Hour of the Hunter

Chapter 12

It was late when Diana fell asleep, and even later when she woke up on Sunday morning. With Rita gone, the house seemed empty, and prospects for breakfast weren’t good.

On her salary, eating out wasn’t something Diana could afford often, but that Sunday morning seemed like a time to splurge. Both she and Davy had been through enough of a wringer that a special treat was in order. They drove to Uncle John’s Pancake House on Miracle Mile and waited through the Sunday morning crush.

Over brightly colored menus, Diana explained that Davy could choose from any number of Mil-gahn foods-eggs and bacon, buttermilk pancakes, Swedish pancakes, German pancakes-but popovers with honey or tortillas with peanut butter weren’t an option.

The waitress, a crusty old dame from the eat-it-or-wear-it school of food service, arrived at their table pad in hand. She fixed her eyes on Davy. “What’ll you have, young man?”

Shyly, he ducked his head. “Swedish,” he said in a strangled whisper. “With the red berries.”

“And what to drink?”

“Milk.”

“How about you, ma’am?”

“German pancakes and coffee.”

The waitress nodded and disappeared, returning a few moments later with coffee and milk. She put the milk in front of Davy. “How’d you get all those stitches?” she asked.

Davy blushed and didn’t answer. “He was in a car accident,” Diana explained, speaking for him. “Out on the reservation.”

The waitress frowned at that, but she left the table without saying anything more. A few minutes later, she was back, carrying a section of the Sunday paper. “This you?” she asked, holding the paper up so Davy could see it.

Davy looked at the picture and nodded. “What’s that?” Diana asked.

The waitress looked at Diana in surprise. “You mean you don’t know about it?”

Handed the paper, a stunned Diana Ladd found herself staring into the eyes of a clearly recognizable picture of her son, complete with stitches.

“Your breakfast’s on me this morning, sweetie,” the waitress was saying to Davy. “You sound like a regular little hero to me, saving that old woman’s life. Wouldn’t you like something else along with your pancakes, a milk shake maybe?”

“No,” Davy said. “Thank you. Just milk.”

The waitress left, and Diana turned on Davy. “How did your picture get into the newspaper?”

Her son glanced nervously at the paper. Next to his own picture was a smaller one, a head shot of the man who had spoken to him the previous afternoon. “The man had a camera. He took my picture yesterday while you were inside the hospital with Rita.”

“You talked to a reporter?” Diana demanded, her voice rising in pitch. “You let him take your picture?”

Davy squirmed lower in his chair until his eyes barely showed above the top of the booth. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He was a friend of my father’s,” Davy told her. “I was afraid you’d get mad.”

And, of course, he was right.

From George’s Beat, a biweekly column by George O’Connell in the Arizona Daily Sun, June 14, 1975:

Seven years ago Friday a young Papago woman died brutally in the desert west of Tucson. Two men were eventually implicated in the death of twenty-two-year-old Gina Antone. One of them was a student of creative writing at the University of Arizona. The other was the English professor in charge of that same program.

The professor, Andrew Carlisle, was eventually convicted of voluntary manslaughter and second degree rape. He was sentenced to serve time in the Arizona State Prison at Florence, while his student, Garrison Ladd, committed suicide rather than face arrest and conviction.

Now, seven years later to the day, two of the families involved in that earlier tragedy are once more linked together in the news, only this time with a far different result.

On Friday, Rita Antone, the slain girl’s sixty-five-year-old grandmother, was severely injured in an automobile accident on Highway 386, forty miles west of Tucson. Mrs. Antone now makes her home in Tucson with Diana Ladd, Garrison Ladd’s widow, and her son, David.

Medics from the scene report that Mrs. Antone would probably have died without reaching the Indian Health Service Hospital in Sells had it not been for the quick-witted thinking of six-year-old David, who was himself injured in the accident.

One of the first to arrive on the scene after the single-vehicle rollover accident was Joe Baxter, a Tucson resident on his way to Rocky Point for the weekend. Baxter said that it was David Ladd’s firm insistence that there was an ambulance available at the Kitt Peak Observatory that prompted him and a traveling companion to seek help there. Aid summoned from either Sells or Tucson probably would have arrived too late to save Mrs. Antone’s life.

Years ago, when I was finishing my graduate degree in English at the University of Arizona, I was enrolled in a literature class with David Ladd’s father, who, like many of our classmates, had delusions of being the Great American Novelist and creating a heroic masterpiece to leave as a legacy.

