“Or what?” Chee concluded, thinking that surely Leaphorn wouldn’t propose they simply walk up, ask if anybody was inside and tell them to come out and surrender.
“We’re on their blind side,” Leaphorn said. “Why don’t we get closer? See if we can learn what’s going on.”
“You brought your piece,” Leaphorn said. “I’m going to borrow Officer Manuelito’s pistol. Officer Manuelito, I want you to stay here close to the radio but get up on the hump there where you can see what’s going on. We may need you to make some fast contacts. I’ll borrow your sidearm.”
“Give you my gun?” Bernie said, sounding doubtful.
Chee was easing himself out of the car, thinking that the Legendary Lieutenant had forgotten he was a civilian. He had unilaterally rescinded his retirement and resumed his rank.
“Your pistol,” he said, holding out his hand. Bernie’s expression switched from doubtful to determined.
“No, sir. That’s one of the first things we learn. We keep our pistols.”
Leaphorn stared at her. Nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Hand me the rifle.”
She pulled it out of the rack and handed it to him, butt first. He checked the chamber.
“In fact, Manuelito, I want you to get into radio contact now. Tell ’em where we are, precisely as you can, tell them that Sergeant Chee is checking an old mine building and we may need some support. Tell them you’re going to be out of the car a few minutes to back him up and ask them to stand by. Then I want you on top of that hummock up there watching what’s going on. Doing what needs to be done.”
“Sergeant Chee should stay here,” Bernie said. “He can’t walk that far. I’ll go with you. He can handle the radio.”
Chee used his sergeant voice. “Manuelito, you’ll do the radio. That’s an order.”
Whatever the reason, the excitement, the adrenaline pumping, perhaps the distracting notion that in a few minutes an award-winning Green Beret sniper might be shooting him, Chee limped up the hummock slope hardly aware of his bandaged ankle or the sand in his bedroom slipper. The ruined mine structure came into view, the back side of what he had photographed from the helicopter. As Leap-horn had said, this side presented only a windowless stone wall.
Leaphorn pointed, noted the entrance door was probably to their left, pointed out the route down the gentle slope that Chee should take, noting the cover available in the event anyone came out of the structure. Any pretense of being a civilian, of being anything except the Navajo Tribal Police officer in charge, had ceased to exist.
“I’ll move down to the right,” Leaphorn concluded. “Watch for a signal. If anyone comes out, we’ll let them get far enough from the structure. They, or he, will probably be walking toward Gershwin’s truck. We’ll see what opportunity presents itself.”
“Yes sir,” Chee said. He rechecked his pistol and did exactly as told.
About five minutes, and fifty cautious yards later, Chee first heard a voice.
He stood, waved at Leaphorn, pointed to the wall and made talking motions with his hand. Leaphorn nodded.
A moment later, the sound of laughter.
Then the sharp door-slam sound of a pistol shot. Then another, and another.
Chee looked at Leaphorn, who was looking at him. Leaphorn signaled him to stay down. They waited. Time ticked past. Leaphorn signaled him to close in and moved slowly toward the wall. Chee did the same.
A tall, elderly man emerged from behind the wall. What seemed to be a student’s backpack dangled from one hand. He was wearing a white shirt with the tail out, jeans and a tan straw hat. As Leaphorn had predicted, he walked toward Gershwin’s truck.
Chee ducked back out of sight behind a growth of salt bush, following the man with his pistol. No more than twenty yards. An easy shot if a shooting was called for.
Leaphorn was standing in the open, the rifle cradled across his arm.
“Mr Gershwin,” he shouted. “Roy. What are you doing way out here?”
Gershwin stopped, stood frozen for a moment, then turned and looked at Leaphorn.
“Well now, I don’t hardly know what to tell you about that. If I had
