Hillerman, Tony - [Leaphorn & Chee 17] (14 page)

Joanna Craig sat on a shelf of some sort of smooth, pale pink stone about two thousand feet above what she guessed must be the Colorado River. It was putty-colored, not the clear blue she had always imagined, and the cliffs across it (and behind her, and everywhere else) soared upward to a dark blue sky, partly crowded with towering clouds—dark on the bottom. Joanna’s mood was also at its bottom at the moment, and like the clouds, dark blue.

Joanna was admitting to herself that she had screwed up. She was facing the fact that Billy Tuve, while brain-damaged, had outwitted her. He was gone. She was alone. Worse, due to her own foolishness, she seemed to be walking into a trap. She was leaning forward, elbows on knees, head down, resting everything but her mind, ticking off the mistakes she had been making and looking for solutions.

Maybe the first mistake had been even coming here. But that was no mistake. It was something she had to do. Something, call it her destiny, had caused that damned diamond to appear out of the distant past. Maybe her prayers had caused it. Too many years of praying for a way to get revenge. To see justice done. And finally the diamond had appeared, had been given to a childlike Hopi, had set off a chain of events, led to her lawyer, and had drawn her here, two thousand miles from home, to sit, exhausted, two thousand feet above a dirty river, not knowing what to do.

Of course, she should have kept pressing Tuve about the man who came to talk to him in jail just an hour or two before she had arrived and bonded him out. Who was he? Lawyer, Tuve said. Said his name was Jim Belshaw. Said he would represent Billy, get him out of jail, but Billy had to tell him where he had gotten the diamond. What had he looked like? Big white man, hair almost white, face sort of reddish. Eyes blue. And what had he told this Jim Belshaw about where the diamond had come from? That he didn’t know. That this diamond man had just walked a little ways down the river from the blue pool near the Salt Woman Shrine and came back with it. What else? Tuve had just shaken his head. He was finished talking about it. And she had allowed him to get away with that.

Then the narrow little trail bent around a corner of the cliff, and Tuve had pointed downward. Through the binoculars she had seen where the clearer stream from the Little Colorado Canyon poured into the muddy Colorado, and beyond that the blue oblong shape of a pool, which must have been supplied with water by a spring.
Down there, she thought, must be the site of the Salt Woman Shrine.

Tuve had been standing behind her. “Ah,” he said, and something else. And pointed. She noticed motion. A figure walking along the bank of the pool, disappearing behind the brush trees, reappearing, bending to examine something on the ground. It was a man, apparently, but he was too far below them to tell much else.

“Is that this lawyer?” she had asked. “Is this the Belshaw who came to see you?”

Tuve didn’t answer.

“It could be him,” Joanna had said. “It’s a big man, like you said he was. Right?” She stared through the binoculars, shifted her position as the man moved to where a tamarisk partly shielded him from her view. “Tall,” she said. “Looks like he’s well dressed for hiking. But with his hat on I can’t tell from here if he’s blond. Does he look like—”

But Billy Tuve was no longer with her. Not standing behind her on the track. Not anywhere that she could see. Perhaps he had gone back up the trail, around that bend up twenty yards or so. Maybe ducking back into the brush to relieve himself. Joanna stopped thinking and started running.

“Billy!” she shouted. “Mr. Tuve!” But he wasn’t at the bend in the trail, or around it. Not as far as she could see. She hadn’t realized how tired her legs had become on the long and tricky walk down. She stopped, catching her breath, shaking, trying to see a place up the trail where he might be hiding. There were several. More than she had the energy left to check. But why would he be hiding? Why leave her like this?

Then Joanna had slumped against the cliff wall, sliding down the rough stone, and sitting, back against it, legs drawn up, forehead resting between her knees. The warm, dusty fabric of her jeans reminding her of how thirsty she was. Of how little water was left in her bottle. Trying to fend off despair. Trying to think.

