“We have,” I said. “The Hopi own this land. It’s their own nation, really. They’ve got their own laws and their own police, just like the Navajo do on their reservation. We’ve entered their country.” Bess and George were sharing the driving on this leg of the journey, which had given me time to read up on the Hopi and Navajo in my guidebook, but I slapped it closed as we approached the Cultural Center.
Once inside, we learned that Mr. Littlewolf hadn’t checked in yet.
“I have an idea,” I said to my friends. “While we’re waiting for him to come, let’s check out the Hopi village of Walpi. The guidebook mentioned that it’s the oldest occupied village in America, nearly a thousand years old. It sounds really interesting. And close, too.”
“Sure,” Bess said. George and Ned agreed, and soon we were driving up a treacherous winding road to the village on the mesa nearby.
“I can’t look,” Bess said, covering her eyes as we snaked along the narrow twisting road. But once on top, the view was stunning.
“This reminds me of a medieval town,” Ned said as we parked and climbed out of the car. “It’s so high up, and with its stone walls, it’s almost as if it’s fortified.”
“My guidebook said that one reason the Hopi were able to survive here for so long is that they could spot their enemies coming,” I declared. “That’s exactly like a lot of medieval villages in Europe.”
“Oh, look at all these dogs coming to greet us,” Ned said as a pack of mangy-looking dogs ambled up to us. “Hello, guys,” he added, bending down to pat a friendly black-and-brown mutt.
“They look a bit scruffy,” Bess said.
A small Hopi woman in an embroidered skirt rushed up to us. “Hello there!” she said, smiling. “Please, you are all welcome here. But no patting the animals. They might carry plague.”
Ned recoiled. “Excuse me? Plague?” He looked at his hand with a stricken expression.
“Yes, the dogs have fleas, and fleas sometimes carry bubonic plague in these parts,” the woman told him. “Best to go wash your hands, young man. There’s a rest room in the tourist center.” She led us a few doors down to a public building with a rest room. Outside the building some tables displaying kachinas and pottery were set up, but Ned didn’t give them a glance as he hurried to wash his hands.
I listened to the men and women who were carving kachinas by the table chat happily away, obviously enjoying one another’s company as they worked. Despite their poverty, the Hopi people seemed very close. I’d read that their spiritual beliefs are very important to them. Even though they’re private about their religion, they also have a reputation for being kind and welcoming. The name Hopi, Peaceful Ones, seemed totally right to me.
“Remember what Nigel Brown, the Starflowers’ friend, told us?” I whispered to Bess and George. “That the Hopi family line is tracked through the mother instead of the father.”
“So I would have my mom’s last name instead of my dad’s?” Bess asked.
“I think so,” I said.
Ned joined us, while we bought some pottery and kachina dolls. One of the kachinas was a beautiful maiden with her hair worn up in two discs around the top of her head, giving her a sort of Mickey Mouse effect. She wore soft white moccasins with leggings and a woven dress. When I lifted her up, the old man who was selling the kachinas told me she was a Snow Maiden.
On a hunch, I asked him about the Corn Ear Maidens and described the legend in Mr. Littlewolf’s letter.
“Hopi mythology indeed includes that legend!” he said brightly. “Our pottery often features pictures of Corn Ear Maidens, and I even have a Corn Maiden kachina.” He dug around under the table and pulled one out. The maiden wore a green mask with rainbows on the cheeks. She had bangs and long braided pigtails, and ears of corn were carved into the bottom of her shawl.
I thought about Sasha’s interest in the Anasazi. If she was the recipient of Mr. Littlewolf’s letter, maybe he’d written to her because of their shared interest in that culture. “Could that Hopi legend have originally been Anasazi?” I asked the man.
“I’m not sure,” the man added. “Possibly.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ned strolling away to explore the town. The afternoon was warm, and Ned took off his sweatshirt to wrap it around his waist. Then he leaned from the wall surrounding the town to peer down at the plain far below. Bess grabbed my arm. “I wish Ned wouldn’t do that,” she said. “It’s making me dizzy. If he leans any farther, he’ll be gone.” No sooner had she finished speaking than he strolled behind the corner of a building, out of sight.
