TheFallenMan
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The Fallen Man
TONY
HILLERMAN
Contents
PerfectBound e-book exclusive extras:
Leaphorn, Chee, and the Navajo Way
The Novels, As Annotated by T.H.
Tony Hillerman on...
Profile of the Navajo Nation
Chapters:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Tony Hillerman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
FROM WHERE BAI BUCHANAN SAT
with his back resting against the rough breccia, he could see the side of Whiteside’s head, about three feet away. When John leaned back, Buchanan could see the snowcapped top of Mount Taylor looming over Grants, New Mexico, about eighty miles to the east.
Now John was leaning forward, talking.
“This climbing down to climb back up, and climbing up so you can climb back down again,” Whiteside said. “That seems like a poor way to get the job done. Maybe it’s the only way to get to the summit, but I’ll bet we could find a faster way down.”
“Relax,” Buchanan said. “Be calm. We’re supposed to be resting.” They were perched on one of the few relatively flat outcrops of basalt in what climbers of Ship Rock call Rappel Gully. On the way up, it was the launching point for the final hard climb to the summit, a slightly tilted but flat surface of basalt about the size of a desktop and 1,721 feet above the prairie below. If you were going down, it was where you began a shorter but even harder almost vertical climb to reach the slope that led you downward with a fair chance of not killing yourself.
Buchanan, Whiteside, and Jim Stapp had just been to the summit. They had opened the army surplus ammo box that held the Ship Rock climbers’ register and signed it, certifying their conquest of one of North America’s hard ones. Buchanan was tired. He was thinking that he was getting too old for this.
Whiteside was removing his climbing harness, laying aside the nylon belt and the assortment of pitons, jumars, etriers, and carabiners that make reaching such mountaintops possible.
He did a deep knee bend, touched his toes, and stretched. Buchanan watched, uneasy.
“What are you doing?”
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TheFallenMan
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“Nothing,” Whiteside said. “Actually, I’m following the instructions of that rock climber’s guide you’re always threatening to write.
I am getting rid of all nonessential weight before making an unprotected traverse.” Buchanan sat up. He played in a poker game in which Whiteside was called “Two-Dollar John” because of his unshakable faith that the dealer would give him the fifth heart if he needed one. Whiteside enjoyed taking risks.
“Traversing what?” Buchanan asked.
“I’m just going to ease over there and take a look.” He pointed along the face of the cliff. “Get out there maybe a hundred feet and you can see down under the overhang and into the honeycomb formations. I can’t believe there’s not some way to rappel right on down.”
“You’re looking for some way to kill yourself,” Buchanan said. “If you’re in such a damn hurry to get down, get yourself a parachute.”
“Rappelling down is easier than up,” Whiteside said. He pointed across the little basin to where Stapp was preparing to begin hauling himself up the basalt wall behind them. “I’ll just be a few minutes.” He began moving with gingerly care out onto the cliff face.
