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  He stuffed the letter into his pocket with the Yazzie letter and picked up the memo.

  It still said: "Call Lt. Leaphorn immediately."

  He called Lieutenant Leaphorn.

  Chapter 12

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  the telephone on Joe Leaphorn's desk buzzed.

  "Who is it?"

  "Jim Chee from Shiprock," the switchboard said.

  "Tell him to hold it a minute," Leaphorn said. He knew what to learn from Chee, but he took a moment to reconsider exactly how he'd go about asking the questions. He held the receiver lightly in his palm, going over it.

  "Okay," he said. "Put him on."

  Something clicked.

  "This is Leaphorn," Leaphorn said.

  "Jim Chee. Returning your call."

  "Do you know any of the people who live out there around Chilchinbito Canyon. Out there where Wilson Sam lived?"

  "Let me think," Chee said. Silence. "No. I don't think so."

  "You ever worked anything out there? Enough to be familiar with the territory?"

  "Not really," Chee said. "Not my part of the reservation."

  "How about the country around Badwater Wash? Around where Endocheeney lived?"

  "A lot better," Chee said. "It's not what Captain Largo has me patrolling, but I spent some time out there trying to find a kid who got washed down the San Juan last year. Several days. And then I handled the Endocheeney business. Went out there twice on that."

  "I'm right that Bistie wouldn't say anything about whether he knew Endocheeney?"

  "Right. He wouldn't say anything. Except he was glad Endocheeney was dead. He made that plain. So you guess he knew the man."

  You do, Leaphorn thought. But maybe you guess wrong.

  "Did he say anything that would give you an idea whether he knew that Badwater country? Like about having trouble finding Endocheeney's place? Anything like that?"

  "You mean beyond stopping at the trading post to ask directions? He did that."

  "That was in Kennedy's report," Leaphorn said. "What I meant was did you hear anything from him, or from the people you talked to at Badwater, that would tell you he was totally strange to that country? Afraid of not finding the road? Getting lost? Anything like that?"

  "No." The word was said slowly, indicating the thought wasn't finished. Leaphorn waited. "But I didn't press it. We just got his description, and a make on his truck. Didn't look for that sort of information."

  Obviously it wouldn't have seemed to have any meaning at that stage of the game. Perhaps it didn't now. He waited for Chee to make unnecessary excuses. None materialized. Leaphorn began phrasing his next question, but Chee interrupted the thought.

  "You know," he said slowly, "I think the fellow who knifed Endocheeney was a stranger too. Didn't know the country."

  "Oh?" Leaphorn said. He'd heard Chee was smart. He'd heard right. Chee was saving him his question.

  "He came down out of the rocks," Chee said. "Have you seen that Endocheeney place? It's set back from the San Juan maybe a hundred yards. Cliffs to the south of it. The killer came down off of those. And went back the same way to get to where he'd left his car. I spent some time looking around. There were two or three easier ways to get down to Endocheeney. Easier than the way he took."

  "So," Leaphorn said, half to himself. "Two strangers show up the same day to kill the same man. What do you think of that?"

  There was silence. Through his window Leaphorn watched an unruly squadron of crows flying in from the cottonwoods along Window Rock Ridge toward the village. Lunchtime for crows in the garbage cans. But he wasn't thinking of crows. He was thinking of Chee's intelli gence. If he told Chee now that the man who killed Wilson Sam was also a stranger, and how he knew it, Chee would quickly detect the reason for his first question. They had established that Chee, too, was a stranger to Wilson Sam's landscape. They established Leaphorn's suspicions. But to hell with that. A cop who got himself shot at from ambush should expect to be under close scrutiny. Chee might as well. He would tell Chee what he'd learned.

  "It's possible," Chee was saying, slowly, "that there weren't two strangers coming to find Endocheeney. Maybe there was just one."

  "Ah," said Leaphorn, who had the very same thought.

  "It could be," Chee went on, "that Bistie knew he missed Endocheeney when he shot at him on the roof. So he drove away, parked up on the mesa, climbed down, and killed Endocheeney with the knife. And then—"

  "He confesses to shooting Endocheeney," Leaphorn concluded. "Pretty smart. Is that what happened?"

  Chee sighed. "I don't think so," he said.

