THE NAKED TROCAR
with THE BEST REVENGE
Fender Tucker
PROLOGUE: The Murder
The Jaynes Mortuary stood at the end of a dead end road in Shiprock New Mexico. It was in a residential area and the words “Jaynes Mortuary” in red neon script was the only light on the short street. It was an adobe building, one story with a basement, and if it weren’t for the neon, no one would ever have any reason for going to the end of the road—except for a death in the family.
One night in late 1983, if you had been standing in the street outside the mortuary, you would have seen the door open, yellow light spilling out over the cactus and sand that made up the yard of the building. You would have seen a young man, perhaps a Navajo boy, run out of the door with the shadow of a larger person looming in the doorway. You may have even heard a sobbing shout from either the boy or the shadow before seeing what looked like a gun in the hand of the man in the doorway.
You would have then heard the sound of a gunshot and seen the young boy sprawl to the ground, obviously shot in the back. The man, who remained only a shadow, would then move to the boy, and either put into or take something from the pocket of the boy’s shirt, before going back into the building.
And the sobbing would have continued until the door closed and the neon light was all you could see.
But you weren’t there back in 1983. Someone else was, but be thankful it wasn’t you.
THE BEST REVENGE
The young man’s eyes opened and beheld ten thousand stars. The Colorado night air was cold but under the blanket he had bought from Jimmie Yazzie years back he was comfortable. Nothing had awakened him, but he was wide awake and he knew he wanted to get started, even though daylight was a couple of hours away.
He stood up and rolled the gray and black Navajo blanket into a tight cylinder and cinched it with a couple of leather strips. He had slept fully clothed— except for his boots—and thought about how good a bath would feel. Maybe this was the day he’d have one. The campfire was still glowing and he threw on a few sticks for his coffee.
Hosteen, tethered a few feet away, snorted and acted as if he was ready to get on with their journey too, even though he was undoubtedly hungry. All either of them had the day before were some apples because they had skirted Cañon City and the provisions were running very low. Hosteen, a tall sorrel obtained from Henry Begay two years ago, was a magnificent horse and had made the two-week journey fully packed without complaint. There were roads all the way from Farmington, in New Mexico, to their destination, but the two travelers had mainly kept off them, paralleling them a few miles to the east where the land was a bit less mountainous, and the dangers of meeting curious or malevolent miners less probable.
The young man pulled on his boots, sipped his coffee, and had an apple before packing everything onto Hosteen. He was especially careful with the oversized, bulging saddlebags that only a horse the size of Hosteen could have carried. He cleaned up the fire, fed Hosteen a couple of apples and climbed into the saddle and they continued north, with the black Colorado sky dotted with stars above.
It was about an hour later that the young man noticed a faint blue glow on the near horizon ahead and with every step a hundred stars died out. They were approaching a ridge that the young man sensed was the last one they’d find before they reached their goal. The blue glow was winking out the stars, not the looming sun that would soon strip off the cold, September night. Both the young man and his horse seemed to sense the excitement of journey’s end as they approached the crest with the blue glow, which had by now obliterated almost all of the stars to the north.
They reached the top and looked down on the most beautiful thing the young man had ever seen, or imagined.