“We’re heading to Ma’s place,” he said. “Just let me have that.”

Yellow Knife swung his leg back in the car and slammed the door. They drove off together. I followed like a mutt after its owner, knowing I should have taken action at Malick’s.

Yellow Knife and the woman were together. More trouble. I thought about the brewing mix of personalities. Yellow Knife, Louise, the strange woman, Stoner, and me. I was a stir stick in a pot of fuel, a wick to their anger. I hoped I was wrong. I hoped they would keep their distance. But even I had a sense about these things. And I was getting smarter all the time.

The drive was long and uneventful until I saw Louise on the roadside. I tightened in my seat, wondering if Yellow Knife would have his girlfriend stop the car so he could speak to his wife. Louise stood on the roadside for a moment, shaded her eyes to watch us all pass. I wondered what occurred to her as she saw her husband traveling with another woman, not bothering to lift his hand or even look her way. Louise did not return my wave. I glanced back briefly at her, saw her face, then turned again to my business. I wasn’t going to let Yellow Knife pull anything.

I followed the LaSalle down Dirty Swallow’s road. The house was small, a rough shingle house among rocks and black-trunked junipers. The rattler’s haven.

I got out of the car and opened the door of the LaSalle for Yellow Knife and stood at close attendance. I wanted him to know I was in control.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, but I didn’t respond.

Dirty Swallow was coming out to meet her son. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. She gripped Yellow Knife’s hand. I went back to the cruiser and let them have their time together. I radioed the dispatcher to let them know where I was. I watched the black-haired white woman nodding to Dirty Swallow. And then Dirty Swallow turned to me. She walked slowly, stiff kneed, toward my car. I rolled down the window.

“Stem,” she said to me, a Salish greeting. Her face was round and tight. Her eyes were so dark I could not read their expression.

“Come in,” she said. “Come in. Have coffee.” I wanted to sit in my patrol car where I held some authority but even as an officer of the law I couldn’t refuse custom.

I followed her into the house. She had a pleasant way of humming to herself, almost like she was answering someone I could not see, but as we entered the house I felt the coolness of a drafty dirt floor, a constant restless breeze at my ankles. I knew to remove my hat and sit down.