Mostly those dreams were just that-all dream and no action. However, I’m realizing now that there’s more than one kind of masterpiece. Garrison Ladd’s son, reticent about his own brave behavior despite injuries that required twelve stitches, is that heroic masterpiece, but he’s certainly not the only hero in the drama.

Talking to him, I learned that Rita Antone, grandmother of the girl whose murder was linked to Garrison Ladd, is now a well-loved member of the Ladd family.

It strikes me as ironic (and more than a bit inspiring) that these two women, Diana Ladd and Rita Antone, an Anglo woman and an Indian, whose lives were first linked by death and mutual tragedy, have gone on to forge a relationship based on love and mutual respect.

It is an atmosphere in which two courageous women are raising a very responsible young man, one who in no way can be regarded as a chip off the old block.

In a world where bad news usually outweighs the good, where there are always far more questions than there are answers, it’s refreshing to know this kind of thing can happen.

Long ago, Evil Siwani, a powerful medicine man, became jealous of I’itoi. Three times the medicine man and his wicked followers killed I’itoi, and three times I’itoi came back to life. The fourth time, when morning came, I’itoi was still dead.

“That’s all right,” his followers said. “In four days, he will come back to life.” But on the morning of the fourth day, I’itoi was still dead.

Many years passed. One day some children from a village found an old man sitting next to a charco near where I’itoi’s bones had been left to dry in the sun. The old man was making a belt to carry an olla. “What are you doing, old man?” the children asked.

“You must watch carefully,” he said. “Something surprising is going to happen.”

So the children went home and told their parents. All the people from the village came to see the old man. They found him filling his olla with water. The people knew at once he was I’itoi grown to be very old. They wanted to talk to him, but before they could, he picked up his olla and started off toward the east.

There were many people along the way, but I’itoi knew these were the S-ohbsgam, the Apachelike followers of Evil Siwani, so he didn’t speak to them. When I’itoi arrived at the village in the East he asked to see the chief, then he sang his song and told them he was I’itoi, who had made them. He told them how the Ohb, the Enemy, had killed him four times, and how each time he had come back to life. The chief of the East listened to I’itoi’s song. When it was finished, he said, “I may not be able to help you, but go to my brother in the West. Tell him your story. I will do whatever he says.”

I’itoi traveled far until he found the chief of the West. He sang his song that told about how the medicine man and his followers, the S-ohbsgam, had killed him four times and how each time he had come back to life. The chief of the West shook his head. “I don’t know if I can help you. Go to my elder brother, chief of the North, and ask him. I will do whatever he says.”

So I’itoi went to the chief of the North, who listened to his song. “I do not know if I can help you,” the chief said. “Go to my elder brother, chief of the South. I will do whatever he says.”

Once more I’itoi traveled a long, long way, and once more he sang his song, about how Evil Siwani and the S-ohbsgam had killed him four times and how he had come back to life. As soon as the chief of the South heard this, he sent a messenger to the villages of all his brothers.

“Come,” he told them. “Whoever wants to prove his manhood must come with me. This man has suffered much at the hands of Siwani and his S-ohbsgam. We must go and help him.”

And this, my Friend, was the beginning of the final battle between Evil Siwani and I’itoi.

Morning came and so did breakfast. Rita lay with her eyes closed, but she didn’t sleep.

Understanding Woman went to the circle to visit with her friends while Dancing Quail gravitated to the younger women. Unfortunately, her new clothing and job at the mission didn’t purchase what she wanted most-respect and acceptance from her peers. To the others, she was still Hejel Wi’ikam, still Orphaned Child. Girls who worked in Tucson still looked down on her.

Laughing easily, they gossiped endlessly about the latest one of their number who had “done bad” and been shipped home in disgrace. They giggled about exploits from their latest day off and speculated about who would marry next. On the fringes of their laughter, Dancing Quail had nothing to say. Several girls who were planning weddings were younger than she. Finally, one of them turned on her, a mean girl she had known briefly in Phoenix.

“What about you?” the girl asked. “Who will marry you?”

“I don’t know,” Rita answered despairingly, ducking her head.

The other girl giggled. “Since you already live with the sisters, maybe you should be one of them. If no O’odham will have you, maybe you should be a Bride of Christ.”

At that, all the girls broke into gales of laughter. Ashamed, Dancing Quail took her sleeping mat and blanket and fled into the night, far from the fires and songs of the feast, far from the other girls’ deriding laughter. She stumbled up the mountain to a place where she had played and hidden as a child. There, she lay down and wept.

