Leaning Land (31 page)

“What happened to your cousin?”

“He came back, what was left of him, and told the family of the man he had killed what he had done. They killed him.”

Wager figured that that was one way to stop the bad luck. But apparently Luther saw more in the story than Wager did.

“He let them kill him?”

“He was happy they did. First time he was happy since he took the man’s money.”

Luther carefully stubbed out his cigarette against the scarred instep of his boot.

“Henry Begay’s not going to help you, Luther. He can’t. Only you can, and you can only do it by telling me what happened to that white man who hunted the water under your brother’s land.”

The man sat still, eyes hidden from Wager by the wide brim of his black hat. Ray waited. The staccato pulse of an insect buzzed from somewhere among the cedar’s branches.

When Luther finally spoke, his voice sounded tired and defeated. Wager figured that was how the man felt, too, because now he said the names of the dead as if he no longer cared whether they were listening to be called back with their bad luck. “Walter Lawrence killed that white man who hunted water. This is what he told me. That white man wanted Walter Lawrence to sign a paper letting him sell the water under his land. Said he could make a lot of money for Walter, but he had to have twenty-five percent of it for himself.”

Ray waited until he was certain Luther had stopped talking. “The same kind of paper he signed with Rubin?”

A nod.

“Why did Walter Lawrence kill him? Why didn’t he just tell the man no?”

“He didn’t mean to. He wanted him off his land so he wouldn’t come back, so he shot at him to scare him away, but he missed. Hit the man. The man ran all the way back to his car and Walter was afraid he would go to the police, so he shot the car, too. Then Walter ran away.” Luther tried to explain it. “Walter told me he knew the man would take his land. That’s what white men with papers like that did, they got you to sign and then stole your land, he said. And he figured that with all the new laws coming to the reservation the white man would get away with it. The man kept saying sign, and Walter kept saying no. Then the man came back one day and told him that Rubin had signed a paper like that. Walter knew that if one Indian signed away his land, the white man would make the rest of them do it—it would just take him a little more time, is all. So he got scared and shot at the man.” Luther cleared his throat, dry after so much talking.

Ray sat for a while in silence, thinking over what Luther had said. “So who killed Walter Lawrence?”

From where he stood, Wager could hear the man sigh. “My brother.”

“Rubin?”

Luther nodded. “Him and Ramey Many Coats.”

“The two of them killed him?”

Another nod. “After that man-who-hunted-water was killed, another white man told Rubin that his land wasn’t worth nothing unless they had Walter Lawrence’s land, too. Said Rubin had the water but Walter Lawrence’s land was the only good place to build the casino on—they could bring in a road real easy and put a bridge across Narraguinnep Wash there. Said they couldn’t do that on Rubin’s land because something was wrong with the sand around Narraguinnep Wash where he was, and anyway he was blocked off by Yogovu Mesa. Rubin went to Ramey Many Coats to see about borrowing enough money to buy out Walter Lawrence.” He stopped, and Ray waited. He began again. “Ramey said he would buy it himself so he wouldn’t have to worry about Rubin paying the money back. That was OK because it would still make Rubin’s land worth a lot of money. So they both went out to see Walter Lawrence and talk about buying the land. Got him drunk and brought him into Dark Mesa Village to sign papers, but Walter Lawrence kept saying no. He was drunk, but he wouldn’t sign nothing for nobody even when he was drunk. He started walking home and Ramey Many Coats told Rubin that Walter Lawrence better sell. He better sell soon or the white man who bought the Flying W ranch would go away and nobody would have anything.”

When Luther remained silent this time, Ray asked, “Did Rubin go and stab Walter?”

“Yes. Ramey Many Coats told him maybe that would be the best thing, so Rubin did it.”

Wager found a rock in the shade of the cedar and settled on it.

“And who killed Rubin?”

Wager expected the answer to come slowly, but the man simply shrugged and answered. “Me.” He added, “That’s why I got to see Henry Begay.”

“How?”

“Stabbed him. At Knife Springs—stabbed him. Pretty funny.”

No one laughed unless it was that distant insect whose chuckling buzz tugged at a corner of Wager’s awareness.

“You wanted his land.”

It seemed important to Luther to make things clear. “No. I didn’t want him to sell the land—he rode out to the springs to tell me he had decided to sell the land. Said this white man would give him fifty thousand dollars cash money to sell the land to Ramey Many Coats.”

