Louisa had done the chauffeuring for months. Thankfully, those days were gone. He made a much better driver than passenger.
He noticed Louisa looking at her bracelet. “I wonder how old Mr. Peshlakai is. I must have purchased this twenty years ago, and it doesn’t look like something made by a beginner. When I bought it, I remember that there were matching earrings and a pendant for sale, too, but I couldn’t afford the whole set. I loved the bracelet the most. I looked at the set a long time and finally decided it was better to have groceries for the month than more jewelry.”
“Smar.” Leaphorn noticed the sedan that pulled onto AZ 265 West, and slowed to give the driver space. “Food is guh.”
She laughed. “That’s what I figured.”
They passed the Window Rock flea market, busy as usual, and crossed Black Creek Wash and then the junction for St. Michael’s school and mission. Then came the clinic, a gas station, a family restaurant where Leaphorn met with potential suspects and witnesses in his days on the force, and an assortment of other businesses.
The road started as four lanes with piñon and juniper trees on both sides. It narrowed to two lanes as it climbed to 7,000 feet. The route dropped into sage and sheep country. Crows soared against the vivid blue summer sky.
When they came to the junction for Kinlichee, Louisa had a question: “What does that word mean?”
Leaphorn pronounced the Navajo name for the settlement, Kin Dah Lichi’i. “Red hows in da distance. Pueblo ruins.” The truck scooted over Fish Wash with coal-rich Black Mesa framing the horizon to the west. Leaphorn turned left just before they crossed Ganado Wash, glad that the Hubbell Trading Post National Historic Site entrance marker stood large. The junction would otherwise be easy to miss.
They bounced along the washboards and over handmade speed bumps for a quick half mile. He smelled the green alfalfa in the field across from the sandstone building that housed the visitor center and bookstore. The road ended directly in the dirt parking lot. He recalled that the historic Hubbell home and outbuildings lay beyond.
Leaphorn assessed the other vehicles before he parked, a little game he played. Could he figure out which cars and trucks belonged to whoever was inside? He assumed the two white vans were part of a school or church field trip. Among the other vehicles, he saw a truck from the 1990s or maybe 2000 with Arizona plates. It looked well used and well loved. He tied it to the trader who worked here, and the other vehicles to visitors. He didn’t see anything that looked appropriate for an aged silversmith.
Louisa took off her seat belt. “I love this place. So rich with history. Several of my students wrote papers about it. Do you know the story?”
He nodded. The Hubbell Trading Post, the oldest trading post operating on the Navajo Nation, dated to just after the treaty the US government made with the Navajos after the Long Walk. The buildings were just a little younger, Leaphorn thought, than Juanita’s dress. Don Lorenzo Hubbell had the business sense and social skills to create an establishment that functioned for decades, beginning in 1878. He did business with the Navajos who returned home after four years of hellish captivity, encouraging them to create silver jewelry, baskets, and rugs to exchange for flour, coffee, canned goods, and other items not easily found on the remote reservation. Besides being a store, the post had served as a home to the Hubbell family and a haven for visitors, among them Theodore Roosevelt. After Don Lorenzo’s death, family members operated the establishment until 1967. Then the 160-acre homestead, buildings, and trading post were sold to the National Park Service.
Louisa opened the passenger door. “I haven’t been here in ages. I hope Mr. Peshlakai has arrived. I’m eager to show him my bracelet.”
Leaphorn wanted to spend a few minutes looking at the old post. He planned to talk to the trader about the other possibly valuable items in the photographs, check in with the jeweler when he arrived, and go home.
The Arizona heat baked them as they headed to the entrance. Stepping into the front room was like walking into the past, although the goods on the shelves included disposable diapers and batteries. The Western National Parks Association maintained the trading post much as it had looked when the Hubbell family operated it.
“It’s just like I remember.” Louisa smiled. “I bet the jewelry is still in the next room.”
Leaphorn watched her head directly to the counter that held bracelets. He stayed in the main room, waiting to catch the eye of the trader who was dealing with a young Navajo woman buying a yellow container of engine oil. In the old days, this post and most of the others throughout the reservation had traders who were non-Navajo. Leaphorn was pleased to see Diné on both sides of the transaction now.
The woman paid, and the man came from behind the counter and greeted Leaphorn. “Yá’át’ééh. You must be the one I talked to on the phone.”
“Yá’át’ééh. Joe Leaphorn.”
“Gene Willie.” He introduced himself formally with his clans, the Navajo way.
Leaphorn, who usually didn’t follow this formality, reciprocated. “This old store looks better than ever.”
“It’s a labor of love. The visitors like it, and the locals are happy to have a quick place to pick up some aspirin and another market for their weaving.”
“My friend Louisa is in the other room. Let me introduce you. And then I brought the photos I mentioned. I could use your help to solve a mystery.”
“Sure, but first I have to give an introductory talk to the students, high schoolers from Indiana. You’re welcome to listen in.”
“Thank you.” Leaphorn would have preferred to get the business done, but he assumed Louisa would enjoy it.
She looked up from the jewelry case when he and Willie entered the room. Leaphorn did the honors.
“Is Mr. Peshlakai here?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m excited to have a chance to meet him. What an opportunity to make a personal connection with an artist who made something that I love.” She extended her left arm toward Willie. “This is one of my favorite things.” She slipped off the bracelet and passed it to him. “You’ll see the jeweler’s mark inside.”
Willie set it on his right palm and moved his arm up and down, judging its heft. Then he moved it closer to his face, looked at the mark, and handed it back to her. “It’s beautiful, and I think you are correct. It could be one of his early pieces. His new work is lighter, maybe because silver is more expensive. You’ll have to ask him.”
Leaphorn noticed the dozen or so young people in shorts and T-shirts gathered in the adjoining room, most of them fiddling with their phones. Willie excused himself. “Time to talk to the kids. Come on.”
They followed him and took a seat on the folded rugs. Like the rest of the post, the room displayed relics from the old trading days, including antique guns, traps, saddles, and animal heads.
Willie spoke with ease, using a rug with the classic storm pattern as a template for his talk. He explained that each rug told a complicated story and that only the weaver herself could provide the complete explanation. Leaphorn thought of the missing dress. What tales could it relate of struggle and survival, of the strong woman who wove it with her own hands and wore the dress with pride?