“He killed some of them?”
“I think maybe. He does not say, but I hear talk that men look for him, men die. Now nobody look. He has been there long time and nothing happen bad for them, so they no longer care, I think.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Oh, yes! He friendly to us. He is friendly to us.”
They were silent again and he considered the situation. He had an idea that Gallagher was doing the logical thing. He would be looking for the white van. It was the one bit of hard evidence he had, and it was something tangible that Gallagher himself had seen.
Certainly, if “they” were to operate on this side they must have a base, a place to sleep, to keep the van when it was not in use—a place not too far from their way back, if they had to go back.
He was dealing with something of which he knew nothing at all, nor did he know with whom he was dealing. For all he knew, some of them had been living under cover on this side for years. There might even be one of them in this very restaurant. It would be a logical listening post. If they had a base on this side it might have been established many years ago. He would have to be very, very careful.
Where did they get the van, for example? And it must have a license. The driver must have a driver’s license. That implied a connection.
Did they have more than one vehicle?
“Kawasi? Would you recognize one of the people from the Other Side if you saw one? I mean, there may be many over here.”
“I think … maybe. I do not be sure. I think sometimes I know.”
He got up. “Let’s go.” At the cash register he paid his check, and she watched carefully.
Outside the restaurant he stopped, looking around. The street was empty. A pickup drove by, with two Navajos in front. He crossed the street to his car, glancing back as he opened the door. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. Most of these people were Mormons and they knew each other. That might help Gallagher.
He drove to the nearest gas station and filled his tank. Thoughtfully, he watched the filling-station attendant. Another good place for a listening post; but the boy was paying no attention.
As they turned into the road, Raglan saw a car parked alongside the highway a good mile ahead. It was Gallagher’s car. As he neared it a hand reached out, flagging him down.
Gallagher was alone. “You got a gun?”
Raglan hesitated briefly. “Yes. I always carry one when I go into the mountains.”
“Keep it handy.”
Raglan mentioned his speculation about the possibilities of a longstanding base, and Gallagher nodded. “I been thinking the same thing. Been running people through my mind, wondering who and where.”
He sat silent, staring down the road. Then he glanced over at Raglan. “Kinda spooky,” he said. “I can’t deal with it. Not yet, anyway.” He paused again. “I’ve been reading an article about you.” He held up the magazine. “You’re used to this sort of thing.”
“You never get used to it,” Raglan said. “The frauds are easy. Almost any halfway decent magician can beat them at their own game. Most of the tricks they use were old-hat fifty years ago. People believe because they wish to believe and they don’t want the frauds exposed.
“If someone expects miracles they will see miracles.”
“I got some ideas.” Gallagher looked at Raglan. “Better keep this under your hat. No use to get a lot of talk started.”
Raglan started his car and moved down the road. The turnoff was miles ahead and very easily missed. He would have to watch closely.
Kawasi was quiet, resting her eyes, almost asleep. Mike did not feel like talking nor did she, it seemed. He was trying to remember the map Erik had sent him. It was a far different route from the one he had taken down the Canyon road, which was far away to the south. He was well over an hour from town when he turned off the highway and took the dim desert trail. When he had driven a short distance the road dipped into a hollow and he stopped the car.
Kawasi’s eyes opened. “What is it?”
He was getting out of the car. “I want to look at the road. See if there are tracks.”
He walked to the road ahead, pausing by the front bumper to study the trail. After a moment he walked on ahead, keeping alongside the trail, not wishing to smudge the tracks.
There were tire-prints from two different vehicles. The tracks were several days old, with the paw-prints of a porcupine and several ground squirrels and some snake tracks crossing them. He walked several hundred feet, studying the tracks. The first car had been driven very fast by someone who obviously knew the road—probably Erik Hokart. He had been followed by another car, certainly not the white van. Yet there were no returning tracks, so where was Erik now? Where had they taken him?
Kawasi was sitting up, watching him. “They did not come back this way,” he told her.
She shrugged. “They have other ways, not sure ways, but they exist.”
Where was Erik? If they had a hideout, a base on this side, had they taken him there? He suggested it to Kawasi.
“I think maybe,” she said, “but not long. The Hand would wish to have him to be questioned.”
“And then killed?”
“Perhaps, but I do not think so. He is scientist? I think The Hand keep him, work him. He has … how do you say? He has things for listening. Big ears.”
She paused. “He listen to what people speak to each other. All the time listen.”
From where Mike stood he could see the highway, if such it could be called. It was a lonely road along which maybe two or three cars an hour traveled. He saw nothing now. He turned, sweeping the country with his eyes. Of course there were many places a watcher could be and remain hidden.
He got into the car and started down the road. He should have a rifle or, better still, a shotgun, a sawed-off shotgun for easy handling.
After a few miles the trail branched and he took the easternmost branch. The desert growth increased as they drew nearer to some rugged ridges of bare rock. He glanced at Kawasi. “Are you frigntened?”
“Yes. They bad people. They want me very much. They very much afraid of people over here. No discipline, they say.”
“Have many been over here?”
“Oh, no! It is impossible! Almost impossible. For a long time, nobody. Sometimes an accident. If someone come from here he is tracked down and killed. At once.”
“And Johnny? The cowboy?”
“They try. He too wise. He leave no tracks. He hide very well. Several places for hide. Finally they decide he not important.”
“And you?”
“I am rebel. I think too much. I ask questions. I am threat, so I escape to hills where others wait.” She paused while Raglan negotiated a sharp turn and a dip through a wash. “There is bad dry time. Nothing grow. The plants make no seeds. Some die, many sick. They send a man for seeds, but some will not grow.” She looked at Raglan. “Is not same as here—some plants grow, some not. We do not know why. It is decide there must be a permanent way. You say permanent? It is always way we need. Much seed.”
She paused again, looking out over the desert. “What you call broccoli? It will not grow over there. It is try often. Tried often.
“Your corn is different, much bigger. But your seed does not grow well over there. It is puzzle.”
Raglan drew up behind a juniper to study the road ahead and the country around. Something was bothering him, and he had known such feelings before. Something was wrong, and he was feeling increasingly uneasy, yet he could see nothing out of the ordinary.
He had been listening with only half his attention. Some seeds that would not grow? Broccoli, among others. But wasn’t broccoli a developed plant? He knew too little about such things.
He was foolish to have come out here so late in the day. He should have waited, as he had planned to do, until morning, when he would have a full day of sunshine in which to look about.
But he had to find Erik, and if Erik was lying injured on the mesa, he must be found and helped. Above all, the key to this must be at its point of origin. At least, that was where he must begin.
X
Nothing moved on the desert. He started on, taking the car around a bend in the trail and down a steep incline. Momentarily he took his right hand from the wheel to touch his .357 magnum. It was reassuring.