After a pause, Ray asked, “Why didn’t Ramey just buy it himself?”

“Rubin didn’t want to sell to Ramey—Ramey wanted the land for next to nothing—a couple of thousand. He told Rubin that he didn’t have any more cash money because he’d just bought Walter Lawrence’s land. And he told Rubin that if he didn’t sell to him cheap, he’d tell the police who killed Walter Lawrence. Rubin said that if Ramey told the police that, he’d fix it so nobody got the water and nobody got rich—no casino, no development, no nothing. So then this white man promised Rubin that much money to sell; he said he couldn’t buy any reservation land but that Ramey could and he had already put a lot of money in the project and didn’t want to lose it. So he promised Rubin fifty thousand cash if he would sell to Ramey Many Coats.”

Wager asked, “This white man, was it Bradley Nichols? Or a man named Ronald Pyne?”

“No. Another white man.”

When Luther remained silent, Ray asked, “And Rubin told you he was going to sell out?”

Luther wagged his head slowly. “That’s what he came to tell me. Said he talked to this white man that morning. Showed me a letter that told about the fifty thousand and that Ramey Many Coats would own the land. Ramey Many Coats had already put his name on the line. Rubin wanted me to know before he put his name on it. Told me he would give me ten thousand dollars to make up for losing Knife Springs for my sheep.”

Wager asked, “What about the other contract? The one he signed with the geologist to sell just the water?”

Luther’s long braids bobbed when he shrugged. “That man was dead now.”

Holtzer could no longer fulfill his part of the bargain, that was for sure. “Do you know the white man’s name?”

“Yes.” A long sigh whistling through his nose and the name mumbled so quietly that Wager almost didn’t hear it. “Stan Litvak.”

“Litvak?” Wager tried to fit that piece into the puzzle. “Did Rubin meet Litvak at Mallard’s Garage?”

“I don’t know.”

Probably. That must have been the business important enough to make Rubin delay his start for Phoenix. Probably figured he could make up the time by driving all night. And Rubin left Mallard’s Garage in Litvak’s car. “How did Rubin get out to Knife Springs?”

“Borrowed a horse from Ramey Many Coats. Rode out to show me that paper.” Another long pause. “That land, it was our daddy’s. Daddy gave it to Rubin to make sure Rubin could stay a member of the tribe, but now Rubin wanted to sell it. It was the wrong thing to do and I told him that and we fought. We fought like brothers, real bad. I killed him with this knife.” His fingers tapped his boot top, hidden beneath the sheath of his denim pants leg.

They listened to the whisper of the wind as a gust died away.

After a while, Ray asked, “But now you plan to sell the land?”

“No. I was just going to sell the water. Like Rubin was going to do at first. Keep enough for my sheep, keep the land. Just sell some of the water. Ramey Many Coats said the tribal council would let me do this. He knew I would never sell the land to him.”

“You’re working with Ramey Many Coats now?”

“Kind of. Without his land, my water wouldn’t sell; without my water, Ramey couldn’t get no casino. I had to. But Ramey’s got strong medicine, so I wanted to ask Henry Begay about that, too.”

Wager said, “Somebody came to your house asking for you. Was that Litvak?”

Luther gazed off down the wash and nodded. “Must be. I told him I needed more than fifty thousand and I would keep the land, too. I told him I wanted a hundred thousand, now, or no water.” He explained, “Ramey Many Coats said the white men have that much money and I better ask for that much.” His thick fingers gently brushed to safety a gleaming black beetle poised on thin, nervous legs in the sand between his boots. “Litvak got mad, said I was a goddamn thief. Goddamn Indian. Said I better do what Rubin promised and sell the land to Ramey for fifty thousand dollars and do it real soon or he would shoot me dead.”

Ray finally spoke. “Ramey told you to ask for more money?”

“Said it would cost a lot to make the tribal council say it was OK to sell the water off the reservation. That I would have to give them a lot of good gifts and that if I didn’t ask Litvak for more, I wouldn’t have nothing left.”

Wager asked, “What about the other government man, the one who was shot a couple weeks ago: Larry Kershaw. Who shot him?”

“I don’t know. Wasn’t me.”

And no reason to lie, now, if it was. “Who told you Litvak was coming for you?”

