He was watching the Navajo's face. It relaxed a little more. 'You've been thinking of that, haven't you?' McKee asked.
'This is just business with me, Dr. McKee,' the Navajo said. 'A way to make a lot of money. You're right. The more people who get hurt, the harder they hunt.'
. With an effort, McKee avoided looking at the blond man. From the corner of his eye, he had seen a faint smile on Eddie's face.
'All right,' McKee said. 'What do you think we should say?'
'Well. You'll have to say you're leaving here. All of you.' He paused. 'Say you are leaving day after tomorrow. A day after we mail this at Shoemaker's.'
McKee tried to seem thoughtful. 'Canfield was looking for Folsom Man artifacts in the Anasazi ruins,' he said, aware that the Navajo must already know that. 'We'll say he wasn't finding any around here and that I haven't had much luck finding anyone willing to talk about witchcraft incidents.'
He glanced up at the Navajo's face.
'If you don't believe that's true, you can send somebody back to get my notes. That really is what I'm working on.'
'I believe you,' the Navajo said. 'Write it here on the hood of the truck.'
The son of a bitch read my notes, McKee thought. He felt elated. Then he saw Ellen Leon watching him, her face without expression. The elation died. She thinks I'm a coward or a fool, he thought. Maybe that was best.
'I'll tell Green that we're moving on up into the Monument Valley country in Utah-where the Navajos are less exposed to outside influences and less accultured. That would make sense for both of us. Canfield is…' He hesitated a second, sickened at this play-acting. 'Canfield was trying to establish some pattern of Folsom Man hunting camps in this area. The early pueblo builders collected Folsom lance points and kept them as totems. That would be a good place for him to be looking.'
He was fairly confident that the big man knew all about what both of them were doing, and he tried to make his voice sound persuasive. He doubted if the man knew about Ellen Leon. There was nothing mentioning her in the tent. Just her brief note.
'And it would be a natural place for me to work. In the back country is where you find people still believing in the Navajo Wolves.'
'How about Miss Leon?'
'I told him I was just your graduate assistant,' Miss Leon interrupted, 'but I don't think he believes me.'
'Green would naturally expect her to go along with us,' McKee said. 'That's what she gets paid for. To help.'
He paused again, thinking of the sand on Canfield's lips and that something might go wrong with this plan.
'That sound all right?' he asked.
The Big Navajo moved his thumb absently back and forth over his finger tips, studying McKee's face.
'Does Green have any schedule of where you're supposed to go next?'
'We didn't have any definite plans.'
'Would Green be writing you anywhere? Anywhere set up to pick up letters?'
'Just Shoemaker's while we were here.' He noticed Miss Leon was still looking at him and he felt himself flush. 'We tell him where to forward to if we move. He'd get this letter from me saying where we were going and telling him to send our mail to the store at Mexican Water. It seems natural. You think he'd check on it?'
'Let's see how it looks on paper,' the Navajo said.
McKee had been holding his right hand straight down. It had hurt, but the increased blood pressure should, he thought, build up the swelling. He raised it now, intending to feign pain. No pretense was necessary. The hurt was so far beyond what he had expected that his gasp was involuntary. He felt sweat on his face and nausea in his throat. When he finally rested his right forearm on the hood, he slumped against the truck, breathing hard, too dizzy to notice whether the Navajo had registered all this. I can't spoil this now, he thought. He has to believe I'm really trying.
'I'll start it, 'Dear Dr. Green,'' he said. His voice was thick.
He moved his right hand slowly and took the pen between his thumb and forefinger. In a moment he had one more gamble to make. He would suggest that he try to write the letter with his left hand, explaining to Dr. Green that he had injured his right one. He didn't think the big man would call this bluff. If the man was as smart as he seemed to be, he would see the objections. Green would wonder why Canfield hadn't written instead. And he would wonder why McKee wasn't coming in for medical attention. And the handwriting would be unidentifiable anyway- and that obviously was important. But, if he didn't see the objections, this whole desperate play for time might collapse.
He shifted the pen into the proper position, lowered the point and started the 'D.' The Navajo was watching him intently.
Again, a fresh wave of pain helped his performance. The flinch was completely Involuntary, the spasm of a tortured nerve.
'Don't write it,' Miss Leon said suddenly. T don't trust him.'
The Navajo turned toward her.
'Ellen,' McKee said hurriedly, 'if you had shown a little sense earlier we wouldn't be here. If you'd use what little brains you have, you'd see that this letter is our only way out of this mess. Now shut up.'
He hoped, as he said it, that the anger would sound sincere to the Navajo and insincere to Miss Leon and thought bitterly that the reverse would probably be true. The hurt in Miss Leon's face looked genuine and the Navajo's expression was unreadable.
