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t 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 the hole without the ladder…the ladder which the Big Navajo had carefully withdrawn after leaving them here。
Outside； a raven cawed again and then there was silence。 McKee leaned against the wall and tried to sort it out。
Whatever was happening here was the product of meticulous planning。 That was clear。 Behind the brush at the foot of the cliff there had been four sections of aluminum…alloy ladder。 The man called Eddie had fit them quickly together； fastened them with bolts and wing nuts； and they reached exactly from a massive sandstone block at the top of the talus slope to this shelf。 If the ladder was not custom…built for the purpose； at least the bolt holes had been drilled with this cliff dwelling in mind。
And； when they had reached the top； Eddie had pulled up the ladder； and laid it carefully out of sight。 The action obviously had long since bee habit。 It would leave anyone passing below no hint that this cleft was occupied。 It was equally obvious that the peculiar hide…out had been occupied for weeks。 Behind a screen of bushes which grew back from the ledge under the overhanging cliff there was all the equipment for a permanent camp…a two…burner kerosene stove； a half…dozen five…gallon cans and a tarp stretched low to the ground protecting cartons and boxes。 And there had been two bedrolls。 Whoever else was involved must sleep somewhere else； perhaps directing this operation from somewhere outside。 From what Eddie had said； others would tell them when they could leave。
And whoever they were； they had a radio transmitter。 After Eddie had fished cans of meat and beans from under the tarp and fed them and started him soaking his hand in a pot of steaming water； the Big Navajo had climbed back down the ladder。 He had sat for a long time in the Land…Rover and when he returned he had news。
McKee rubbed his knuckles across his forehead； remembering exactly。 The big man had been grinning when he walked up to where Eddie was sitting…grinning broadly。
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