“Ramey. Rode out to Knife Springs to tell me. Said Litvak couldn’t wait no more because he was running out of time. Said he stood to lose all his money and even his ranch unless I sold the land to Ramey now. Said if I didn’t, Litvak was going to kill me and then offer the fifty thousand to Cerise and get her to sign the paper. Ramey wanted me to sign right then, but I didn’t.”

Wager said, “You moved Rubin’s body to the highway?”

The tall crown of the black hat bobbed. “Used his horse. Took all night.” Wager could hardly hear his next words. “My brother.”

“You and Rubin fought and you killed him while you were fighting,” said Ray. “Maybe you can get off with manslaughter instead of murder. Spend a lot less time in jail.”

Luther shrugged again, his voice flat and hopeless. “We fought hard—real blood fight. Maybe he would’ve killed me if I didn’t kill him first. But all the same, I wanted to kill him. I meant to kill him.” And again, softly, “My brother.”

Ray mixed a muffled grunt of sympathy with a long sigh. “But you waited here for us,” he said. “You turned yourself in to us and you’ve confessed to killing Rubin. That will help you.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Not you I’m waiting for. Him.” The domed crown of the hat tilted down the wash. “He’s coming. Litvak. I been hearing his truck coming up the wash.” A shrug. “It’s the Many Coats’s hex.”

“How close—” But Wager’s words were sliced by the sizzling noise of a giant insect and then the sand beside Luther exploded under a solid, heavy punch. Wager flung himself sideways off the rock, his eyes registering Luther’s blank face as the still-sitting man looked up toward the far side of the wash and the popping explosion that was felt as much as heard. Then a second solid thunk and Luther flew up and back, thrown by the force of a round while Ray, flat on his stomach and writhing like a lizard, crawled frantically toward the shelter of an outcropping.

The horses, tossing and neighing, cantered sideways with their eyes wide and ringed with white, to stare, frightened, at the sprawled men, unsure whether to flee. Wager, rolling now, twisting to make a difficult target, flailed toward the trailing reins of Luther’s pinto to grab them and lunge against the warm hide of the skittering and snorting animal. He yanked the rifle from its scabbard, then dove into the shadow of the cedar as another burst of sand flung stinging grains against his cheek; he rolled behind the cover of the cedar’s thick and flaking trunk.

“There—” Ray pulled quickly back behind his spur of rock as a bullet rang hot and close through the air. Wager followed his gesture and saw a thin puff of smoke blur the line of rock and sky near a spur of layered white stone. He thumbed the safety off and balanced the stubby rifle, holding the front blade square and level in the notch of the rear sight, concentrating on the flat tip of the front blade more than the target as he gently squeezed the unfamiliar trigger—holding his impatience for the kick of the rifle, steadying his breath and trying not to think about how long the trigger pull was taking—but focusing on the blade and holding the sight picture and steady on the pull … steady … . The rifle bucked, but Wager didn’t hear it; he was already levering the next round into the chamber and settling back against the solid earth, his elbow under the weapon’s barrel and his finger tightening again as he breathed out, slowly in—hold the sight picture … . Again the kick and a third time. The splat of an incoming round followed by the muffled punch of the rifle up on the ridge—the bullet was close, its shattered metal jacket screaming off behind him, leaving the tangy, chemical smell of scorched copper. Litvak had him sighted in now. Off to his left Wager was aware of movement: Ray grappling with the horses to get them under control and tied out of sight. Luther had started making noises and crawling blindly somewhere, but Wager concentrated on the target. Steady breathing, sight picture, rhythmic, gentle pull on the trigger with only the tip of his forefinger—just like the firing line, just like in Vietnam, and hold that sight picture—a movement slightly off his front sight. A round smacked through the cedar’s branches inches above his head, spraying thick twigs and a slower rain of tree needles, and Wager, with a shift of his torso, adjusted his sights. The weapon’s kick surprised him in the right way, now that he had the feel of its trigger, and this time he could see a trace of something, cloth maybe: and the front sight crystallized in his gaze, black and razor sharp in outline and balanced in the rear notch, and the rifle surprised him again.

“You got him!”

His eye watering with the strain of intense sighting, Wager blinked. He stared across at the far side of the wash. He watched for movement near the outcropping, listened for sound, waited. The stock of the rifle lay an inch from his ready cheek. A fly buzzed somewhere.