Behind him, he listened to Ryana’s racing footsteps and the wail of her scream. He knelt next to the victim. He knew that the gunshot could have nicked an artery, injured the heart or the lungs. If the spine was involved, moving the man could cause more damage. He also realized it would take time, too much time, for an ambulance to find the house.
Ryana grew quiet and squatted next to him. “They got him. They hurt my shicheii. Oh my God. This is on me.”
The old man’s lips parted at the sound of her voice and he moaned. Ryana began speaking to Mr. Natachi in Navajo.
Chee trusted his instincts and made the decision. “We’ll have to get him to the hospital.” He ran to his unit and moved his first aid kit and a blanket from the trunk to the front seat.
As he drove toward them, he rolled down the windows to allow the sunbaked air to escape. He parked as close as he could to the injured man, grabbed the blanket, gloves, tape, and a package of sterile dressing from the first aid kit.
“He’s still alive.” When Ryana looked up, he saw the blood on her shirt. “What’s that sound?”
“I think it’s air flowing into his chest from the bullet hole.” He noticed her focus on the pinkish foam seeping through the man’s shirt.
Ryana looked at him. “Tell me what to do. I’ve had a bunch of first aid classes as part of my job at the senior center.”
He put on one pair of gloves and quickly moved the fragments of cloth from Mr. Natachi’s shirt away from the edges of the hole. He handed the second pair of gloves to Ryana. “I’m placing the plastic from the dressing over that hole to keep the air from rushing in. I want you to tape it here along the edges. Not too tight.”
“There’s so much blood.” He heard her fear.
“Don’t think about that. Put on the gloves and do this, and tell your shicheii that you need him to live.”
The improvised bandage worked with the wound well enough that Chee felt comfortable moving the old gentleman into his unit.
“Help me get him onto the blanket, then we can lift him.”
Ryana was strong and knew how to follow instructions. Using the blanket as a sling, together they placed him on the back seat. She squeezed into the car near her grandfather’s head.
Chee closed the back door and slid behind the steering wheel. “You know how to find the entrance to the ER.” He phrased it as a statement so she would respond in kind.
“Yes. Can you get back to the pavement?”
“Sure.” His sense of direction and orientation had always been good, and his years in law enforcement had strengthened that quality. He remembered seeing signs for the hospital and was positive he could find it himself on the first try. But he wanted to keep the young woman involved so she wouldn’t panic and create an additional problem. He used his cell phone to advise the Chinle station of the situation. He described the black sedan with dark tinted windows and the white license plate he saw leaving the house and the direction in which it was headed. If he had been a little quicker, he knew, he might have captured the plate number.
They had reached the asphalt by the time that call was done. He turned toward Chinle.
“How’s he doing?”
“His eyes are closed, but he gave my hand a squeeze.” He heard the catch in her voice. “Do you think—”
“He’ll be OK.” Chee infused his voice with so much confidence even he believed it. “You said this was on you, Ryana. What did you mean?”
“I just . . . Oh, slow down. We’re coming to an intersection. Turn left.”
He put on the brakes, thankful that the truck with the trailer behind him wasn’t following too closely. “Tell me where to go a little sooner, won’t you?”
“Sorry. This is a shortcut.”
“Why did you say this was on you?”
“No one would want to harm my grandfather. I thought I’d fixed everything but—” She stopped to stifle a sob. “He doesn’t look so good. Do you really think he’ll make it?”
The radio came on before he could respond.
“Sergeant Chee, I have notified the hospital that you are on the way. When you arrive, a crew will be in front with a gurney. Is there a family member or someone we can contact to provide the hospital with the necessary information?”
“Hold on.” He turned to Ryana. “Can you stay at the ER with your grandfather and talk to the people there?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Florez.”
Chee went back on the radio and gave the dispatcher the name. He had turned on his emergency light bar as soon as he had left Ryana’s house. “There’s more traffic, so I’m turning on the siren. I don’t want to take a chance on anyone hitting us as we drive through Chinle.” He reached for the switch, then pulled back.
“Tell me who did this.”
He heard another sob.
“Tell me so I can catch the son of a gun and make him pay for hurting an old man.”
“I . . . I . . . I’m not sure.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She choked out the name. “Yazzie. Arthur Green Yazzie.”
Chee called the dispatcher with the information, then turned on the siren and made his way through Chinle with record speed. He parked at the ER entrance, and followed the hospital crew, the old man, and Ryana to an exam intake room. The Chinle IHS staff was quick, professional, and appropriately noncommittal about Mr. Natachi except to say he would need emergency surgery and possibly a blood transfusion. Ryana moved away from her grandfather, giving the staff room to work, and Chee stood next to her. “I need more information about the shooter. What else do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“You said someone drove to his house this morning. Did you see the car?”
“No, I just heard the noise. I was in the bathroom.”
“I, or someone, will go back to your house to search for the shell casings and whatever else we can find to figure out who did this.”
“Do what you need to do. I can’t think about that now. Didn’t you hear what the doctor said about blood? It’s not good to have a stranger’s blood in your veins. I have to see if I can be a blood donor. Or if he’ll survive without it.”
Chee understood. Many traditional Diné believed that blood from a blood bank carried unseen dangers. Some who had received emergency transfusions reported nightmares, fatigue, visits from chindiis, and even taking on the personality of the donor. To have blood that had flowed in a non-Navajo or a person who was now deceased could bring danger, and even blood from another Navajo might cause problems. A relative made the best donor, and the closer the kinship, the better.
He shoved those thoughts aside. “Ryana, the hospital has traditional healers who can help with this. Tell me who Arthur Green Yazzie is and why he would shoot your grandfather.”
She stared at the floor.
“You have to help so no one else gets hurt. Including you.”
When she looked up, he saw the shiny tear streaks on her face. “I need to be with my shicheii.” She moved away, toward her grandfather’s bed.
Chee raised his voice. “You said this was on you. You need to help fix things.”