remember how she tended to get involved in things without being told to.”
Leaphorn nodded. “And apparently someone believes our Miss Manuelito may be doing that now.”
Louisa exhaled abruptly, producing a sound that signaled frustrated impatience.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “You two sitting here, perfectly calm, discussing the mechanics of pipelines, and convincing yourselves that Bernadette Manuelito is in danger of being killed.”
Leaphorn stared at her. So did Chee.
“Instead of doing what?” Leaphorn asked. “You want us to kidnap her and bring her home?”
Louisa’s expression was disapproving. “Well, you should do something. If you have it figured correctly, you think they—whoever they are—have already killed that man ... that homicide up by the Jicarilla Reservation.”
“Yes,” Chee said.
“Let’s see what we have,” Leaphorn said. “No evidence a crime is being committed. We have no jurisdiction if there is a crime. We have no—”
“No common sense either,” she said. “Sergeant Chee knows very well that if he went down there he could get Bernie out of that mess. Bring her home.”
Chee put down his coffee cup, leaned forward.
“Jurisdiction,” he said. “Isn’t most of that land down in the New Mexico boot heel public domain land? Government owned and just leased out to the ranchers?”
“Ah,” Leaphorn said. “I see what you’re thinking. I’ll call the county clerk at Deming. She’ll know how much of that ranch is under lease.”
“I don’t see what Jim’s thinking,” said Louisa. “Let me in on this.”
“He’s thinking that if that construction site Bernie photographed on the Tuttle Ranch is on public domain land, even a Bureau of Land Management enforcement officer would have a perfectly valid legal right to go in there and make an inspection. Right?”
“Right,” Chee said. “At least I think so.”
“If you can find one to do it for you,” Leaphorn said.
“You remember Cowboy Dashee, don’t you, Lieutenant. That Hopi friend of mine who was an Apache County deputy. Well, he’s now an officer with the BLM enforcement division.”
Leaphorn got out of his chair.
“I’ll call Deming,” he said. “You see if you can find Officer Dashee. And we’ll want to get Officer Bernadette Manuelito in on this, too.”
“If she’s already in on it, I want to get her out of it,” Chee said. “I’m going to find Cowboy. Get him involved in this business.”
20
Bureau of Land Management Enforcement Officer Cowboy Dashee’s schedule of duties for the next few days included investigating a controversy about overgrazing on the fringe of the Carson National Forest, reports of an unauthorized fence on another grazing lease, and illegal diversion of snowmelt runoff from a stream into a stock pond. All of these involved leased federal land along the New Mexico-Colorado border. As Cowboy was telling Jim Chee, that’s a hell of a long way from the Tuttle Ranch.
“I know,” Chee said. “But think of the glory you get if you break up some sort of smuggling scheme. Like diversion of our crude oil—or maybe natural gas—out of the country without taxes or royalties paid. Or smuggling in nuclear devices where radiation detectors can’t sense them. Or heroin. Or cocaine. Any of that stuff.”
“You think about that. I’ll think about the trouble I’ll have lying out of it if this just turns out to be a Navajo pipe dream. And here I am, marginal jurisdiction at best, no evidence, no clues, just this funny story about piping dope into the country through an abandoned gas line.”
“Tell ’em we had a tip that the Islamic terrorists were going to start sending nuclear bombs through the pipe to blow up the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington,” Chee said. “They’d like that.”
“In a rusty old pipeline?” Dashee said. “I don’t think those bombs would go off. And if they’re sending pot through, I don’t think I’d want to smoke it.” He laughed. “They couldn’t call the coke they shipped that way nose candy.”
“Those pipes don’t rust much,” Chee said. “Not in dry country they don’t. Built to last forever.”
Dashee considered this. They were standing beside his official federal vehicle—a Dodge Ram pickup wearing the BLM insignia—at his little stone house at the outskirts of Walpi on the Hopi Second Mesa. He was staring south as if, Chee thought, Cowboy could see two hundred or so miles south and east into New Mexico’s boot heel desert country to where he hoped Dashee would soon be taking them. Chee gave him some time to think, uneasy, but enjoying the view.
Walpi was on the high edge of the mesa, maybe seven thousand feet above sea level and a couple of thousand feet above the immensity of empty country below them. A truck was rolling down U.S. 264 far below their feet, ant-sized, and the thunderheads of the late-summer monsoon season were beginning to build over Tovar Mesa, and the Hopi Buttes, and the ragged spire of Montezuma’s Chair miles to the south. No lightning yet, and only one of the clouds was dragging a mist of vigara below it. As the cloud towers rose higher later in the morning some of them would make rain. Now they only produced a pattern of cloud shadows dappling the landscape dark blue as they drifted eastward.
Dashee sighed. “You’re sure about this photo of Bernie?” he asked. “It was taken by her boss, and it was handed around to some druggies in Sonora. I mean, right away after it was taken? And the word from there was that they think Bernie is dangerous?” He stared at Chee. “Is that true? Not just speculation?”
Chee nodded.
“You’re a hell of a lot of trouble. My folks always warned me about associating with you Head Breakers.”
“No more head breaking,” Chee said. “Now we Navajos kill folks with our kindness.”
“Head Breakers” was a pejorative Hopi term for Navajos, the traditional enemies of the Hopi since about the sixteenth century. It suggested Dashee’s tribe considered them too unsophisticated to invent bows and arrows.
“You’re telling me Lieutenant Leaphorn believes all this nonsense too,” Dashee said. “The Legendary Lieutenant is endorsing this.”
“He’s the one who figured it out. Found the pipeline on one of his maps.”
“Oh, well,” Dashee said. “We better take my truck then. If we’re going to be busting in on these people, we want to make it look official.”
“I’d say head east over to Gallup, then south through the Zuni Reservation to Fence Lake, then State Road 36 through Quemado, and then down to Lordsburg. Get a motel there, be up early and ...”
Dashee was glowering at him.
“I see you already have my route all planned. You took ole Cowboy for granted again.” Dashee shifted into his copy of Chee’s voice: “ ‘Just go on over to Second Mesa and get Cowboy. He’s easy. He’ll believe whatever you tell him.’ ”
“Ah, come on Cowboy. You know—”
“Just kidding,” Cowboy said. “Let’s go.”
“I owe you one,” Chee said.
“One?” Cowboy said. “You already owe me about six.”
21
Budge got Winsor’s Falcon 10 jet ready to fly and reassured himself that arrangements had been properly made to clear this journey into Mexico. Then he found a comfortable chair in the transient flights waiting room and sat trying to decide what to do. Progress on that was slow. Memories of Chrissy kept intruding.
The first time he’d met her, almost the first moment in fact, she had made him aware that she was not the usual type of young woman Winsor sent him to collect. He’d been following his standard limo driver pattern, arriving about fifteen minutes early, waiting about ten minutes, and then ringing the bell and announcing that he was early but available at her convenience. But this time Chrissy had spoken first.
“Oh, my,” she had said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll hurry. I’ll be right down.”
