'An Indian killed a woman up there on the mountain,' the guy said.
'They're just now bringing the body down.'
An Indian? Carlisle thought. No kidding. They think an Indian did it?
He couldn't believe this stroke of luck. For the second time in as many chances, fate had handed over the perfect fall guy for something Carlisle himself had done, someone to take the blame. Sure, he'd gone to prison for Gina Antone, mostly because the cops thought he'd driven the truck that had inadvertently broken her neck. They had never suspected the real truth, not even that wise-ass of a detective, because if they had, it would have been a whole lot worse. Now, here he was again with somebody else all lined up to take the rap.
One thing did worry him a little. It hadn't taken long for the cops to find her. He hadn't expected them to work quite this fast, but he was prepared for it anyway. He was glad now that he'd taken the time to clean the bits of his flesh from under her fingernails. With something like that, you couldn't be too careful. His mentors in Florence had warned him not to underestimate cops. The crooked ones had a price-all you had to do was name it. Straight ones you had to look out for, the ones who were too dumb to take you up on it when you made them an offer they shouldn't refuse.
'Mom, if Rita dies, will we put a cross on the road where she wrecked the truck?'
They had just driven by the Kitt Peak turnoff on their way to Sells.
With all the emergency vehicles gone, there was no sign of the almost-fatal accident the previous afternoon.
'Probably,' Diana answered, 'but Rita isn't going to die. I talked to her sister this morning. She'll be fine.'
'Does my daddy have a cross?'
The abrupt change of subject caused Diana to swing her eyes in her son's direction. The car almost veered off the road, but she caught it in time. 'Why do you ask that?'
'Well, does he?'
'I suppose. At the cemetery. In Chicago.'
'Have I ever been there?'
'No.
'Is that where he died?'
'No. Why are you asking all these questions?' Diana's answer was curt, her question exasperated.
'Did you know Rita puts a new wreath and a candle at the place where Gina died? She does that every year. Why don't we?'
'It's an Indian custom,' Diana explained. 'Papago custom. Your father wasn't a Papago.'
'I thought you said I was going to turn into an Indian.'
'I was kidding.'
Davy fell silent for several miles, and his mother was relieved that the subject seemed closed., 'Did you ever kill anything, Mom?' he asked at last. 'Besides the snake, I mean.'
Jesus! She had almost forgotten about the snake. It was two years now since the afternoon she was inside and heard Bone barking frantically out in the yard. Alarmed, she hurried out to check.
She found all three of them-boy, dog, and snake mutually trapped in the small area between the side of the house and the high patio wall. The rattlesnake, a fat four footer, had been caught out in the open sunning itself It's said that the first person can walk past a sleeping rattlesnake but a second one can't. Davy had walked past the drowsing snake unharmed and was now cornered on the rattler's far side. Bone, barking himself into a frenzy, was smart enough not to attempt darting past the now-coiled and angry snake.
Diana Ladd was usually scared witless of snakes. As a mother, this was her first experience in dealing with a life-or-death threat to her child. Instantly, she became a tigress defending her young.
'Don't move, Davy!' she ordered calmly, without raising her voice.
'Stand right there and don't you move!'
She raced back to the garage and returned with a hoe, the only weapon that fell readily to hand. She had a gun inside the house, a fully loaded Colt .45 Peacemaker, but she didn't trust herself with that, especially not with both Davy and the dog a few short feet away.
She had attacked the snake with savage fury and severed its head with two death-dealing blows. Only after it was over and Davy was safely cradled in her arms did she give way to the equally debilitating emotions of fear and relief.
'How come your face's all white, Mom?' Davy had asked. 'You look funny. Your lips are white, and so's your skin.'
'Well?' Davy prompted once more, jarring Diana out of her reverie.
'Did you?'
'Did I what?'
'Ever kill anything besides the snake?'
'No,' she said, 'So help me God, I never did.'
As the sun rose above her hospital room window, Rita's life passed by in drowsing review.
Traveling Sickness came to Ban Thak the year Dancing Quail was eight and again away at school. The sickness
