"Come on," he said. "I'll help you."
"You're hurting my arm."
McKee was suddenly conscious of the feel of her arm under his fingers, of the softness under the shirt sleeve. He jerked his hand away.
Miss Leon ran. She spun away from him and ran lightly down the rocks toward the Volkswagen. McKee stood, too surprised to move, thinking; There's nothing wrong with her ankle. Then he swore, and ran after her, clumsily because of his injured hand. Before he reached the Volkswagen, she had rolled up the windows and locked herself in. For a wild moment, McKee thought she would start the car and drive off and he had a vision of himself trying to keep himself in front of the Volkswagen-performing an idiotic game of dodgem in reverse. But she simply sat behind the wheel, looking at him.
He tapped on the window, and tried to keep his voice sounding normal.
"Really, Miss Leon. I'm not crazy. And we really do have to get out of here."
Miss Leon looked at him. He saw no fear in her expression, nor anger. She simply looked worried.
"Roll down the window."
"Not until you give me your word of honor you'll go back to the camp."
Her voice was faint through the glass.
My day for breaking windows, McKee thought. He picked up a rock, and wrapped the handkerchief around his left hand again. He saw Miss Leon looked frightened now.
"Roll it down."
"No."
McKee hesitated. He thought of Jeremy's body, and of the sand on his face. Breaking his word would be quicker than the window.
"I promise," he said. "Let me in and we'll go back to camp."
"I don't know now," Miss Leon said. "I'm not sure I can trust you."
Good lord, McKee thought. Women left him utterly baffled.
He held up the rock.
"Open up, or I break in."
Miss Leon unlocked the door and he pulled it open.
"Get out now. No more of this horsing around. Get out of there or I'll have to drag you out."
Miss Leon got out. He gripped her arm and walked with her rapidly up the canyon. And then he stopped.
A tall man wearing a new black hat emerged from the screen of bushes just in front of them.
He was the Big Navajo who had been shopping in Shoemaker's. In his right hand he held a machine pistol, pointed approximately at McKee's stomach. It was of shiny, gunmetal blue-something which would have reflected in the moonlight.
"That's right," the man said. "Just stand still."
He walked across the rocks toward them, keeping his eyes on McKee.
The pistol, McKee saw, had a wire stock, now folded down, and a long cartridge magazine extending downward from the chamber.
"You're Bergen McKee," the man said. "And the young lady would be Ellen Leon."
McKee pulled Miss Leon's arm, moving her behind him.
"What do you want?"
The man smiled at McKee. It was a pleasant smile. And the face was pleasant. A long, raw-boned Navajo face, with heavy eyebrows and a generous mouth. McKee saw he wore short braids, tied with red cord.
"Just the pleasure of your company for a while," the big man said. "But right now I want you to take that hand out of your shirt front, very, very slowly."
McKee pulled out the hand.
"Well," the man said. "I see I've been too suspicious." He smiled again. "That's quite a finger."
McKee said nothing.
"Now, I'll have you put your hands against that tree." He flicked the long barrel of the pistol toward the trunk of a pi¤on. "Lean against it while I see what you have in those pockets. And, Ellen, you stand over here where I can watch you."
The man stood behind McKee and searched him deftly. He pulled out the cans of meat and dropped them, took the pickup keys and his billfold, ran his hand quickly around McKee's belt line and patted his shirt. Then the hand was gone, but the voice came from directly behind him.
"You will hold that position until I finish checking Miss Leon's possessions. I don't want any movement at all. I don't have to tell you that I will use this pistol."
"No," Bergen said glumly. "You don't."
He heard the voice telling Miss Leon to hold her arms out. McKee looked back over his shoulder.
The blow was so sudden and vicious that he dropped to his knees and huddled against the pain of it. The man had jabbed him, full strength, above the kidney with the muzzle of the pistol.
"You didn't pay attention to what I said," he heard the man saying. "I said not to move. But now you can get up."
McKee pulled himself to his feet. He had hurt his finger again and his hand throbbed violently. He saw Miss Leon looking at him, her face very white. The man was looking at him too, still smiling slightly. He wore a black shirt and denims tucked into the tops of his boots.
"You know, I almost missed you again," the man said. He stopped smiling. "You've been a hell of a lot of trouble. When we have a little time I want you to tell me how you got away from me last night at your camp. That's been puzzling me." The man stopped a moment, staring at McKee.
"I think I know why I didn't catch you at my tree. You were farther down the canyon than I thought you could be and you heard the winch. Didn't you?"
"That's right," McKee said.
"I almost waited there too long," the man said. "You were smart enough to run, but then you gave away your advantage. I wonder why you waited for me here." He looked at McKee thoughtfully. "You could have made me hunt you another day," he said. "Why did you stop? Did you give up?"
