aura of joy infused them. The sound of a drum, monotonously and primevally rhythmic, was heard. The children cleaning Ashby's car began to run in the direction of the drum and Ashby shouted after them:
"Hey, I thought we made a deal—a buck a head . . ."
The car was clean in sections, but crazy-quilt smears still disfigured it.
"Save your breath," Crawford said, "they're going to their prayer meeting. They're crazy—mad, i tell you. I can't control any of them."
"Who?"
"Bradford and the Yaqui. They converted the whole bunch of them to some kind of religion, mystical . . . I don't understand any of it."
"Who's the Yaqui?" he asked as Crawford rubbed his rheumy eyes and dispensed with the task of civility by pulling from the bottle.
"He's what they call a sorcerer. Bradford's his disciple," he added ominously.
Below them, in a large circle around a tent made of lizard skin, were the Indians. Two men joined hands and moved to the center; they both held torches. Then, at some signal, the entire group broke into an eerie chant.
" Om Mane Padme Om . . . "
They repeated the words endlessly until the sound became a low hypnotic wail.
"It's like this a lot of the time, but then sometimes they all go for days without saying a word," Crawford said. "Silence . . . total silence. Scares me."
"Why do they do it?"
"I don't know. I've been on other reservations, and this one's different. It changed when Bradford and the Yaqui drifted up from Mexico some years back. They brought some kind of mushroom with them, and they chew it. Gets 'em high for days. They get hallucinations and run around naked, screaming." He paused and stared at him helplessly. "Bradford once told me that they're entering God by eating the mushroom—a sacred mushroom God. They're insane. If you knew what was good for you, you'd get the hell out of here."
"Bradford was a mountain climber once," Ashby said. "He led a party up Mount Everest."
"Don't surprise me none. He goes on retreats with the Yaqui up Palomar Mountain." He indicated a stark black outline silhouetted by moonlight. "They don't carry no food or water, and they go barefoot," he added incredulously.
"According to what I heard," Ashby continued, "Bradford let his party die. He panicked and ran out on them."
The agent wheezed, and a spume of phlegm gathered in his throat. Ashby realized that he was being laughed at.
"Bradford's a lot of things to the people around here, but I never heard he was a coward. Last year a bunch of FBI agents come up here and arrested the Yaqui. They claimed he was dealing dope. Well, there was one hell of a fight. Six of the Utes were shot—massacred, if you want my opinion. But they didn't get away easy. They lost two of their agents. They arrested Bradford for it and kept him in jail for a few weeks, but they couldn't find any witnesses."
"Did Bradford kill the FBI men?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't say."
Chapter Seven
Bradford sat cross-legged, balancing a tin plate with charred trout on it. He hadn't touched his food. He waited for the Yaqui. The old man came out of his tent, frail and limping. His white beard, which had been full and shapely when Bradford had first met him in Tuxpan, ten years ago, now resembled the frayed ends of a knotted rug. The eyes were deep-set and in the firelight were like irregular anthracite pebbles. The Yaqui had not been eating, and Bradford was worried about him. It would be humiliating and disrespectful to attempt to feed him, and he would be rejected. The Yaqui was his guide, and their roles could never be reversed.
Their relationship could be traced to Bradford's return from Everest with the story of his encounter with the Yeti. The media and his colleagues had built a wall of ridicule around him, destroying his self-confidence, until Bradford reached the end of his own resources and began to doubt his own experience.
A gradual process of deterioration as insidious as an unidentified virus had finally worn Bradford down: He
"Hey, I thought we made a deal—a buck a head . . ."
The car was clean in sections, but crazy-quilt smears still disfigured it.
"Save your breath," Crawford said, "they're going to their prayer meeting. They're crazy—mad, i tell you. I can't control any of them."
"Who?"
"Bradford and the Yaqui. They converted the whole bunch of them to some kind of religion, mystical . . . I don't understand any of it."
"Who's the Yaqui?" he asked as Crawford rubbed his rheumy eyes and dispensed with the task of civility by pulling from the bottle.
"He's what they call a sorcerer. Bradford's his disciple," he added ominously.
Below them, in a large circle around a tent made of lizard skin, were the Indians. Two men joined hands and moved to the center; they both held torches. Then, at some signal, the entire group broke into an eerie chant.
" Om Mane Padme Om . . . "
They repeated the words endlessly until the sound became a low hypnotic wail.
"It's like this a lot of the time, but then sometimes they all go for days without saying a word," Crawford said. "Silence . . . total silence. Scares me."
"Why do they do it?"
"I don't know. I've been on other reservations, and this one's different. It changed when Bradford and the Yaqui drifted up from Mexico some years back. They brought some kind of mushroom with them, and they chew it. Gets 'em high for days. They get hallucinations and run around naked, screaming." He paused and stared at him helplessly. "Bradford once told me that they're entering God by eating the mushroom—a sacred mushroom God. They're insane. If you knew what was good for you, you'd get the hell out of here."
"Bradford was a mountain climber once," Ashby said. "He led a party up Mount Everest."
"Don't surprise me none. He goes on retreats with the Yaqui up Palomar Mountain." He indicated a stark black outline silhouetted by moonlight. "They don't carry no food or water, and they go barefoot," he added incredulously.
"According to what I heard," Ashby continued, "Bradford let his party die. He panicked and ran out on them."
The agent wheezed, and a spume of phlegm gathered in his throat. Ashby realized that he was being laughed at.
"Bradford's a lot of things to the people around here, but I never heard he was a coward. Last year a bunch of FBI agents come up here and arrested the Yaqui. They claimed he was dealing dope. Well, there was one hell of a fight. Six of the Utes were shot—massacred, if you want my opinion. But they didn't get away easy. They lost two of their agents. They arrested Bradford for it and kept him in jail for a few weeks, but they couldn't find any witnesses."
"Did Bradford kill the FBI men?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't say."
Chapter Seven
Bradford sat cross-legged, balancing a tin plate with charred trout on it. He hadn't touched his food. He waited for the Yaqui. The old man came out of his tent, frail and limping. His white beard, which had been full and shapely when Bradford had first met him in Tuxpan, ten years ago, now resembled the frayed ends of a knotted rug. The eyes were deep-set and in the firelight were like irregular anthracite pebbles. The Yaqui had not been eating, and Bradford was worried about him. It would be humiliating and disrespectful to attempt to feed him, and he would be rejected. The Yaqui was his guide, and their roles could never be reversed.
Their relationship could be traced to Bradford's return from Everest with the story of his encounter with the Yeti. The media and his colleagues had built a wall of ridicule around him, destroying his self-confidence, until Bradford reached the end of his own resources and began to doubt his own experience.
A gradual process of deterioration as insidious as an unidentified virus had finally worn Bradford down: He
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