“It was heavy,” Dashee said.
“Yeah,” Chee said. “I thought it would be. The way it looked.”
“Maybe she’s carrying a super makeup outfit, or a really old-fashioned cell telephone, or”—Dashee gave Chee a sidewise look—“maybe a pistol?”
“The pistol occurred to me,” Chee said. “She’s from the East, you know. A lot of Easterners worry about you Indians.”
“Hey!” Dashee said. “We Hopis are the peaceful ones. You Navajos were the hostiles. And you were showing it again today.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You wouldn’t let us eat lunch with Ms. Craig there at the hotel. So we just sat there in the chair and watched them eat.”
“Good point,” Chee said. “That wasn’t very smart.” He turned his clean, rain-washed car into the Bob’s Diner parking lot.
While they dined they agreed on several other points.
For one, Tuve would win no prizes for intellectual brilliance. His story about swapping his shovel for the diamond was not going to sound likely to a jury.
They weren’t convinced themselves.
However, the prosecution seemed to have little genuine evidence against Tuve. The fingerprints he’d left in the store proved only that he’d been there on the fatal day, and the witnesses could prove little more than the same thing.
Their chances of finding Tuve’s diamond donor, if he had ever existed, were minuscule.
“I guess we’re agreed, then,” Dashee said. “We’ll hope Ms. Craig finds herself a good canyon-bottom guide and turns up the diamond donor. And we’ll keep our eyes open for some sensible way to help Cousin Billy. And unless the FBI comes up with some sort of material evidence, we sort of doubt he’ll need help, anyway.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Chee said. “I’ll bet they have something substantial.”
Dashee grinned. “When in doubt, get some Hopis on the jury. We’re a kind-hearted tribe.”
“Generous, too,” Chee said, handing Dashee the lunch check and pushing back from the table. “I’ve got to get back to Shiprock now. Bernie wants me to go look at a couple of places she thinks might be right for us to live in.”
“What’s wrong with your trailer?” Dashee asked, trying to suppress a grin. “It’s really handy for you there. Right next to the Shiprock garbage dump, for example.”
“And right next to the San Juan River flowing by,” Chee said. “I think it’s a pretty place. I’m going to talk her into it. But first I’ve got to look at what’s she’s looking at.”
But when Chee parked under the cottonwood shading his front door from the setting sun, the old trailer looked shabby and disreputable, putting a dent in his cheerful mood.
The mood improved when he saw the light blinking on his answering machine. It would be Bernie. Just hearing her voice brightened the day. Alas, it wasn’t Bernie. It was the familiar voice of Joe Leaphorn, the legendary lieutenant, formally identifying himself as if he hadn’t known Chee about forever.
“I hear from some sheriff’s office people that you’re trying to help Cowboy Dashee’s cousin. If that’s true, you might want to call me. It turns out that Shorty McGinnis—You remember him. Grouchy old fellow. Ran Short Mountain Trading Post. Well, he has a diamond story a lot like the one your Billy Tuve tells. It might be helpful, if you’re interested.”
As usual, Leaphorn was right. Chee was interested. He glowered at the telephone, dealing with memories of other interesting calls from the legendary lieutenant. Most of them had come while he was working as Leaphorn’s gofer in his Criminal Investigation Office. They had tended to lead to trouble and always meant a lot of hard work. Some of it, admittedly, proved interesting and fruitful, but this was not the time for that. This was time to be with Bernie.
Chee walked away from the telephone, out into the shady side of the trailer to a favorite place of his—the remains of a fallen cottonwood tree the trunk of which had long since lost its bark and had been worn smooth by years of being sat upon. Chee sat upon it again and looked down at the San Juan flowing below. A coyote was out early, stalking something on the river’s opposite bank. He thought about Bernie and his future with her. A pair of mallards feeding in the shallows spotted the coyote and squawked into flight. But the coyote wasn’t hunting them. It continued its furtive way into a brushy growth of Russian olive. Stalking a rabbit, Chee guessed, or perhaps someone’s pet dog or a feral cat. That thought reminded him of the cat that had moved in with him once, in another time, when he’d sat on this old log and considered whether he should accept what amounted to a counteroffer from Mary Landon. Yes, she had said, she would marry him. She had already planned on that. She’d already rejected the contract renewal she’d been offered at the Crownpoint Elementary School and was preparing to move back to Wisconsin. He could accept that job offer he’d had from the FBI and they would raise their children wherever they put him until they could arrange a transfer to the Milwaukee office. About his dream of becoming a shaman, a medicine person among the Navajos? Surely he’d already outgrown that idea, hadn’t he?
