thillerman.theblessingway-第14节

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　Horseman　had　hardly　returned　to　the　Lukachukais　when　the　incidents　started；　and　at　least　one　had　happened　before　the　knifing　in　Gallup。　Besides；　the　types　suspected　of　witchcraft　were　always　older；　usually　with　a　lot　of　material　possessions　and　a　lot　of　enemies。
　There　was　the　sound　of　chanting　from　the　ceremonial　hogan　now；　and　the　thudding　of　the　pot　drum。　Sandoval　came　through　the　curtain；　followed　by　Tsosie；　two　cousins；　and　the　uncle　who　was　representing　Agnes　Tsosie。　Even　their　loin　cloths　had　been　blackened　with　ashes；　and　each　held　in　his　right　hand　a　raven　beak；　secured　to　a　juniper　stick　with　yucca　and　buckskin　thongs。　The　Scalp　Shooter　picked　up　his　basket　of　ashes　and　was　walking　north…northeast。　It　was　the　direction；　Leaphorn　noted；　of　the　higher　central　peaks　of　the　Lukachukais。　Over　the　peaks；　a　tremendous　thunderhead　was　rising；　its　top　boiling　in　relentless　slow　motion　into　the　stratosphere；　its　bottom　black　with　shadow　and　trailing　the　first　thin　curtains　of　rain。
　Sandoval　will　know　his　medicine　is　working；　Leaphorn　thought。　He　has　called　for　Thunder　to　kill　the　Wolf　and　Thunder　has　e　to　the　appointed　place。　It　was　interesting　that　the　Singer　from　the　Stick　Carrier's　camp　had　placed　the　scalp　so　carefully　north…by…northeast　of　the　hogan。　That　meant　they　believed　the　Wolf　was　now　somewhere　in　that　direction。
　Leaphorn　trailed　along　with　the　crowd。　The　Scalp　Shooter　had　stopped　at　a　dead　creosote　bush　about　two　hundred　yards　from　the　hogan　and　was　sprinkling　something　under　the　bush　with　ash。　He　stepped　aside　and　Tsosie　and　his　kinsmen　poked　at　the　object　with　their　raven　bills；　killing　it　with　this　symbol　of　contempt。　Leaphorn　pushed　through　the　crowd。　The　spectators　were　silent　now　and　he　could　hear　the　attackers　muttering；　〃It　is　dead。　It　is　dead；〃　each　time　they　struck　the　symbolic　scalp。
　The　object　the　crowbills　were　striking　was　a　high…crowned　black　hat。
　Instantly；　Leaphorn　correlated　this　new　fact　with　other　information；　with　the　bulky　stranger　trying　on　hats　in　Shoemaker's；　with　the　question　of　why　a　worthless　hat　would　be　stolen　and　a　valuable　silver　concho　band　left　behind。
　The　hat　was　thoroughly　coated　with　ashes　now；　but　there　was　still　a　dark　outline　against　the　faded　felt；　the　outline　of　linked　circles　where　heavy　silver　conchos　had　once　protected　the　dye　from　the　sun。
　When　I　look　in　the　hatband；　Leaphorn　thought；　it　will　be　size　seven　and　three…eighths。　The　Big　Navajo　was　the　Navajo　Wolf。　But　why　was　he　the　witch？　This　was　why　the　Hand　Trembler　and　Sandoval　had　decided　to　prescribe　an　Enemy　Way。　The　Navajo　Wolf　was　a　man　nobody　knew。　A　stranger　to　the　clan　and　to　the　entire　linked…clan　society　of　the　Lukachukai　slopes。　But　what　had　he　done　to　be　singled　out　for　this　terrible　proscription　of　The　People？　Death　within　the　year　by　his　own　witchcraft…turned　against　him　by　the　medicine　of　the　Enemy　Way。　Or；　Leaphorn　thought　grimly；　death　much　sooner　if　the　Tsosies　or　the　Nez　family　happen　to　catch　him。
