The cliff had split here. The slab had separated from the wall. He’d studied it. Someone who knew rock climbing, had the equipment, and didn’t mind risking falling off a forty-story building could get down here. This must have been what Demott had been doing here—if it was Demott. He was looking for a way in and out that avoided the bottleneck entrance.
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It was certainly conveniently close for a climber. Or a bird. Being neither meant Leaphorn would have to drive about fifteen miles down Canyon del Muerto to its junction with Canyon de Chelly, then another five or six to the canyon mouth to reach the pavement of Navajo Route 64. Then he’d have to reverse directions and drive twenty- four miles northeastward along the north rim of del Muerto, turn southwestward maybe four miles toward Tsaile, then complete the circle down the brushy dirt-and-boulder track that took those foolhardy enough to use it down that finger of mesa separating the canyons. The last six or seven miles on that circuit would take about as long as the first fifty.
Leaphorn hurried. He wanted enough daylight left to check the place carefully—to either confirm or refute his suspicions. More important, if Demott was coming Leaphorn wanted to be there waiting for him.
He seemed to have managed that. He stopped across the cattle guard where the unmarked track connected with the highway, climbed out, and made a careful inspection. The last vehicle to leave its tracks here had been coming out, and that had been shortly after the snowfall began. Eight or nine jolting miles later, he pulled his car off the track and left it concealed behind a cluster of junipers. The wind was bitter now, but the snow had diminished to occasional dry flakes.
The west rim of Canyon del Muerto was less than fifty yards away over mostly bare sandstone. If he had calculated properly, he was just about above the Nez home site. In fact, he was perhaps a hundred yards below it. He stood a foot or two back from the edge looking down, confirming that the Nez hogan was too protected by the overhang to offer a shot from here. He could see the track where Nez drove in his truck, but the hogan itself and all of its outbuildings except a goat pen were hidden below the wall. But he could see from here the great split-off sandstone slab, and he walked along the rim toward it. He was almost there when he heard an engine whining in low gear.
Along the cliff here finding concealment was no problem. Leaphorn moved behind a great block of sandstone surrounded by pinons.
He checked his pistol and waited.
The vehicle approaching was a dirty, battered, dark green Land-Rover. It came almost directly toward him. Stopped not fifty feet away. The engine died. The door opened. Eldon Demott stepped out. He reached behind him into the vehicle and took out a rifle, which he laid across the hood. Then he extracted a roll of thin, pale yellow rope and a cardboard box. These two also went onto the hood. From the box he took a web belt and harness, a helmet, and a pair of small black shoes. He leaned against the fender, removed a boot, replaced it with a shoe, and repeated the process. Then he put on the belt and the climbing harness. He looked at his watch, glanced at the sky, stretched, and looked around him.
He looked directly at Joe Leaphorn, sighed, and reached for the rifle.
“Leave it where it is,” Leaphorn said, and showed Demott his .38 revolver.
Demott took his hand away from the rifle, dropped it to his side.
“I might want to shoot something,” he said.
“Hunting season is over,” Leaphorn said.
Demott sighed and leaned against the fender. “It looks like it is.”
“No doubt about it. Even if I get careless and you shoot me, you can’t get out of here anyway. Two police cars are on their way in after you. And if you climb down, well, that’s hopeless.”
“You going to arrest me? How do you do that? You’re retired. Or is it a citizen’s arrest?”
“Regular arrest,” Leaphorn said. “I’m still deputized by the sheriff in this county. I didn’t get around to turning in the commission.”
“What do you charge me with—trespass?”
“Well, I think more likely it will start out being attempted homicide of Amos Nez, and then after the FBI gets its work done, the murder of Hosteen Maryboy.”
Demott was staring at him, frowning. “That’s it?”
“I think that would do it,” Leaphorn said.
“Nothing about Hal.”
“Nothing so far. Except that Amos Nez thinks you’re him.”
Demott considered that. “I’m getting cold,” he said, and reopened the car door. “Going to get out of the wind.”
“No,” Leaphorn said, and shifted the pistol barrel before him.
Demott stopped, shut the door. He smiled at Leaphorn, shook his head. “Another weapon in there, you think?” Leaphorn returned the smile. “Why take chances?” he said.
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“Nothing about Hal,” he said. “Well, I’m glad of that.”
