Navajo Tribal Police Officer Dalton Singer stood in front of the sandstone headquarters of the Navajo Tribal Headquarters where the Grand Canyon Esplanade hearing was letting out, wishing he was somewhere else. Providing security for a bunch of outsiders, especially the surly Russians, seemed like a waste of time and manpower.
Dalton was what some folks referred to as a Tuba City Navajo. At about five feet six, he was shaped like a slender piece of pie, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He was born to be skinny and never had to worry about what he ate.
Tuba City sat at the border between Navajo and Hopi land. There had been a lot of mixing between the tribes over the twisted course of many generations.
The Navajo were related to the nomadic people who came down from Canada 10,000 years ago when the Laurentide Ice Sheet began to recede. They were genetically referred to as Athaspaskan, and they were as different as Brits from the Hopi.
Dalton likely descended from a border clan that had, sometime around 1600, started capturing Pueblo brides. Their offspring shared the shorter bone structure of their genetic forefathers, the Keresan, inheriting their pug noses and small hands and feet. He had long black hair, tightly braided behind each ear, and each end was tied with a red string. The leather belt that held his slim jeans around his flat belly was wide, adorned with small pieces of turquoise, and buckled with a sand-cast silver replica of a raven in flight. In a very real sense, Dalton Singer was half Navajo and half Hopi. And that was often, as in his case, a handsome combination.
Dalton had grown up near Tuba City on a small, dryland farm bordering Moenkopi Wash. He was born to the Bitter Water Clan (Tódich’ii’nii), one of the four original Navajo clans. But as with many Navajo law enforcement officers, he was not bound to the Navajo religion. It was hard to see beauty when you dealt with the ugly reality of life and death every day on the Rez. Dalton referred to himself as a realist and had little use for native superstition and tradition.
He watched as several river runners hung their SAVE THE CONFLUENCE! banner between two lamp poles. They were acting like foolish children.
Dalton turned to Officer Harry Bigman, who had been ordered to join in the babysitting detail. “Should we tell them to take it down?”
Pure Navajo, Bigman fit his name to a T. He was a large, big-chested fellow with outthrust cheekbones, overhung eyebrows, and a hawk’s-beak nose. Harry was an affable guy with a big friendly smile. He didn’t like trouble. But he didn’t shy away from it either.
“What’s the point?” he chuckled. “They will just go hang it somewhere else. It’s not harming anything. And they would probably like us to hassle them, so they can tell us why they are standing up for the Navajo and that we should be thanking them.”
Dalton looked up at the night sky and saw the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, marching slowly to the west. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But I have no use for any of these people.”
“Agreed,” said Officer Bigman as he spit on the ground. “And this is all a big waste of time if you ask me. The Tribal Council is never going to approve a goddamn resort on the Little Colorado River. They don’t want to piss off the Hopi. And why would anyone trust a bunch of Russians?”
As he spoke, Petrov and his bodyguards marched past, regarding them with scorn.
Dalton tipped his hat, and a Russian sneered with contempt.
One spoke in their native tongue, and they all laughed loudly.
The two Navajo police officers laughed back and Harry Bigman waved. “Yá’át’ééh, you leechaa’itsa’ii biyaazh.” (“Hello, you sonofabitch.”)
Pretty sure they had just been insulted, the contemptuous Russian party made to stop until their boss waved a dismissive hand and told them to ignore the savages. They walked over to their two black SUVs in the nearby lot.
Officer Bigman blew them a kiss. “I have a hard time getting worked up about all this stuff. Sure. The hippies from Flagstaff have come to save the world. And the Russians threaten us with lost jobs. But in the end, it’s just a lot of white noise if you ask me.”
“I hear you,” replied Dalton as he looked up at the Milky Way, smiling at the lovely sight. “This isn’t going to be like the North Dakota Pipeline protest where the U.S. Government held all the cards. The Diné get to call the shots on this one, and the majority of the Council—maybe not the Chairman and a few others—but the vast majority, are opposed, just like they have always opposed gambling casinos. It’s no different. And there’s never going to be a resort in the Little Colorado.”
Harry Bigman adjusted his dark blue Navajo Tribal Police cap and chuckled in agreement. “The Little C is the most sacred spot on the earth to the Hopi. It’s where their gods hang out. We might steal the Hopi’s water or coal, but we will never mess with their gods.”
“Oh, shit,” groaned Dalton as he watched the notorious hothead Hunter Maxwell and his environmental buddies block the path of the approaching Russians. “This is not going to be good.”
As the environmentalists taunted the Russian developer, telling him to go back to Russia where he belonged, Petrov’s security detail stepped in front of their boss, hands reaching inside their jackets for their concealed weapons.
And as quick as that, a full-scale riot erupted in the parking lot as people came running from all directions to watch the dustup. It was instant bedlam with a lot of pushing and shoving.
The two Navajo police drew their guns and rushed to stop the two sides from hurting one another. But they had several hundred feet to cover and rioting enthusiasts to push through. Before they could get to the scene, a fight broke out between Petrov’s head goon and Hunter Maxwell
Maxwell could have been a professional boxer as he landed an overhand right that connected solidly on the burly Russian’s jaw, knocking him out cold. He followed the punch by leaping on the Russian and pummeling his face, drawing blood.
Officer Singer fired his 9mm pistol into the air. The amped up Navajo had never discharged his weapon before in a life-and-death situation. It made him shudder.
By the time the Navajo police officers could break up the fight, Maxwell had beaten the Russian bodyguard to a pulp, the Navajo Nation television cameras were rolling, and a crowd of almost a hundred young people was screaming for more blood.
Ordering his men in Russian not to draw their guns, Petrov made a beeline for his car. His stone-faced driver held the door open, and Petrov jumped in the back seat.
The Navajo officers started pushing people aside and warning everyone to step back and go home. The protesters patted Maxwell on the back, and the onlookers chanted “SAVE THE CONFLUENCE! SAVE THE CONFLUENCE!”
The remaining Russians lifted their beaten comrade off the ground and carried him to another waiting black Cadillac Escalade. Then the two vehicles squealed off into the Arizona night.
Harry Bigman removed his cap and rubbed his black stubble hair nervously. He reverted to humor to settle his nerves. “Well, I guess the Russians aren’t going to file assault charges.”
Dalton Singer holstered his pistol and took a deep breath. That was close. Too close. And now he was going to have to fill out a report, explaining why he discharged his weapon in a crowd.
“This is nasty business,” said Bigman as he put his cap back on his head. “You saw what I saw, didn’t you?”
Dalton closed his eyes. “You mean the guns?”
“Yep. Every one of those Russians was packing. And if their boss had told them to, they would have started shooting.”
“To kill,” shuddered Harry Bigman.