“Well, Shewnack, you dirty son of a bitch, you finally got what you deserve,” he said. He prodded Delos’s shoulder with his foot, went into the cabin, and the cleanup work began.
Vang dashed back to the truck to get the first-aid kit Delos always kept in its glove box, and Leaphorn peeled off Delonie’s jacket and his bloody shirt. The cabin had been supplied to meet the needs of tired and dirty hunters. Leaphorn filled a pan with water from the twenty-gallon tank labeled FOR COOKING, which stood beside the stove, got towels from a cabinet drawer, ordered Delonie to sit by the table, and started carefully washing away the dried blood from the entry and exit holes the bullet had made about three inches below his elbow. By the time he’d finished that—with Delonie watching, expression grim and teeth gritted—the water was steaming and Vang was back with the kit.
“Here something for the pain,” Vang said, holding up a paper package and a small bottle, “and here is something to kill off the germs.”
“Hand me the bottle,” Delonie said. He glanced at it, said, “Wrong kind of alcohol,” and laid it on the table.
THE SHAPE SHIFTER
259
“Ah,” Vang said. “I look in the cabinets. I go find the whiskey.”
Leaphorn used the contents of the small bottle on Delonie’s wounds, both arm and chest, and then applied the prescribed salves to the proper places. Vang handed Delonie a large brown bottle, cap already removed.
“Tommy, Tommy,” Delonie said, with a huge smile,
“If you decide not to go home to your Hmong mountains now, you can move right in with me. This is Black Label Johnny Walker you just handed me. Just what the doctor ordered.” He raised the bottle, admired it, tilted his head back, and took in a large mouthful. Then another. Sighed.
And smiled again.
Vang was watching this, looking forlorn.
“Better I go home to my Hmong people. But I guess there’s no way to do that now.” He sighed. “I guess there never was. I guess I just never did get smart enough to know that.”
Delonie, who had been watching Leaphorn wrapping strips of torn toweling around his arm splint, was studying Tommy now.
“There’s a way you can go back, if that’s what you want,” he said. “Just collect some of all that money Delos owes you, and get yourself a ticket.”
Vang stared, looking baffled.
“Go out there on the porch right now and see if the bastard has a wallet in his hip pocket. Or in his jacket.
Fish it out and bring it in here. I figure he owes you about twenty-five years’ wages. He won’t have that much on him, probably, but let’s see what he has.” Tommy was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t do that. Not take the wallet from Mr. Delos. I don’t do that.” 260
TONY HILLERMAN
Delonie said nothing to that. Neither did Leaphorn, who was securing the last strip around Delonie’s arm.
Leaphorn was wondering what Delonie was thinking.
Leaphorn was thinking of what he had here. A dead victim of a homicide, done deliberately but in self- defense.
A victim of an attempted homicide. Two witnesses to the homicide, and two witnesses to the attempted homicide, one of them the perpetrator of this whole mess. And himself, a sworn officer of the law, more or less retired but still carrying deputy badges.
“Well,” Leaphorn said to Delonie, “I guess that’s as good as I can get you fixed. Any ideas of what—” Delonie stood up abruptly and walked out the door onto the porch, rolled Delos’s corpse enough to feel the hip pocket, then felt through the jacket pockets. Finally he extracted a large leather wallet. He brought it back into the cabin.
“Here we are, Tommy. Let’s see what your employer left for you.”
He slipped an assortment of bills out of the wallet onto the tabletop and separated them into piles while Tommy watched.
“Here you have five one hundreds,” Delonie said, tapping the money. “And here you have nine fifties, and here are four twenties, and five tens, and an assortment of fives and ones. You do the arithmetic for me, but I’ll bet it would be right at a thousand dollars, maybe a little more.”
Tommy Vang was separating the bills, counting. “I say it would be one thousand one hundred and ninety-three dollars,” Tommy told them.
“Enough to fly you to where you find your Hmong THE SHAPE SHIFTER
261
family, you think? Maybe not. But you could pawn that expensive rifle Delos was carrying. That would bring a couple of hundred more, at least.”
Tommy considered that, standing rigid, rubbing his hands against the side of his trouser legs, worried, deep in thought.
Leaphorn was also thinking. Homicide charge, attempted homicide, armed robbery now. What else? What could he be charged with? Aiding and abetting about everything, he guessed. The list for him would be less violent but quite a bit longer when the attorneys got involved. But why worry about it now?
“If you’re ready to move, we better tidy up here some and get going,” Leaphorn said.
“What about Mr. Delos,” Tommy said. “We leave him?”
