They were gone only a moment. And then the Land-Rover was moving again, smoothly at first up the sandy floor of Many Ruins and then a jolting, twisting ride. Suddenly they weren't moving. McKee heard the hand brake pulled on.
"I see you got a woman, George. Where's the man you were after?"
The voice was soft. A Virginia accent, McKee thought, or maybe Carolina or Maryland.
"In the back seat," the Navajo said. "Get out, Miss Leon."
The door by McKee's head opened and he saw a man looking down at him. On his stomach, with his head turned to one side, McKee could see only out of the corner of his right eye. He could see a belt buckle, and a navy-blue vest with black buttons, and the bottom of the man's chin and up his nostrils.
"He's tied up," the voice above him said. It seemed to McKee a remarkably stupid thing to say.
"Move a little bit out of the way," the Navajo said. Then McKee felt the Indian's hands, deftly untying the knots.
"Get any calls while you were gone?" the soft voice asked. "Do they know when we can haul out of this hole?"
"No calls," the Big Navajo said. "You see anything?"
"No," the soft voice said. "Just that kid on the horse again. Up on the top. Way off across the mesa."
"You can get up now, Dr. McKee."
McKee sat up and examined the man with the blue vest. He was a tall young man with a pale face shaded by a light-blue straw hat. He looked back at McKee and nodded politely—blue eyes under blond eyebrows—and then turned toward Miss Leon.
"How do you do," he said. Ellen Leon ignored him.
The young man wore a harness over his vest supporting a shoulder holster with a semi-automatic pistol in it. McKee didn't recognize the type, but it seemed to be about.38 caliber. Miss Leon stood stiffly in front of the truck. She looked frightened.
"Come on," the Big Navajo said. "Get out now. I'm in a hurry."
McKee climbed out of the Land-Rover, his muscles stiff. His head ached, but the ache was lost in the violent throbbing of his injured hand. He held it stiffly at his side and glanced around.
They were up a narrow side canyon. Below, not more than two hundred yards, McKee could see the broad sandy bed of Many Ruins bright in the afternoon sun. Here there was shadow and it was a moment before he noticed the cliff dwelling high on the sandstone wall behind the blond man. It was large for an Anasazi ruin—built in a long horizontal fault cleft some forty feet above the talus slope and protected from above by the sloping overhang of the cliff. He wondered, fleetingly, if it was one of those excavated by the Harvard-Smithsonian teams. It would be hard to reach, but that made it all the more attractive to the archaeologists. Less chance it had been disturbed.
"Dr. McKee is going to write that letter for us, Eddie," the Navajo said. "It may take some time, and while I'm thinking about the letter, you want to be thinking about McKee. He's tricky."
"He hasn't written it yet?" the blond man asked. He sounded surprised.
"I could have had him write it back at his camp," the Indian said. "I think I could handle him. Ninety-nine chances out of a hundred. But why take chances with one this slippery?"
"Too much money involved," Eddie said. "Way too much money for taking chances."
He slipped the pistol deftly from the holster, handling it, McKee noticed glumly, as naturally as a pipe smoker handles a pipe.
"Don't talk so much," the Big Navajo said. "We're going to leave these two behind and the less they hear the better."
Eddie said, "Oh?" The word came out as another question.
The Navajo reached into the Land-Rover, pulled out a pile of papers, stacked them on the hood, sorted swiftly through them, extracted a letter, and skimmed it.
"How about this Dr. Green? Looks like he's your boss. He'd probably be the one to write."
"Green's chairman of the department," McKee said. "We usually try to keep in touch when we're in the field."
How long, McKee wondered, had Canfield lived after he wrote his note for this man? Just long enough for the Navajo to kill him without marks of violence. Only one thing was clear in this incredible situation—the Navajo's need for this letter was all that kept Miss Leon and himself alive. He wouldn't write it, but it had to be handled exactly right.
The Big Navajo handed him Dr. Canfield's ballpoint pen. It was a slim silver pen, and as McKee accepted it with his left hand he felt his resolution harden. He would never, under any circumstances, write this letter.
"I didn't find any stationery so I guess you use your notebook?"
"That's right," McKee said.
"We'll make it to Dr. Green," the Navajo said. "What do you call him? Dr. Green? Or his first name?"
"Dr. Green," McKee lied. "He's pretty stuffy."
The Navajo looked at him thoughtfully. "What was Dr. Canfield's first name? Was it John?"
"John Robert Canfield," McKee said.
The Big Navajo studied him.
"Dr. McKee," he said finally, "what happened to Dr. Canfield was too bad. It couldn't be helped because Dr. Canfield tried to get away and he didn't leave me any alternative. But there is no reason at all for you and Miss Leon to die. If this letter is written properly it will give us time to finish what we are doing here. And then we will leave and we can afford to leave you behind." He said all this very slowly, watching McKee intently. McKee kept his expression studiously noncommittal.
"You may doubt that, but it's true. When we are finished here, there will be no way at all to trace us. If you cooperate, we can leave you up in that cliff dwelling with food and water. In time, perhaps you could find a way to get down. If not, someone will come in here sooner or later and find you."
"What happens if I don't write the letter?"
The Navajo's expression remained perfectly pleasant.
"Then I'll have to kill you both. Without the letter we'd have to hurry. You would slow us down some, because someone will have to watch you. Nothing personal about it, Dr. McKee. It's simply a matter of money." He smiled. "You know our Origin Myth. That's what witchcraft is all about—the way to make money."
"What do you want me to write?" McKee asked.
"That's part of the problem. We want a letter to Dr. Green telling him that you're leaving this canyon and going somewhere else—somewhere it would be natural for you to go. You and Dr. Canfield and Miss Leon. And it has to be written so that Dr. Green won't suspect anything."
The Big Navajo paused, staring at McKee.
"You can see that, can't you? If someone gets worried and comes in here looking for you, we would simply have to kill you."
I have to do this exactly right, McKee thought.
"I don't think I can believe you," he said. "You killed John after he wrote the letter."
"Your Dr. Canfield was very foolish. He wrote you the note, and then he tried to escape. He jumped me."
"I see," McKee said.
"And I think that Dr. Canfield warned you somehow in that note of his. What was it? Why were you expecting me?"
McKee grinned. "You're right, of course. It was the name. His name's Jeremy. When I saw that signature I knew something was wrong. I'd been over to the Yazzie hogan and found those rams you killed and I was nervous about that anyway."
McKee was satisfied that his voice had sounded natural. He hoped desperately that his timing had been right. Maybe he should have waited longer, but he saw a slight relaxation in the Navajo's face. It's like poker, he thought, and this man's weakness, if he has one, is his vanity.