“Now, Billy acted like a genuine asshole today, interfering in a ceremonial, and I’d like to apologize.” Al had a wheezy, singsongy voice. “In exchange, I want you to tell me who tipped you we were going to pick up your blind pal. Someone did, because you didn’t figure that out on your own. Please, I’ve been kicking Indian ass for twenty years, I know Indians. Turn around, please, when I’m talking to you.”

Al held his rust-spotted, short-barreled Colt, an old-fashioned model called the Shopkeeper’s Friend. Al was a small man—cowboys tended to get worn down like fence posts—but the gun made him a little larger, as if he were levitating. Billy leaned back.

“This is Indian country,” Al said. “The Indian Service is the only thing that keeps it running in any civilized manner. Abuse the Indian Service and you undermine the system that keeps you people alive.”

Joe looked out the window. He could see from his gestures that Augustino was asking Anna to step out of the car.

“At the very heart of the system is respect. Billy and I spend weeks surrounded by Indians to enforce the laws. Laws about sheep, about booze, about proper schooling. All that keeps us safe from all the drunken bucks is respect. Hell, otherwise they’d have to send the cavalry in with us every time, wouldn’t they? Look at me.”

Al’s eyes were screwed up with the earnestness of communication. His hat had moved back, showing hair stuck flat as feathers on the untanned upper half of his forehead.

“That’s why what you did today to Billy was so dangerous, because it undermined our professional respect. Even if it was nothing but Pueblos who saw. Thank God it was Pueblos, not Navajos or Apaches. So Billy apologizes.”

“I’pologize,” Billy said quickly, as one word.

“Now,” Al said, “you tell us who tipped you and you tell us where your blind friend is.”

Through the window, Joe saw Augustino stepping back as if Anna was getting out of the car.

“Son-of-a-bitch, you look at me!” Al raised the gun to Joe’s waist. “Listen, you’re just one more buck to me, one more barroom hero. You bucks came back from the first war the same way and I trimmed you down fast. You don’t want to talk, then watch while I blow your balls off. Because you’re a fucking Indian and I’m the Indian Service and you’re not acting right.”

Al’s hand was steady, broad, callused at the web from handling rope. He moved the plowshare hammer back.

“No,” Joe said. “No, this is a United States Army post. I’m a staff sergeant carrying out the orders of the director of an Army project. You’re a shitkicker and a sheepfucker and you won’t do anything.”