　The　high　slopes　of　the　Lukachukais　were　obscured　now　by　the　darkness　of　the　cloud。　Light　from　the　setting　sun　glittered　from　the　strata　of　ice　crystals　forming　in　the　thin；　frigid　air　at　its　upper　levels。　Deep　within　it；　the　structure　of　the　cloud　was　lit　by　a　sudden　flare　of　sheet　lightning。　And　then　there　was　a　single　lightning　bolt；　an　abrupt　vivid　streak　of　white　light　pulsing　an　electric　moment　against　the　black　of　the　rain；　connecting　cloud　and　mountain　slope。
　If　the　witch　was　there；　he's　dead　enough；　Leaphorn　thought。　And　he　couldn't　blame　himself　for　that。　Not　the　way　he　would　blame　himself　if　The　People　found　the　Wolf　before　he　did　and　executed　this　sentence　of　death。
　
　Chapter　11
　
　There　had　been　intermittent　thunder　for　several　minutes。　But；　even　so　prepared；　McKee　had　been　startled　by　the　sudden　brighter…than…day　flash　of　the　lightning　bolt。　The　explosion　of　thunder　had　followed　it　almost　instantly；　setting　off　a　racketing　barrage　of　echoes　cannonading　from　the　canyon　cliffs。　The　light　breeze；　shifting　suddenly　down　canyon；　carried　the　faintly　acrid　smell　of　ozone　released　by　the　electrical　charge　and　the　perfume　of　dampened　dust　and　rain…struck　grass。
　It　filled　McKee's　nostrils　with　nostalgia。　There　was　none　of　the　odor　of　steaming　asphalt；　dissolving　dirt；　and　exhaust　fumes　trapped　in　humidity　which　marked　an　urban　rain。　It　was　the　smell　of　a　country　childhood；　all　the　more　evocative　because　it　had　been　forgotten。　And　for　the　moment　McKee　dismissed　the　irritation　of　J。　R。　Canfield　and　reveled　mentally　in　happy　recollections　of　Nebraska；　of　cornfields；　and　of　days　when　dreams　still　seemed　real　and　plausible。　Then　a　splatter　of　rain　hit；　big；　cold；　high…velocity　drops　sent　him　running　to　the　tent　for　his　raincoat　and　back　out　into　the　sudden　shower　to　rescue　the　eggs　frying　on　the　butane　stove　and　the　bedrolls　spread　out　on　the　sand　beside　a　jumble　of　boulders。
　When　he　reached　them　the　rain　stopped　as　abruptly　as　it　had　begun。　McKee　dropped　Canfield's　blankets　and　cautiously　inspected　the　slice　of　sky　visible　above　the　canyon。　Up　canyon　it　was　blue…black；　with　a　continuing　intermittent　rumble　of　thunder。　Directly　overhead；　the　clouds　were　a　mixture　of　gray　and　white。　Down　canyon　to　the　south　and　east　there　was　the　dark　blue　of　open　sky　and；　nearer　the　horizon；　the　violent　reds　and　yellows　of　the　setting　sun。　The　breeze　had　shifted　back　to　the　southwest　now　and　he　saw　the　rain　was　drifting　across　the　canyon　higher　in　the　mountains。　Only　the　trailing　edge　of　it　had　touched　here。
　McKee　decided　it　would　be　safe　to　leave　the　bedrolls　out。　He　walked　back　to　the　butane　cooker；　forked　an　egg　onto　a　piece　of　bread　and　folded　it　into　a　sandwich。　The　sunset　now　was　flooding　the　canyon　with　eerie　rose　light；　which　made　the　eroded　sandstone　and　granite　of　the　cliff　seem　to　glow。　McKee　heard　the　water　then；　a　small　sound；　moving　down　the　canyon　floor　below　him。　The　rain　had　been　little　more　than　a　heavy　sprinkle　here　but　northwestward　on　the　mesa　it　had　been　heavy　enough　to　send　runoff　down　the　network　of　washes　which　fed　Many　Ruins　Canyon。　