The Volvo gnashed and whined before the engine caught. He spun a little gravel getting out of the lot; turned right to follow the other car and didn’t turn his headlights on until the red taillights of the car ahead of him had disappeared over a rise in the road.
It was Will Luxan driving that car and the passenger with him was old Rufus Limita, bare-chested with something glittery hanging around his neck. It had to be ceremonial gear and it could mean there was going to be a curing ceremony. Anything that would draw those two men out together at this hour of the night implied either urgency or a need for secrecy. It could be some old woman who’d had a sudden seizure. It could be something else. Angelina had said she thought Luxan knew where Joe was.
They were hustling northeast along the main road at a steady fifty-mile clip in Luxan’s Pontiac. Watchman closed the distance to a few hundred yards and hung there. They knew he was there but Luxan wouldn’t make anything of it unless he turned off the road and found he still had a tail.
The night air had a distinct bite to it but he kept the windows wide open; it helped keep him awake. He hit a little bounce in the road and the suspension banged ominously.
Victorio would be coming out and wondering what had happened to him but it couldn’t be helped, there hadn’t been time. Whatever Victorio found could wait.
The Pontiac led him almost due north along State Highway 73 until after ten miles or so Watchman saw the brake-lights flash. He took his foot off the gas. The Pontiac made a right turn onto some sort of dirt track and crawled off through the brush, jouncing.
Watchman drove past. He stayed on the highway until he’d gone over the next hill, switched off his headlights, made a U-turn in the road and slowly drove back over the hill with his eyes slowly adjusting to the night. The moon would be down in twenty minutes or half an hour but the stars provided a fair illumination in blacks and greys.
The Pontiac had gone not more than a quarter of a mile; it wasn’t built for rough travel. He saw the taillights heaving up and down and the frequent angry blare of the brakes. Watchman parked off the side of the highway, concealing the Volvo as well as he could in the bushes.
He took the flashlight and got out of the car, not switching the torch on. He tested the thumb-strap over the pistol in his small-of-the-back holster; he didn’t want it falling out.
Then he went after the Pontiac, on foot, jogging it.
Using the car would have been too risky. He had no idea how far they had to go but once they stopped they’d be able to hear the telltale clank of that busted shock absorber. He didn’t think they’d have used the Pontiac if they had far to go along this rutted track and he knew there were no other paved roads back in here. The only real risk was that they were being clever, doing a loop that would take them back to the main highway, to evade pursuit; but it wasn’t too likely.
He was out of shape from too much sitting and he settled in to a pace somewhat slower than he would have chosen five years ago, or ten. Cross-country running was a sport of every young Navajo. He had frequently run the length of Canyon de Chelly but that had been fifteen years ago and while his mind remembered the discipline his muscles weren’t ready for it. The ache started at the fronts of his thighs and worked down into his ankles.
He had the flashlight in his left hand but he didn’t use it; there was enough light. He stayed on the tufted hump between the ruts because there was less chance of turning an ankle over an exposed stone. Bunches of piñon and scrub oak went by, close enough to scrape the sides of a car; it was a Jeep trail and it probably led back to an old-fashioned farm cluster, the kind of wickiups where you’d still find horses and a buckboard wagon. Some isolated clan still living in the old way.
The thing to concentrate on was the breathing; you had to keep the engines fueled with oxygen. Once you allowed yourself to start panting you were finished. Let everything out of the lungs and then whoosh in a deep long breath, as much as the chest could contain without bursting; hold it in long enough for the oxygen to get into the lung-linings and then shove it all out and collapse the lungs and start over, long and deep and slow, four footsteps to the breath. Elbows bent, fists up at chest level. A good arm swing from shoulder to elbow. Pick up the feet because you couldn’t afford to stumble or trip, you’d lose the rhythm. Saw it in, saw it out. Count miles, not feet.
