brush, and two corrals, and an older hogan built carefully to the prescription of the Holy People and used for all things sacred and ceremonial. Scattered among the buildings Leaphorn counted seven pickups, a battered green Mustang, a flatbed truck and two wagons. The scene hadn’t changed since he had come there to find Emerson Begay, when the Kinaalda had only started and the Endischee girl had been having her hair washed in yucca suds by her aunts as the first step of the great ritual blessing. Now the ceremonial would be in the climactic day.
People were coming out of the medicine hogan, some of them watching his approaching vehicle, but most standing in a milling cluster around the doorway. Then, from the cluster, a girl abruptly emerged running.
She ran, pursued by the wind and a half-dozen younger children, across an expanse of sagebrush. She set the easy pace of those who know that they have a great distance to go. She wore the long skirt, the long-sleeved blouse and the heavy silver jewelry of a traditional Navajo woman but she ran with the easy grace of a child who has not yet forgotten how to race her shadow.
Leaphorn stopped the carryall and watched, remembering his own initiation out of childhood, until the racers disappeared down the slope. For the Endischee girl, this would be the third race of the day, and the third day of such racing. Changing Woman taught that the longer a girl runs at her Kinaalda, the longer she lives a healthy life. But by .the third day, muscles would be sore and the return would be early. Leaphorn shifted back into gear. While the girl was gone, the family would re-enter the hogan to sing the Racing Songs, the same prayers the Holy People had chanted at the menstruation ceremony when White Shell Girl became Changing Woman. Then there would be a pause, while the women baked the great ceremonial cake to be eaten tonight. The pause would give Leaphorn his chance to approach and cross-examine Listening Woman.
He touched the woman’s sleeve as she emerged from the hogan, and told her who he was, and why he wanted to talk to her.
Its like I told that white policeman, Margaret Cigarette said. The old man who was to die told me some dry paintings had been spoiled, and the man who was to die had been there. And maybe that was why he was sick.
I listened to the tape recording of you talking to the white policeman, Leaphorn said. But I noticed, my mother, that the white man didn’t really let you tell about it. He interrupted you.
Margaret Cigarette thought about that. She stood, arms folded across the purple velvet of her blouse, her blind eyes looking through Leaphorn.
Yes, she said. That’s the way it was.
I came to find you because I thought that if we would talk about it again, you could tell me what the white man was too impatient to hear. Leaphorn suspected she would remember he was the man who had come to this ceremonial three days before and arrested Emerson Begay. While Begay was not a member of the Cigarette family as far as Leaphorn knew, he was Mud clan and he was probably some sort of extended-family nephew. So Leaphorn was guilty of arresting a relative. In the traditional Navajo system, even distant nephews who stole sheep were high on the value scale. I wonder what you are thinking about me, my mother, Leaphorn said. I wonder if you are thinking that its no use talking to a policeman who is too stupid to keep the Begay boy from escaping because he would be too stupid to catch the one who killed those who were killed. Like Mrs. Cigarette, Leaphorn refrained from speaking the name of the dead. To do so was to risk attracting the attention of the ghost, and even if you didn’t believe this, it was bad manners to risk ghost sickness for those who did believe. But if you think about it fairly, you will remember that your nephew is a very smart young man. His handcuffs were uncomfortable, so I took them off. He offered to help me, and I accepted the offer. It was night, and he slipped away. Remember, your nephew has escaped before.
Margaret Cigarette acknowledged this with a nod, then she tilted her head toward the place near the hogan door. There three women were pouring buckets of batter into the fire pit, making the ritual cake of the menstruation ceremony. Steam now joined the smoke.
She turned toward them and away from Leaphorn.
Put corn shucks over all of it, Mrs. Cigarette instructed them in a loud, clear voice. You work around in a circle. East, south, west, north.
The women stopped their work for a moment. We haven’t got it poured in yet, one of them said. Did you say we could put the raisins in?
Sprinkle them across the top, Mrs. Cigarette said. Then arrange the corn-shuck crosses all across it. Start from the east side and work around like I said. She swiveled her face back toward Leaphorn. That’s the way it was done when First Man and First Woman and the Holy People gave White Shell Girl her Kinaalda when she menstruated, Mrs. Cigarette said. And that’s the way Changing Woman taught us to do.
Yes, Leaphorn said. I remember.
What the white man was too impatient to hear was all about what was making the one who was killed sick, Mrs. Cigarette said.
I would like to hear that when there is time for you to tell me, my mother.
Mrs. Cigarette frowned. The white man didn’t think it had anything to do with the killing.
I am not a white man, Leaphorn said. I am one of the Dinee. I know that the same thing that makes a man sick sometimes makes him die.
But this time the man was hit by a gun barrel.
I know that, my mother, Leaphorn said. But can you tell me why he was hit with the gun barrel?
Mrs. Cigarette thought about it.
The wind kicked up again, whipping her skirts around her legs and sending a flurry of dust across the hogan yard. At the fire pit, the women were carefully pouring a thin layer of dirt over newspapers, which covered the corn shucks, which covered the batter.
Yes, Mrs. Cigarette said. I hear what you are saying.
You told the white policeman that you planned to tell the old man he should have a Mountain Way sing and a Black Rain ceremony, Leaphorn said. Why those?
Mrs. Cigarette was silent. The wind gusted again, moving a loose strand of gray hair against her face. She had been beautiful once, Leaphorn saw. Now she was weathered, and her face was troubled. Behind Leaphorn there came a shout of laughter. The kindling of split pinon and cedar arranged atop the cake batter in the fire pit was flaming.
It was what I heard when I listened to the Earth, Mrs. Cigarette said, when the laughter died out.