The man lifted another kachina to show me when a shout caught my attention. Ned!
Bess, George, and I froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks. He screamed again, calling my name.
I took off toward the place where I’d last seen Ned. As I charged around the corner of the building, I stopped in midrun. I couldn’t believe it. On the far side of town where the road wound downhill, a red sedan roared away full throttle, with Ned’s sweatshirt sleeve dragging from the back door.
The driver’s tall, dark-haired shape was unmistakable. Andy Littlewolf.
12. Sinking Fast
Mr. Littlewolf was not alone. Another man sat in the rear seat. I could only see the back of his head, but I knew he wasn’t Ned, since Ned was taller when he sat.
Still, Ned was in that car somewhere. His sweatshirt was hanging out the door.
The sedan raced down the hill, taking each hairpin turn with squeaking wheels. I sprinted toward it, struggling to make out the license plate. No luck.
“Bess! George!” I shouted, pivoting around. They were right behind me.
“Don’t worry, Nancy,” Bess said breathlessly. “We’re with you.”
I spun toward a souvenir table I’d passed on the other side of the building. Two men were sitting behind it selling Hopi wares. “Did either of you see who was in that car?” I asked them.
They stared at me warily. Then one of the men spoke, a young heavyset guy. “I couldn’t see the car—the corner blocked it from sight. But I bet that Navajo man was in it. I noticed him earlier.”
“Yeah,” the other man said, who was older and thinner. “He was with a white man who was acting as his intermediary.”
“Intermediary?” I repeated. “You mean a go-between?” My mind clicked back to my conversation with Mr. Littlewolf when I’d suggested that he find a go-between to purchase Hopi crafts. He must have done exactly that. But who could the man be? Mr. Littlewolf had been very terse when I’d brought up the subject. He definitely hadn’t mentioned any names.
“A go-between, yes,” the first man said, nodding. “The Navajo man probably felt unwelcome here. See, our tribes don’t exactly get along. He probably wanted to bring a neutral person to negotiate with us for our crafts. That’s what I understood, anyway. I overheard a bit of their talk.”
“You did?” I asked eagerly. “What else did they say?”
The older man shrugged. “Not much. I just heard the Navajo man telling his friend that he’d feel more comfortable staying the night on his own turf, that’s all. I guess he had a room at the Cultural Center and decided to cancel it.”
My heart sank. Andy Littlewolf wasn’t going to the Cultural Center after all. So how could I track him and Ned down? “Did either of you hear where he’s planning to spend the night instead?” I asked.
“The Thunderbird Lodge in Canyon De Chelly,” the younger man said. “It’s in the heart of the Navajo Nation.”
The older man interrupted. “The other man wanted to go to Canyon De Chelly too. He said there’s something interesting in it that he wanted the Navajo man to see.”
My curiosity revved up, full throttle. Something interesting in a canyon? “Did he say what it was?” I asked.
“Nope,” the older man said. “The Navajo man pressed him to tell, but he gave no hint.”
George cut in. “What did this guy look like?
” she asked.
The men looked at each other and shrugged. The older one spoke first. “He was medium height,” he said, raising his hand to his own eye level. “Middle-aged, with short brown hair and light eyes. I didn’t notice their exact color. I’d never seen him before, I know that.”
“Did you get his name?” Bess asked.
“No, sorry,” the older man said, while the younger man shook his head.
“Did the men say anything else? Did they buy anything from you?” I asked, angling for every possible shred of information.
“They looked over our kachinas,” the younger man said, “but they didn’t buy any. Then they stepped away and had a big argument out of earshot. I wish I could have heard it. Then they wandered off beyond the building. A few minutes later, I heard a shout and then a car speeding away.”
“Was anyone else with them?” I asked. “Like a tall guy around nineteen years old with brown hair?”
The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “Navajo?”
“No,” I answered. “He was with us. He was the person shouting. We think the other guys kidnapped him.”
