The Threepersons Hunt

CHAPTER THREE

AT THREE o’clock two cars came tandem down the rutted track: a Highway Department panel truck preceded by Watchman’s Volvo with Buck Stevens at the wheel.

Stevens emerged gri

“You want a fat lip, white man.” But Watchman gave him half a smile.

“I brought your clothes. That’s a pretty shrewd idea, disguising yourself as an Indian.” Stevens’ guileless smile hid none of the sarcasm.

They talked while Watchman changed into mufti: Levi’s and a plaid shirt and his rundown mountain boots, and a stockman’s hat that drooped at the brim. The crew from the yellow panel truck were jacking up the cruiser and changing tires one by one.

“You realize you’ve only been on this job six hours and you’ve already gone over budget,” Stevens said. “You know what it cost to get that truck out here with four new tires?” He plucked a stalk of yellow grass from the ground and poked it into the corner of his mouth. It was the color of his hair. “Man stopped me down the road a few miles.”

“Roadblock?”

“No. Some cowboy, asked me if I was the trooper assigned to the Threepersons case. He said there’s a man down at the horse camp wants to talk to you real bad.”

“What man?”

“Charles Rand.”

Watchman rammed his shirttails into his Levi’s and cinched up the belt. “May as well have a look at him. He might be able to help.”

2.

It looked as out of place as a Cunard liner in the midst of a Portuguese fishing fleet. It was a big silver-grey Rolls Bentley polished to a deep shine. From half a mile away, driving down toward the horse camp, Watchman was able to recognize it.

Watchman had left Buck Stevens with the Highway Department crew. When the cruiser was reshod he would drive it back to the barn. Watchman drove the rattling old Volvo into the yard of the Apache horse camp and parked it beside the towering Bentley. The Agency Police car was still parked where it had been before; Watchman had the feeling Officer Porvo had been ordered to wait here for Charles Rand’s arrival.

There was a small group out in the meadow talking—three Indians and three Anglos. They had seen Watchman arrive and they were walking in toward him.

Even at a hundred yards he recognized Charles Rand easily from magazine photographs. The sunta

The two Anglo cowboys with Rand had the narrow-hipped stride of rodeo riders and they both carried rifles. The two Indians were men Watchman had seen earlier in camp—probably head men in the clan—and then there was Patrolman Pete Porvo with his small high eyes drilling into everything they touched.

Rand came forward ahead of the others. Watchman met him at the open corral gate. He dredged the ID wallet out of his hip pocket and flapped it open to display his badge but Rand hardly glanced at it.

“I’m with the Highway Patrol.”

“I’m against it, personally.” But Rand smiled. The outdoor eyes crinkled to show he was joshing. He had a slight Texas prairie twang in his voice. “I hear he shot the tires out from under you.”

“It wasn’t Threepersons. Whoever it was had wheels.”

“Then he’s got help.” Rand’s lips made a thin line, under pressure. He turned his gaze toward the hills. “Son of a bitch.”

The others caught up. Watchman was looking at Pete Porvo. The Apache policeman’s face had closed up—with guilt, or with i

Rand said, “I’d like to get a crew out on his trail before he decides to use that rifle he’s got. You got any objections?”

“You’d have to talk to the Apache Council about that. It’s their land.”

“They’re not going to lift a finger and you know it.” Rand was staring at Porvo now. Porvo reacted with a quick grin that came and went almost instantly: a rictus of unease.

Rand turned his shoulder to the Agency cop and said to Watchman, “Walk off here a little piece with me,” and strolled toward the Bentley.

Watchman went along with him. Rand was fitting a pair of big-lensed sunglasses into place, hooking them over one ear at a time. “Look. Suppose I brought half a dozen, a dozen men over here and put them under your command. You’ve got jurisdiction here.”

“Sorry, Mr. Rand.”

“My men are eager to help.”

“Sure they are. But you tell me a better way to stir up hard feelings on the Reservation. Having a gang of your cowboys stomping all over it with guns in their hands? Thanks just the same, but I’ll pass.”

At the door of the Bentley Rand stopped to face him. There was no chauffeur; Rand would be the kind of man who did the driving himself.

“You’re Navajo.”

“That’s right.”

“How’s that going to affect the way you conduct this hunt?”

“My job’s to find the man, not make excuses. That answer you?”

“I’ll reserve judgment until I see you perform. So far you’re off to a piss-poor start.”

Watchman smiled. “I guess I am.”

“I asked Phoenix to send a manhunt out and they oblige me with one Navajo. It’s got a stink of politics to it and I’ve always had a first-rate sense of smell. I’m putting you on notice—understood?”

“I think we ought to straighten one thing out, Mr. Rand. You don’t wear the right uniform to give me orders.”

Rand’s teeth showed. “Sure as God made little green apples, mister, the right word from me and you can get blown clear out of your job. You’re obliged to pay attention when I talk to you, hear?”

Watchman said nothing. Rand blustered on a little while until he heard himself. Then he stopped, slightly embarrassed but continuing to regard Watchman disdainfully. “Down in Phoenix they figure nobody cares what happens to a no-account Indian. Well I just want it clear this is one Indian who’s got enemies in high places. I want him brought down and I want it done fast.”

Watchman asked gently: “Why?”

The sunglasses hid Rand’s reaction. After a moment he said, “Let’s just say I’ve got a grudge against him. It was my foreman he killed.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“My foreman’s just as dead as he was then.”

“Come off it, Mr. Rand.”

The Texan put his hand to his mouth and dragged down the corners of his lips as if clawing grit from the crevices.

“All right, look. I’ve got a property up there that shares thirty miles of boundary with this Reservation. I run beef up there—hell I feed the population of a fair-size city every year. It’s not the biggest industry I’ve got, but I’m still the Texas cowman my daddy made me and this ranch counts heavy with me. You understand what I’m sayin’? Then this worthless Apache kid comes busting up here, ramming around the Reservation, stirring folks up, and before you know it there’s going to be an incident. Now I don’t want an incident. I can’t afford one right now. I want this boy stopped before he can create one.”

“I’m just a country boy myself, Mr. Rand, and I don’t see the co

“Then I’ll spell it out. This tribe’s got litigation against me, they’re trying to destroy my beef operation by drying up my water supplies. Now that case could go either way right now. But suppose there’s a big splash of publicity about some poor unfortunate lone Indian that’s being hounded for weeks and weeks by merciless white racist authorities. You see what that does? I can’t afford to let the bleeding-heart press get all het up right now on this killer-boy’s account. That kind of sentimental horseshit weighs too heavy with some of those Federal judges. They claim they’re objective but that’s a lot of crap—they’re just like everybody else in the government; they’re petty bureaucratic hacks and they’re eager to get pushed around by public opinion. Here I’m ru