had just shaken his head. He was finished talking about it. And she had allowed him to get away with that.
Then the narrow little trail bent around a corner of the cliff, and Tuve had pointed downward. Through the binoculars she had seen where the clearer stream from the Little Colorado Canyon poured into the muddy Colorado, and beyond that the blue oblong shape of a pool, which must have been supplied with water by a spring. Down there, she thought, must be the site of the Salt Woman Shrine.
Tuve had been standing behind her. “Ah,” he said, and something else. And pointed. She noticed motion. A figure walking along the bank of the pool, disappearing behind the brush trees, reappearing, bending to examine something on the ground. It was a man, apparently, but he was too far below them to tell much else.
“Is that this lawyer?” she had asked. “Is this the Belshaw who came to see you?”
Tuve didn’t answer.
“It could be him,” Joanna had said. “It’s a big man, like you said he was. Right?” She stared through the binoculars, shifted her position as the man moved to where a tamarisk partly shielded him from her view. “Tall,” she said. “Looks like he’s well dressed for hiking. But with his hat on I can’t tell from here if he’s blond. Does he look like—”
But Billy Tuve was no longer with her. Not standing behind her on the track. Not anywhere that she could see. Perhaps he had gone back up the trail, around that bend up twenty yards or so. Maybe ducking back into the brush to relieve himself. Joanna stopped thinking and started running.
“Billy!” she shouted. “Mr. Tuve!” But he wasn’t at the bend in the trail, or around it. Not as far as she could see. She hadn’t realized how tired her legs had become on the long and tricky walk down. She stopped, catching her breath, shaking, trying to see a place up the trail where he might be hiding. There were several. More than she had the energy left to check. But why would he be hiding? Why leave her like this?
Then Joanna had slumped against the cliff wall, sliding down the rough stone, and sitting, back against it, legs drawn up, forehead resting between her knees. The warm, dusty fabric of her jeans reminding her of how thirsty she was. Of how little water was left in her bottle. Trying to fend off despair. Trying to think.
Had Billy Tuve betrayed her? Well, why shouldn’t he? He seemed slow and innocent, but he had been smart enough to see she was using him. Yet he had been willing enough to help her—and help her to help him. So why had he abandoned her now? He’d been cooperative, even sympathetic, until he had seen that man down below. Perhaps he had recognized him as the man who had come to the jail. Probably he had. Perhaps he and the blond man had made some sort of deal. Perhaps the man was waiting at the bottom of the trail just to meet Tuve. For Tuve to lead him to the diamonds. This blond would be Plymale’s lieutenant. This man she shot was working for him, had called him Bradford Chandler, said he was working for some lawyer named Plymale.
But if Tuve had made a deal with this Chandler, why hadn’t he gone on down the trail to meet him? Why had he gone the other way? Was Tuve afraid of the man? If he worked for Plymale, she had a better reason herself to be afraid.
And then she noticed Tuve’s canteen.
It was propped neatly on a narrow shelf jutting from the cliff, almost as if she was supposed to notice it. As if Billy Tuve had left it for her to use. She pushed herself up, painfully stiff from the brief rest, and got the canteen. It was heavy and the leather cover was soaked and cool.
She sat again, leaning against the stone, unscrewed the cap, touched liquid with the tip of her tongue. The taste was stale, but it was water. She took a sip, holding it, enjoying it. Modifying the grim and depressing thought that Tuve, whom she had come to like, had abandoned her to die of dehydration with the knowledge that he’d left her enough water to get herself to safety. She had heard that the Hopis, and others, left hidden caches of water containers along some of the trails for emergencies. Tuve would have known where to find such a cache if he needed water. Still, even if this didn’t represent a life-endangering sacrifice for him, it was a kind thing to do—curing her despair as well as her thirst.
It also brought her to a decision. She would climb down the Salt Trail to the bottom. She would keep out of sight. Tuve had probably told his jail visitor as much as he’d told her. Maybe he had told him more. If this jail visitor had abandoned his wait for Tuve, perhaps he would begin his hunt for the diamond dispenser on his own. She would follow him wherever it took her.
Joanna rose, dusted off her jeans, poured what was left in her own water bottle into Tuve’s canteen, and resumed her descent. Not much hope, really. But she still had her little pistol if it was needed. And what else could she do? The opportunity she had prayed for ever since her mother’s death had finally come. A chance to attain justice. And revenge. And maybe, finally, some peace and some happiness. She had to follow where this was leading her. Even if it killed her. As Tuve had told her when they started down the trail, the Hopis had a kachina spirit who once opened a door marked death and showed them a happy life beyond it.
Thinking of that caused her to think of Sherman. Had she killed him? She’d intended to when she pulled the trigger. But maybe he’d lived. Now she found herself hoping he had. Not wanting to have been his executioner.
Joanna produced what might be called a laugh. Whatever lay behind that door, it wouldn’t have to be much to be better than the life she’d return to if she didn’t complete this search. Whatever was down there in this dreadful canyon, it was her destiny to find it.
18
Bradford Chandler had come to a series of conclusions. The first one was that he was wasting his time waiting for Billy Tuve here at the bottom end of the Hopi Salt Trail. He had found the note signed by someone named “Bernie,” which told him that others—at least Bernie and friends—were also expecting Tuve here. That offered interesting implications. Probably they had seen those posters offering the reward. But whatever it meant, he’d wait.
He put the note back exactly where he’d found it, settled into a comfortable place screened by vegetation. He’d stay and see what would happen.
Coming here to meet Tuve had seemed the only choice—despite the outrageous fee the copter pilot had charged to bring him. After all, he could charge that to Plymale, including the fine the pilot would have to pay for violating the National Park Service’s no-fly zone. But now he suspected he might be just wasting his time and Plymale’s money. He had landed himself in a complicated situation that he didn’t understand.