Much later, long after she’d quit crying, Dancing Quail heard someone calling her name. Worried when he found her missing from the group, Father John came looking for her.

“Here,” she called in answer.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, blundering into the clearing. “Why did you run away? Is someone here with you?”

“I am hejelko,” she answered. “I am alone.”

“But why? What’s wrong?” He knelt beside her. As he reached out to touch her face, the tears started again.

“I’m not brave enough to choose for myself. The girls say no one will choose me.”

“Nonsense.” Father John gathered her into his arms. “You’re young and beautiful, strong and healthy. Of course someone will choose you.”

Despite his intention of making only an obligatory appearance at the dance, it had been necessary, in order to be polite, that Father John drink the thick, pungent wine. He had sat in the circle while servers had come around several times, dispensing wine from ancient, wine-stained baskets. Without his being aware of it, the volatile drink had overtaken him. The comforting, fatherly caress with which he intended to console Dancing Quail soon evolved into something quite different.

The mutual but unacknowledged attraction between them had long been held at bay by sobriety and by the singular force of Father John’s convictions. Now, those convictions crumpled. What passed between them then was as unanticipated and electrifying as a bolt of lightning on a clear, still night.

It happened once and only once, but as is so often the case, once was more than enough. The damage was done.

Again Andrew Carlisle took his time at the scene of his latest triumph. He treated himself to a luxurious bath-Johnny Rivkin’s bathroom held numerous wonderful bath potions. Finished bathing, Carlisle meticulously removed all body hairs from the drain and flushed them down the toilet. He went through the room, looting it at leisure, taking all the cash, leaving everything else, and thoroughly cleaning each surface as he finished with it.

The closet was another matter entirely. There were some things in there that he simply couldn’t bear to leave behind, including a loose-fitting lush pink silk pantsuit that fit him perfectly. Two more wigs, these of much better quality than the one he had purchased, some underwear, and two pairs of hooker-heel shoes that might have been made for him. After choosing some items to wear, Carlisle stowed the rest, including the clothing he’d worn into the hotel, in one of Rivkin’s monogrammed Hartmann suitcases.

He took more than usual pains with his makeup, so that shortly after six that Sunday morning, when a well-dressed woman walked through the lobby carrying a suitcase, nobody paid the slightest attention to her. She paused outside the door long enough to pull a Sunday edition of the Arizona Daily Sun out of a vending machine, but nobody noticed that, either.

Three blocks away, totally out of sight of the Santa Rita, Andrew Carlisle climbed back into Jake Spaulding’s waiting Valiant. As he drove north, he took perverse pleasure in anticipating the kind of effect his costume would have on his mother. Myrna Louise had never approved of him dressing up, not even when he was little.

Oh, well, he thought, dismissing her. Other than packing his lunch and maybe washing a few clothes now and then, what had Myrna Louise ever done for him?

Driving home from breakfast, Diana seethed with anger. Some of it was aimed at Davy, but most was reserved for that damn full-of-business columnist. It was despicable for him to have taken advantage of an innocent child, to interview him and pry out information. Not only that, what, if anything, had he told Davy about his father? How much did George O’Connell know to tell?

Not as much as I do, Diana thought, with her whole body aching from the pain of remembering. Not nearly as much.

Garrison Ladd had slept the entire day away while Diana waited with her stomach roiling inside her. She wanted him to wake up and talk to her.

Feeling so physically ill bothered Diana. It wasn’t like her to be sick. Since she wasn’t feverish, she chalked it up to lack of sleep and a bad case of nerves. She steeled herself for what she regarded as the worst it could be-another other woman, she supposed. The very thought of it sent her spinning into a dizzying wash of memory, of coming home to Eugene from Joseph unexpectedly one weekend during her mother’s final illness, of walking into her own house and finding Gary in bed with one of the female teaching assistants.

Already worn by the constant strain of care-giving, Diana snapped, turning into a wild woman and running raving through the house. She screamed and threw things and broke them, while the terrified T.A. cowered naked behind a locked bathroom door. Gary followed Diana from room to room, trying to keep her from hurting herself, pleading with her to listen to reason.

Reason! He had balls enough to use the word reason on her, as though she were a child pitching a temper tantrum. Still raging, she left the house vowing divorce. She went straight back to Joseph and to caring for her mother. What else was there to do?

