Ill take an easy one, Leaphorn said.
Here we have a little heroin stashed in the frame of a junk car over near the Keet Seel ruins, said Largo as he peered into one of the files. He closed the folder. Had a tip on it and staked it out, but nobody ever showed up. That was last winter.
Never any arrests?
Nope. Largo had pulled a bundle of papers and two tape cassettes out of another folder.
Here’s the Tso-Atcitty killing, he said. You remember that one? It was last spring.
Yeah, Leaphorn said. I meant to ask you about that one. Heard anything new?
Nada, Largo said. Nothing. Not even any sensible gossip. Little bit of witch talk now and then. The kind of talk something like that stirs up. Not a damn thing to go on.
They sat and thought about it.
You got any ideas? Leaphorn asked.
Largo thought about it some more. No sense to it, he said finally.
Leaphorn said nothing. There had to be sense to it. A reason. It had to fit some pattern of cause and effect. Leaphorns sense of order insisted on this. And if the cause happened to be insane by normal human terms, Leaphorns intellect would then hunt for harmony in the kaleidoscopic reality of insanity.
You think the FBI missed something? Leaphorn asked. They screw it up?
They usually do, Largo said. Whether they did or not, its been long enough so we really ought to be checking around on it again. He stared at Leaphorn. You any better at that than at bringing in prisoners?
Leaphorn ignored the jibe. Okay, he said. You tell Window Rock you want me to work on the Atcitty case, and Ill run over to Short Mountain and check on the Adams woman, too.
And Ill owe you a favor.
Two favors, Largo said.
Whats the other one?
Largo had put on a pair of horn-rimmed bifocals and was thumbing his way owlishly through the Atcitty report. I didn’t hoorah you for letting that Begay boy get away. That’s the first one. He glanced at Leaphorn. But I’m not so damn sure this second ones any favor. Dreaming up reasons to borrow you from Window Rock so you can go chasing after that feller that tried to run you down. That’s not so damned smart getting mixed up in your own thing. Well find that feller for you.
Leaphorn said nothing. Somewhere back in the subagency building there was a sudden metallic clamora jail inmate rattling something against the bars. Outside the west-facing windows of Largos office an old green pickup rolled down the asphalt road into Tuba City, trailing a thin haze of blue smoke. Largo sighed and began sorting the Atcitty papers and tapes back into the file.
Herding Boy Scouts is not so bad, Largo said. Broken leg or so. Few snakebites. One or two of them lost. He glanced up at Leaphorn, frowning. You got nothing much to go on, looking for that guy, anyway. You don’t even know what he looks like. Goldrim glasses.
Hell, I’m about the only one in this building that doesn’t wear em. And all you really know is that they were wire rims. Just seeing em with that red blinker reflecting off of em that would distort the color.
You’re right, Leaphorn said.
I’m right, but you’re going to go ahead on with it, Largo said. If I can find an excuse for you.
He tapped the remaining file with a blunt fingertip, changing the subject. And here’s one that’s always popular the vanishing helicopter, Largo said. The feds love that one. Every month we need to turn in a report telling em we haven’t found it but we haven’t forgotten it.
This time we’ve got a new sighting report to look into.
Leaphorn frowned. A new one? Isn’t it getting kinda late for that?
Largo grinned. Oh, I don’t know, he said. Whats a few months? Lets see it was December when we were running our asses off in the snow up and down the canyons, looking for it.
So now its August, and somebody gets around to coming into Short Mountain and mentioning he’s seen the damn thing. Largo shrugged. Nine months? That’s about right for a Short Mountain Navajo.
Leaphorn laughed. Short Mountain Navajos had a long-standing reputation among their fellow Dinee for being uncooperative, slow, cantankerous, witch-ridden and generally backward.
Three kinds of time. Largo was still grinning. On time, and Navajo time, and Short Mountain Navajo time. The grin disappeared. Mostly Bitter Water Dinee, and Salts, and Many Goats people live out there, he said.
It wasn’t exactly an explanation. It was absolution from this criticism of the fifty-seven other Navajo clans, including the Slow Talking Dinee. The Slow Talking Dinee was Captain Howard Largos born-to clan. Leaphorn was also a member of the Slow Talking People. That made him and Largo something akin to brothers in the Navajo Way, and explained why Leaphorn could ask Largo for a favor, and why Largo could hardly refuse to grant it.
Funny people, Leaphorn agreed.
Lots of Paiutes live back in there, Largo added. Lots of marrying back and forth. Largos face had resumed its usual glumness. Even a lot of marrying with the Utes.
Through the dusty window of Largos office Leaphorn had been watching a thunderhead building over Tuba Mesa. Now it produced a distant rumble of thunder, as if the Holy People themselves were protesting this mixing of the blood of the Dinee with their ancient enemies.
Anyway, the one who says she saw it wasn’t really nine months late, Largo said. She told a veterinarian out there looking at her sheep about it in June. Largo paused and peered into the folder.. . . And the vet told the feller then that drives the school bus out there, and he told Shorty McGinnis about it back in July. And about three days