It　would　have　to　rise　into　a　torrent　eight　or　ten　feet　deep　before　it　topped　the　high　mound　of　talus　where　the　camp　was　and　McKee　estimated　the　stream；　now　spreading　across　the　flat　sand　on　the　canyon　bed　below　him；　was　no　more　than　six　inches　deep。　It　was　muddy；　carrying　a　burden　of　sticks；　pine　needles；　and　assorted　debris；　but　it　wouldn't　get　much　deeper　unless　the　rain　upstream　turned　into　something　like　a　cloudburst。　If　that　happened；　it　might　be　a　little　tough　driving　on　the　canyon　bottom　tomorrow。　That　turned　McKee's　thoughts　again　to　Canfield。
　Ever　since　his　return　to　the　camp　he　had　alternated　between　uneasy　worry　that　some　inconceivable　something　had　led　Canfield　to　sign　a　false　name　to　his　note；　irritation　at　himself　for　such　foolishness；　and　then　irritation　at　Canfield　for　causing　this　uneasiness。　He　was　all　the　more　irked　by　the　thought　that；　when　Canfield　returned　and　explained　the　signature　had　been　inspired　by　some　ridiculous　Canfieldian　whim；　the　whole　affair　would　seem　too　asinine　and　trivial　for　plaint。
　〃Silly　bastard；〃　McKee　muttered。　He　folded　the　third　egg　into　a　sandwich；　poured　himself　a　mug　of　coffee；　and　scrubbed　out　the　frying　pan　with　sand。　By　now　the　light　in　the　canyon　had　faded　from　rose　to　dusky　red　and　McKee's　mood　had　shifted　with　it；　back　to　irritation　with　himself　for　being　nervous。
　It　was　about　ten　when　he　finished　going　through　his　accumulation　of　notes　in　the　tent　and　planning　his　activities　for　the　next　day。　He　would　have　to　stay　in　camp　at　least　until　Canfield　returned　because　tomorrow　Miss　Leon　was　supposed　to　arrive。　If　Canfield　was　finding　anything　interesting　in　his　digging；　he　wouldn't　want　to　stop…and　someone　should　take　the　girl　up　into　the　labyrinth　of　canyons　to　try　to　locate　the　van　truck。　It　might；　or　might　not；　belong　to　her　electrical　engineer；　but　it　shouldn't　be　too　hard　to　find。　Not　if　it　was　still　parked　in　Hard　Goods　Canyon；　and　not　if；　as　Old　Woman　Gray　Rocks　had　said；　the　canyon　ran　into　Many　Ruins　nine　miles　up　from　the　mouth。　That　would　make　it　only　about　four　miles　up　from　their　camp。
　He　turned　off　the　butane　lantern　and　stood　at　the　tent　flap　a　moment；　letting　his　eyes　adjust　to　the　night　before　walking　back　to　the　bedrolls。　He　felt　tired　now；　ready　for　sleep。　He　left　his　boots　beside　the　bedding；　rolled　his　shirt　in　his　trousers　for　a　pillow　and　slid　into　the　blankets。　The　storm　cloud　had　drifted　away　and　he　heard；　far　to　the　northeast；　the　faint　suggestion　of　thunder。　His　side　of　the　canyon　was　in　total　darkness　but　the　top　of　the　sheer　cliff　on　the　west　side　was　tinged　now　by　the　dim　yellow　light　of　the　rising　moon。　It　would　be　about　three…quarters　full　tonight；　McKee　thought；　and　he　felt　a　sudden　inexpressible　loneliness；　a　loneliness　almost　as　intense　as　in　a　dream　he　sometimes　had。　In　the　dream　he　floated　in　a　great　airy　blackness；　wanting　to　shout；　but　remembering…dream　fashion…that　he　had　shouted　before　and　his　voice　had　been　lost　in　an　infinite　echoless　distance。　Remembering　this　would　sadden　him　because　it　told　him　there　was　no　one　anywhere　but　him。　When　he　had　this　dream；　sometimes　when　he　was　overtired　and　depressed；　it　would　awaken　him　and　he　would