McKee didn't look at Miss Leon.
"We didn't think anyone would know where we were."
The Navajo laughed. He seemed genuinely amused. "If you didn't know this was the only way out, I had some luck with you."
"Who the hell are you?" McKee asked. "And what do you want with us?"
"Let's go now. You will walk a little ahead and do as you're told."
He turned the machine pistol sideways, and tapped the safety button beside the trigger guard.
"I carry it cocked, with the safety off. It's a.38 caliber and I'm good with it."
"I'll bet you are," McKee said.
The man kept well behind them as they walked past the brush and over the rocks. McKee walked silently, trying to think.
Miss Leon touched his arm. "I'm sorry." Her voice was very small.
"Nothing to be sorry for."
"If I hadn't been so stupid," she whispered. "I thought it was because you had hurt your head."
"What else could you think? It still seems crazy."
"I'm sorry. You could have gotten away."
"I should have been able to manage it anyway," McKee said. His voice was bitter.
"How did he know our names?"
"He looked through the papers in our tent," McKee said. "I guess he saw them there."
"No talking," the Navajo said. "Save your breath."
They walked in silence up the sand and around the outcropping where Canfield's camper was parked.
"We'll stop here a moment," the man said.
McKee saw Miss Leon looking at the truck. He was glad he had had sense enough to close the tailgate.
I noticed you looked in it," the man said. "I wish you hadn't broken that window. What did you think that would accomplish? It's going to look funny."
The Navajo moved toward the pickup, watching them as he did. He glanced inside and then briefly inspected the broken window.
"This Canfield seemed like a nice fella," he said. "Full of jokes."
"Then why did you kill him?" McKee asked fiercely. He spoke in Navajo.
The big man looked at him, as if trying to understand the question. He answered in English. "Just bad luck. There wasn't any other way to handle it." He looked at McKee solemnly and pursed his lips. The expression was rueful. "Have to go on now," he said. "It's more than a mile to my car and a lot of climbing."
Within a few hundred yards, the going became increasingly difficult. The canyon floor rose sharply now and w
as choked by brush and tumbled boulders. McKee climbed stolidly, helping Miss Leon when he could and trying to think. What kind of a monster was this? He seemed perfectly sane, as if this crazy episode were simply business. He had apparently killed Jeremy as unemotionally as he would swat a fly. McKee was absolutely certain he would kill Miss Leon and him with the same coolness. And, as usual, he could do nothing about it. He had thought about turning suddenly and trying to hit the man with a rock. But his right hand was almost useless and the Navajo kept a cautious distance behind them.
It didn't seem likely the man would leave them alive, not with the knowledge that he was a murderer. But why hadn't he simply shot them by the camper? McKee had sensed that the man had considered this, at least for a moment, after he had confirmed that Canfield's body was still in the truck. But he had dropped the idea. He must have some use for us alive, McKee thought. Either that, or he wants our bodies somewhere else, and it's easier to have us walk. But why? The man seemed sane but there was no conceivable sanity in any of this.
"We'll climb out here," the Navajo said. He indicated a gap in a rockslide which had broken out of the south wall of the canyon. "You go first, Dr. McKee. When you reach the top you will lie down with your feet sticking out over the rim where I can see them. Ellen will be just ahead of me and if you try anything foolish I will have to shoot her so I can come after you. Do you understand how it will work?"
He studied McKee's face.
"You may think I'm bluffing. I'm not. I don't really think I'll need Miss Leon."
McKee looked at her. She stood just below him, breathing heavily from the exertion, her face damp with perspiration. She attempted a smile.
Somehow, McKee thought, I'm going to get her out of this. Even if it kills me.
He began climbing. It was slow because of his right hand, and by the time he reached the top he was drained with exhaustion. He lowered himself onto the rimrock, with his feet jutting out.
"Stay on your stomach," the voice from below ordered.
The position left him completely helpless. He couldn't move without the Navajo seeing him and he had no doubt at all that the man would kill Miss Leon the moment he did. He wondered what the man had meant about probably not needing her. Why would he need her? And why did he need him?
The Navajo reached the top before Miss Leon and stood well aside while she finished the climb.
"Walk right over there to the truck," he said. McKee saw the Land-Rover almost hidden behind a growth of juniper.
"But first hold that hand out so I can see it."
McKee held out his left hand, palm open.
"Are you left-handed, Dr. McKee?"
"No. I'm right-handed."
"I was afraid you would be. Let me see it."
McKee slowly raised his injured hand. He suppressed a wince as motion renewed the pain. The sun was directly south now and that might explain some of the weakness in his legs. It was noon and he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.
"That looks bad," the Navajo said. "We may have to soak it to get that swelling down."