  Neither did Leaphorn. It violated what he'd learned of people down the years. People who prefer guns don't use knives, and vice versa. Bistie had preferred a rifle. He still had the rifle. Why not use it on the second attempt?

  "Why not?" Leaphorn asked.

  "Different tracks. I don't think Bistie would have brought along a change of footwear, and what few tracks I found at Endocheeney's didn't match Bistie's boots. Anyway, why would he do that? And why not shoot him on the second attempt? Why use a knife? It gave him an alibi, sure. And fooled us. But think of the advance planning it would take to make it all work out like that. And the things that could go wrong. It doesn't match my impression of Bistie."

  "Okay," Leaphorn said. "Do you know anything from talking to Bistie, or from anything, that would suggest that Bistie might have known Wilson Sam?"

  "No, sir. Nothing."

  "Well, we seem to have another strange situation, then." He told Chee what he'd learned at Chilchinbito Canyon.

  "Doesn't make much sense," Chee said. "Does it?"

  "That bone bead in your trailer," Leaphorn said. "It turned out to be bovine. Made out of old cow bone."

  Chee made a noncommittal sound.

  "Anything else happened with you? Anything suspicious?"

  "No, sir."

  "You learning anything?"

  "Well…" Chee hesitated. "Nothing much. I heard gossip at Badwater Trading Post. They say a bone was found in Endocheeney's corpse."

  Leaphorn exhaled, surprised. "Like he had been witched?"

  "Yeah," Chee said. "Or like he'd witched somebody else and they put it back into him."

  And this was, in Leaphorn's thinking, the very worst part of a sick tradition—this cruel business of killing a scapegoat when things went wrong. It was what Chee Dodge had railed against when he tried to stamp it out. It was what had made Joe Leaphorn, young then and new to the Navajo Tribal Police, responsible for the deaths of four people. Two men. Two women. Three witches and the man who killed them. He had heard the gossip. He had laughed at it. He had collected the bodies—three murders and a suicide. That was twenty years ago. It had converted Leaphorn's contempt for witchcraft into hatred.

  "Nothing about any foreign bone fragment showed up in the autopsy," Leaphorn said. But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't necessarily true. The pathologist might not list—probably wouldn't list—such odds and ends. When the cause of death was so obvious—a butcher knife blade driven repeatedly through clothing into the victim's abdomen and side—why list the threads and buttons, lint and gum wrappers, the blade might drive through the skin?

  "I thought it might be worth asking about," Chee said.

  "It is," Leaphorn said. "I will."

  "Also," Chee said. And then paused.

  Leaphorn waited.

  "Also, Bistie had a bone bead in his wallet. Just like the one I found in my trailer. Looked like it, anyway."

  Leaphorn exhaled again. "He did? What did he say about it?"

  "Well, nothing," Chee said. He explained what had happened at the jail. "So I just put it back where I found it."

  "I think we better go talk to Bistie again," Leaphorn said. "In fact, I think we better pick him up, and lock him up until we get this sorted out a little better." Leaphorn imagined trying to persuade Dilly to file the complaint. Dilly Streib would be hard to persuade. Dilly had bee
n FBI too long not to care about his batting average. The Agency didn't like cases it didn't win. Still…

  Leaphorn swiveled in his chair and looked at his map. A line of bone beads now connected two of his dots. And Roosevelt Bistie must know how they connected. And why.

  "We can charge him with attempted murder, or attempted assault, or hold him as a material witness."

  "Umm," Chee said. A sound full of doubt.

  "I'll call the feds," Leaphorn said. He glanced at his watch. "Can you meet me in an hour at…" He looked at the map again, picking the most practical halfway point between Window Rock and Shiprock for their drive into the Chuskas. "At Sanostee," he concluded. "Sanostee in an hour?"

  "Yes, sir," Chee said. "Sanostee in an hour."

  Chapter 13

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  sanostee was hardly a halfway point, but it was convenient for where they were going. For Chee it was fast—twenty miles south on the worn pavement of U.S. 666 to Littlewater, and then nine miles westward, into the teeth of the gusting, dusty wind, up the long slope of the Chuska range to the trading post. For Leaphorn it was triple that distance—from Window Rock to Crystal and over Washington Pass to Sheep Springs, then north to the Littlewater intersection. When Leaphorn reached Sanostee it was sundown, the copper-colored twilight of one of those days when the desert sky is translucent with hanging dust.

