Hunting Badger

Chee nodded, thinking there could be all sorts of reasons a guy wouldn’t want the world to know about a woman picking him up at 4 A.M. He just couldn’t think of a good one right away.

“They’ll be trying to get him to tell who the robbers were,” Bernie said. “They’ll come up with some way to hold him until he tells. And he won’t know who they are. So I’m afraid they’ll find something to charge him with so they can hold him.”

“I just got back from Alaska,” Chee said, ”so I don’t know anything about any of this. But I’ll bet they got a good idea by now who they’re looking for.”

Bernie shook her head. “No. I don’t think so,” she said. “I hear that’s a total blank. They were talking at first like it was some of the right-wingers in one of the militia groups. Something political. But now I hear they don’t have a clue.”

Chee nodded. That would explain why the FBI had been so quick to announce the aircraft business. It took the heat off the area Agent in Charge.

“You’re sure you know Bai was waiting for a woman? Do you know who?”

Bernie hesitated. “Yes.”

“Could you tell the feds?”

“I guess I could. I will if I have to.“ She put the coffee cup on the table, untasted. “You know what I was thinking? I was thinking you worked here a long time before they shifted you to Tuba City. You know a lot of people. With the FBI thinking they already have the inside man they won’t be looking for the real inside man. I thought maybe you could find out who really was their helper in the casino. If anybody can.”

Now it was Chee’s turn to hesitate. He sipped his coffee, cold now, and tried to sort out his mixture of reactions to all this. Bernie’s confidence in him was flattering, if misguided. Why did the thought that Bernie was having an affair with this rent-a-cop disappoint him? It should be a relief. Instead it gave him an empty, abandoned feeling.

“I’ll ask around,” Chee said.

 Chapter Three

The only client in the dining room in Window Rock’s Navajo Inn was sitting at a table in the corner with a glass of milk in front of him. He was wearing a droopy gray-felt Stetson and reading the Gallup Independent. Joe Leaphorn stood at the entrance a moment studying him. Roy Gershwin, looking a lot older, more weather-beaten and wornout than he’d remembered him. But then he hadn’t seen him for years—not since Gershwin had helped him nail a U.S. Forest Service ranger who’d been augmenting his income by digging artifacts out of Anasazi burials on a Gershwin grazing lease. That had been at least six years ago, about the time Leaphorn had starting thinking about retirement. But they went far back beyond that—back to Leaphorn’s rookie years. Back to a summer when Leaphorn had arrested one of Gershwin’s hired hands on a rape complaint — a bad start with a happy ending. That had been the first time he’d heard Gershwin’s deep, gruff whiskey-ruined voice -an angry voice telling Leaphorn he’d arrested an innocent man. When he had answered the telephone this morning, he recognized that odd voice instantly.

“Lieutenant Leaphorn,” Gershwin had said. “I hear you’re retired now. Is that right? If it is, I guess I’m trying to impose on you.”

“Mr Gershwin,” Leaphorn had replied. “It’s Mr Leaphorn now, and it’s good to hear from you.“ He had heard himself saying that with a sort of surprise. This was what retirement was doing to him. And what lay ahead. This old rancher had never really been a friend. Just one of those thousands of people you deal with in a lifetime spent as a cop. But here he was, genuinely happy to hear his telephone ring. Happy to have someone to talk to.

But Gershwin had stopped talking. Long silence. The sound of the man clearing his throat. Then: 'I guess this ain’t going to surprise you much. I mean to tell you I got myself a problem. I guess you’ve heard that from a lot of people. Being a policeman.”

“Sort of goes with the job,” Leaphorn said. Two years ago he would have grumbled about this sort of call. Today he wasn’t. Loneliness conditions.

“Well,” Gershwin said, 'I got something I don’t know how to handle. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’m afraid it’s not something you can handle over the telephone,” Gershwin replied.

So they arranged to meet at three at the Navajo Inn. It was now three minutes short of that. Gershwin looked up, noticed Leaphorn approaching, stood and motioned him to the chair across from him.

“Damn good of you to come,” he said. “I was afraid you’d tell me you were retired now and I should worry somebody else with it.”

“Glad to help if I can,” Leaphorn said. They polished off the