Hour of the Hunter

“Nana Dahd,” he shouted. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

There was no answer, only the horn-the terrible horn. He scrambled over to the pickup and peered inside. Nana Dahd lay with her body crushed against the steering wheel, which jutted far into the cab. Blood gushed from a gaping wound on her left hand.

“Nana Dahd!” Davy shouted again, but she didn’t hear him, didn’t stir.

Just then a pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders and dragged him away from the truck. Davy looked up to see that an Anglo man, a stranger, was holding him. He fought the hands with all his might, kicking and screaming, “Let me go! Let me go!” But the man held him fast.

A second man was there now, crawling on his hands and knees, peering into the truck. He reached inside across Nana Dahd’s still body and switched off the engine, then he tugged at some wires under the dash. The wailing horn was instantly stilled, and the sudden silence was deafening.

“Can we get her out, Joe?”

The man by the truck shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s pinned. We’ve got to get a tourniquet on this hand, then find some help. How far back to that little trading post?”

“Three Points? A long way. What about the other direction, toward Sells?”

“Up there!” Davy told them, pointing back up the mountain, but the men didn’t hear him. After all, he was only a little kid. What did he know?

“You stay with her,” one man was saying to the other, letting Davy go and heading back toward his car, a shiny red Grand Prix. The two men had been traveling past the turnoff on the highway just in time to see the GMC perform its spectacular series of acrobatics.

One of the two men started toward the car, but Davy ran after him, attaching himself to the man’s knee like a stubborn cocklebur. The force of his tackle almost brought both of them down.

“Up there!” Davy insisted desperately. “We’ve got to go up there!”

“Let go, kid. Don’t waste time.”

“But there’s an ambulance up there. I know. I saw it!”

Finally, the boy’s words penetrated. “An ambulance? On the mountain?”

“Yes. Please.”

“No shit! I’m going, but you stay here. You’re hurt, too.”

Beating him off with a club was all that would have kept Davy Ladd from clambering into the Grand Prix. He sat in the front seat, not crying but shaking silently, his bloody face pressed to the inside of the windshield as the car raced up the steep mountain road, straightening the curves, clinging to the pavement on the outside edges.

At one point, the man tossed him a white handkerchief. “Christ, kid, use this, will you? You’re getting blood all over my car.”

When they reached the top of the mountain, the car screeched to a stop in the parking lot.

“Which way?”

Wordlessly, Davy pointed toward the garage. The door was closed, the now-clean ambulance inside and invisible. The man raced toward it while Davy scrambled out of the car and ran toward the gift shop. It was after four and the place was closed, but Davy pounded on the side door, the one Nana Dahd had used earlier. When Edwina Galvan finally opened it, he flung himself at her.

“It’s Nana Dahd! You’ve got to help her. She’s hurt bad.”

“What happened?”

The dam broke. Suddenly, Davy Ladd was sobbing so badly he could barely talk. “A cow,” he mumbled. “A cow in the road.”

“Where?” Edwina demanded, but he didn’t answer. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Where did it happen?”

“Down on the flat. Almost to the highway.”

Just then a piercing alarm sounded all over the complex at the top of the mountain. The man from the Grand Prix dashed out of the garage followed by the ambulance. Two other men appeared from nowhere and ran for the ambulance.

“It’s at the bottom of the mountain,” one of them shouted back at Edwina. “Radio Sells for another ambulance.”

Edwina nodded and turned to go back inside. Holding Davy’s hand, she intended to take him with her, but he pulled free and darted away, climbing back into the front seat of the Grand Prix just as it started out of the parking lot behind the speeding ambulance.

No matter what, Davy Ladd’s place was with Nana Dahd.

The pain was bigger than she was and hotter than the sun. It burned through her, seared through her, until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Where’s Olhoni? she wondered. She had called for him, but he didn’t answer. Where was he? Was he dead? No. That was impossible. That couldn’t be, but where was he?

She asked the man, a man who was there trying to talk to her through the mangled window of the truck, but she could no longer translate the funny Mil-gahn words. The only words that made sense to her now were those of her childhood, the Papago ones. The man shook his head helplessly. He didn’t understand, either.

“Where is Olhoni?” she murmured again and again. “Where is my bald-headed baby?”

There were other cars now, other people. Rita could hear them, could see feet where faces ought to be. Were they upside down or was she? What had happened? And where was Olhoni?

And then the pain. The pain that was bigger than she was grew even larger. It was a pain bigger than the stars and the sky and the universe. The pain was everything.

She heard a noise and realized that someone had cut a hole in the door of the truck. Her body was flowing out through that hole-her body and her blood.

They were moving her now, moving her out onto the ground and strapping her down to a board or a stretcher of some kind. That was when she started to fight them. The heavy white strap locked her to the board just as another strap long ago had once locked her to a bed.

She fought them like a smart cow fights when she knows she’s being led to the slaughter. The pain was blinding, but she fought through it, fought beyond it. She might have won, too, but suddenly Olhoni was there, kneeling at her side, pleading with her to be still.

“Let them help you, Nana Dahd,” he begged. “Please let them help you.”

She looked up then and saw that beyond Olhoni some of the other faces swarming above her were Indian faces. She wondered where they’d come from, or if they had been there all the time.

A few of the men were trying to pick up the stretcher with her on it. She could tell from the looks on their faces that they thought she was too heavy. For some reason, this seemed funny to her, but when she tried to laugh, another searing pain shot through her.

One of the men tried to pry Davy away from her hand, but he clung to her and refused to budge.

“Let him come,” one of the attendants said. “He’s hurt, too.”

Could that be? Olhoni hurt? Rita tried to look at him, to see what was wrong, but she blacked out then. The next thing she knew, she was riding in the ambulance, or rather on top of it. Over it somehow. She could see the two attendants huddled over a strangely familiar figure lying flat on a stretcher.

Olhoni was sitting off to one side. Rita called to him, but he didn’t look up, didn’t hear her. His eyes never left the face of the old woman on the stretcher. There was a bottle with some kind of liquid in it hanging above her. A plastic tube led from the bottle to a needle pressed into the flesh of the woman’s arm.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. “We’re losing her! We’re losing her!” one of the attendants shouted.

Ruthlessly, the other man shoved Olhoni aside, pushing him roughly up into the front seat. The boy didn’t protest. He went where he was told and sat there, with his hands clutching the dashboard, staring out the window in front of him.

And that was when Rita saw the buzzards, three of them, sitting in a row on three separate telephone poles, their huge wings outstretched to collect the last warming rays of sunshine. Those buzzards, their heads still naked