He spread the map on the ground. It was a Topographical Survey drawn to a scale of 1:5,000 and it showed every footpath and every building that had existed in 1966, the year of its preparation.
There were no pencil marks on it but just the same the reason for Jimmy Oto’s death now became somewhat less baffling. The map showed the northeast quadrant of the Florence district and it included part of the State Prison at the right-hand side.
There was no consciously audible warning but Watchman knew the man was behind him, knew what direction and how far.
He rose like a corkscrew, turning the half-circle in smooth synchronization with the rise to his feet.
His senses had misled him in one respect: it wasn’t one man. There were two of them.
They were coming at him without sound from the rocks below. The larger one in the hat looked vaguely familiar; he was the one who’d stopped the car and got out for a look fifteen minutes ago but Watchman had seen him somewhere before that.
It was the small one who brought it back. The toothpick rolling from one side of the mouth to the other.
They swarmed in too fast for him to try for the automatic under his shirt. As soon as he had begun to rise they had abandoned stealth and rushed. The little one came first and Watchman parried the knife-wrist with his left hand and brought the heel of his right hand up under the man’s nose. The toothpick lanced his palm but he heard the crush of cartilage, felt the spurt of blood on his palm. Watchman got a grasp on the knife-wrist and flung the man back into the path of his partner.
The two Apaches went down in a tangle and Watchman kicked the knife out of the little one’s hand; the man was bleeding at nose and mouth and didn’t care much about the knife any more.
Watchman backpedaled quickly while they got loose of each other; he yanked the automatic out from under the back of his shirt and leveled it.
The little one rocked back on his haunches with both hands over his face. The one in the big hat got to his feet and scowled. He wasn’t armed. He said, “Man that ain’t fair.”
“I didn’t know we were playing a game,” Watchman said. “Turn around and hit the truck. Hands on the roof.”
He made a mistake; he got one pace too close and the Apache swung on him, going for the automatic. It spun out of Watchman’s grasp and then the Apache was turning against him with the effortless fluid movements of a man whose musculature was in perfect tune. The fist rammed the angle of Watchman’s jaw and his head rocked back in sudden agony; he wheeled to one side shaking his head to clear his vision.
The Apache trusted that punch too much: he attempted it again and Watchman was ready. He went under it, pulled his head aside to let it slide over his shoulder.
Slugging the Apache was like hitting a padded rock. It had no visible effect. Watchman threw his foot between the Apache’s ankles and heaved.
The Apache was trying for a clinch but Watchman’s foot tripped him and Watchman’s rigid hand bladed him across the back of the neck. The big hat fell off and the Apache stumbled to his knees.
Watchman crossed the six feet of earth with two strides and snatched up the pistol. He jacked the slide and fired.
The bullet screamed off a rock two feet from the Apache’s boot; it left a white smear and the ricochet echoed up the canyon in pulsing waves of sound.
It had the sobering effect Watchman had intended. The Apache got up slowly and lumbered to the truck and laid his arms out across the roof, palms down.
The little one was sitting on the ground swaying slowly, moaning.
Watchman frisked the big one and took a folding knife out of his pocket. He stepped back and glanced at the little one, walked over to the discarded pigsticker and put it in his own pocket for safekeeping. “Come over here and sit down with him.”
The Apache lumbered through the rocks to his bleeding partner and hunkered down. “Christ you smashed his face all to hell, man.”
“You could get ten years apiece for this little ballet.”
“Hell we got carried away.”
“You could get carried away in a box if you pull something like this again.” Watchman stood with the sweat drying on him. “What’s your name?”
“Sanada.”
“Full name.”
“What the hell. Danny Sanada.”
“What about him?”
“Name of Nelson Oto.”
“Oto.” Watchman glanced at the dead body up in the rocks above the truck. “His brother?”
“Yeah, yeah. You do that to him?”
“No.”
“Well Nels thought you did.”
“Next time you might try asking first.”
“Ask a cop?” Danny Sanada took out a pocket comb and slicked back his hair. “Yeah.”
“Who sent you up here?”
“Sent us? What you talking about, man? We live up here, Cuncon. Right over the hill there. We seen the wreck, we walked in from the bottom of the road. Seen you picking over him that way, Nels figured you was up to something.”
The weapon in Watchman’s hand was getting heavy. He picked up Sanada’s hat and tossed it to him. Sanada put it on and turned his brooding stare toward Jimmy Oto’s brother who was beginning to whimper. “We ought to do something for him.”
“It’ll stop bleeding,” Watchman said. “When did you two see Jimmy last?”
“What’s it to you?”
Watchman sat down with his back to a rock and let the pistol hang from both hands between his upraised knees. He spoke without heat. “If I push charges they’ll toss you away in jail like a squeezed lemon. Now that would be a waste of everybody’s time. Somebody’s hanging Jimmy’s scalp on a door right now and you could help find out who did that.”
“So we was right. It wasn’t no accident.”
“No accident. His tie rod was sawed through.”
“Aw son of a bitch,” Sanada said. “You hear that Nels?”
“I hear.” Nelson Oto’s voice had a stuffy twang; his nose was plugged with wreckage.
Sanada said, “I didn’t see him since last night down to the Arrow. I don’t know about Nels. We was both working all day down to the sawmill, day labor.”
Nelson Oto lay back slowly until his head touched the earth; then he twisted his face to one side so the blood wouldn’t run back into his throat. He had trouble getting his breath. “I saw him this morning.”
“Where?”
“Home, man. Before I went to work.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t own no watch. Breakfast time. Man I don’t know—maybe six, six-thirty, seven o’clock. He said he had some money, he was going down to the post sometime today and get his bill paid up.”
“Where’d the money come from?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
“Was it from Harlan Natagee?”
He couldn’t see Nelson Oto’s face very well. Sanada reacted to it sharply but it was more surprise than secretiveness. Nelson said, “Could be. I don’t know.”
“How big was his bill at the store?”
“Not much. He paid the whole thing off a week ago maybe. He just had the one week’s stuff to pay for.”
“Where’d he get the money a week ago?”
“I don’t know that neither. He had some private things working, you know.”
“Like what?”
“If I knowed that, they wouldn’t be private, now would they.”
“Who was he hanging out with besides you boys?”
“I got no idea. He had his own truck, he was out by himself a lot of the time.”
“How many of you were in on the jailbreak?” Watchman asked.
Sanada looked genuinely puzzled. Nelson Oto said, “What jailbreak?”
“Joe Threepersons.”
“Man you think we done that?”
“I’m asking.”
“Didn’t know a damn thing about, that,” Nelson Oto said.
“Then why was there a map of Florence in Jimmy’s truck?”
“I didn’t see no map. You see a map there, Nels?”