McKee saw that Miss Leon was also staring at his hand. He dropped it, flinched again, and the blood drained into it.
"I'm touched by your sympathy," McKee said.
The Navajo chuckled. "It's not really that," he said, grinning at McKee. "It's just that I have to have you write a letter for us."
Chapter 14
There is no comfortable way, McKee found, to lie face down on the back seat of a moving vehicle with his wrists tied together and roped to his ankles. The best he could arrange involved staring directly at the back of the front seat. By looking out of the right corner of his eye, he could see the back of the Big Navajo's neck. The man had his hat pushed forward on his forehead. That would be because they were driving west and the sun was low through the windshield. By looking down his cheek, he could see Miss Leon, sitting stiffly against the right door of the Land-Rover, as far as she could get from the Indian.
The Land-Rover lurched over something and McKee spread his knees to keep from shifting on the seat. Making the move started the throbbing again in his right hand. The Navajo was saying something but it was lost in dizziness.
"I don't know," Miss Leon said.
"How about you? How long were you planning to stay?"
The question sounded so ordinary and social that McKee had an impulse to laugh. But when Miss Leon had answered two or three days, the Navajo had turned his head toward her. There was a long silence then, and when the Navajo spoke again, McKee realized the question had not been casual at all.
"Did anyone know where you were going?"
"Everyone knew."
"This Dr. Green at Albuquerque knew," the Navajo said. "Who else? What about your husband? Did he know you were coming to this canyon?"
"I don't have a husband."
There was another silence then.
"Who else knew then?" the Navajo asked.
"Some other friends of mine, of course, and my family. Why? What difference does it make?"
"Another thing. Why did McKee sit around in the canyon and let me cut him off?"
"Ask him," Miss Leon said.
"You tell me," the Navajo said.
"Because I was a fool," Miss Leon said.
"You slow him down?" The Navajo chuckled. "Didn't you believe there was a Navajo Wolf?"
"He had that horrible bruise on his forehead," Miss Leon said, "I thought it was that."
"Well, I would have got him anyway."
"No," she said. "If it hadn't been for me, Dr. McKee would have gotten away."
"Maybe you don't know about us Navajo Wolves. We turn ourselves into coyotes, and dogs, bears, foxes, owls, and crows."
McKee stared at the back of the Navajo's head. He had ticked off the litany of were-animals in a voice heavy with sarcasm. And he listed bears, and owls, and crows. There had been a scholarly argument about that when Greersen first published his book about witchcraft beliefs in the 1920's. Greer-sen had listed only one account of each. The bear story had come out of the Navajo Mountain district and the owl and crow incidents were both far to the east-over on the Checkerboard Reservation in New Mexico. McKee had never found a source who knew of more than were-dogs, werewolves, and were-coyotes. The big man must have read Greersen, and that had to mean he had researched somewhere with an anthropological library. But why, and where?
"And we fly through the air when it's dark and we need to," the Navajo was saying. "McKee wouldn't have got away."
"He'd already gotten away once." Miss Leon's voice was angry and insistent. "He outsmarted you last night. And today he outsmarted you again. He."
"Lady. Drop it. You don't know who I am. Nobody gets away."
That had ended the conversation. The Land-Rover had turned sharply and tilted downward-moving mostly in first gear down the narrow bottom of a dry wash. And after what McKee guessed must have been three or four miles there was the feel of smooth flat sand under the wheels and the Navajo drove much faster. There was no sun on the Land-Rover now and McKee was sure they were back on the floor of Many Ruins but he wasn't sure of directions.
A dull pain from the bruise on his forehead and the throbbing of his hand made it difficult to concentrate. Who was the Navajo? In this part of the Reservation, The People linked owls with ghosts, but not with witches, and gave crows and ravens no supernatural significance at all. Obviously, the man's tone was heavily ironic when he listed the birds and animals. McKee could think of no source for such a list except Greersen's Case Studies in Navajo Ethnographic Aberrations. It was a notoriously ponderous and difficult volume intended for cultural anthropologists. Why would the Navajo read such a book? When McKee tried to make sense of this, his mind kept turning to the sound of Ellen Leon's voice defending him. "He outsmarted you," she had said.
The Land-Rover stopped and McKee heard the hand brake go on.
"You stay here," the Indian said. "Don't try to untie McKee and don't try anything f
unny."
And then the door opened, the big man was gone, and Miss Leon was leaning over the back of the seat. She looked dusty, disheveled, very tired, and very sympathetic. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"Where are we? Where did he go?"
"At the tree," Miss Leon said. "The one he pulled across the canyon. Are you all right?"
Tony Hillerman - Leaphorn & Chee 01 - The Blessing Way Page 12
