Kiss of the Bees

an Indian rather than Hispanic. One whole side of his face, clotted with blood, seemed to have been bashed in. His eyes were open, but the irises had rolled back out of sight. He was breathing, shallowly, but that was about all.

“Thanks for the water,” the woman said, opening the jug and pouring some of it onto a handkerchief. First she wrung out some of the water over the man’s parched lips and swollen tongue, then she laid the still-soaking cloth on the injured man’s forehead. That done, she sprinkled the rest of his body as well, dousing his bloodied clothing.

“I’m trying to lower his body temperature,” she explained. “I don’t know if it’s helping or not, but we’ve got to try.”

It was all Brian could do to kneel beside the injured man and look at him. His mother’s condition had taught him the real meaning behind the awful words “broken back.” He wasn’t at all sure that keeping the man alive would be doing him any favor. What Brian Fellows did feel, however, was both pity and an incredible sense of gratitude. If the man’s back was actually broken or if he had suffered permanent injury as a result of heatstroke, someone else —someone who wasn’t Brian—would have to care for him for the rest of his life, feeding him, bathing him, and attending to his most basic needs.

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Keep the damn flies and ants away,” the woman told him. “They’re eating him alive.”

Brian tried to comply. He waved his Stetson in the air, whacking at the roiling flies, and he attempted to pluck off the marauding ants that peppered the man’s broken body. It was a losing battle. As soon as he got rid of one ant, two more appeared in its place.

“Because there’s water in the charco, a lot of undocumented aliens come this way, especially at this time of year,” the woman was saying. The name tag on the breast pocket of her uniform identified her as Agent Kelly.

“I usually try to stop by here at least once a day,” she continued. “I saw the tracks in the sand and decided to investigate. When I first saw him, I was sure he was dead, but then I found a slight pulse. When I came back from calling for help, his eyes were open.”

Suddenly the man groaned. His eyes blinked. He moved his head from side to side and tried to speak.

“Easy,” Agent Kelly said. “Take it easy. Help is on the way.”

Brian leaned closer to the injured man. “Can you tell us what happened?” he asked. “Do you know who did this?”

The man trained his bloodshot eyes on Brian’s face. “. . . Mil-gahn,” he whispered hoarsely.

The sound of the softly spoken word caused the years to peel away. Brian was once again reliving those carefree days when he and Davy had been little, when they had spent every spare moment out in the little shed behind Davy’s house, with Brian learning the language of Davy’s old Indian baby-sitter, Rita Antone. When they were together, Davy and Rita had spoken to one another almost exclusively in Tohono O’othham—they had called it Papago back then—rather than English. Over time Brian Fellows had picked up some of the language himself. He knew that the word Mil-gahn meant Anglo.

“A white man did this?” Brian asked, hunkering even closer to the injured man.

“Yes,” the man whispered weakly in Tohono O’othham. “A white man.”

“He hit you on purpose?” Brian asked.

The man nodded.

“Do you know who it was?” Brain asked. “Do you know the man’s name?”

This time the injured man shook his head, then he murmured something else. Brian’s grasp of the language was such that he could pick out only one or two words—hiabog—digging, and shohbith—forbidden.

“What’s he saying?” Agent Kelly asked.

“I didn’t catch all of it. Something about forbidden digging. I’ll bet this guy stumbled on a gang of artifact thieves, or maybe just one. The Indians around here consider this whole area sacred, from here to the mountains.”

“That’s news to me,” Agent Kelly said.

Overhead they heard the pulsing clatter of an arriving helicopter. “They’ve probably located the vehicles, but they’ll have trouble finding us. I’ll stay here with him,” she directed. “You go guide them in.”

The helicopter landed in the clearing near where the cars were parked. After directing the emergency medical technicians on where to go, Brian went back to his Blazer and called in. “I need a detective out here,” he said.

“How come?” the dispatcher wanted to know. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a severely injured man. He may not make it.”

“You’re talking about the drunk Indian the Border Patrol found? We’ve already dispatched the helicopter —”

“The helicopter’s here,” Brian interrupted. “I’m asking for a detective. The guy says a white man beat him up.”

“But he’s still alive right now, right?”

“Barely.”

“Go ahead and write it up yourself, Deputy Fellows. The detectives are pretty much tied up at the moment. If one of ’em gets freed up later, I’ll send him along. In the meantime, this case is your baby.” The dispatcher’s implication was clear: a deputy capable of investigating dead cattle ought to be able to handle a beat-up Indian now and then.