Kitt Peak by Al Sarrantonio

as far as the law is concerned, the case is closed."
    Thomas said, "If you don't mind my saying, Marshal, that's one hell of a way for law to work. There are two murders here, plain and simple, and you're telling me there's nothing you can do?"
    They were in the Tucson City morgue, the first Thomas or Lincoln had ever been in. The room was in the basement of the hospital, little more than an underground storage room. Gas lamps flickered on the walls; one half of the room was filled with discarded hospital equipment, surplus gurneys, and instrument cases that looked as if they dated back to the War Between the States. The other half of the room displayed four rickety tables, a crude overhead electric light that flickered and then went out when Marshal Murphy attempted to turn it on, and a few white sheets piled in one corner. The ceiling was low and hollow; upstairs they could hear the comings and goings of nurses, and doctors going about their business.
    "I didn't say there's nothing I can do. I just said that officially there's nothing I can do."
    "I see," Thomas said. He turned to Lincoln, who stood back in the shadows, away from the twin tables holding the bodies. "Just like the Army, eh, Trooper Reeves?"
    "Yes, sir," Lincoln said, a sick smile crawling over his features.
    "What's the matter, Trooper? Don't you like it down here?"
    "No, sir," Reeves said truthfully.
    "Why not?"
    "Reminds me of places my grandmother told me about. The Underground Railroad. She took me to one, once. "
    "Hmmm," Thomas said. He turned back to Murphy. "So what can you do, unofficially?"
    Murphy smiled slightly. "As far as the government is concerned, this is an Indian problem. And a Papagos Indian problem, which makes it even less important to Washington. The Papagos, to put it mildly, got fleeced years ago. Their lands have been systematically stripped away from them. Papagos, as you know, means "bean people." They don't like to call themselves that. They call themselves "The People," Tohono O'otam. They're peaceful, weavers and farmers. They've never been on the warpath, as far as I know. That's why I find it hard to believe what this Kohono-si told you. The Papagos would never rise up. I've got someone out looking for this Kohono-si now. And as for this eagle business — "Murphy shrugged.
    "You don't believe it?" Thomas asked.
    "It's not a matter of believing, Mr. Mullin. The Papagos believe all kinds of things. They believe the earth is alive. They believe the sun and moon are alive, that plants and animals can talk." Murphy took a deep breath. "This eagle thing has always been part of their culture. The eagle is something like their head god. He flies highest, he lives on the highest peak, he sees all, that kind of thing. To tell you the truth, I've had reports out of the Papagos reservation for a while now about deaths from some sort of eagle, but even when I tried to find out what was going on on my own, the Papagos wouldn't talk to me. There was a reservation man out there from Washington a couple of months ago, and he found out nothing either. Not that he tried. The point is, it's their own business."
    "Even if someone's murdering people?"
    "Frankly, yes." Murphy stretched up tall; his red hair nearly brushed the ceiling. "It's their own business. They have a council of old men, and what they call a Keeper of the Smoke. These people believe dreams control their lives and destinies. And unless they specifically asked for my help, they can't have it.
    "All right," Thomas said. His face had a determined look.
    "Now hold on," Murphy said. "I know what you've got in mind, and I'm going to help you all I can. Your friend Adams here told me all about that bulldog streak in you. I just want to lay down some ground rules."
    "You honestly don't believe Bill Adams was murdered?"
    Again Murphy stretched up, sighed. "No. I believe he went up there looking for his daughter, and that he sat with the council, and that the Keeper of the Smoke gave