The coyote was no longer visible to Chee. But there was a sudden flurry of activity in the brush and a dirty tabby cat scurried out of it and up an adjoining tree to safety. The coyote gave up the pursuit. Coyotes were too wise to engage in hopeless competitions.
And so are Navajos, Chee thought. Instead we endure, and we survive. But now Chee was thinking of another cat.
This one, skinny and ragged, had shown up around his trailer one autumn, attracted by food scraps he’d left out for squirrels. It wore a pretty collar—an animal raised as a pet, then abandoned with no survival skills and handicapped by pregnancy. He had put out food for the terrified beast and it quickly became a regular visitor. Then one of the neighborhood coyotes scented cat and began hunting it. Chee cut a cat-sized entry in his door and lured the animal through it with sardines. Soon the door flap became its emergency route to safety when a coyote prowled. Only when winter froze the San Juan and the snow began did it move in to spend the nights, still keeping a cautious distance from Chee. Thus they lived together, Chee serving as food provider, Cat operating as feline watchdog, bolting in with a clatter when a coyote (or any visitor) approached the trailer. Otherwise they ignored each other.
The relationship perfectly fit Chee Navajo traditionalism. Natural harmony required all species, be they human, hamster, hummingbird, snake, or scorpion, to respect each other’s roles in the natural world. He saw no more justification in pretending to own a “pet” than he did in human slavery. Both violated the harmony of the system and thus were immoral. However, this cat presented a problem. It had been spoiled for a career as a naturally feral cat, not having been taught to hunt its food by its mother or how to evade other predators. Worse, it had been declawed—a cruel and barbarious custom. It could no longer adjust to the world into which it had been left. Chee understood that. That, too, was natural. He could not adjust to the world of Wisconsin dairy farming which Mary Landon planned for him. And Mary could not imagine raising her blond, blue-eyed children in his world. And so when her letters began arriving from Stevens Point, Wisconsin, beginning “Dear Jim” instead of “Darling,” Chee put Cat in an airline-approved pet cage and sent it to her—out of the landscape of claw and fang, into a world in which animals were transformed from independent fellows into pets of their masters. With her Christmas card, Mary had sent him a picture of Cat on a sofa with her and her Wisconsin husband. Cat was now named Alice, and Mary was still so beautiful that he knew he would never quite forget her.
Chee rose from the log, went into his trailer, and retrieved the photograph from his desk drawer. He studied it, confirming his memory. Another moment of sorting produced a photograph of Janet Pete. Another sort of beauty. Not the soft, warm, sensual, farm-girl karma of Mary here. Janet was high-fashion, Ivy League law school chic. The word now was cool, in the sophisticated sense. She had been the court-appointed public defender of a murder
suspect when he met her, an honor grad of a noted law school who had a yen for a seat someday on the Supreme Court. Her Navajo father had provided her the Pete name, her perfect complexion and classic bone structure. But her New England socialite mother had formed the Janet he knew, formed her in a world of high fashion, very important people, and a layered, sophisticated ruling class.
Janet smiled at him now out of the photograph, dark eyes, dark hair beautifully framing a perfect face, slender, an image of grace. Chee dropped both photographs back into the drawer and closed it, remembering how long it had taken him to understand Janet, to realize how smart she was, to realize how he fitted into her plans. Like Mary, she had (more or less) said yes. He had obtained a videotape of a traditional Navajo wedding and took it to her apartment to explain it to her. Instead he learned the nuptials would be in a Washington cathedral with full pomp and ceremony. She had arranged to have the proper strings pulled to have herself transferred to a Justice Department job in Maryland. She had learned the U.S. Marshals Service had an opening there that exactly fit him. She was surprised that he was surprised.
