One of my favorite characters

Murder at Black Dog Springs by Sarah Black

I really love the cover photo. But in my mind, the character on the cover isn't one of the two main characters. Ever had a character try to run away with the book? That happens to me when I fall in love with someone I'm writing about --in the case of this story, the secondary character Curtis Benally. A beautiful, tragic, complicated character. Anyway, this story has been out in print previously, but I revised it considerably and it's now available at the Kindle store as an ebook.


Here’s an excerpt:

Code Talker Logan Kee returns to Lukachukai Mountain in 1947, hoping to forget the horrors of war in the Pacific. But there is talk of uranium mining in Dinetah. When one of the mining executives is found shot to death on his land, Logan and his lover, Mike, a former Seabee, have to find the killer before the wrong man is accused of murder.

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Lukachukai Mountain, Navajo Reservation, April, 2008

CJ banged through the screen door of the hogan. “Hey, Grandpa Logan! Que pasa, man!”

I bolted out of the recliner, heart hammering in my chest. What the hell? What’s happening? When I saw who it was, I fell back in my chair, concentrated on breathing, willed my heart to continue beating just a little longer. If a man couldn’t take a nap in peace on Lukachukai Mountain, in one of the most remote spots in Dinetah… Don’t worry, old man. You can always sleep when you’re dead. I looked over at CJ. All I could see was his butt, sticking out the door to the fridge.

“Where’s Grandpa Mike? I need to tell you guys something.”

I looked at the other recliner. Empty. “Well, he’s not taking his nap. Did you see him at the loom?”

CJ shook his head. “I did hear hammering from up by the springs. He must be building something.”

“Most probably. Boy, put some coffee on for me, would you?”

“Sure, Grandpa.” CJ went over to the stove, lifted the tiny, battered aluminum percolator. “I need to buy you a Mr. Coffee next time I’m in town.”

“That pot works fine. You been going into Flag to see that girl?”

“Melody. Yeah, I have. I mean, I know what you said, but it’s not like we’re related.”

Only in ways you never need to know about, boy. “What did Mike say about it?”

“He said she looked just like her grandmother did when she was that age, and she acted just like her, too.”

“Hmmm.”

Mike opened the door to the hogan and came inside, sucking on the side of his thumb.

“What’s wrong? What did you do?”

“Hit it with the hammer.”

“Where are your glasses?”

“I don’t know. If I could see good enough to find my glasses, I wouldn’t need glasses, would I?”

“I’ve got them.” CJ brought the glasses to him, and Mike settled back in his recliner, set the glasses down on the little TV stand next to his chair.

“Thanks, kid.”

“They were in the dish drainer.”

“Really. Is that coffee?”

“Yes. Grandpas, I got something to tell you both. I wanted to wait until you were together.”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Mike beat me to it. “You haven’t got Lindsey pregnant, have you?”

“Grandpa, it’s Melody. Lindsey was her grandmother. And no, we haven’t. I mean, you can buy condoms in Basha’s. I’m not a fool.”

“You can? Don’t you need a note from your mother or something?”

“I joined the Marine Corps. I’m going to basic as soon as I graduate in June.”

I felt a searing pain across my head. It lanced down through my right eye, and I wondered if this was how it felt when you were getting ready to have a stroke. “CJ, you don’t have to do this. You’ve got college money. You don’t have anything to prove…”

“You know why I have to go. It’s our legacy. You know that. It’s in our family to serve. I was named after my grandpas Curtis and Jay. You and Grandpa Mike practically raised me. You were a Code-Talker. So was Jay and so was my Grandpa Curtis. He won the Silver Star! I mean, that’s big. It’s a big deal.”

“I know, boy. I was there.”

“And we’re at war again, and now’s my chance. To bring honor to the family. To prove myself. To forge my character in the crucible of war.”

