The First Eagle

attracted another cluster of black pins. Leaphorn was pretty sure that was due to John McGinnis, operator of the Short Mountain Trading Post. Not that the pins meant more witch problems around Short Mountain. They represented McGinnis's remarkable talent as a collector and broadcaster of gossip. The old man had a special love for skinwalker tales, and his Navajo customers, knowing his weakness, brought him all the skinwalker sightings and witching reports they could collect. But any sort of gossip was good enough for the old man. Thinking that, Leaphorn reached for his new edition of the Navajo Communications Company telephone directory.

The Short Mountain Trading Post number was not listed. He dialed the Short Mountain Chapter House. Was the trading post still operating? The woman lad picked up the telephone chuckled. 'Well,' she said, 'I'd guess you'd say more or less.'

'Is John McGinnis still there? Still alive?'

The chuckle became a laugh. 'Oh, yes indeed,' she said. 'He's still going strong. Don't the bilagaana have a saying that only the good die young?'

Joe Leaphorn finished his toast, put a message on his ring machine for Chee in case he did call, and drove his pickup out of Shiprock heading northwest across the Navaho Nation. He was feeling much more cheerful.

The years that had passed since he'd visited Short Mountain hadn't changed it much—certainly not for the better. The parking area in front was still hard-packed clay, too dry and dense to encourage weeds. The old GMC truck he'd parked next to years ago still rested wheelless on blocks, slowly rusting away. The 1968 Chevy parked in the shade of a juniper at the corner of the sheep pens looked like the one McGinnis had always driven, and a faded sign nailed to the hay barn still proclaimed THIS STORE FOR SALE, INQUIRE WITHIN. But today the benches on the shady porch were empty, with drifts of trash under them. The windows looked even dustier than Leaphorn remembered. In fact, the trading post looked deserted, and the gusty breeze chasing tumbleweeds and dust past the porch added to the sense of desolation. Leaphorn had an uneasy feeling, tinged with sadness, that the woman at the chapter house was wrong. That even tough old John McGinnis had proved vulnerable to too much time and too many disappointments.

The breeze was the product of a cloud Leaphorn had been watching build up over Black Mesa for the last twenty miles. It was too early in the summer to make a serious rain likely but—as bad as the road back to the highway was—even a shower could present a problem down in Short Mountain Wash. Leaphorn climbed out of his pickup to the rumble of thunder and hurried toward the store.

John McGinnis appeared in the doorway, holding the screen door open, staring out at him with his shock of white hair blowing across his forehead and looking twenty pounds too thin for the overalls that engulfed him.

'Be damned,' McGinnis said. 'Guess it's true what I heard about them finally getting you off the police force. Thought I had me a customer for a while. Didn't they let you keep the uniform?'

'Ya'eeh te'h,' Leaphorn said. 'It's good to see you.' And he meant it. That surprised him a little. Maybe, like McGinnis, the loneliness was beginning to get to him.

'Well, dammit, come on in so I can get this door closed and keep the dirt from blowing in,' McGinnis said. 'And let me get you something to wet your whistle. You Navajos act like you're born in a barn.'

Leaphorn followed the old man through the musty darkness of the store, noticing that McGinnis was more stooped than he had remembered him, that he walked with a limp, that many of the shelves lining the walls were half-empty, that behind the dusty glass where McGinnis kept pawned jewelry very little was being offered, that the racks that once had displayed an array of the slightly gaudy rugs and saddle blankets that the Short Mountain weavers produced were now empty. Which will die first, Leaphorn wondered, the trading post or the trader?

McGinnis ushered him into the back room—his living room, bedroom and kitchen—and waved him into a recliner upholstered with worn red velour. He transferred ice cubes from his refrigerator into a Coca-Cola glass, filled it from a two-liter Pepsi bottle, and handed it to Leaphorn. Then he collected a bourbon bottle and a plastic measuring cup from his kitchen table, seated himself on a rocking chair across from Leaphorn, and began carefully pouring himself a drink.

'As I remember it,' he said while he dribbled in the bourbon, 'you don't drink hard liquor. If I'm wrong about that, you tell me and I'll get you something better than soda pop.'

'This is fine,' Leaphorn said.

McGinnis held the measuring cup up, examined it against the light from the dusty window, shook his head, and poured a few drops carefully back into the bottle. He inspected the level again, seemed satisfied, and took a sip.

'You want to do a little visiting first?' McGinnis asked. 'Or do you want to get right down to what you came here for?'

'Either way,' Leaphorn said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm retired now. Just a civilian. But you know that.'

'I heard it,' McGinnis said. 'I'd retire myself if I could find somebody stupid enough to buy this hellhole.'

'Is it keeping you pretty busy?' Leaphorn asked, trying to imagine anyone offering to buy the place. Even tougher trying to imagine McGinnis selling it if someone did. Where would the old man go? What would he do when he got there?

McGinnis ignored the question. 'Well,' he said, 'if you came by to get some gasoline, you're out of luck. The dealers charge me extra for hauling it way out here and I have to tack a little bit on to the price to pay for that. Just offered gasoline anyway to convenience these hard cases that still live around here. But they took to getting their tanks filled up when they get to Tuba or Page, so the gas I got hauled out to make it handy for 'em just sat there and evaporated. So to hell with 'em. I don't fool with it anymore.'

McGinnis had rattled that off in his scratchy whiskey voice—an explanation he'd given often enough to have it memorized. He looked at Leaphorn, seeking understanding.

'Can't say I blame you,' Leaphorn said.

'Well, you oughtn't to. When the bastards would forget and let the gauge get down to empty, they'd come in, air up their tires, fill the radiator with my water, wash their windshield with my rags, and buy two gallons. Just enough to get 'em into one of them discount stations.' Leaphorn shook his head, expressing disapproval.

'And want credit for the gas,' McGinnis said, and took another long, thirsty sip.

'But I noticed driving in that you still have a tank up on your loading rack. With a hand pump on it. You keep that just for your own pickup?'