Free Desert Wind by Betty Webb

again, but I gave him the courtesy of an answer. “Considering the tragedy in Japan, I’m not sure I see nuclear power as the best answer to our energy woes, but that’s for the experts to decide. What I’m concerned with is Ted’s situation. How did the authorities find out about his fight with Donohue?”
    “It wasn’t a fight!” He took a few deep breaths, then with difficulty, leveled his voice. “Mr. Donohue may have reported it. Or Mrs. Tosches. Like many young people, she can be over-imaginative. Afterwards, a deputy went out and talked to Earl Two Horses, who runs Walapai Gas-N-Go. Mr. Two Horses is an excellent mechanic and has been taking care of all the ranch’s vehicles since we opened. Paiute mother, Navajo father. Lots of good blood there.”
    “Is Earl a close friend of Ted’s?”
    “Their wives were close, but Theodore and Mr. Two Horses were too busy for much socialization, other than attending pow-wows together from time to time. Once Theodore’s wife died…”
    “Kimama.”
    A nod. “Yes, Kimama. After my daughter-in-law’s death, Theodore stuck closer to the ranch, so I guess you could say his friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Two Horses faded some.” Another pause, another look at the family photograph.
    If Ted was always taking the ranch’s cars in for service at Two Horse’s gas station, there was no reason the two men couldn’t remain close. “Did something happen between them?”
    Olmstead shrugged. “Theodore stopped attending the, ah, activist gatherings, too. He was still a supporter, but I think the meetings reminded him too much of his wife, so he stayed away. It might have disappointed Mr. Two Horses.”
    “Are you talking about the Victims of Uranium Mining meetings?”
    Olmstead looked pained. “Yes. Mr. Two Horses remains quite active in V.U.M. His father was one of the Navajos who worked at a uranium mine on the Navajo Reservation. Do you know anything about what happened, and is still happening, at the Moccasin Peak Mine?”
    “Enough to know that V.U.M. is afraid the same thing might happen in Walapai Flats.”
    Another nod. “I imagine Mr. Two Horses expected Theodore to become even more involved in the protests after Kimama’s death. But losing a wife can make a man draw into himself.” He looked at the family photograph, then down at his wedding ring. For a moment, I thought he might break down. He didn’t.
    “You said Earl Two Horses’ father worked at the old Moccasin Peak. Was he one of the casualties, by any chance?”
    “Lung cancer. The company never issued the proper masks to the Navajo miners.”
    “Then I take it that most of the Indians around here are against the opening of the Black Basin.”
    “And you’d be wrong. Many of the local tribes look forward to getting jobs once it opens. Shoshones, Paiutes, even some Navajos. Indians have to buy groceries and toys for their children, too, Miss Jones.”
    Stung, I was about to inform him that since I live next door to a reservation myself, I was well acquainted with tribal shopping habits, thank you very much, but at that moment the door opened and a tall wrangler, his face hidden by the battered Stetson he wore, leaned in through the open door, and said, “We’re about to head out, Mr. Olmstead. Want us to take the canyon trail, or the one along the river?”
    His back was angled away from me but I didn’t have to see the man’s face to recognize him. I’d heard that voice almost every day for years.
    Dusty.
    The cowboy who’d almost gotten me killed.
    Dusty had been working at a Scottsdale area dude ranch when I met him. I was a police officer then, still patrolling the streets. One day I clocked Dusty driving sixty-two miles an hour in a forty-five mile zone, and while writing him a ticket, couldn’t help but notice his uncanny resemblance to the young Clint Eastwood. Cops were discouraged from turning traffic stops into romantic encounters, so after handing him the summons I climbed back