Zuni Stew: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

the children perished, their skeletons to be discovered years later by archeologists.
    Other pueblos shared religious rituals, and even occasionally intermixing words from their respective languages. The Zunis refused, maintaining their own particular language and culture, and remaining in a single tight-knit pueblo. Zunis ignored the Spanish culture, set aside Catholicism. Even during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680, Zuni played only a small part, choosing to remain in what they believe to be the Center of the Middle Earth.
    To this day, Zunis do not believe in intermingling with the outside world except for commerce.

    Jack closed the booklet, ate the last of the burger, and was back on Route 66 and across the continental divide, watching for Highway 602. After the turn south, the narrow road dipped and curved through hilly, up-and-down arroyos. A little ribbon of a road, no fences, surrounded by open range, narrowed into a tunnel-like draw of burnt sienna and cream-striped rock.
    The single-track road turned sharply left. A blind curve. He hit the brakes, the Jeep grabbed. A goddamned herd of bleating sheep blocked the road. Creeping forward in low gear, peering over their dusty backs, he could barely make out the outline of a truck on the other side of the road, upside down, wheels still turning.
    He pulled the Jeep off the road and flung the door open wide. Dodging and jumping sheep, he ran to the truck. An arm dangled out of the window, twisted. Fingers twitched involuntarily. One look inside at the contorted body in the cab. “My God,” he said aloud. The arm was nearly torn from the torso just above the elbow. Blood spurted from severed arteries.
    He jerked off his shirt and in one swift motion ripped a strip of fabric, wrapped the mutilated stub and formed a tight tourniquet above the elbow, stopping the bleeding. Gasoline. Unable to pry the door open, he reached in and grabbed the young man’s shoulders and pulled the torso out the window, dragging him a safe distance away.
    The kid was breathing heavily. His eyes opened wide as Jack gingerly probed for other injuries. Ear to his chest. Lungs clear, no gurgling, no broken ribs. He carried him to the back of the Jeep, pushed the plastic bag of new clothes under his legs to keep blood flowing to his brain. He positioned the nearly severed arm on the boy’s chest. The kid was conscious, but silent.
    At the outskirts of Gallup, he roared through a just-turned-red light. A cop hit his red lights and siren. Jack edged the Jeep off the pavement and waved the cop forward. Once parallel, he yelled, “I’m a doctor. Emergency! He’s bleeding out. Lead me to the PHS hospital.”
    Immediate surgery. Jack and the policeman met up at the admission desk. Surprisingly, the officer could complete most of the forms.
    Name: Tito Jahata.
    Residence: Zuni Pueblo.
    Father: Louis Paul Jahata.
    The remaining data was obtained from Tito’s driver’s license. Jack asked for a lab coat to cover his bare chest.
    “You did good, Doc. Very good.” The officer added, “Tito is the son of one of the pueblo’s most revered A:shiwani .”
    “What?”
    “Rain priest. Responsible for the welfare of total Zuni world,” said the officer. “He can do miracles. I have seen.”

    9

    D octor’s lounge. An hour passed before the senior surgeon showed up. “He’s going to be all right. The mutilated arm, no hope, only a useless extremity.”
    “Could I have done more?”
    “You did what was needed, you kept him alive.” The surgeon never offered his name.
    Jack walked down the green-tiled hallway out to the Willy, ignoring the blood stains in the back. State 602 again, south. The countryside spread before him. Deep cobalt blue sky, dotted with innocent flat-bottomed clouds. Ponderosas towered over patches of mullein, tall grass and chamisa filled the ravines of the rugged hillsides.
    West on State 53 in about a half hour. Zuni Pueblo, ten miles down the road.
    
    Just as he reached