gather the raw materials for her baskets-devil's claw from the reservation or bear grass and yucca from Benson. Then there were the anniversary tips, like this one, but because Diana Ladd didn't want to talk about that, Rita usually disguised her real intentions by saying she was going to a feast or taking her newest crop of baskets up to the top of Ioligarn, the mountain Anglos called Kitt Peak, to be sold in the observatory gift shop there.
Rita was determined to drive the old truck until one or the other of them stopped dead. If the truck happened to go first, she would leave it wherever it died, parked on the side of the road if necessary.
Three Points Trading Post at Robles Junction was thirty miles west of Tucson on Highway 86, the main road leading out to the reservation.
The trading post's primary claim to fame was its undisputed reputation for selling more beer on a weekly basis than all of Davis Air Force Base combined.
Charley Raymond, the most recent Anglo owner, hurried to the pumps as Rita stopped the truck. 'What do you want?' he asked.
Deliberately, Rita eased her heavy frame out of the driver's seat.
'Five dollars' worth of regular,' she said and went inside, with Davy trailing happily along behind.
Once inside the store, Davy made a dash for the refrigerator and grabbed his favorite treat-a carton of chocolate milk. Rita went to the cooler and withdrew a single can of Coors. She didn't drink much, but the day's real task promised to be hard, thirsty work, and she would need a beer when she finished. A single beer would be welcome.
It would also be enough.
Leaving the cooler, Rita steered Davy firmly past a beckoning display of Twinkies and led him to a shelf laden with plastic memorial wreaths and votive candies.
He watched curiously while she selected a wreath of bright pink roses.
'This one?' she asked, holding it up for his inspection.
'It's pretty,' he said with a puzzled frown, 'but, Nana, why are we getting flowers?'
Shaking her head, Rita didn't answer. Instead, she took the wreath, one tall, glass-enclosed candle with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the outside, and the can of Coors, then she threaded her way through the narrow aisles up to the cash register. From behind the counter, Daisy Raymond, a narrow-faced Anglo woman, eyed Rita suspiciously.
Buying the trading post had been Charley's idea, not Daisy's. She hadn't wanted to have anything to do with it, but Charley had convinced her that running the store for a few years was a good way to finish bankrolling their retirement. Now, months later, she reluctantly agreed he was right. In beer sales alone, the place was a gold mine.
The problem was, Daisy Raymond didn't like Indians.
Never had. She stood trapped behind the cash register day after day taking Indian money and trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal her dislike behind a barrage of inane chatter.
Being around Daisy Raymond made Rita draw back inside herself.
'Nice day out there, isn't it,' Daisy said. 'Real hot for so early in the year.'
'Five dollars' of gas,' Rita replied, refusing to be drawn into a conversation about the weather. She placed her other selections on the checkout counter. When all the purchases were rung up and totaled on the old-fashioned cash register, Rita painstakingly counted out the exact change from her purse. People running trading posts no longer routinely cheated Indians, but Rita was careful about it all the same, especially with people like Daisy Raymond.
'Need any matches for the candle?' Daisy asked.
Rita nodded.
'How come you people use so many wreaths and candles?' Daisy asked.
Rita shrugged. When the Indian woman made no reply, Daisy continued on her own. She was accustomed to carrying on these one-sided conversations.
'I told Charley just yesterday that we'd better order more-wreaths and candles, that is. He worries about running out of beer, and I have to keep track of everything else.'
Daisy paused and looked down. Peering over the counter, she noticed Davy Ladd for the first time. He stood gazing up at her in an almost accusatory blue-eyed stare. She found the child's silence disturbing.
The Anglo woman expected that kind of behavior from the Indian kids who came through the trading post. That was bad enough, but since they came from the reservation, you could understand about their being shy and backward.
With this white kid, though, it was downright impolite.
Where were his parents? she asked herself. And who was going to pay for the carton of milk?
Glancing around the room, Daisy wondered if someone else had slipped into the store unnoticed, but there was no one with the boy except an ancient, withered crone of an Indian woman. It wasn't right. It just wasn't.
Daisy leaned down until her face and Davy's were or almost the same level. He looked dirty, with a ring of chocolate milk circling his mouth. The sharp odor of wood smoke emanated from his hair and clothing. Was there such a thing as a blond Indian?
'Hello there, young man. Where'd you come from?'
The woman wore bright red lipstick that made her mouth look like an angry red gash across a pale, skinny face.
Her darting green eyes reminded Davy of a lizard he'd seen once.
