“She cried a lot,” Chee said. “She could hardly believe it.”
And in a minute Janet was gone. The goodbye kiss, the promises to write, the invitation to come and join her. Then holding the car door open for her, commenting on how it always got colder when the snowing stopped, and watching the headlights vanish at the top of the slope.
He sat on the bunk again then, felt the bandages around his eye, and decided the soreness there was abating. He probed the padding over his ribs, flinched, and decided the healing there was slower. He noticed the coffeepot was still on, got up, and unplugged it. He switched on the radio, thinking he would get some weather news. Then switched it off again and sat on the bed.
The telephone rang. Chee stared at it. It rang again. And again. He picked it up.
“Guess what?” It was Officer Bernadette Manuelito.
“What?”
“Begayaye just told me,” she said. “He detoured past Ship Rock today. The cattle were crowded around our loose-fence-post place, eating some fresh hay.”
“Well,” Chee said, and gave himself a moment to make the mental transition from Janet Pete to the Lone Ranger competition. “I’d say this would be a perfect time for Mr. Finch to supplement his income. The cops all away working weather problems, and everybody staying home by the fire.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said.
“I’ll meet you there a little before daylight. When’s sunup these days?”
“About seven.”
“I’ll meet you at the office at five. Okay?”
“Hey,” Bernie said. “I like it.”
27
“I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU SOME PICTURES,” Leaphorn said to Amos Nez, and he dug a folder out of his briefcase.
“Pretty women in bikinis,” old man Nez said, grinning at his mother-in-law. Mrs. Benally, who didn’t much understand English, 80 of 102
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grinned back.
“Pictures which I should have showed you eleven years ago,” Leaphorn said, and put a photograph on the arm of the old sofa where Nez was sitting. The old iron stove that served for heating and cooking in the Nez hogan was glowing red from the wood fire within it. Cold was in the canyon outside; Leaphorn was sweating. But Nez had kept his sweater on and Mrs. Benally had her shawl draped over her shoulders.
Nez adjusted his glasses on his nose. Looked. He smiled at Leaphorn, handed him back the print. “That’s her,” he said. “Mrs.
Breedlove.”
“Who’s the man with her?”
Nez retrieved the print, studied it again. He shook his head. “I don’t know him.”
“That’s Harold Breedlove,” Leaphorn said. “You’re looking at a photograph the Breedloves had taken at a studio in Farmington on their wedding anniversary—the summer before they came out here and got you to guide them.” Nez stared at the photograph. “Well, now,” he said. “It sure is funny what white people will do. Who is that man she was here with?”
“You tell me,” Leaphorn said. He handed Nez two more photographs. One was a photocopy he’d obtained, by imposing on an old friend in the Indian Service’s Washington office, of George Shaw’s portrait from the Georgetown University School of Law alumni magazine. The others had been obtained from the photo files of the Mancos Weekly Citizen—mug shots of young Eldon Demott and Tommy Castro wearing Marine Corps hats.
“I don’t know this fella here,” Nez said, and handed Leaphorn the Shaw photo.
“I didn’t think you would,” Leaphorn said. “I was just making sure.” Nez studied the other photo. “Well, now,” he said. “Here’s my friend Hal Breedlove.” He handed Leaphorn the picture of Eldon Demott.
“Not your friend now,” Leaphorn said, and tapped Nez’s leg cast. “He’s the guy that tried to kill you.” Nez retrieved the photo, looked at it, and shook his head. “Why did he do—” he began, and stopped, thinking about it.
Leaphorn explained about ownership of the ranch depending on the date of Breedlove’s death, and now depending upon continuing the deception. “There were just two people who knew something that could screw this up. One of them knew the date Hal Breedlove and Demott climbed Ship Rock—a man named Maryboy who gave them permission to climb. Demott shot him the other day. That leaves you.”
“Well, now,” Nez said, and made a wry face.
“A policeman who is looking into all this sent me a message that Demott loaded up his rifle this morning and headed out. I guess he’d be coming out here to see if he could get another shot at you.”
“Why don’t they arrest him?”
“They have to catch him first,” Leaphorn said, not wanting to get into the complicated explanation of legalities—and the total lack of any concrete evidence that there was any reason to arrest Demott. “My idea was to take you and Mrs. Benally into Chinle and check you into the motel there. The police can keep an eye on you until they get Demott locked up.” Nez gave himself some time to think this over. “No,” he said. “I’ll just stay here.” He pointed to the shotgun in the rack on the opposite wall. “You just take old lady Benally there. Look after her.” Mrs. Benally may not have been able to translate “bikini” into Navajo, but she had no trouble with “motel.”
“I’m not going into any motel,” she said.
For practical purposes, that ended the argument. Nobody was moving.
Leaphorn wasn’t unprepared for that. Before he’d parked at the Nez hogan, he had scouted up Canyon del Muerto, examining the south-side cliff walls below the place where the ranger had reported seeing the man with the rifle. Sergeant Deke had said it was just five or six hundred yards up-canyon from the Nez place. Leaphorn had seen no location within rifle range where the top of the south cliff offered a fair shot at the Nez hogan. But about a quarter mile up-canyon a huge slab of sandstone had given way to the erosion undercutting it.
The cliff had split here. The slab had separated from the wall. He’d studied it. Someone who knew rock climbing, had the equipment, and didn’t mind risking falling off a forty-story building could get down here. This must have been what Demott had been doing here—if it was Demott. He was looking for a way in and out that avoided the bottleneck entrance.
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It was certainly conveniently close for a climber. Or a bird. Being neither meant Leaphorn would have to drive about fifteen miles down Canyon del Muerto to its junction with Canyon de Chelly, then another five or six to the canyon mouth to reach the pavement of Navajo Route 64. Then he’d have to reverse directions and drive twenty-four miles northeastward along the north rim of del Muerto, turn southwestward maybe four miles toward Tsaile, then complete the circle down the brushy dirt-and-boulder track that took those foolhardy enough to use it down that finger of mesa separating the canyons. The last six or seven miles on that circuit would take about as long as the first fifty.
Leaphorn hurried. He wanted enough daylight left to check the place carefully—to either confirm or refute his suspicions. More important, if Demott was coming Leaphorn wanted to be there waiting for him.
He seemed to have managed that. He stopped across the cattle guard where the unmarked track connected with the highway, climbed out, and made a careful inspection. The last vehicle to leave its tracks here had been coming out, and that had been shortly after the snowfall began. Eight or nine jolting miles later, he pulled his car off the track and left it concealed behind a cluster of junipers. The wind was bitter now, but the snow had diminished to occasional dry flakes.
The west rim of Canyon del Muerto was less than fifty yards away over mostly bare sandstone. If he had calculated properly, he was just about above the Nez home site. In fact, he was perhaps a hundred yards below it. He stood a foot or two back from the edge looking down, confirming that the Nez hogan was too protected by the overhang to offer a shot from here. He could see the track where Nez drove in his truck, but the hogan itself and all of its outbuildings except a goat pen were hidden below the wall. But he could see from here the great split-off sandstone slab, and he walked along the rim toward it. He was almost there when he heard an engine whining in low gear.