instead of on the horse, he would then at least be armed. Little help against a man with a rifle, true, but better than nothing -- at least then he could die fighting, like a warrior, instead of being slaughtered like a rabbit in a hole. And where was his enemy? He had heard nothing further. The urge to peek out over the rockpile was almost overpowering, but he resisted.

Time passed. Minutes? Hours? Ned had no idea. The sounds of the desert night, momentarily silenced by the shot, began to return. An owl hooted -- or was it a man imitating an owl? There, was that the sound of footsteps approaching? No, just the wind rattling a creosote bush. Or was it? Ned was unfamiliar with the word �paranoia�, but was (quite understandably) beginning to experience its symptoms. He had thought several of the previous nights were terrible -- this one topped all prior experience.

Eventually, Ned saw the sunrise; he had always appreciated the sight, but never as much as he did that morning. The warmth of daylight burned away some of the fear in Ned�s soul. He stood up -- stiffly and a bit painfully -- and then broke into tears. He couldn�t remember the last time he had cried, but that morning he made up for each and every time he had ever wanted to, but didn�t. Leaning against the rocks which had sheltered him through the miserable night, Ned sobbed and wailed and let his body spasm with the pent-up emotions of the past few weeks; then he began to heave. After that he felt much better. Wiping away the last of the salty tears from his eyes, he looked up and saw his pony staring at him quizzically. At that, Ned began to laugh, to laugh as loudly and violently as he had just cried. After that he felt beter still.

As he pondered, during the rest of the ride to Wolf Post, why the attacker had not crept upon him to finish the job, an idea began to take form. He remembered the words of John Daw -- that grave robbing was considered relatively unimportant by the police, but that murder would take a higher prority. Most likely, the witch knew this and had not intended to Kill Ned at all -- that would immediately bring the authorities into the picture. Perhaps the shot had been meant simply as discouragement; an attempt to scare the boy off of the pursuit. If this were indeed the case, one major question remained -- was his enemy such a good shot that he was able to crease the ribs of a man on a moving horse in almost complete darkness, or was he such a poor shot that he had been trying to miss altogether and accidentally hit the target? It would have been nice to know.