The three men spoke Tewa. It was the language of a number of the Rio Grande pueblos and was expressive in describing the beauty of the clouds, rain, water, corn. Tewa was also the language of a people who had wandered through the wilderness arguing. No pueblo existed for long without splitting into two parts that despised or at least suspected each other. Hence, Tewa was a tongue that was rich in phrases and intonations of derision and scorn.

“Still cold in Taos?”

“A little cooler.” Roberto’s voice was quizzical, as if he were picking up a new object with it. “You come up to Taos much?”

Taos thought it was the top of the world, maybe one step below the Hopi, but very close to heaven. It occurred to Joe that what he needed at the start of the day was not a religious fanatic, but a coffee or a cold beer.

“Haven’t seen you for a long time, Uncle.”

“Saw you in December. You were hunting.”

“Ben said the other hunter was hunting you,” Roberto said.

Joe remembered the escapade with Augustino and the two trappers connected by a rope who had stumbled out of the woods and into the light of the dawn. Ben and a blind man.

“Thanks, Uncle, I didn’t know who you were. You came through at just the right time.”

“Thank Roberto, not me. Wasn’t my idea.”

“He was hunting you?” Roberto asked. “He was crazy?”

“He was an officer. Smoke?” Joe felt for a pack, but his pocket was still empty.

“Have one of mine.” Roberto took a thick handrolled cigarette and stuck it into empty space.

“Thanks.” Joe reached. The things always tasted like dung, he thought. Roberto put one in his own mouth and Joe lit it, then his own. “That’s some smoke.” Joe coughed.

“From Taos.”

Roberto held on to the side of the jeep. He had a long Spanish nose. His hands looked surprisingly strong, the nails caked yellow. So that was how he got by: mixing adobe by hand, Joe figured. It was something a fanatical blind man could do. Roberto wouldn’t be able to make much adobe that way, but what he made would be fine stuff.

“We know what you’re doing up on the Hill and we want you to stop it,” Ben said.

Neither Joe nor Roberto paid attention to him.

“I met your mother once,” Roberto said.

“Yeah?”

“I guess you were in New York. She was a clan mother, wasn’t she? Winter Clan?”

“You’re a Winter Clan?”

“Summer.”

“She was Winter.” For Christ’s sake, everyone on this side of the pueblo was Winter Clan. Then he remembered that Roberto was blind. “This is mostly Winter Clan here.”

“We want you and the Army to stop it,” Ben said.