The moon was down. He couldn’t see the old Pontiac any more but he could see the reflected glow of its headlights moving across the hill crests. Going up the slope he cut his pace by a third and finally a hundred yards below the top he walked it. His legs were wobbly; he’d run about seven miles.
At the top of the hill the rutted track divided. The left fork was the one still in use but the Pontiac was below him to his right, crawling across a little valley at a pedestrian’s pace. The ruts were overgrown and washed out; Watchman crossed the skyline quickly and low and skittered down the back of the hill on his bootheels. At the point where the old wagon track leveled out he began running again but he didn’t try to keep up the speed he’d set earlier. The Pontiac had something better than a mile jump on him but the valley sloped evenly away from him and he didn’t lose sight of it for a full ten minutes; then the lights disappeared so quickly that he knew they had been switched off. So the car had reached its destination.
It was all a thin hunch. It could turn out to be a child with whooping cough or an old lady with the miseries. But Will Luxan was in that car.…
He touched the pistol at his spine and jogged on.
CHAPTER SIX
1.
DAWN BROUGHT him awake. He eased out from behind the juniper and had his look downhill.
The smell of burning piñon drifted up at him. He could hear the chant of the medicine song, Rufus Limita’s voice. Two or three other male voices mumbled along with him.
He had slept three hours, confident that any sudden change in the Sing would have awakened him.
He couldn’t see any of them, they were inside the wickiup. The Pontiac was parked up on top of the ridge; they had taken a narrow foot track down to the place from there. There was a Jeep station wagon beside it and that was why he had not moved in during the night; he had no way of knowing how many there were or whether they had posted sentries.
He saw no one but that didn’t mean much; in country like this it was just like the old days, the only time you saw an Indian was when he moved. Watchman studied the scene with care as light flooded across the valley, scattering the shadows.
The place had been a farm but it had gone dry with erosion. There were three wickiups in various stages of decay and behind the corral was a broken latticework which once had been the base of a windmill tower; it looked like something that had been bombed.
The wickiups faced various directions; the Navajo always built his hogan with the doorway to the east but this was not so among the Apaches. One of the wickiups was very large but part of its thatch had caved in; there was the glint of light on metal through the broken roof of this big wickiup. He had a feeling that was the Land Cruiser, concealed inside.
Watchman moved around a little, working his legs and shoulders, flexing the ache from them.
The light gained strength; shades of violet and lilac suffused the distant peaks. He was still studying the hillsides and finally he decided to take the chance that they trusted their safety to isolation and hadn’t posted a watch. On his elbows he sculled across the slope to a lower point from which he could command a clear 180-degree field of view.
There could be as many as six or seven from the Jeep and he didn’t want to tackle them all; but most of the people would have to go to work in an hour or two. Watchman planned to wait for their departure.
The way he had it worked out, Joe had got sick and somehow passed the word to Luxan. Maybe it was some ordinary bug and maybe it was nerves, and maybe it was the sorcery they thought it was. It usually amounted to the same thing in the end; whether the curative power was in the sick man’s mind or in the Mountain Spirits, the chant-songs of t
he Singers had as much chance of success as the pills of medical science. The best remedy for most ailments was tincture of time; some were cured faster by pills and some by faith and some by the spirits.
There was sorcery in the case from the beginning. If Luxan believed the deaths of Maria and Joe Junior had been caused by a witch then he would certainly call upon the medicine man at the first sign of malady in Joe.
You acquired supernatural power by dreaming about the animals and mountains in which those powers began; you bought from some wise elder the songs and rituals by which you activated the powers. It was easier to witch a man than to cure him because evil was the less difficult state of being. It was easy for a sorcerer to cast a spell which would cause sudden illness: dizziness, fainting, stomach pains, nausea, general weakness. The poison entered through the victim’s ears. The medicine man could counteract the spell by summoning the Spirits of the mountains, and of White Painted Woman who was Mother Earth, and of Child of the Water, her child, and of the remote supreme Life Giver. But the ceremonial rituals that were required for this were complex and precise and very expensive and took a great deal of time. Even this little ceremony was probably costing Luxan a hundred dollars and if it ended before noon Watchman would be surprised.