The two men looked at me in shock. “Are you sure?” the older man exclaimed. “We just assumed the shout came from one of the men arguing. I thought maybe one man had punched the other or something. But you’re saying they kidnapped your friend?”
I told them about Ned’s sweatshirt dragging from the back door of the car. “He yelled for me, and now he’s nowhere in sight—plus, his sweatshirt is in that car,” I said. “They must have kidnapped him, but we have no clue why. That’s why I need to ask you these questions.”
“I only wish we could be of more help,” the younger man said sympathetically. “But I will call the police and report the red car for you.”
“You’ve been a lot of help,” I said, smiling my thanks. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done. And at least now I know where they’re heading.”
The men gave us directions to Canyon De Chelly. “It’s over an hour east, in Arizona, close to the New Mexico border,” the younger man said. “And by the way, while the name of the canyon is pronounced ‘Shay,’ it’s spelled C-h-e-l-l-y. Just so you’ll recognize the road signs to it.”
I thanked the men, and George, Bess, and I jumped in our car. Then we sped east toward the darkening sky as the sun set behind us. “What will we do about our room at the Cultural Center?” Bess asked.
“I guess we’ll just have to pay for it,” I said. “I mean, we already checked in. Lucky we didn’t bring any bags with us, or we’d have to come back for them. I don’t want to waste a minute.”
“We’ve got to stay on Mr. Littlewolf’s trail while it’s fresh,” George said.
“Ned’s strong,” I said. “The kidnappers must have a weapon, or they never could have gotten him into their car.”
“I wonder if he overheard some secret,” George said, “like where Sasha is.”
I wondered the same thing myself. I also wondered what was in Canyon De Chelly that was so intriguing to the mystery man. Sasha? Then I remembered the weapon. I pressed the accelerator. The sooner we arrived at Canyon De Chelly, the sooner we would discover the answers to these questions.
George broke into my thoughts. “The Hopi and Navajo don’t get along, right? So maybe that’s why Mr. Littlewolf used his Moab address when he made reservations at the Cultural Center—he didn’t want to reveal his cultural identity.”
I said, “George, you’re really an excellent detective.”
“I learned from the best,” George said.
About an hour later we pulled into the driveway of the Thunderbird Lodge, a handsome old motel and café run by the Navajo at the mouth of Canyon De Chelly. During our trip, while there was still some light, Bess had read us the description of the canyon in the guidebook. Apparently it was a beautiful green oasis, and an important spiritual place for the Navajo. Guides regularly led tourists into it on horseback, foot, or four-wheel-drive wagons. There were several Anasazi cliff dwellings, as well as petroglyphs. But now the sky was dark, we were starving, and I was desperate to find Ned.
A quick scan of the parking lot revealed no red sedan. We climbed out of the car and anxiously filed into the reception area. But the clerk gave us disappointing news: Mr. Littlewolf had just called to cancel his reservation.
That meant they had a room for us. After calling the Navajo police, who promised to put out a search for the red sedan, we ate dinner and flopped into bed, too exhausted and upset to do anything but sleep.
The sun poured through the window, brightening my mood when I woke the next morning. Still, I knew we had our work cut out for us. I mean, two people were missing now—and one of them was Ned! Before dressing, I called the police to check in, but they’d found no sign of the red sedan, Mr. Littlewolf, Ned, Sasha, or the mystery man.
Sighing, I hung up the phone. So I would have to find them myself, with help from Bess and George. Squaring my shoulders, I began to plan our day.
After breakfast, we booked a tour of Canyon De Chelly. The Hopi man’s words stuck in my mind: There’s something interesting in the canyon he wanted the Navajo man to see. I had a big hunch that a lot of our questions would be answered by whatever waited for us in that canyon.
“Hey, Nancy, did you see these pictures?” Bess asked me, nervously pointing to some photos taped to the tour desk. I took a good look.
The pictures showed various stages of a Jeep sinking in quicksand. In one shot, its roof was barely visible. In another, it had only sunk halfway. Next to the photos was a warning not to enter the canyon under any circumstances without a Navajo guide because of dangerous quicksand. Only professional guides were skilled enough to detect it.
