For his alibi’s sake, he got the Geiger counter from the jeep and found the pen on the far side. Even in the semidark he saw that the cows were Felix’s oldest mavericks from the highest, dryest canyons. The man at the pen was just as unlikely, a short figure in a suit. His back was to Joe because he was patting the steers through the fence—wisely, because the animals were wild enough to stomp him if he went into the pen. No, not patting, Joe thought: combing, and dropping the loose hairs into an envelope.

“Chief! Oh! Chief!” The man looked back, surprised. He had a swarthy, heart-shaped face, a full lower lip and black hair so wavy that it was almost marcelled. When he turned, the comb and envelope had vanished. With his double-breasted suit he wore cowboy boots. He took a wobbly step forward and gave Joe a pudgy hand to shake. “I didn’t hear you coming. We met at the La Fonda, in the bar. Harry Gold.”

“From New York.”

“I came with Happy.”

“With Hilario. What’s going on?”

A giggle escaped Harry Gold. “I lost my new hat.”

Joe peered into the pen. There were five cows, black and brown, a mix of Angus and Hereford, a group of scarred and wary veterans. The meanest-looking cow was standing on a crushed Stetson.

“You wanted to buy a steer?”

“I was thinking of having a barbecue.”

“Felix is cutting calves right now. Take one of them.”

“Good idea,” Gold agreed.

“He’ll slaughter it and dress it for you. Better than a butcher.”

“These cows looked a little old.”

Not just old. As the light improved, Joe saw that two or three of the animals were mottled around the stomach and flank. Usually a cow grayed at the muzzle first. As he opened the gate the nearest steer lowered a set of mossy horns a yard wide at the tips and retreated. Joe pushed his way into the middle of the cows and peeled back some of the milky hair. The skin underneath was black. They were mottled the same as the cow he’d killed before.

“Your hat.” He came out of the pen with a twisted brim of felt.

“Thanks,” Gold said and backed into a cowpie. He looked down. “New boots, too.”

“Soak them and leave them on,” Joe suggested.

“I’ll try it. Adiós.”

“Absolutely.”

The whole time, Joe had been holding the Geiger counter. Someone who didn’t know what it was would have asked, Joe thought.

Harry Gold hadn’t asked.

22

By the time Joe got to Santa Fe, Indian women were spreading their blankets on the portal, the porch of the old Governor’s Palace on the north side of the plaza. “Creeps,” FBI agents in plain clothes and snap-brim hats, were taking their places on benches under the plaza cottonwoods.