As he braked the carryall to a halt, he became aware that something was in the vehicle with him. Some sense of motion, or unexplained sound, reached him. He unsnapped the holding strap over his pistol, drew the hammer quietly back to the half-cocked position, palmed it, and spun in the seat. Nothing. He peered over the back of the seat, the pistol ready. On the floor, cushioned by his sleeping bag, lay Theodora Adams.
I hope you didn’t get stuck, she said. That’s what happened to me banging over the rocks like that.
Leaphorn flicked on the dome light and stared down at her, saying nothing. Surprise was replaced by anger, and this was quickly diluted by relief. Theodora Adams was safe enough.
I told you we had a rule against, riders, Leaphorn said.
She pulled herself from the floor to the back seat, shook her head to untangle the mass of blond hair. I didn’t have any choice. That woman wouldn’t take me. And that old man told me you were going out here anyway.
McGinnis?
Theodora Adams shrugged. McGinnis. Whatever his name is. So there wasn’t any reason for me not to come along.
It was a statement that could be argued, but not answered. Leaphorn rarely argued. He considered his impulse to order her out of the carryall, to be picked up on his way back.
The impulse died quickly, anger overcome by the need to know why she was going to the Tso hogan. Her eyes were an unusually deep blue, or perhaps the color was accentuated by the unusual clarity of the whiteness that surrounded the iris. They were eyes that would not be stared down, which fixed on Leaphorns eyes-unabashed, arrogant, slightly amused.
Get in the front seat, Leaphorn said. He didn’t want her behind him.
They jolted through the boulder field in silence and onto the smoother going of a long sandstone slope. Theodora Adams dug into her purse, extracted a folded square of notepaper and smoothed it on the leg of her pants. It was a pencil-drawn map. About where are we?
Leaphorn turned up the dash light and peered at it. About here, he said. He was conscious of her thigh under his fingertip. Exactly, he knew, as she knew he would be.
About ten miles?
About twenty.
So well be there pretty soon?
No, Leaphorn said, we wont. He down-geared the carryall over a hump of stone. The carryall rolled into the shadow of an outcrop, making her reflection suddenly visible on the inside of the windshield. She was watching him, waiting for the answer to be expanded.
Why not?
Because first were going to the Cigarette hogan. Ill talk to Margaret Cigarette. Then well decide whether to go to the Tso hogan. In fact, there was no reason to reach the Cigarette place before dawn. He had intended to find it and then park for some sleep.
Decide?
You’ll tell me what your business is. Ill decide whether we go on from there.
Look, she said. I’m sorry if I was rude back there. But you were rude, too. Why don’t we
. . . She paused. Whats your name?
Joe Leaphorn.
Joe, she said, my name is Judy Simons, and my friends all call me Judy, and I don’t see why we cant be friends.
Reach into your purse, Miss Simons, and let me see your drivers license, Leaphorn said.
He pushed the handbag toward her.
I don’t have it with me, she said.
Leaphorns right hand fished deftly into the handbag, extracted a fat blue leather wallet.
Put that back. Her voice was icy. You don’t have any right to do that.
The drivers license was in the first plastic cardholder. The face that stared from the square was the face of the woman beside him, the smile appealing even when directed at the license bureau camera. The name was Theodora Adams. Leaphorn flipped the wallet shut and pushed it back into the handbag.
Okay, she said. Its none of your business, but Ill tell you why I’m going to the Tso place.
The carryall tilted over the sloping stone. She clutched the door to keep from sliding down the seat against him. But you’ll have to promise to take me there.
She waited for an answer, staring at him expectantly. Leaphorn said nothing.
I have a friend. A Navajo. He’s been having a lot of trouble. Leaphorn glanced at her. Her smile disparaged her good Samaritan role. You know. Getting his head together. So he decided to come home. And I decided I would come out and help him.
The voice stopped, the silence inviting comment. Leaphorn shifted again to cope with another steep slope.
Whats his name?
Tso. He’s Hosteen Tsos grandson. The old man wanted him to come to see him.
Ah, Leaphorn said. But was this grandson also Frederick Lynch? Was he Goldrims?
Leaphorn was almost certain he was.
Joe, she said. Her fingertip touched his leg. You could drop me off at the Tso place and talk to Mrs. Cigarette on the way home. It wont take any longer.
Ill think about it, Leaphorn said. Mrs. Cigarette probably wasn’t home. And what ever Margaret Cigarette could tell him seemed trivial against the thought of confronting Goldrims of taking the man who had tried, so gleefully, to kill him. Is he expecting you?
Look, she said. You’re not going to take me there first. You’re not going to do anything for me. Why should I tell you anything about my business?
Well go there first, Leaphorn said. But whats the hurry? Does he know you’re coming?
She laughed. There was genuine merriment in the sound, causing Leaphorn to take his eyes off the track he was following to look at her. It was a hearty laugh, a sound full of happy memories. Yes and no, she said. Or just yes. He knows. She glanced at Leaphorn, her eyes still amused. That’s like asking somebody if they know the suns going to come up. Of course its going to come up. If it doesn’t, the world ends.
She is a formidable young woman, Leaphorn thought. He didn’t want her with him when he first approached Hosteen Tsos place. Whether she liked it or not, shed wait in the carryall while he determined who, or what, waited at the hogan.
» 8 «
H
ad Leaphorns timing been perfect, he would have arrived on the mesa rim overlooking the Tso hogan at dawn. In fact, he arrived perhaps an hour early, the moon almost down on the western horizon and the starlight just bright enough to confirm the dim shape of the buildings below. Leaphorn sat and waited. He sat far enough back from the mesa edge so that the down drift of cooling air would not carry his scent. If the dog was there, Leaphorn didn’t want it alerted. The dog had been very much on his mind as he found his way down the dark wagon track toward the hogan and up the back slope of this small mesa.