Had Billy Tuve betrayed her? Well, why shouldn’t he? He seemed slow and innocent, but he had been smart enough to see she was using him. Yet he had been willing enough to help her—and help her to help him. So why had he abandoned her now? He’d been cooperative, even sympathetic, until he had seen that man down below. Perhaps he had recognized him as the man who had come to the jail. Probably he had. Perhaps he and the blond man had made some sort of deal. Perhaps the man was waiting at the bottom of the trail just to meet Tuve. For Tuve to lead him to the diamonds. This blond would be Plymale’s lieutenant. This man she shot was working for him, had called him Bradford Chandler, said he was working for some lawyer named Plymale.

But if Tuve had made a deal with this Chandler, why hadn’t he gone on down the trail to meet him? Why had he gone the other way? Was Tuve afraid of the man? If he worked for Plymale, she had a better reason herself to be afraid.

And then she noticed Tuve’s canteen.

It was propped neatly on a narrow shelf jutting from the cliff, almost as if she was supposed to notice it. As if Billy Tuve had left it for her to use. She pushed herself up, painfully stiff from the brief rest, and got the canteen. It was heavy and the leather cover was soaked and cool.

She sat again, leaning against the stone, unscrewed
the cap, touched liquid with the tip of her tongue. The taste was stale, but it was water. She took a sip, holding it, enjoying it. Modifying the grim and depressing thought that Tuve, whom she had come to like, had abandoned her to die of dehydration with the knowledge that he’d left her enough water to get herself to safety. She had heard that the Hopis, and others, left hidden caches of water containers along some of the trails for emergencies. Tuve would have known where to find such a cache if he needed water. Still, even if this didn’t represent a life-endangering sacrifice for him, it was a kind thing to do—curing her despair as well as her thirst.

It also brought her to a decision. She would climb down the Salt Trail to the bottom. She would keep out of sight. Tuve had probably told his jail visitor as much as he’d told her. Maybe he had told him more. If this jail visitor had abandoned his wait for Tuve, perhaps he would begin his hunt for the diamond dispenser on his own. She would follow him wherever it took her.

Joanna rose, dusted off her jeans, poured what was left in her own water bottle into Tuve’s canteen, and resumed her descent. Not much hope, really. But she still had her little pistol if it was needed. And what else could she do? The opportunity she had prayed for ever since her mother’s death had finally come. A chance to attain justice. And revenge. And maybe, finally, some peace and some happiness. She had to follow where this was leading her. Even if it killed her. As Tuve had told her when they started down the trail, the Hopis had a kachina spirit who once opened a door marked death and showed them a happy life beyond it.

Thinking of that caused her to think of Sherman. Had
she killed him? She’d intended to when she pulled the trigger. But maybe he’d lived. Now she found herself hoping he had. Not wanting to have been his executioner.

Joanna produced what might be called a laugh. Whatever lay behind that door, it wouldn’t have to be much to be better than the life she’d return to if she didn’t complete this search. Whatever was down there in this dreadful canyon, it was her destiny to find it.

Bradford Chandler had come to a series of conclusions. The first one was that he was wasting his time waiting for Billy Tuve here at the bottom end of the Hopi Salt Trail. He had found the note signed by someone named “Bernie,” which told him that others—at least Bernie and friends—were also expecting Tuve here. That offered interesting implications. Probably they had seen those posters offering the reward. But whatever it meant, he’d wait.

He put the note back exactly where he’d found it, settled into a comfortable place screened by vegetation. He’d stay and see what would happen.

Coming here to meet Tuve had seemed the only choice—despite the outrageous fee the copter pilot had charged to bring him. After all, he could charge that to Plymale, including the fine the pilot would have to pay for
violating the National Park Service’s no-fly zone. But now he suspected he might be just wasting his time and Plymale’s money. He had landed himself in a complicated situation that he didn’t understand.

He’d checked around and confirmed that this place met the description Tuve had given him of the trail’s terminus—precisely the site where Tuve claimed he’d traded his folding shovel for the diamond. Then Chandler had scanned the cliffs above and upriver, looking for places where he could see portions of the trail’s route. His theory was that Tuve would be coming down either in the custody of whoever had shot Sherman or, if Tuve had himself shot Sherman, alone. He’d come because while Tuve was childlike, he was smart enough to know that if he found that cache of diamonds, it would clear him of the robbery/murder charge that confronted him.

