“What would he have against Maria?”

“I wouldn’t know. Anyhow I don’t put much store in that old crap.”

“Sometimes it’s real enough.”

“You’re full of surprises,” Victorio told him.

“I didn’t grow up white,” Watchman answered. He heard the rattle of a woodpecker and looked for it but he couldn’t spot it at first and that annoyed him; there had been a time when by auditory evidence alone he’d have known exactly where it was.

Victorio said something but Watchman didn’t answer; he was chasing a line of thought. Joe was out there in a Land Cruiser with his .375 looking for somebody to shoot at—that was what it came down to. And Watchman couldn’t think of any way to find him until Joe was ready to be found. The combined Apache Reservation covered nearly four million acres and it was all craggy country, beat up into a froth of forests and mountains and badlands. Watchman knew he could spend weeks searching every road for tread-spoor to prove where, and if, the Land Cruiser had left the road. And by that time any tracks would be blown over or washed out anyway. He was on wheels, he could be anywhere.

Watchman had a junk heap of stray pieces whose shapes suggested a design but there weren’t enough pieces yet. Joe knew his target and Watchman didn’t know. There didn’t seem to be any way to get there first.

Watchman surveyed the dry hills. He had an, image of Joe in some cottonwood draw sighting in the Bushnell ’scope.

A door squeaked and in a moment four men came walking around the far corner of the council house and turned toward the parking lot. There was a good deal of evident tension among them. Watchman recognized Charles Rand and Dwight Kendrick.

Tom Victorio said, “Charlie Rand’s the one with the big hat.”

“We’ve met.”

The party reached the Bentley and Charles Rand turned to speak to the fat man at his elbow; Watchman heard about one word in five. Rand stood talking, flicking his trouser thigh with a quirt. His sunglasses reflected points of light. Self-assuredness hung like flags from his back-thrust shoulders and the restively moving square bricks of his hands, and from the quirt that moved like a baton.

“The fat guy’s Dwight Kendrick’s opposite number.”

“Rand’s lawyer?”

“Name of Owen Masterman.” Victorio rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “In a minute he’ll start sneering and curling the ends of his mustache.”

Masterman had no mustache. He had once been a good-looking man and would be again if he lost forty pounds. He wore dark-rim eyeglasses and his reddish hair fluffed out fashionably over the collar of his seersucker suit. There was something shabby about his aspect, as if he were consciously molding his appearance on the image of Clarence Darrow. The face belonged to a man who had seen everything and wished he hadn’t. Watchman had a feeling he wasn’t as flabby as he seemed. There were secret muscles hidden under the fatty tissues.

Rand said something that made the Indian behind Kendrick step forward and draw himself up like a pigeon. “Frank Natagee,” Victorio murmured and Watchman nodded. The chairman of the Tribal Council raised his voice and Watchman heard him clearly:

“Don’t talk about taxes and free rides any more to us. The Anglos did not give this land to our tribe. The tribe gave the land to the Anglos. The day we give up our tax exemptions will be the day you give us back the land.”

Watchman saw Rand snort but didn’t hear his reply; whatever his failings the arrogant industrialist wasn’t a loudmouth. Masterman’s fat scarlet face, dripping sweat, turned toward Kendrick as if in appeal but Kendrick said harshly, “Haven’t you got enough on your plate?” and it made Charles Rand swing toward him lifting the quirt as if to strike him. Kendrick abruptly avoided Rand’s eyes and Rand swiveled with an abrupt snap of his meaty shoulders and reached for the door handle of the Bentley. Masterman walked away around the back of the car while Kendrick stood there smiling dispiritedly.

Frank Natagee spoke and Kendrick shrugged without replying. Rand started the car and as soon as Masterman heaved himself into the seat Rand backed up and swung the wheel. The front tires crunched stones as the power steering wrenched them around. Kendrick stepped back just in time; the yawl growled angrily past him throwing dust.

Kendrick and Frank Natagee walked back toward the council house. They stopped by the mesquite tree at the corner and Watchman heard the Indian say, “Want us all to assimilate. What if the Russians took over this country, how long would it take Charles Rand to turn Communist?” A grin streaked the broad grave face and Natagee slapped Kendrick amiably before he strode past the tree and disappeared.

Victorio dropped off the porch and Watchman followed him; he wanted a word with Dwight Kendrick.

The tall lawyer ran fingers through his pale hair. “Hoo boy.”

“Told you it’d be a waste of time,” Victorio said. “He didn’t give an inch, did he.”

“He never will until we find a lever to push him with.” Kendrick glanced at Watchman. “He can keep buying delays forever. Hell it’s a game to him, the money doesn’t matter, it’s just a way to keep score—chips to play the game with.”

“We’re buying too many delays ourselves,” Victorio said. “We could have had him in court a month ago.”

“Or he could have had us. It would have been on his terms.”

“We’ve got a stronger case than he’s got.”

“Tom, you’ve never faced Owen Masterman in a courtroom.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Kendrick said, “I imagine one fine day you’ll find that out.” Watchman was still standing there and Kendrick addressed him: “Did you want something?”

“I did. I still do. A couple of questions.”

Kendrick looked at his watch and shot his cuff; he glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure the council house hadn’t gone away somewhere. It was an unsubtle hint. But he said, “Go ahead.”

“I understand you’re married to Charles Rand’s ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife by two. What about it?”

“How many wives has he had?”

“I’m sure he’s given up counting. Gwen was two wives ago.”

“They were still married to each other at the time of the Calisher murder?”

“Yes. I assume you’re leading somewhere with this line of questioning? Because otherwise it’s in dismal taste.”

“I’m just wondering if there was anything between your wife—Rand’s wife at the time—and Ross Calisher. It’s not a delicate question, I’m sorry: it’s not a delicate case.”

Kendick said, “There was nothing between Gwen and Ross Calisher. Not to put too fine a point on it, Calisher was beneath Gwen’s contempt. He was a rustic, a hillbilly hick with manure on his boots and he didn’t have the social graces of a skid-row derelict. He only had two virtues that I can think of, his animal husbandry and his loyalty to Charles Rand. He worshipped Rand. He was far too loyal to entertain even the fantasy of an affair with Charles Rand’s wife. She’d have been untouchable, literally. Now what’s this line of questioning in aid of? Are you still riding that hobbyhorse about Joe’s innocence? I thought your job was to track him down, not play detective.”

“I’d like to find out who his enemies are,” Watchman said. “That could lead us to him.”

Kendrick contrived a headshaking laugh. “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that the fact that Joe looks guilty doesn’t prove he was innocent.”

“I thought he was your client.”

“I should think even you would find it hard to get past the fact that he confessed with the murder weapon in his hand. I had a lot of trouble keeping Joe out of the gas chamber—they were still executing Indians here. After all he wasn’t psychotic, he wasn’t a compulsive confesser.”

“Did you talk to Angelina at the time?”

“Joe’s sister? Of course I did.”

“She didn’t say anything about his innocence?”