thillerman.theblessingway-第27节

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esa　to　which　it　led。　He　worked　methodically　and　carefully；　resisting　an　urge　to　hurry。　And　when　he　put　it　all　together；　he　had　nothing　but　another　enigma　which　offered　no　possibility　of　solution。
　To　Leaphorn's　surprise　the　Land…Rover　had　approached　the　saddle　from　the　southeast；　emerging　from　the　Chinle　Desert　from　the　direction　of　the　Lukachukai　ramparts。　On　the　first　trip　up…perhaps　as　long　as　a　month　earlier…it　had　carried　a　heavy　load　over　its　rear　axle。　At　several　places　the　driver　had　stopped　to　cut　brush　out　of　the　way；　sometimes　using　an　ax　and　sometimes　a　power　chain　saw。　To　traverse　the　steepest　slope；　where　the　saddle　rose　sharply　to　the　lip　of　the　mesa　rim…rock；　he　had　used　a　winch　line　in　several　places　to　help　pull　the　vehicle　up。　Once　on　top；　the　vehicle　had　driven　fairly　directly　about　a　mile　across　the　mesa。　There　something　heavy　and　metallic　had　been　unloaded　on　a　flat　outcropping　of　sandstone；　scoring　the　soft　rock。　From　this　point；　the　Land…Rover　had　made　a　backing　turn　and　driven　directly　back　over　the　original　track。
　Even　though　the　other　tracks　were　weeks　fresher；　he　had　spent　most　of　the　time　sorting　out　the　second　trip。　He　finally　concluded　that　on　this　trip　the　Land…Rover　had　driven　directly　to　the　sandstone　outcropping。　Then　it　had　returned　to　the　rim　where　the　saddle　joined　the　mesa。　There　several　small　trees　had　been　cut　and　a　score　of　boulders　moved；　apparently　to　clear　a　better　roadway。　At　the　site　of　this　heavy　work；　Leaphorn　found　the　tracks　of　Billy　Nez's　rubber…soled　sneakers；　marks　of　the　Big　Navajo's　flat…heeled　boots；　a　bread　wrapper；　and　an　empty　Vienna　sausage　can。　After　Billy　Nez　had　been　here…and　presumably　after　he　had　left　with　the　Big　Navajo's　stolen　hat…the　Land…Rover　had　driven　back　over　the　rim　and　back　to　the　sandstone。　There　the　heavy　object　had　been　reloaded　and　the　Land…Rover　had　driven　down　off　the　mesa。　This　much　was　clear。　Leaphorn　had　found　three　ponderosa　poles　used　as　a　tripod；　which　must　have　supported　the　pulley　used　to　lift　whatever　it　was　the　Big　Navajo　had　unloaded　and　then　reloaded。
　Leaphorn　rubbed　his　fingertips　over　his　forehead；　trying　to　recreate　exactly　what　the　Big　Navajo　had　done　on　that　second　visit　to　the　Ceniza　Mesa。
　He　had　first　driven　to　the　heavy　object。　And　what　then？　Looked　at　it？　Assured　himself　it　was　still　there？　Adjusted　it？　Fed　it？　Put　fuel　in　it？　Turned　it　off？　Or　on？　No　hope　of　guessing。　And　then　the　Big　Navajo　had　driven　back　to　the　rim　to　improve　the　steep　approach。　Why？　If　he　could　winch　the　loaded　Land…Rover　up　the　slope　he　could　winch　it　down；　given　enough　time。　Was　that　it？　Time？　Did　he　expect　to　be　in　a　hurry　ing　down？　Maybe；　Leaphorn　thought。　Maybe　that　was　it。　Time。　But　Navajos　didn't　hurry。　In　fact；　there　was　no　word　in　the　Navajo　language　for　time。
　And　then　the　Big　Navajo　had　discovered　his　hat　had　been　stolen；　had　found　the　tracks　of　Billy　Nez；　and　knew　someone　had　watched　him。　Knowing　this；　he　had　driven　back　over　the　top；　reloaded　the　heavy　object；　and　hauled　it　down　off　the　mesa。　Why？　Maybe　because　Billy　Nez　might　find　it。　But　where　had　the　big　man　taken　it？　And　what　was　it？