The telephone rang.
Bernie, Chee thought. He picked it up. “Bernie,” he said, “I’ve been—”
“It’s Joe Leaphorn,” the voice said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Chee exhaled. Said, “Oh, okay. I got your message. I was just going to call you. Tell me what McGinnis told you about the diamond.”
“I will,” Leaphorn said. “If you’re still interested in that charge against Billy Tuve, I guess it’s sort of good news. But now I’ve also got some bad news. I’ll give you that first.”
“Sure,” Chee said.
“Sheriff Tomas Perez—you remember him, retired now. Anyway, I saw him down at the Navajo Inn at lunch. He told me he heard from his old undersheriff that they’ve got some more evidence against Tuve. Seems a former employee at that Zuni store reported that the manager there actually did have a big, valuable diamond in his stock. He said the boss had shown it to him several times. Was very proud of it.”
“Oh,” Chee said, thinking, Good-bye, Tuve.
Leaphorn awaited further comment. Got none.
“So it won’t surprise you to hear that the victim’s widow is claiming the diamond. The D.A. said she’d have to wait until after the trial and he’d need her to testify about it.”
“Did she say she’d seen it, too?”
“Perez seemed to have that impression. But you know how it is. He’s been out of the sheriff’s job for three years now. Passing along third-hand stuff.”
“Yeah,” Chee said. “Do you know if Dashee knows about this?”
“Probably,” Leaphorn said. “You know how that is, too. Bad news travels fast.”
“Yep. It does.”
“However, what Shorty told me makes it sound like Billy Tuve might actually have gotten that diamond down in the canyon. Shorty told me he got his own diamond—”
“Wait,” Chee said. “Pardon the interruption. His own diamond? What does that mean?”
“Remember that Short Mountain burglary? Years ago? Shorty listed the diamond as part of the loss. He says he got it from a cowboy, a guy named Reno, who drifted through, gave it to him in exchange for some groceries and a ride into Page. This Reno told Shorty he’d traded one of those scabbard knives for it to an old man down in the Grand Canyon.”
“About where in the canyon?”
“He said just down from the Little Colorado confluence.”
“Well, now,” Chee said. “That’s interesting. That’s the right general area.”
“Must be very close to the place Tuve claims to have swapped off his folding shovel, right?”
“Right,” Chee said. “I’ll tell Dashee about this. Thanks.”
“The even better news is you finally got wise enough to ask Bernadette to marry you. That correct?”
“It is.”
Leaphorn chuckled. “They say third time’s the charm. It is the third time, isn’t it? First we heard you and that pretty blond girl teaching over at Crownpoint were getting married. And then we heard it was going to be the U.S. lawyer, Janet Pete. Both of those deals fell through. I hope you’re not going to let Bernadette back out.”
“Not if I can prevent it,” Chee said.
“Well, I’m glad for you. Glad for both of you. She’s a prize. It took you way too long to realize it.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t realize it. It was just—Just—Well, I don’t know how to explain it.”
“How about telling me it’s none of my business. Or saying twice burned makes you triple careful. Anyway, congratulations. And tell Bernie everybody is happy for both of you.”
“Well, thanks, Lieutenant. She’s a great lady.”
“You’re going hunting, then? You think there’s any hope of finding the diamond man? After all these years?”
“Not much, I guess. But what else can you do? Dashee and I talked about it, agreed it seemed hopeless, but if he’s heard what you’ve just told me, I’m dead certain he’s going to go hunting, and just as certain he’ll want me to help—even though he probably won’t ask me.”
“I see your point,” Leaphorn said. “Shorty told me a couple of other things that might be helpful.” He told Chee what Reno had said about meeting his diamond man at the mouth of a cave up one of those narrow little slots that drain runoff water down the cliffs into the Colorado River, about the diamond being in a snuff can, and the case from which the old man took it, containing several such cans.
