Threepersons Hunt by Brian Garfield Page A

empty space. But beyond the space the earth resumes and continues to climb. The color of the Salt River Canyon is a sun-bleached greyish tan accented with richer darknesses of eroded rock strata and clumps of growing things. There are glimpses, four thousand feet below the highway lip, of river froth at the bottom.
    The highway runs down to the bottom in switchbacks along the cliff shelf. At the top the crow-flight line from rim to rim is not more than ten or twelve miles but a driver has to spend more than an hour negotiating the heroic passage down, across and up.
    The river marks the boundary between the San Carlos Reservation and the Fort Apache Reservation. On the north side, after a bridge, there is a lonely gas station that sells ice cream, soda pop and water cans for cars that have boiled over trying to make the steep twisting climb.
    Watchman filled up at the station and put the receipt in with his expense vouchers, and began the climb. He hit the residue of the early afternoon’s rain about halfway up: slippery patches where the water had brought the oil in the pavement to the surface. He took it easy getting to the top and that was when the radio squawked into chatter and informed him that the Agency Police had found Joe Threepersons’ spoor at a clan-cluster of wickiups not far ahead of him.

CHAPTER THREE
    A T 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 grinning fiercely. “If you’re fixin’ to spend the night out here maybe you ought to make a circle with the wagons. I hear there’s a lot of hostile redskins in these parts.”
    â€œYou want a fat lip, white man.” But Watchman gave him half a smile.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œRoadblock?”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œWhat man?”
    â€œCharles 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 suntanned big face went well with the wide white hat and the white shirt.