　Leaphorn　stood　on　the　mesa　rimrock　and　stared　out　across　the　Chinle　at　the　Lukachukai　slopes。　The　sun　was　down　now。　The　tops　of　the　evening　thunderheads　over　the　mountains　were　still　a　dazzling　sunlit　white；　but　below　the　fifteen　thousand…foot　level　they　turned　abruptly　dark　blue　with　shadow　of　oning　night。　The　desert　was　streaked　with　pink；　red；　and　purple　now；　the　reflected　afterglow　from　cloud　formations　to　the　west。　Normally　Leaphorn　would　have　been　struck　by　the　immensity　of　this　beauty。　Now　he　hardly　noticed　it。　He　stared　at　the　darkening　line　of　the　Lukachukai　ramparts；　searching　out　the　points　of　blackness；　the　open　mouths　of　the　canyons　which　drained　it。　Since　the　Land…Rover　had　e　from　the　southeast；　across　the　Chinle；　it　must　have　e　from　one　of　these。　He　could　backtrack　it。　Twenty　miles；　he　guessed。　Maybe　twenty…five；　and　a　lot　of　it　would　be　over　bare　slick　rock。　Even　in　daylight　he　wouldn't　average　a　mile　an　hour。　At　night　it　would　be　impossible。
　A　burrowing　owl；　its　wings　stiff；　planed　up　from　the　desert　below　him；　banked　into　the　invisible　elevator　of　air　rising　up　the　mesa　wall。　It　hung　on　the　current　a　few　feet　below　him…its　yellow　eyes　examining　the　rimrock　for　incautious　rodents　feeding　early。　Leaphorn　envied　its　mobility。　Since　the　moment　he　had　seen　his　orderly；　logical　explanation　of　Luis　Horseman's　death　demolished　by　the　hard　facts　of　the　Land…Rover's　tire　tracks；　the　old　sense　of　urgency　had　returned。　He　had　resisted　it　by　sheer　strength　of　will；　forcing　himself　to　concentrate　on　deciphering　what　had　happened　at　this　mesa。　Now　he　resisted　no　longer。　Instead；　he　thought　about　it…turning　this　itching　impulse　to　hurry　in　his　mind。　What　was　it　that　bothered　him？
　He　laughed；　and　the　owl；　making　a　second　and　slightly　higher　sweep　over　the　mesa　wall；　panicked　at　the　sound。　It　flapped　past　him；　trailing　its　chittering　quick…quick…quick…quick　call；　and　vanished　in　the　shadows。
　Everything　was　bothering　him；　Leaphorn　thought。　Nothing　fit。　Everything　was　irrational。　But　why　this　sense　of　time　running　out；　of　something　dangerous？
　Leaphorn　lit　a　cigarette　and　smoked　it　slowly；　thinking　hard。　Luis　Horseman　had　been　killed。　Billy　Nez　had　found　the　tracks　of　the　Big　Navajo's　Land…Rover　near　where　Horseman　had　hidden。　A　Navajo　had　been　killed　and　a　Navajo　had　killed　him…that　was　the　presumption。　Leaphorn　studied　this　presumption；　again　seeking　an　answer　to　the　central　question。　Why？　Why　did　Navajos　kill？　Not　as　lightly　as　white　men；　because　the　Navajo　Way　made　life　the　ultimate　value　and　death　unrelieved　terror。　Usually　the　motive　for　homicide　on　the　Reservation　was　simple。　Anger；　or　fear；　or　a　mixture　of　both。　Or　a　mixture　of　one　with　alcohol。　Navajos　did　not　kill　with　cold…blooded　premeditation。　Nor　did　they　kill　for　profit。　To　do　so　violated　the　scale　of　values　of　The　People。　Beyond　meeting　simple　immediate　needs；　the　Navajo　Way　placed　little　worth　on　property。　In　fact；　being　richer　than　one's　clansmen　carried　with　it　a　social　stigma。　It　was　unnatural；　and　therefore　suspicious。　From　far　behind　him　on　the　mesa　came　the　voice　of　the　owl。　Ta…whoo；　it　said。　Whoo。