Predictably, Gary appeared in Joseph two days later, bearing flowers and candy and gift-wrapped apologies. He begged and cajoled. He hadn’t intended for it to happen, but he was so lonely with Diana gone all the time. It never would have happened if he hadn’t missed her so much. He’d change, he promised. As soon as Diana got her undergraduate degree, they’d leave Eugene, whether he was finished with his Ph.D. program or not. They’d go somewhere else and start over, if she’d please just take him back.

Christ! she thought, waiting for him to wake up and fighting back a wave of nausea. How could I have been so dumb? How could she possibly have believed him? she wondered, and yet she had. Why? Because believing was easier than admitting you were wrong, easier than telling your dying Catholic mother that her only daughter was getting a divorce. But most of all, because believing was what Diana Ladd had wanted to do more than anything else. In spite of everything that had happened, she loved Garrison Ladd. She wanted him to love her back with the same unreasoning devotion.

At four that afternoon, Gary got up and came out into the living room of their shabby, school-owned thirteen-by-seventy-foot mobile home. “Hello,” he said sheepishly.

“Hello,” she returned. “How are you?”

“Hung over as hell. That cactus wine is a killer.” Gary had uttered the words without even thinking, and then, as they registered, he turned ashen gray.

Diana didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but she remembered the incident later with terrible clarity as the nightmare of Gina Antone’s death began to unfold around her. What he said was nothing more than a slip of the tongue, but it was a clue. If she had paid attention, it might have warned her of what was to come, but she wasn’t smart enough to pick up on it, and what difference would knowing have made? She couldn’t have prevented what happened any more than she could have hoped to stop a speeding locomotive bare-handed.

She remembered Gary groping blindly for the back of a chair and dropping heavily into it. He had buried his face in his hands and wept. It was the first time Diana ever saw her husband cry.

Her own nausea totally forgotten, she hurried to comfort him and to bring him a glass of chilled iced tea. Whatever was wrong, she would do her best to fix it for him. Whatever it was, she would somehow smooth it over. After all, she had Iona’s shining example to follow, didn’t she? That’s exactly what her mother would have done, had done for all those years, all her life. Smoothed things over. For everyone.

Fat Crack’s tow truck looked at home among the others parked in the dusty San Xavier parking lot. Many of the vehicles had out-of-state licenses or rental stickers, but by far the majority were beat-up old pickups, station wagons, and sedans that belonged to the regular parishioners. Hard as it was for out-of-state guests to fathom, the musty-smelling mission still functioned as a church, with a regular schedule of well-attended masses.

While Looks At Nothing stayed in the truck, Fat Crack went to the door of the church and waited for Father John to come out. He did at last, accompanied by a somewhat younger-looking priest.

“Father John?” Fat Crack asked tentatively.

“Yes.”

“My name is Gabe Ortiz, Juanita’s son, Rita Antone’s nephew.”

A concerned frown furrowed the old man’s forehead. “I hope your aunt’s all right.”

Fat Crack nodded. “She’s fine. She’s in the hospital, but fine. I have someone over here who needs to speak to you.”

“Of course,” Father John said, excusing himself from his colleague.

Fat Crack led the way. They entered the row of parked cars a few vehicles away from the tow truck just as Looks At Nothing climbed down from his seat. The old medicine man stood leaning on his cane. He seemed to stare right through them with his glazed and sightless eyes.

Father John stopped abruptly. “This is. .” Fat Crack began.

“S-ab Neid Pi Has,” Father John supplied, speaking Looks At Nothing’s Indian name in perfectly accented Papago. “This old siwani and I have met before,” he said.

Father John stepped forward, reached out, took Looks At Nothing’s gnarled old hand, and shook it. “Nawoj,” he said. “Welcome.”

Brandon Walker was worn out with trying to find a comfortable position on the post-modern waiting-room furniture, but he had nonetheless managed a few catnaps during the early morning hours while his mother came and went from brief visits with her husband. It was just like when President Kennedy died, Brandon thought. The doctors didn’t tell everything they knew all at once for fear of starting a panic. Brandon suspected they had known last night that there was no hope of recovery for Toby Walker, but they wanted to give the family a chance to adjust to the situation. Brandon took the news as a direct act of mercy from a God he was surprised to learn he still believed in. Louella might continue to insist it wasn’t true, couldn’t possibly be true that Toby was dying, but her son knew better.

Each time a pale and shaken Louella emerged from the room, she was that much more entrenched in her disbelief. “I want a second opinion,” she announced at last.

