“You think you can trust me?”
“No doubt about it,” Gershwin said. “I did before. Remember? And I know some other people who trusted you.”
“Why do you want these people caught? Is it just revenge for Cap Stoner?”
“That’s part of it,” Gershwin said. “But these guys are scary. Some of them anyway. I used to have a little hand in this political stuff with the ones who started it. But then they got too wild.”
Gershwin had been about to finish his milk. Now he put the glass down. “Bastards in the Forest Service were acting like they personally owned the mountains,” he said. “We lived there all our lives, but now we couldn’t graze. Couldn’t cut wood. Couldn’t hunt elk. And the Land Management bureaucrats were worse. We were the serfs, and they were the lords. We just wanted to have some sort of voice with Congress. Get somebody to remind the bureaucrats who was paying their salaries. Then the crazies moved in. EarthFirst bunch wanting to blow up the bridges the loggers were using. That sort of thing. Then we got some New Age types, and survivalists and Stop World Government people. I sort of phased out.”
“So some of these guys did the casino job? Was it political?”
“What I hear, it was supposed to be to finance the cause. But I think some of them needed money to eat,” Gershwin said. “If you’re not working, I guess you could call that political. But maybe they did want to buy guns and ammunition and explosives. That sort of stuff. Anyway, that’s what folks I know in the outfit say. Needed cash to arm themselves to fight off the federal government.”
“I wonder how much they got,” Leaphorn said.
Gershwin drained his milk. Got up and extracted a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket.
“Here it is, Joe. Am I safe to leave it with you? Can you promise you won’t turn me in?”
Leaphorn had already thought that through. He could report this conversation to the FBI. They would question Gershwin. He’d deny everything. Nothing accomplished.
“Leave it,” Leaphorn said.
Gershwin dropped it on the table, put a dollar beside his milk glass and walked out past the waiter arriving to refill Leaphorn’s cup.
Leaphorn took a drink. He picked up the paper and unfolded it. Three names, each followed by a brief description. The first two, Buddy Baker and George Ironhand, meant nothing to him. He stared at the last one. Everett Jorie. That rang a faint and distant bell.
Chapter Four
Captain Largo looked up from the paper he’d been reading, peered over his glasses at Sergeant Chee, and said, “You’re a few days early, aren’t you? Your calendar break?”
“Captain, you forgot to say, 'Welcome Home. Glad to have you back. Have a seat. Be comfortable.' '
Largo grinned, waved at a chair across from his desk. “I’m almost afraid to ask it, but what makes you so anxious to get back to work?”
Chee sat. “I thought I’d get back to speed gradually. Find out what I’ve been missing. How’d you get so lucky not to get us dragged into another big manhunt as bush beaters for the federals?”
“That was a relief, that airplane business,” Largo said. “On the other hand, you hate to see people shooting policemen and getting away with it. Sets another bad example after that summer of ‘98 fiasco. You want some coffee? Go get yourself a cup, and we’ll talk. I want to hear about Alaska after you tell me what you’re doing here.”
Chee returned with his coffee. He sipped, sat, waited. Largo outwaited him.
“OK,” Chee said. “Tell me about the casino robbery. All I know is what I’ve seen in the papers.”
Largo leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his generous stomach. “Just before four last Saturday morning a pickup drives into the casino lot. Guy gets out, takes out a ladder, climbs up on the roof and cuts the power lines, telephone lines, everything. Another pickup pulls in while this is going on and two guys get out wearing camouflage suits. A Montezuma County deputy, guy named Bai, is standing out there. Then Cap Stoner comes running out, and they shoot both of ‘em. You remember Stoner? He used to be a captain with the New Mexico State Police. Worked out of Gallup. Decent man. Then these two guys get into the cashier’s room. The money’s all sacked up to be handed to the Brinks truck. They make everybody lie down, walk out with the money bags and drive off. Apparently they drove west into Utah because about daylight a Utah Highway Patrolman tries to stop a speeding truck on Route 262 west of Aneth, and they shoot holes in his radiator. Pretty high-powered ammunition according to what Utah tells us.”
Largo paused, pushed his bulky frame out of his swivel chair with a grunt. “Need some of my coffee, myself,” he said, and headed for the dispenser in the front office.