2.
At seven they filed out of the wickiup, three of them carrying dancers’ masks and one toting a drum. He hadn’t heard any drumming; that probably meant Rufus Limita had ascertained that Joe’s illness was not too severe.
There were five of them; Watchman recognized Danny Sanada. Limita and Luxan came as far as the door and watched the five Indians walk up the hill to the Jeep wagon. Limita wore an amulet and a medicine pouch on a string around his neck.
Watchman stayed put without moving while the Jeep backed up and turned and went away.
Limita and Luxan stooped to go back into the wickiup and as soon as they were out of sight Watchman brought out the pistol and walked down the hill without sound. His knees were a little watery.
Limita’s hoarse singing started up again. Watchman crouched just outside the wickiup and closed his right eye tight and stayed that way for several minutes until he judged his right eye would be able to see in the dimness within. Then he curled inside, opening the eye, going in like a seed squeezed from an orange.
Luxan heard something and reached for the .30-30 but Watchman had the pistol on him and Luxan dropped the rifle.
Limita sat cross-legged, dripping colored sand onto the edges of his sand painting. He looked up and the song stopped.
Joe Threepersons sat drooping in the middle of the sand painting on the floor. His clothes were very dusty and there was a sweat-shine of fever on his face. The cauliflowered ear picked up a little light from the fire hole and Joe’s eyes regarded Watchman bleakly, without surprise.
Watchman said, “Hello Joe.”
3.
He nudged the .30-30 with his foot, brought it over and grasped it. It was a Winchester ’94 saddle gun, lever action, and Watchman jacked all the cartridges out of it.
“Where’s the magnum?”
Three pairs of eyes stared boldly at him and finally it was Luxan’s that drifted off to a point behind Watchman. Luxan nodded dispiritedly and Watchman found the big rifle in back of him propped against the wall. He emptied it with care and laid the two rifles behind him and made a little heap of the cartridges.
Years and weather’s incursion had turned the walls driftwood-grey. The floor was rammed-earth and the ashes of the night’s piñon fire lay smoking to one side of the sand painting on which Joe sat but the residue of smoke didn’t quite mask the rancid smell of sickness.
Rufus Limita’s hand grasped the medicine pouch at his chest as thought it were a bludgeon. “I didn’t finish this time.”
“I’m sorry I had to interrupt.” Watchman was a little dry.
The old Singer brooded at him. Will Luxan played with the imitation-briar pipe in his fingers, and slid it away in a pocket of his shirt. Joe Threepersons coughed and stared, emanating hatred.
Watchman said, “I’m Highway Patrol.” He showed his badge.
“Good for you.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Rotten. I think I got Montezuma’s Revenge.”
Dysentery. Joe Threepersons looked it. As if an elephant had kicked him between the eyes. His breathing was thin and rapid. Watchman said, “You think somebody witched you?”
“Maybe.” Joe’s round face was closed up, bitterly aloof. Watchman caught a sour whiff of sweat. Joe had nerved his stomach into knots; it wasn’t surprising he was sick.
Will Luxan was the key. Watchman addressed him gently. “Somebody wants to kill Joe. I need help to stop it.”
Joe said, “Man you got it backwards.”
“Who’s the rifle for, Joe?”
“I guess that’s my binness.”
“You didn’t kill Ross Calisher, did you.”
Joe showed his grudging surprise.
Watchman said, “Listen to me, Joe. Maybe I can get you off the hook. If you can help prove you never killed Calisher you can be a free man.”
“You turn around and walk out of here, I’m a free man.”
“It won’t happen that way. You know that.”
Joe closed his eyes. Watchman could see the eyeballs roll under the clenched lids. Joe’s jaw muscles worked and his fingertips quivered. Watchman said, “Right now it’s open season on you. You understand that?”
“Man these are my friends.”