　Where；　then；　was　the　motive？　There　was　something　about　all　this　that　seemed　strangely　un…Navajo。　But　the　big　man　who　drove　the　Land…Rover　was　one　of　The　People。　Leaphorn　was　sure　of　that；　remembering　the　face　in　Shoemaker's。　There　had　been　times　at　first　at　Arizona　State　when　Leaphorn　had　trouble　with　the　faces　of　white　men。　He　had　noticed　only　the　roundness　of　their　eyes　and　their　paleness　and　all　Belacani　had　looked　alike　to　him。　But　he　had　no　trouble　with　the　faces　of　the　Dinee。　The　Big　Man　had　the　face　and　the　frame　of　a　Tuba　City　Navajo…heavy…boned　without　the　delicacy　and　softness　added　by　the　Pueblo　blood　mixture。　And　he　wore　braids。　The　trademark　of　the　man　who　held　to　the　Navajo　Way。　But　why　were　the　braids　so　short？
　Leaphorn　thought　about　that　for　a　moment。　And　abruptly　he　again　had　an　answer。　Not　all　of　it。　But　enough　to　make　him　urge　the　horse　down　the　ridgeline　much　faster　than　the　tired　animal　wanted　to　move。　Enough　to　tell　him　that　Billy　Nez；　hunting　his　witch　in　the　Lukachukai　canyons；　might　actually　find　one　to　his　mortal　danger。　Enough　to　tell　him　that　he　must　be　at　the　hogan　of　Charley　Nez　at　dawn。　There　he　would　pick　up　the　boy's　trail。　The　unshod　horse　should　be　easy　to　follow。
　Mars　rose　over　the　black　outline　of　Toh…Chin…Lini　Butte　as　he　loped　across　the　Chinle　breaks；　his　mood　matching　the　gathering　darkness。　He　was　remembering　his　words　to　the　Big　Navajo　at　Shoemaker's…the　casual　words　which　he　now　was　sure　had　caused　Luis　Horseman　to　die。
　
　Chapter　16
　
　Bergen　McKee　had　been　dreaming。　He　stood　detached　from　himself；　watching　his　figure　moving　slowly　across　a　frozen　lake；　knowing　with　the　dreamer's　omniscience　that　there　was　no　water　under　the　ice…only　emptiness…and　dreading　the　nightmare　plunge　which　would　inevitably　e。　And　then　the　raucous　cawing　of　the　ravens　mixed　with　the　dream　and　broke　it　and　suddenly　he　was　awake。
　He　sat　motionless　for　a　second；　perplexed　by　the　dim　light　and　the　blank　wall　before　him。　Then　full　consciousness　flooded　back　and　with　it　the　awareness　that　he　was　sitting；　cold　and　stiff；　on　the　dusty　floor　of　a　room　in　the　Anasazi　cliff　dwelling。
　McKee　pushed　his　back　up　against　the　wall　and　looked　at　Ellen　Leon；　lying　limply　opposite　him；　face　to　the　wall；　breathing　evenly　in　her　sleep。　He　looked　at　his　watch。　It　was　almost　five；　which　meant　he　had　slept　about　six　hours　and　that　it　would　soon　be　full　dawn　on　the　mesa　above　the　canyon。　With　that　thought　came　a　quick　sense　of　urgency。
　He　looked　at　his　hand；　tightly　wrapped　now　in　bandage；　and　then　glanced　quickly　around　the　room。　The　enclosure　was　much　too　large　for　living　quarters。　It　had　been　built　either　as　a　munal　meeting　place　for　one　of　the　pueblo's　warrior　secret　societies　or　as　a　storeroom　for　grain…three　stone　walls　built　out　from　the　face　of　the　cliff　and；　like　the　cliff；　sloping　slightly　inward　at　the　top。。　The　only　way　out　was　the　way　they　had　e　in…through　a　crawl　hole　in　the　roof　where　the　wall　joined　the　cliff。　And　there　was　no　way　to　reach