“Was the person who drove the Jeep okay?” Bess asked the receptionist anxiously when she approached.
She nodded just as our tour was announced.
“I’m glad that driver lived,” Bess murmured as she, George, and I piled into a huge open-air vehicle with a few other tourists. “Still, I don’t know about venturing into this canyon. It sounds dangerous.”
“It’s our only lead to Ned and Sasha,” I told her. “Don’t worry, Bess. Our guide will protect us.”
Bess looked doubtful as we bumped down the canyon’s dirt roads, plowing through pools of mucky water every minute or so. Each time we crossed a stream, I could feel her tense up.
On my other side, George leaned toward me and whispered, “I kind of don’t blame Bess. How can our guide tell where the quicksand is when the muddy places all look the same?”
I shrugged. “Maybe quicksand looks different from this mud, and we just haven’t seen it yet.”
Our thoughts were interrupted by the tour guide when he stopped the truck near some white cliff dwellings. Dressed in jeans, a cowboy hat, and boots, he told us that this was an important Anasazi ruin called the White House.
We climbed out of the truck to investigate. The dwelling had several rooms built around A.D. 1200, including an underground chamber people used for ceremonies.
“This place is so cool,” George said, gazing around. “I can see why archaeologists think the Anasazi were such an advanced civilization.”
As I glanced at George something red flashed through a grove of trees about a hundred yards past her. I caught my breath. Mr. Littlewolf’s car? It was gone in an instant, but that didn’t stop me.
“George, Bess, c’mon,” I said. “I saw something in the distance that could be the red sedan.”
“We can sneak away now,” I added, tugging on George’s T-shirt sleeve. “All the other tourists are busy shopping, and the guide is helping them.” As the people from our tour bargained with the Navajo women, the three of us hurried toward the grove of trees. My heart was beating a mile a minute, hoping the red flash wasn’t a red herring. I didn’t feel ready for a letdown.
At the edge of a small stream, Bess suddenly cried out. “Look,” she gasped. “What’
s that?”
Pointing at a silvery gleam a few feet away, she smiled with excitement, headed toward it, then leaned down to pick it up.
I gasped as Bess held it in her palm. “It’s a ranger badge, just like the one that Sasha wore!” I said.
“Awesome!” George exclaimed.
But our excitement didn’t last long. Bess cried out again, this time in fear. “I’m sinking!” she yelled. “Help me, guys. Quicksand!”
She was right. It had only been seconds since she’d stepped near the stream, but the mud was inching past her knees.
13. Cave Capture
Despite her fear, Bess had amazing pluck. Summoning all her courage, she threw the badge onto firm ground.
“There!” she said. “At least the badge won’t sink with me.”
“You won’t sink either, Bess,” I said, coming as close to her as I dared. The ground under my feet was moist and suspiciously springy. Bess was about three feet away, fighting to pull herself from the quicksand.
Her eyes looked terrified. “Help me!” Bess pleaded, holding out her arms to me and George.
“Grab one arm and I’ll get the other,” I said to George. Together, we each held onto one of Bess’s arms, then we dug in our heels and pulled.
Nothing.
“Again, Nan!” George shouted. “Before she sinks any farther.” We yanked Bess until her shoulder sockets strained, but no matter how hard we pulled, the quicksand kept sucking her down, like some sort of hungry beast.
Bess screamed again. “Hurry, guys,” she said. “I’m going fast. It’s almost up to my hips.”
George dropped Bess’s arm. “I’m getting our guide,” she announced. She raced off through the stand of trees, a blur of jeans and sneakers.
Something I’d read about quicksand jogged my memory. “Try not to panic, Bess. Listen to me. I’ve read some facts about quicksand. You’ve got to lie flat on your back before you sink any farther.”
Bess’s eyes widened. “What?”
“If you lie flat, you won’t sink, and your feet will eventually rise,” I said, willing myself to stay calm. I had to talk her through this and get her to relax. I just hoped my tactic would work.