thillerman.theblessingway-第30部分

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pty　and　had　e　down　with　a　heavy　weight　on　its　rear　tires。　And　then　the　irritatingly　chaotic　affair　of　Luis　Horseman　would　be　basically　orderly；　with　only　a　few　minor　puzzles　to　solve。
　The　narrow　ridge　offered　few　choices　of　paths；　even　for　a　four…wheel…drive　vehicle；　and　Leaphorn　found　the　tire　tracks　quickly。　There　were　four　sets　instead　of　the　two　he　had　expected　to　find；　indicating　two　trips　up　and　two　trips　down。　He　made　no　attempt　to　find　meaning　in　that。　He　concentrated　on　the　fresher　tracks；　establishing　by　the　traction　direction　which　of　them　had　been　made　going　up　the　slope。　In　an　area　where　the　soil　was　soft　he　checked　the　depth　of　the　tire　marks。　Exactly　as　he　had　expected。　On　the　trip　down；　the　rear　tires　had　cut　almost　a　half…inch　deeper。
　Behind　him　the　horse　snorted　and　stamped；　fighting　off　the　flies。
　〃Horse；〃　Leaphorn　said；　〃it　es　out　just　the　way　we　figured　it　would。〃
　Leaphorn　rose　from　his　squat　and　brushed　a　fly　from　the　horse's　back。　There　was　no　trace　left　of　the　nagging　sense　of　wrongness　and　urgency　that　had　dogged　him　for　days；　none　of　that　vague；　undefined　feeling　that　something　unnatural　and　evil　was　afoot　in　his　territory。　He　understood　now。　It　was　a　good　feeling。
　And　then　Lieutenant　Joe　Leaphorn　took　two　short　steps　across　the　small　place　of　soft；　loamy　earth　and　looked　down　at　the　older　tracks。　He　recorded　the　fact　that　they　had　been　dimmed　by　at　least　one　rain　shower。　He　noticed　that　this　set；　too；　varied　in　the　depth　the　rear　tires　had　cut。　It　had　taken；　Leaphorn　thought　at　first；　two　trips　to　haul　down　the　remains　of　the　shattered　rocket。　A　split　second　later　his　mind　processed　what　his　eyes　were　seeing。　On　this　round　trip；　the　Land…Rover　had　carried　its　heavy　load　on　the　way　up…not　on　the　way　down。
　The　Navajo　language　is　too　specific　and　precise　to　lend　itself　to　effective　profanity。　Leaphorn　cursed　in　Spanish　and　then…at　length…in　English。
　It　took　Leaphorn　almost　three　hours　to　piece　together　as　much　as　he　could　of　what　had　happened　on　this　ridge　and　on　the　mesa　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