  Chee was sitting under his steering wheel, feet out the door, drinking an orange crush. They left Leaphorn's car and took Chee's. Leaphorn asked questions. Chee drove. They were astute questions, intended to duplicate as much of Chee's memory in Leaphorn's as was possible. At first the focus was on Bistie, on everything he'd said and how he'd said it, and then on Endocheeney, and finally on Janet Pete.

  "I had a little mixup with her last year," Leaphorn said. "She thought we'd roughed up a drunk—or said she did."

  "Had we?"

  Leaphorn glanced at him. "Somebody had. Unless the officer was lying about it, it was somebody else."

  The road that wandered northward from Sanostee had been graded once, and graveled at some time in the dim past when this part of the Chuskas had elected an unusually fierce advocate to the Tribal Council. The perpetual cycle of January snows and April thaws had swallowed the gravel long ago, and the highway superintendent for that district had solved the problem by erasing the road from his map. But it was still passable in dry weather and still used by the few families who grazed their sheep in this part of the highlands. Chee drove it carefully, skirting washouts and avoiding its washboard pattern of surface erosion when he could. Sunrays from below the curve of the planet lit cloud banks on the western horizon and reflected red now, converting the yellow hue of the universe into a vague pink tint.

  "I've been wondering who called her in on this," Chee said. "When we told Bistie he could call a lawyer, he wasn't interested."

  "Probably his daughter," Leaphorn said.

  "Probably," Chee agreed. He remembered the daughter standing in the yard of Bistie's house. Would she have thought of calling a lawyer? Driven back to Sanostee to make the call? Known whom to call? He amended the "probably."

  "Maybe so," he said.

  That concluded the conversation. They rode in silence. Leaphorn sat back straight against the seat, his eyes memorizing what he could see of the landscape in fading yellow light, his mind drawn to the intolerable problem of Emma's illness and then flinching away from that to escape into the merely frustrating puzzle of the four pins on his map. Chee rode slumped against the door, right hand on the wheel, a taller man and slender, thinking of the bone bead in Bistie's wallet, of what questions he might ask to cause the stubborn Bistie to talk about witchcraft to hostile strangers, of whether Leaphorn would allow him any questions, of how Leaphorn, the famous Leaphorn, the Leaphorn of tribal police legends, would handle this. And thinking of Mary Landon's letter. He found he could see the words, dark blue ink against the pale blue of the paper.

  "Dad and I drove down to Madison last week and talked to an adviser in the College of Arts and Sciences. I will be able to get my master's degree—with a little luck—in just two more semesters…"

  Just two semesters. Only two semesters. Only two. Or, put another way, I will only take two long steps away from you. Or, I promised I would come back to you at the end of summer, but now I am going away. Or, rephrased again, former lover, you are now a friend. Or…

  The patrol car slanted up into the thicket of piñon and stunted ponderosa. Chee shifted into second gear.

  "Just over this ridge," he said.

  Just over the ridge, the light became visible. It was below them, still at least half a mile away, a bright point in the darkening twilight. Chee remembered it from the afternoon they had arrested Bistie. A single bare bulb protected by a metal reflector atop a forty-foot ponderosa pine stem. Bistie's ghost light. Would a witch be worried about ghosts? Would a witch keep a light burning to fend off the chindi which wandered in the darkness?

  "His place?" Leaphorn asked.

  Chee nodded.

  "He's got electricity out here?" Leaphorn sounded surprised.

  "There's a windmill generator behind the house," Chee said. "I guess he runs that light off batteries."

  Bistie's access route required a right turn off the road, bumped over a rocky hummock and past a scattering of piñons, to drop again down to his place. In the harsh yellow light it looked worse than Chee had remembered it—a rectangular plank shack, probably with two rooms, roofed with blue asphalt shingles. Behind it stood a dented metal storage shack, a brush arbor, a pole horse corral, and, up the slope by the low cliff of the mesa, a lean-to for hay storage. Beyond that, against the cliff, the yellow light reflected from a hogan made of stacked stone slabs. Beside the shack, side by side and with their vanes turned away from the gusting west wind, were Bistie's windmill and his wind generator.