Brandon rubbed his forehead. “What’s a second opinion going to buy you except another doctor bill?”

His question provoked Louella to outrage. “How can you mention money at a time like this? That man in there, that so-called doctor, says we should turn off the respirator. Just like that. As though it’s nothing.”

“Pop’s not there, Mom,” her son said gently. “He hasn’t been for a long time, really. Turning off the machine would be a blessing.”

He started to add “for us all,” but thought better of it.

“No! Absolutely not. I won’t have it.”

“If he lives, he’ll be a vegetable, Mom. He won’t know either of us. He won’t be able to eat on his own or stand or breathe.”

“But he’s still alive!” his mother hissed. “Your father is still alive.”

Too tired to argue anymore, Brandon capitulated. “I’ll go talk to the nurse about a second opinion,” he said.

He went to the nurses’ station and asked to speak to the head nurse.

“She’s on her break,” the clerk said.

He nodded. “That’s all right. I’m going to the cafeteria for some coffee. I’ll talk to her when I get back.”

He walked down the long breezeway to the cafeteria. It was mid-morning now and hot, but he felt chilled inside and out. The air-conditioning seemed to have settled in his blood and bones.

How would he ever make Louella see reason? She was his problem now and no one else’s. Toby was still breathing with the help of his respirator, but he was really out of the war zone. It didn’t seem fair for the focus of the battle to be immune to it.

Brandon took his cup of muddy coffee and a cigarette-he had finally bought a pack of his own-to a table in the far corner where someone had left most of a Sunday paper lying strewn with a layer of toast crumbs and speckles of greasy butter.

He started to toss the paper aside, and then stopped when he recognized Davy Ladd’s serious picture staring out at him from the top of the page. He read the article through twice before his weary brain fully grasped the material.

Why in the world would Diana Ladd have permitted Davy to be featured in the paper like that? He would have thought she’d want to preserve her privacy. After all, if she had an unlisted phone number, why go advertising her location on the front page of the second section of a Sunday paper?

Shaking his head, he tore out the page and stuffed it in his pocket. Brandon Walker was the very last person to pretend to understand why women did some of the crazy things they did. If, prior to the fact, Diana Ladd had asked his advice, he would have counseled her to keep Davy’s name and picture out of the paper at all costs. You could never tell what kind of fruitcakes would be drawn to that kind of article or how they would behave.

But the truth of the matter was, Diana Ladd hadn’t asked his advice, so MYOB, buddy, he told himself. You’ve got trouble enough of your own.

The three men wandered over to one of the many ocotillo-shaded food booths that lined the large dirt parking lot. In each shelter, two or three women worked over mesquite-burning fires, cooking popovers in vats of hot grease, filling them with chili or beans, and then selling them to the hungry San Xavier flock, churchgoers and tourists alike.

Father John led them to a booth where he evidently had a charge account of sorts. The women took his order and quickly brought back three chili popovers on folded paper plates and three cans of Orange Crush. No money changed hands.

“Shall we go into my office to eat?” Father John asked. “It’s much cooler in there.”

They went to a small office hidden behind the mission bookstore where Father John was obliged to bring in two extra chairs so they could all sit at once. While eating his own popover, Father John observed the fastidious way in which the medicine man ate. Chili popovers are notoriously messy, but Looks At Nothing consumed his meticulously, then wiped his entire face clean with a paper napkin.

Father John flushed to think that there had once been a time when he would have thrown a visiting siwani out of the mission compound, especially this particular siwani. He had learned much since those early days, not the least of which was a certain humility about who had the most direct access to God’s ear. Over the years, he had come to suspect that God listened in on a party line rather than a private one.

Patiently, although he was dying of curiosity, the old priest waited to hear what Looks At Nothing had to say. Father John knew full well that it was the medicine man and not Fat Crack who was the motivating force behind this visit. And he knew also that whatever it was, it must be a matter of life and death. Nothing less than that would have forced stiff-necked old Looks At Nothing to unbend enough to set aside their ancient rivalry.

It was August, hot and viciously humid. The summer rains had come with a vengeance, and the Topawa Mission compound was awash in thick red mud. As Father John picked his way through the puddles from rectory to church, the Indian materialized out of the shadow of a nearby mesquite tree. He moved so easily that at first the priest didn’t realize the other man was blind.

“Understanding Woman has sent me,” the man said in slow but formal English. “I must speak to you of Dancing Quail.”

Father John stopped short. “Dancing Quail. What about her? Is she ill? She missed her catechism lesson yesterday.”