From this spot Chandler had located three places where anyone making their way down the trail would be visible through his binoculars. He saw no sign of movement at any of them, lowered the heavy binoculars, rubbed his eyes, and checked around him again. From what Tuve had told him, the diamond dispenser had walked downriver and returned in just a few minutes with the stone he gave to Tuve. Chandler picked up the glasses again and did some scanning downstream.

He saw miles of cliffs, towering clouds now alternating with the dark blue sky in several places. He noticed five or six horses grazing in a small field across the river, more ragged cliffs on his side, and then, abruptly, a flash of light just as his vision moved past it. Chandler swung the binoculars back, saw the flash again, focused in. It came from the top of a relatively low ridge rimmed with
brushy dry-country vegetation, with a much higher cliff soaring behind and beyond it.

Amid that vegetation, someone was standing looking at him, or at least looking toward him, through their own set of binoculars. Sunlight reflecting from the lenses must have produced the flashes he’d seen. As much as he could tell at this range, this watcher was wearing a blue shirt and a gray hat. Then the watcher turned, stepped away, and down, and was abruptly out of sight. It was a woman, a small woman. Could it be the Bernie who had left the note?

He stared at the site on the ridge, and the area around it, until his eyes ached, and saw nothing more.

He spent a moment resting his eyes and considering what this must mean. Perhaps a tourist engaged in wandering around? That didn’t seem likely in such an unlovely and inhospitable-looking site as that ridge. Why would anyone without a specific interest be making that climb?

Could the woman be Joanna Craig? That ridge seemed to him to be just about where following Tuve’s description would take him. And she, too, would have heard the same Tuve story, and perhaps much more. He considered that a moment, then he shifted his gaze to the opposite direction and began another study of the segments of the Salt Trail visible to him above and upriver.

No movement on the highest segment. The second segment was also devoid of any sign of activity. At the lowest level he found what he had hoped to see. He focused on two figures—apparently male and female. An agile one, whom Chandler decided must be Billy Tuve, was leading the way for the fearful and very careful form
whom Chandler presumed was none other than Joanna Craig, Plymale’s enemy. Ah!

But who, then, was the woman with the binoculars who had been watching him from the ridge down the river? And what was the connection between this Bernie and her friends and Tuve? Chandler considered that question, decided the only answer available to him was through guesswork, and decided it might have something to do with Park Service security. No way of knowing.

He would operate on his original surmise—that Joanna Craig had shot Sherman in his car on the canyon rim at the head of the trail. She had taken custody of Tuve and Tuve was now guiding her on the Salt Trail’s winding three thousand-foot plunge toward the Colorado River. Once there, Tuve would lead her to the lair of the diamond dispenser. Her goal was the same as his own. He would simply join the party, help her to use Tuve to lead them both to those diamonds.

Thinking about the possibilities this situation offered caused Chandler to smile—his first of the day.

Forget the diamonds for now. Maybe his first step should be the elimination of Craig from the problem. He would take her identification to prove to Plymale that his task had been accomplished and collect the payment for that. That would simplify things. Then if Tuve actually guided him to the diamonds, he would have them as a bonus.

Chandler sat on what he thought might be the same boulder that Tuve described sitting on when the diamond dispenser had appeared years ago. Better not shoot her, though. Why invite a murder investigation? Better a fatal blow to the head with a rock. Then stuff some rocks in her
clothing to weigh her down? Or let her float away? Probably let her float. Make it seem she had fallen, banged her head, landed in the river. How about Tuve? He’d need him to find the diamonds. But why leave a witness? But Bernie and friends were also expecting Tuve. He’d have to wait and see what developed.

Whereupon Bradford Chandler slipped his binoculars back into their case and set about finding the best place to confront Ms. Craig (and Tuve) when she reached the bottom.

And decide exactly what to say to her.