  Chee parked his patrol car under Bistie's yard light.

  There was no sign of the truck and no light on in the house.

  Leaphorn sighed. "You know enough about him to do any guessing about where he might be?" he said. "Visiting kinfolks or anything?"

  "No," Chee said. "We didn't get into that."

  "Lives here with his daughter. Right?" Leaphorn said.

  "Right."

  They waited for someone to appear at the door and acknowledge the presence of visitors, delaying the moment when they'd admit the long drive had been for nothing. Delaying what would be either a return trip to Sanostee or a fruitless hunt for neighbors who might know where Roosevelt Bistie had gone.

  "Maybe he didn't come back here when the lawyer got him out," Chee said.

  Leaphorn grunted. The yellow light from the bare bulb above them lit the right side of his face, giving it a waxy look.

  No one appeared at the door. Leaphorn got out of the car, slammed the door noisily behind him, and leaned against the roof, eyes on the house. The door wouldn't be locked. Should he go in, and look around for some hint of where Bistie might be?

  The wind gusted against him, blowing sand against his ankles above his socks and pushing at his uniform hat. Then it died. He heard Chee's door opening. He smelled something burning—a strong, acrid odor.

  "Fire," Chee said. "Somewhere."

  Leaphorn trotted toward the house, rapped on the door. The smell was stronger here, seeping between door and frame. He turned the knob, pushed the door open. Smoke puffed out, and was whipped away by another gust of the dry wind. Behind him, Chee yelled: "Bistie. You in there?"

  Leaphorn stepped into the smoke, fanning with his hat. Chee was just behind him. The smoke was coming from an aluminum pot on top of a butane stove against the back wall of the room. Leaphorn held his breath, turned off the burner under the pan and under a blue enamel coffeepot boiling furiously beside it. He used his hat as a potholder, grabbed the handle, carried it outside, and dropped it on the packed earth. It contained what seemed to have been some sort of stew, now badly charred. Leaphorn went back ins
ide.

  "No one's here," Chee said. He was fanning the residual smoke with his hat. A chair lay on its side on the floor.

  "You checked the back room?"

  Chee nodded. "Nobody home."

  "Left in a hurry," Leaphorn said. He wrinkled his nose against the acrid smell of burned meat and walked back into the front yard. With the butt of his flashlight, he poked into the still-smoking pan, inspected the residue it collected.

  "Take a look at this," he said to Chee. "You're a bachelor, aren't you? How long does it take you to burn stew like this?"

  Chee inspected the pot. "The way he had the fire turned up, maybe five, ten minutes. Depends on how much water he put in it."

  "Or she," Leaphorn said. "His daughter. When you were here with Kennedy, they just have one truck?"

  "That's all," Chee said.

  "So they must be off somewhere in it," Leaphorn said. "One or both. And they drove off the other way from the way we were coming. But if it was that way, why didn't we see their headlights? They would have just left." Leaphorn straightened, put his hands on his hips, stretched his back. He stared into the deepening twilight, frowning. "Just one plate on the table. You notice that?"

  "Yeah," Chee said. "And the chair turned over."

  "Five or ten minutes," Leaphorn said. "If you know how long it takes to incinerate stew, then we didn't scare him off. The truck was already gone. And the stew was already burning before we got here."

  "I'll go in and look around again," Chee said. "A little closer."

  "Let me do it," Leaphorn said. "See if you can find anything out here."

  Leaphorn stood at the doorway first, not wishing to further disturb any signs that might have been left. He suspected Chee might be good at this, but he knew he was good. The floor was covered with dark red linoleum, seamed near the middle of the room. It was fairly new, which was good, and dusty, which was almost inevitable considering the weather, and absolutely essential considering what Leaphorn hoped to do. But before he did anything, he looked. This front room was used for cooking, eating, general living, and the woman's bedroom. One corner of the bed, a single wooden frame neatly made up, was visible behind a curtain of blankets which walled off a corner. Shelves loaded with canned goods, cooking utensils, and an assortment of boxes lined the partition wall. Except for the overturned chair, nothing seemed odd or out of place. The room showed the habitual neatness imposed by limited living space.