“To forge your… what the hell have you been reading?” Mike turned his head away. I thought he was trying to keep CJ from seeing the tears. “It’s not like you think, CJ. It’s not romantic. It’s… shit.” He pushed out of his chair, left the hogan, the screen door banging closed behind him, and I watched him through the window, heading up to Black Dog Springs.

A picture flashed into my mind, CNN footage of boys with resolute, dusty faces, weapons raised, climbing through the concrete rubble. Then I smelled something different, something from my memory, the curdling wet heat of Saipan, green rot and cordite and blood. “I don’t want your legacy to put you in the ground before you’ve had a chance to live, son. Curtis wouldn’t have wanted that for you. He would never have wanted that. Grandpa Mike and me, we’re…” I couldn’t say anything else. It felt like a hand was squeezing my throat shut, something tight squeezing around my heart. Not a good feeling at my age.

CJ squatted down next to my chair. “I’m a man now. You understand what I mean? I have to go out into the world, learn who I am. Learn what I’m made of. And maybe now it’s time you and Grandpa Mike told me what happened up at Black Dog Springs. Because that’s part of my legacy, too, isn’t it?”

“Have you already signed the papers?”

CJ nodded. “We’ll go to Iraq as soon as we finish infantry training.”

“I’ll tell you when you come home, then. Not before. You won’t understand otherwise.”


Gallup, New Mexico October, 1947

Mike looked like hell. He stepped down off the bus into the glaring afternoon sun, raised his hand to shield his eyes. The bus driver was unloading luggage, and Mike reached down into the pile and slung his battered green duffel bag over his shoulder. He must have lost twenty pounds since we came home. He looked like he’d been sick, gray smudges under his eyes, his cheekbones standing out like wings. Maybe he had that radiation sickness. No, it wasn’t that. When he got close enough, I smelled the booze.

Mike reached out, shook my hand, relief spreading with a smile over his face. “Hey, Logan. Man, you look great. I’m…” His smile faltered a bit. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too.” I could hear the strain in my voice, the worry. I’d had a picture in my head since I’d got the letter, saying Mike wanted to come out to the reservation and stay for a bit. I remembered his face when we’d first met, filthy and grinning and the brownest eyes, old gold, like buckwheat honey. It had been night on the beachfront in Saipan, the second night of the invasion. I’d been up for thirty-six hours by then, reeling with thirst and exhaustion. My throat felt like it was coated with cordite, a headache pounding like a sledge behind my eyes. The radio never shut up, not for five minutes. Mike had stepped in front of me with a net full of water bottles and rations over his shoulder, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his grinning mouth. “Hey,” he’d said. “Look at you. You’re Navajo, right? You look like home.”

A lot of people noticed my Navajo face in a Marine green uniform, but Mike was the first Anglo who’d looked at me and smiled, his face lighting up. I’d thought about it a lot since I’d been home, Mike’s smile. He always looked like something warm and happy was sitting in his chest. I looked down into his face now, saw the lines of strain around his eyes, lines around his mouth. I pulled him close, wrapped my arm around his shoulders for a quick hug. He fit up against my chest the way he always had, like we were two halves of a broken coin. “Buddy, I was glad to hear from you. It’s been nine months! If it was anybody else, I would have written to say don’t come, because I’m living in a Marine surplus tent on this land I have next to Black Dog Springs. But I knew you wouldn’t mind roughing it.”

“You’re living in a tent?” Mike looked at me, eyes quizzical, and I pulled the duffel bag off his shoulder and slung it over my own. “It’s October already. Getting cold at night.”

“Yeah, it is. I was going to try and build a hogan before winter comes down hard. But then my old Marine Corps bud who just happens to be a Navy Seabee wants to come visit me. So I’m thinking, Seabees know how to live in tents and they can build anything! Maybe I can talk Mike into helping me chop down a few trees.” I lifted the duffel into the back of my truck, a beat up, powder blue ‘38 Chevy. “You okay, Mike? You don’t look so good.”