Stallion Gate

"Not so much a mountain as the next valley."

"Canyon?"

"I forgot. You have no valleys here, only canyons. And gulches."

At the top, through the fringe of cedars, the Jemez spread out ahead. High peaks surrounded by pines, the range smoother to the south and building like an ocean swell to the north. A

"You'd think you could see anything from here," she said.

"You're going back to Chicago?"

"Soon." As Joe stepped in front of her, she asked, "Shouldn't the lady be first?"

"Rattlesnakes." Joe nodded to the rocks along the path.

She fell in behind him. "So, Sergeant, these mountains are your home."

"According to the Army."

"You don't like the Army."

"I don't know anyone sane who likes the Army."

"That's not a direct answer. Captain Augustino seems to like the Army."

"Stay away from Captain Augustino."

"You told him about Harvey?"

"Nothing to tell."

She had a light step; she was more athletic than he'd thought.

"Tell me about Mrs Augustino," she said.

"Mrs Augustino left the Hill months ago."

"In a hurry, people say."

They came to a stop. She seemed to be studying him as if he were stuck with a pin against the sky.

"What else do people say?" Joe asked.

"They say you have a weakness for officers' wives."

"For women."

"You think I'm rude, Sergeant?"

"No, I think you're interested."

Wind lifted a wing of her collar and rubbed it against her hair.

"Perhaps we'd better look for Dr Fuchs," she said.

The path descended into a spring-fed canyon where water had cut through tiers of pumice, pink sandstone, limestone. Box elders grew at the canyon floor, ponderosas up the sides. Much of the Jemez pines had been cut for timber. Not this canyon. These ponderosas were deep orange, diamond-plated, over a hundred years old. In the soft stone walls over the tree tops, jays and dippers made their nests. In the highest and least accessible reaches of the walls were the pockmarks of handholds and the shadows of rock shelves. "This is where Fuchs went climbing?" Joe asked. A

Joe picked a crow's feather off a twig and the feather left a gray smudge on his fingers. "Could be fun by now."

At the base of the wall behind a screen of pines was a rough ladder with more feathers. Joe told A

"Gott sei Dank, du bist hier," Fuchs said when he saw A

Fuchs' neck was covered with finger smudges, so there'd been a scuffle. His hair stood up with fright. There was about a three-foot-long wooden idol wrapped up in red feathers and painted leather in a corner of the shelf. Cut in the rock under the layer of soot were ghost figures, snakes like hoops, lightning drawn as sticks.

"There are parts of this area, this canyon especially, that are set aside for local people so they can carry on their religion," Joe said,

"You mean Indians," Fuchs said. "Those are the local people," Joe said. "You mean -" Fuchs began.

"Enough," Roberto said and jabbed the barrel, not savagely, just enough to make Fuchs lean forward tenderly. "He was up here when we got here, Joe."

Joe could imagine the scene. Fuchs discovered by probably a dozen priests, most likely including Ben Reyes. It was unusual for someone from Taos to take part in a Santiago ceremony, but not unknown. A lot of men were in the service. Priests went back and forth between pueblos just to keep the old rituals rolling. The shelf must have stored altars, which Ben and the others had carried away. Ben would be back. Certainly Roberto and Fuchs weren't going anywhere. Joe had to stoop under the low ceiling. If Roberto fired the shotgun anywhere it was going to get messy. Smart of a blind man to choose a weapon with two barrels.

"Why don't we let the lady go back down?" Joe suggested.

"And run for help?" Roberto said. "May I sit?" A

"Yes." Roberto was pleased. He switched the shotgun from one arm to the other and held out his blanket.

"Thank you." She spread the blanket on the rock and sat.

"You too, Joe," Roberto said. "Thanks." Joe took the hint.

"Like a picnic." Roberto tilted his face in A

"Warm." Joe noticed that the safety on the shotgun was off.

"Going to be a dry summer," Roberto agreed.

"I still have a share in a bean field down in the pueblo. How do you think beans will do?"

"Bad year for rain," Roberto said. "Good year for lightning."

"He's blind," Fuchs whispered.

"What's that got to do with the weather?" Joe asked. Through his glasses Fuchs' pale eyes were fixed on the gun on Joe's belt. Joe reached for cigarettes. "Smoke? I owe you one."

Roberto nodded.

"He's a madman," Fuchs hissed.

"He's a spy," Roberto told Joe.

Joe tapped the last cigarettes from his pack.

"Sorry, only three," he told Fuchs. He lit all three at once and passed two to A

Roberto inhaled and smiled. "I can tell she's pretty. There's a feeling around pretty women."

"He doesn't sound crazy," A

"It's not fu

"You're German, too?" Roberto asked A

"I'd rather lose it," she said.

"Study Billie Holiday. Get her records," Joe told her. He told Fuchs, "A little Fats Waller would do you a world of good. You were spying?"

"He tried," Roberto said.

"I wasn't spying, I just happened to be here."

"Did you apologize?" Joe asked.

Fuchs snorted.

Most of the priests were old men and they would have to spirit away altars, prayer sticks, stones, fetishes, a lot to carry off a cliff. Joe put in some silence for respect before saying,

"Well, this is a very ignorant person, Roberto. What do you want to do with him?"

"Shoot him."

"Dear God," Fuchs muttered.

"That's an idea," Joe granted.

"Dear God," Fuchs muttered again.

"Are you religious?" Roberto asked him.

"His father is a minister," A

"Mormon?" Roberto asked. "We have a lot of Mormons here."

"Lutheran," Fuchs said.

"That's interesting. Don't you think that's interesting, Roberto?" Joe inquired.

"If he's a missionary, that's worse," Roberto said.

"That's right," Joe conceded.