LaSalle’s eyes flicked at Watchman like a lizard’s tongue. The gleaming unhealthy skin was stretched over his bones almost to the point of splitting; he had a sepulchral face and wispy tufts of white hair. He waved the hose around as though he were a snake charmer.

“He was a stubborn boy, you know; I imagine he’s still a stubborn boy. I use the word ‘boy’ advisedly—he never allowed himself to grow up.”

“Not even after he became a husband and father?”

“Well to be sure I never saw him much after his baby was born, but all you need to do is take a look at the evidence. That was a pretty fast crowd they ran with up at Rand’s place.”

“What crowd was that?”

“Well I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school, should I, but I must say it was I who advised him against taking the job up there. After all, he had a perfectly good position at the sawmill right here in Whiteriver, and he did have a degree of seniority there. I think she turned his head, though. One word from her and he was off wherever she pointed him. I realize it’s old-fashioned nowadays to speak of women leading men astray, but I swan she was a juicy little thing, she turned a great many heads, you know.”

“I’d started to get the impression she was a steadying influence on him.”

“Hardly, I’d say. She knew that crowd quite well, you know—the Rand bunch, that is. Not Mr. Rand himself, of course, but the hangers-on.”

“Like Ross Calisher?”

“Of course. She was the one who sweet-talked poor Joe into moving up to the ranch where he’d be closer to Calisher. She wanted him to learn rodeoing from Calisher. I kept telling him he could learn it just as well down here.”

“I knew Calisher was a big-time rodeo cowboy, but was he still doing it?”

“He’d broken a few too many bones to stay active at it, but you never saw the man but he wasn’t surrounded by an adoring pack of would-be apprentices. Some of them were fairly accomplished, I believe; certainly it was impossible for a boy like Joe to get anywhere near him—there was too much cracker jack competition. The place was rather like a thoroughbred racing stable the way it kept turning out rodeo competitors. I’m sure that’s why Rand hired Calisher in the first place. To him it was like buying a champion stud horse—and I assure you that’s more than a loose analogy.”

Watchman nodded. “Calisher was fast with the ladies.”

“The place festered With it,” LaSalle said obscurely. “Affairs all over the place, I understand—clandestine types in the bushes every night. The place had a rancid reputation, you know. I’m not sure if it still does. But I swan, the talk you heard … Naturally it was just the place to attract a woman like Maria Poinsenay.”

“They tell me she was having an affair with Calisher— that’s why Joe shot him.”

“I warned him not to move there. You could see that sort of thing was in the cards. Loose morals, violence, a brazen crowd … it was inevitable. The atmosphere made it nearly impossible to avoid that sort of thing. They were all having affairs. Rand’s own wife was having an affair with that lawyer, Kendrick.”

“Kendrick? I thought he wasn’t on speaking terms with Rand.”

“When has that ever prevented such things from happening? She divorced Rand, you know—she’s married to Kendrick now.”

“When did that happen?”

“I don’t know, several years ago.”

“Before or after Calisher died?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”

LaSalle had a vivid imagination fueled by the excitement of forbiden fantasies. He was typical of a good many missionaries Beneath his theatricality was a curious undercurrent of fear—perhaps an unhappy fear that his own failures were too obvious.

“If he came back here,” Watchman said after a bit, “where would he go?”

“To hide, you mean. Well I’m sure I couldn’t say. Of course there are a lot of shirttail relations—the clan structures being what they are. He has a sister here, you might try there.”

“I plan to. Did he have any close friends his own age?”

“Not many who are still here. The younger ones tend to drift away. The old women are constantly complaining about it, how the young men have forgotten how to carry baskets for their relatives. It’s only a saying, of course, but it holds a great deal of meaning.”

“I know.”

“More than half the young people move off the reservations nowadays. They work in non-Indian jobs.”

Watchman was one of those; he didn’t press the point. “His wife’s family is still down on the San Carlos, is that right?”

“I suppose so. I doubt they’d be much help to you. They weren’t on good terms. At any rate an Apache isn’t allowed to talk to his mother-in-law except through an intermediary—he must avoid her, never be in the same house or even be caught looking at her. They still keep these customs, you know, even though we keep trying to enlighten them.”

Watchman covered a smile. It was becoming more apparent that LaSalle didn’t realize he was an Indian. Perhaps he was so accustomed to looking at Indian faces that he no longer made the distinctions. Watchman’s state-police identification had triggered all the reflex associations; and LaSalle was a man of fundamentalist faith, disinclined to exercise any curiosity.

“There is one young man still in Whiteriver who used to be friendly with him. Not a very savory boy, I’m sure. He’s called Oto, Jimmy Oto.”

Tom Victorio had mentioned the name. Watchman said, “He works in town?”

“I don’t think he works at all. Welfare case. He married a girl from the Twagaidn clan—they live in that cluster of wickiups several miles northeast of town. It’s a poor section, even for this place.”

“Were they close enough friends for Joe to go to him for help now?”

“They were like this when they were schoolboys.” LaSalle held up two fingers overlapped together. “They were always up to their ears in horrible pranks. I had to discipline the two of them constantly. But I don’t see much of Jimmy any more, and I’m sure I couldn’t say whether they’re still as close as they were. Remember it was more than ten years ago.”

4.

Sunset. The squalls had moved on to the east and the western sky was vivid with a sprawl of color. He crunched into the parking space in front of the trading post and saw Dwight Kendrick rolling forward from the council house in his grey Corvette. Watchman walked over to the car and Kendrick gave him a civil nod.

“Pretty spectacular sunset,” Watchman said.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m color-blind. How are your investigations proceeding?”

“I wouldn’t say they were proceeding at all.”

“Well they all tend to develop bad cases of lockjaw with strangers,” the lawyer said blandly.

“The sooner he gives himself up the easier it’ll go on him. Somebody ought to tell him that.”

Kendrick smiled coolly. “You’re not very subtle, are you. The fact is I haven’t seen him and I don’t expect to. He’d be an idiot to come back here.”

“I doubt he’s got much choice. He doesn’t know anyplace else.”

“He was in the Army.”

“Where’d he do his basic training?” Watchman asked without real interest.

“Fort Ord, I believe. But that’s a lot of miles from here.”

“He’d know the towns around there, though.”

“It might be worth a try,” Kendrick said. He was gunning his engine; now he put it in gear and Watchman stepped back and watched the Corvette eel into the road.

He bought a sandwich in the trading post and made that his supper and washed it down with a can of ginger ale. From the booth on the porch he put in a station call to Buck Stevens’ apartment.

“How’s business, Sam?”

“Slow.”

“You coming back?”

“I’ve still got to talk to his sister. I’ll probably overnight in a motel, most likely Showlow.”

“Then I’d better give you what I’ve got so far. Where are you, pay phone?”