Sergeant Jim Chee was standing on the rocky shelf overlooking the up-canyon trail, looking down upon Cowboy Dashee, trying to calculate what Dashee was doing. At first glance Cowboy seemed to be taking off his left boot. But at second glance, Cowboy seemed to have abandoned that project and was attempting to cut off the bottom of his left pant leg with his pocket knife. Chee gave up.

“Cowboy!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”

Dashee dropped the knife and looked up, scowling. “Where the hell have you been?” he said. “You gone deaf, or what? I was hollering until I just about lost my voice.”

“You’re hurt,” Chee said, and began scrambling down the slope. “I’ve been looking for you. What happened?”

Dashee leaned back, released a huge sigh of relief. “Glad you finally found me,” he said. He shook his head.
“I slipped. Tried to stop the fall. Left foot caught. Did something to my ankle.”

Chee was squatting beside him now, inspecting the offending foot.

“Sprained it?”

“I hope that’s it,” Dashee said.

“Broke, you think?”

“I guess,” Dashee said. “It feels like it. Or maybe it pulled the tendon loose. I was trying to get the boot off before it got too swollen.”

Chee rescued Dashee’s pocket knife. Gently as possible he cut the remaining strings, eased the boot off, and inspected the ankle.

“Already swollen,” he said. “When did it happen?”

“About an hour ago, I guess,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was checking on a little side canyon up there.”

“How far?” Chee asked.

Dashee managed a strained-sounding laugh. “What difference does that make? But I’d say about an hour’s downhill crawl, with a few stops to feel sorry for myself and yell for help.”

“Tell you what,” Chee said. “I’ll carry you down to that deep little pool by the Salt Shrine. That water’s cold. You can soak it, and I’ll see what I can do about finding some help.”

They discussed that suggestion, with Dashee expressing his doubts that Chee could carry him down the narrow and obstacle-rich trail without dropping him (or more likely, both of them) on the ragged boulders. He pressed for an alternate solution in which Dashee’s already-slit pants leg would be converted into bandage material, the ankle would be securely bound, and the trip would be made
with Dashee hopping along on his good leg and Chee supporting his damaged side.

While the proposed bandaging was being done, they delivered their reports. Dashee had checked out two promising-looking connecting gulches, finding tracks and some interesting petroglyphs from Anasazi days, and was giving up on the second of these when he took his fall. Chee reported that he had taken looks at some undercuts which might have been cave sites—one with some signs it had been lived in long ago. He had made an extensive exploration of a fairly major drainage canyon, finding old tracks, both horse and human, but nothing very promising to suggest it was the home of the diamond dispenser. Then he returned to the place they had left Bernie to await Billy Tuve.

“What did she have to say?”

“She wasn’t there,” Chee said.

Dashee quit grimacing long enough to look surprised. And then alarmed. “She wasn’t? What happened?”

“She left a note on that big flat rock there. She told Tuve she was going to walk up the river awhile, and if he showed up before she got back, then wait for her. And if we showed up, the same for us. Our turn to wait.”

Dashee managed a grin. “Sounds like Bernie,” he said.

“Yeah,” Chee said, looking less happy about it. “Anyway, I waited awhile. Looked around. Found some other tracks there, too. Made by new men’s hiking boots. About size eleven or twelve, I’d say. But no sign of anyone there. Then I thought maybe you’d found the diamond man’s cave and come back to get her and she’d left with you for a look at it. So I headed up this way and heard you hollering.”

Dashee considered that, didn’t like the sound of it.

“Hey,” he said. “I wonder what happened to her.”

“I thought she’d be here with you. Now I’m getting a little worried.”

“Maybe another broken ankle,” Dashee said. “Hope it’s nothing worse. Hope she wasn’t hauled away by the size-twelve hiking boots.”

“I checked on that. They seemed to be a lot fresher than her tracks. And when her tracks went upriver, they didn’t follow.”

“Still, it makes you uneasy,” Dashee said.

“Let’s get you down to the river,” Chee said. “I think we can get a call out from there for the National Park rescue people to come and get you. I want to go find her.”