required social formalities faster than usual, discussing the cold, dry winter, poor grazing, risk of forest fires, agreed that last night’s weather report sounded like the monsoon season was about to start and finally got to the point.
“And what brings you all the way down here to Window Rock?”
“I heard on the radio yesterday the FBI’s got that Ute Casino robbery all screwed up. You know about that?”
“I’m out of the loop on crimes these days. Don’t know anything about it. But it wouldn’t be the first time an investigation went sour.”
“The radio said they’re looking for a damned airplane,” Gershwin said. “None of them fellas could fly anything more complicated than a kite.”
Leaphorn raised his eyebrows. This was getting interesting. The last he’d heard, those working the case had absolutely no identifications. But Gershwin had come here to tell him something. He’d let Gershwin talk.
“You want something to drink?” Gershwin waved at the waiter. “Too bad you fellows still have prohibition. Maybe one of those pseudo beers?”
“Coffee’d be good.”
The waiter brought it. Leaphorn sipped. Gershwin sampled his milk.
“I knew Cap Stoner,” Gershwin said. “They oughta not let them get away with killing him. It’s dangerous to have people like that around loose.”
Gershwin waited for a response.
Leaphorn nodded.
“Specially the two younger ones. They’re half-crazy.”
“Sounds like you know them.”
“Pretty well'
“You tell the FBI?”
Gershwin studied his milk glass again and found it about half-empty. Swirled it. He had a long, narrow face that betrayed his seventy or so years of dry air, windblown sand and dazzling sun, with a mass of wrinkles and sunburn damage. He shifted his bright blue eyes from the milk to Leaphorn.
“There’s a problem with that,” he said. “I tell the FBI, and sooner or later everybody knows it. Usually sooner. They come up there to see me at the ranch, or they call me. I’ve got a radio-telephone setup, and you know how that is. Everybody’s listening. Worse than the old party line.”
Leaphorn nodded. The nearest community to the Gershwin ranch would be Montezuma Creek, or maybe Bluff if his memory served. Not a place where visits from well-dressed FBI agents would go unnoticed, or untalked about.
“You remember that deal in the spring of ’98? The feds decided to announce those guys they were looking for are dead. But the folks who snitched on ‘em, or helped the cops, they’re damn sure keeping their doors locked and their guns loaded and their watchdogs out.”
“Didn’t the FBI say the gang in 1998 were survivalists? Is it the same people this time?”
Gershwin laughed. “Not if the feds had the names right the last time.”
“I’ll skip ahead a little,” Leaphorn said, 'and you tell me if I have it figured right. You want the FBI to catch these guys, but in case they don’t, you don’t want folks to know you turned them in. So you’re going to ask me to pass along the -'
“Whether or not they catch them,” Gershwin said. “They have lots of friends.”
“The FBI said the 1998 bandits were part of a survivalist organization. Is that what you’re saying about these guys?”
“I think they call themselves the Rights Militia. They’re for saving the Bill of Rights. Making the Forest Service, and the BLM, and the Park Service people behave so folks can make a living out here.”
“You want to give me these names, and I pass them along to the feds. What do I say when the feds ask where I got them?”
Gershwin was grinning at him. “You got it partly wrong,” he said. “I’ve got the names on a piece of paper. I’m going to ask you to give me your word of honor that you’ll keep me out of it. If you won’t, then I keep the paper. If you promise, and we shake hands on it, then I’ll leave the names on the table here and you can pick it up if you want to.”
