Threepersons Hunt by Brian Garfield Page B

Rand wore no jacket but his slacks were obviously part of a suit that had cost as much as the average Apache made in six months. He was neither extraordinarly tall nor especially heavy but he carried himself as if he were. He didn’t strut or swagger; he was more prideful than that. His shoulders rode wide, pushed back like a lieutenant general’s; he rolled when he walked.
    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.
    â€œI’m with the Highway Patrol.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œIt wasn’t Threepersons. Whoever it was had wheels.”
    â€œThen 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 innocent resentment; it was impossible to tell which it was.
    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?”
    â€œYou’d have to talk to the Apache Council about that. It’s their land.”
    â€œThey’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.”
    â€œSorry, Mr. Rand.”
    â€œMy men are eager to help.”
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œYou’re Navajo.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow’s that going to affect the way you conduct this hunt?”
    â€œMy job’s to find the man, not make excuses. That answer you?”
    â€œI’ll reserve judgment until I see you perform. So far you’re off to a piss-poor start.”
    Watchman smiled. “I guess I am.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI 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