“Somebody wants you dead. They killed Jimmy Oto.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Jimmy broke you out of the joint. He knew too much. Now if Jimmy knew too much, where does that put you? You know a lot more than he did.”
“Well they got to find me first.”
“That’s not too hard,” Watchman said and saw Joe think on it and not like the conclusions: Watchman was a stranger up here and if he could find Joe then how much trouble would a local have? Watchman said, “How’d you manage to hide out in Florence and beat the roadblocks?” He said it conversationally.
“I don’t remember.”
“You’d make a hell of a witness.” Watchman smiled at him.
“Shit. I crawled up in the loft, one of them buildings up at the old, what used to be the Federal slam. Jimmy drove me there so there wasn’t no scent for the dogs to get at on the ground. He let me know when you pulled down the roadblocks. What difference it make now?”
“I was just curious. I’ve got to take you back, Joe, but as long as they want to kill you they can reach you whether you’re up here or down there. You can’t stop it, neither can I.”
“I can stop it. I can get to them first.”
“Joe you haven’t got that choice anymore.”
Joe eyed the two unloaded rifles and his face crumpled. He stared at the corner of the sand-painting. It was as if he was beyond caring any more.
Watchman turned toward Luxan. “Who witched him, Tio Will?”
Luxan’s square face was troubled. “I can’t say a name, you know. It would be up to Joe.”
“Tell him to tell me, then. Tell him it’s all right. Tell him I want to help him stay alive.”
Joe’s head lifted sharply. “Why the hell should we trust you?”
“Because I’m an outsider. I haven’t got an axe to grind. They’re all strangers to me.”
“Then what’s that make me, man? I never seen your face before. And you’re a cop. You said you was a cop.”
“Don’t blame the cops for your troubles, Joe. You confessed to that murder.”
“Yeah and I served my time like a good boy but it never stopped those motherin’ screws from pushing me around. You go in slam, you learn about cops.”
“I’m not a screw,” Watchman said, and went on even though it was a cheap shot: “I’m an Indian just like you.”
“Yutuhu,” Will Luxan murmured. It wasn’t contemptuous, merely informative; Joe nodded to sho
w he understood.
“Navajo,” he said. “Man that don’t cut no ice. They had a Navajo down in slam tried to rape me once. I busted the son of a bitch all to hell.”
“Well that wasn’t me, was it.” Watchman tried another foothold: “The night Calisher was killed you were up in Cibecue. I know you didn’t kill him.”
“So you talked to Angelina.” Joe’s eyes shifted quickly to Luxan and his face changed. “What you done to my sister, man?”
“She’s all right.”
“You mean I don’t play ball with you, something happens to Angelina. It’s like that, hey?”
“No,” Watchman said, “it’s not like that. Nothing’s going to happen to her. I don’t play that way. I’m just trying to keep her out of the line of fire. The people that want you dead, maybe they want her dead too. You thought of that?”
It was clear by Joe’s expression that he hadn’t.
It had always been Watchman’s ace but he hadn’t wanted to play it.
Will Luxan said, “Maybe this time you tell him, Joe.”
Joe rubbed at the sweat on his face. “Man you know what you’re saying?”
Luxan said, “It is for you to say. But maybe this one could be right.”
Rufus Limita watched from the far side of the wickiup, his eyes dull and guarded. He didn’t stir at all. He was humming a little but so softly it was hardly audible; continuing the ritual song inside his throat.
Joe studied his hands. The muscles ridged at his throat, as if something physical were straining to burst out of him.
“Harlan Natagee,” he said, half choking it.
4.
“You figure Harlan witched you? Why?”
“It’s sort of been an enemy clan for a long time, you know? And everybody knows the son of a bitch is got all kinds of diyi kedn. He’s been witching people for years, everybody knows. He witched my woman and my kid. He’s trying to get at me but I think we got Rufus here in time.” It came out in a rush from wherever Joe had been holding it pent up.
Threepersons Hunt Page 17
