The Shape Shifter

TONY HILLERMAN

His resting place gave Leaphorn a clear view of the cabin itself, and covered most of the open space the blind– to–cabin trail would cross. Delonie, ten or so yards to his left, had a slightly different angle. He sat now, rifle supported atop the slab he was positioned behind, scanning the landscape below through the scope. Looking fairly comfortable.

Leaphorn was not comfortable, not physically nor mentally. He was leaning against the granite behind him, his bottom resting on a bed of matted leaves mixed with chunks of rock. His mind had been going over and over and over the various scenarios that were about to unfold.

Finally he’d concluded that this was sheer guesswork and drifted off into even murkier territory. If a man did appear below, walking toward the cabin, carrying a rifle, which name could be applied to him? Mr. Delos, of course, was obvious. And Delonie would, perhaps, be seeing Mr.

Shewnack. But how about Mr. Totter, whose obituary had already been written, or how about the Special Operations CIA agent whose name was . . . ? Leaphorn couldn’t recall the name the FBI gossip had given the man. It didn’t matter anyway, because before that he’d probably had yet another name, yet another persona.

Leaphorn rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, shook his head. Too tired, too sleepy. But he didn’t want to doze. He wanted to remain alert. He was remembering shape-shifter stories he’d heard down the years.

His maternal grandmother telling them about a night when she was a little girl, out on the mountain watching the sheep, and about the man with the wolf’s head cape over his shoulders coming across the grass toward her, and about how, when her father came riding up, the man THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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had changed into a woman, and was running away, and how as she ran, she changed into a big brown bird and flew into the woods.

That was when he was too young for the school bus trip into the classrooms, but through the years he’d heard scores of other such tales of encounters with the ye-na-l’o-si, and the an’t- i-zi people who practiced other forms of witchcraft. The last really impressive story he’d heard came from the driver of a Kerr-McGee drilling rig. A Texan who’d never heard of skinwalkers or shape shifters or anything about Navajo witchcraft problems. Leaphorn remembered the young man, standing beside his truck, telling him about it. The driver said he’d had his truck in third gear, making the long climb on U.S. 163 from Kay-enta toward Mexican Hat. His load had been heavy and the engine was straining. Then he noticed this man running along beside the truck, waving at him to stop. He’d described the runner just as the skinwalkers are usually described—wearing something that looked like a wolf’s head. He’d checked his odometer and saw he was doing twenty-three miles an hour. Too damn fast for a normal human, he’d said, so when he got over the ridge he stepped on the gas.

Leaphorn could still see the driver, standing beside his truck at the Mexican Hat service station, looking puzzled and a little scared, telling his story, saying that it wasn’t until he got the truck up to almost fifty on the down slope that the man fell behind. “When I looked in the rearview mirror, there was nothing there but a big gray animal sitting beside the road. Looked like an oversized dog, to me. Now you’re an Indian policeman. How do you explain that?”

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TONY HILLERMAN

And, of course, Leaphorn had to say he couldn’t.

Beside him Delonie stirred.

“Getting plenty light enough now for the elk to be out,” he said. “Our man should be getting—” Then came the sound of a shot, a sort of slapping sound, carried a long, long way on the still, cool morning air. Then came a second echo, followed by an even fainter one. A moment later, the clap sound of second shot, and a second series of echoes.

They sat in silence. The echoes died away. No third shot followed.

“What do you think?” Delonie asked. “He hit his elk and then finished him off. Or he missed him once. Or maybe he missed him twice?”

Leaphorn was seeing the row of trophy heads on the Delos wall.

“I’d say he shot his big bull elk twice,” he said.

“I was hoping he missed. The elk would have run away, and he’d be coming right back to get something to eat.”

“It doesn’t work that way here,” Leaphorn said. “The way Tommy described it to me, Mr. Delos doesn’t have to go out there and bleed what he shoots, and then get the carcass back to his truck like us common people. He gets on his cell phone, calls the ranch office, tells them he got his elk. And they know where, of course, because they set up the blind for him. Then they drive out and do the work for him.”

“Oh,” Delonie said. “I didn’t know they go that far.”

“Even farther,” Leaphorn said. “Vang told me they fly into the Flagstaff airport in their little Piper something or other, fly him back to the landing strip at the ranch, THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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and deliver him to that house down there. If Vang hadn’t brought that pickup truck in for him, he’d call them from here and they’d come and pick him up and then they’d fly him back to Flagstaff again. It all goes on the credit card, I guess.”

“So we wait for the bastard,” Delonie said.

They did. Minutes ticked by. The sky became brighter and brighter, with the fog banks rimming the mountains glowing, then turning a dazzling red, reflecting light from the cabin windows.

“Mr. Vang still out there in the pickup, I see,” Delonie said, breaking a long silence. “Looks like he might be asleep.”

“I’m close to that myself,” Leaphorn said. He rubbed his eyes again, took another hard look at the cabin, suddenly felt Delonie’s harsh whisper.

“There he is,” Delonie said. Pointing. “Down beyond the truck, coming out of the brush there by the creek.