“That’s odd,” Chee said.
“I thought so, too. But this old fellow had taken a smaller diamond out of a different snuff can. So maybe they’re his storage units. And the can he gave Reno was in a leather pouch. Sort of like a medicine pouch.”
“He was an Indian? What kind?”
“Shorty said Reno didn’t know. But he didn’t speak much English. And gave some hand signals saying the diamonds came out of an airplane crash.”
“The pouch. Was that like one of ours?”
“About the same. But it had a sort of Anasazi-looking symbol stitched into it. Big figure with a tiny head, very broad upper torso, tiny stick legs.”
“Any ideas about that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a clan totem, or a symbol of one of his tribe’s spirits.”
“Didn’t look like any of the tribal figures you’d recognize, then?”
“No, but I’ve never had much contact with any of those tribes that far down the Colorado.” Leaphorn chuckled. “I sort of neglected to give the pouch back to Shorty when I returned his diamond. Thought I’d show it to Louisa when she gets back. She’s down in the canyon now, collecting her oral histories from the Havasupais.”
“Well, thanks again,” Chee said. “I guess I’ll have to actually find that guy and ask him about it. And if something comes up and you need to find me, you have my cell phone number.”
“Ah. Yeah. I think I wrote it down.”
That concluded the conversation and left Chee to decide what to do about it. He’d call Dashee, of course. Discuss it with him. Find out what he wanted to do. But first he had to call Bernie.
He dialed her number. Thinking what he could have told Leaphorn if he wanted to confess the truth. He could have said he hadn’t told Bernie he loved her a long time ago because he was afraid. Cowardice prevented it. It hurt when he learned that Mary Landon didn’t want him. She wanted the dairy farmer she could make out of him. Lonely again after that. It hurt even more when he finally understood that he was just the token Navajo to Janet, someone to be taken back to Washington and civilized. Even lonelier than before. And when he found Bernie, right under his nose, he knew here was his chance. The really right one. He loved everything about her. But he was too damned scared to make the move. What if she rejected him? Mary and Janet, they’d found him someone they could mold into what they wanted. But he had found Bernie. And if she turned him down, he’d never find anyone like her. He’d never
have a wife. He’d always be lonely, all the rest of his life.
He listened to Bernie’s number ring nine times before he decided she wasn’t home. And then he called Dashee. Told him the good news first, and then the bad news.
“I know,” Dashee said. “I think that clerk and that widow are both lying, with the widow telling the clerk what to say. But the sheriff doesn’t. And I don’t think old Shorty McGinnis’s story is going to change his mind.”
“Afraid you’re right,” Chee said.
Dashee sighed. “You know, Jim, I gotta go down there, anyway. Down to that canyon bottom and see if I can find that old man. Or somebody who knows about him. Or something. Billy’s had too much tough luck. And nobody to help him.”
Chee said nothing to that. He’d foreseen it. He knew Cowboy too well to expect any less of him. He took a deep breath.
“Do you think you’re going to need some help?”
“Well, I was hoping you’d ask.”
“When are you going down there? And how you going? And here’s a harder question: How you going to go about this business? Finding a maybe imaginary old man that trades diamonds for things?”
“Sooner the better, is the first answer. And I’m going to make Billy Tuve come along and show me just exactly where he made that trade and try to retrace where the old man he dealt with might have gone in that little bit of time he was gone. What do you think?”
“How many years ago did that happen? Many, many, wasn’t it?”
“Billy’s always been very vague about chronology. Ever since that horse fell on him.”
“So maybe it was ten years, or twenty. Or maybe the old man was out of sight thirty minutes, or thirty hours, or several days?”
“It’s not that bad,” Dashee said. “He tries.”
“So what’s plan number two?”
“While Billy and I are looking for the diamond man along the river, I thought you might be mingling among the old folks in the Havasupai settlement. You’ve had a couple of cases down there. Know some people, don’t you? Know a little of their language?”
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