The other man stopped, too, unexpectedly splashing into a puddle. As he struggled to regain his balance, Father John finally noticed that his visitor couldn’t see.

“Dancing Quail will have a baby,” he said.

“No! Whose?”

For the first time, the blind man turned his sightless eyes full on the priest. Without being told, Father John understood his visitor must be the young medicine man from Many Dogs Village, the one people called Looks At Nothing.

The blind man faced the priest, but he did not answer the question. He didn’t have to, for under the medicine man’s accusing stare Father John knew the answer all too well. His soul shriveled within him. His fingers groped for the comforting reassurance of his rosary.

“How far along is she?”

“Since the Rain Dance at Ban Thak, she has missed two mash-athga,” Looks At Nothing said, “two menstrual periods.”

“Dancing Quail has told you this?” Father John managed.

“Dancing Quail says nothing. It is her grandmother who has sent me. We who have no eyes have other ways of knowing.”

“I will quit the priesthood,” Father John declared. “I will quit and marry her.”

“No!” Looks At Nothing was adamant. “You will not see her again. She is going far away from here. It is already arranged with the outing matron. She will go to a job in Phoenix. You are not to stop her.”

“I’ll speak to Father Mark, I’ll. .”

“You will do nothing. A man who would break one vow would as easily break another.” An undercurrent of both threat and contempt permeated Looks At Nothing’s softly spoken words. “Besides,” he added icily, “Father Mark has already been told.”

“You want her for yourself!” The accusation shot from Father John’s lips before he had time to think.

Looks At Nothing recoiled as though he’d been slapped. In his earlier, hotheaded days, such an insult might have merited a fight to the death. The man he had killed in Ajo had died for much less, but now the medicine man simply stepped back, putting a yard or so of distance between them.

“I am mahniko,” Looks At Nothing said slowly and with great dignity, “a cripple, marked by I’itoi as a holy man. You would do well to be the same.” With that, he turned and walked away.

Determined to plead his case to his superior, Father John left at once for San Xavier. Father Mark refused to consider the idea of the younger priest renouncing his vows to marry the girl.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “She’s gone. Forget about her. You have a vocation.”

Father John returned to Topawa to find that both Dancing Quail and Understanding Woman had disappeared from the mission compound. He heard that the old woman died the following year, alone in her hut in Ban Thak. Father John didn’t see Dancing Quail again for almost thirty years, but he prayed for her daily, for her and for her child as well.

Looks At Nothing pulled a cigarette and lighter from the cracked leather pouch he wore around his waist. Father John watched with some admiration as the blind man, with steady hands, used a Zippo lighter to fire the ceremonial cigarette, the Peace Smoke, as the Papagos called it.

The medicine man took a long drag and then passed it to the priest. “Nawoj,” he said.

“Nawoj,” Father John returned. He had never learned to appreciate the sharp, bitter taste of Indian tobacco, but he inhaled without betraying his opinion. He passed the cigarette along to Fat Crack, who took his turn.

“We are here to talk about the boy,” Looks At Nothing announced.

“What boy?” Father John asked, confused by the medicine man’s statement. Who was he talking about?

“His name is Davy Ladd,” Looks At Nothing continued. “He is the son of the woman Dancing Quail lives with.”

Rita Antone’s old name spun out of the past in a whirlwind of memory that gathered both old men into its vortex while Fat Crack was left temporarily mystified. Dancing Quail? Who was that? It was a name he’d never heard before.

Father John caught himself. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Davy Ladd. I remember now. What about him?”

“He is unbaptized,” Looks At Nothing answered. For a moment, nothing more was said as the cigarette once more made the rounds. “Unbaptized in both the Mil-gahn way and the O’odham way. He is a danger to himself, to his mother, and especially to Dancing Quail.”

“Why do you tell me this?” Father John asked. “What does this have to do with me?”

“His mother was once a child of your church, your tribe. She has fallen away and has never taken her baby to the church. You must fix this.”

Father John’s first impulse was to laugh, but he had long since learned to suppress those inappropriate inclinations.

“Siwani,” the priest said placatingly. “Baptism is a complicated issue. I can’t just fix it, as you say.”

Looks At Nothing rose, and for a moment stood over the other two men, leaning on his cane like a strange three-legged bird.

“You must,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone that brooked no argument. “You must, or Dancing Quail will die.”

With that the old medicine man turned and made his way out of the room, while Fat Crack followed closely behind.