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walls, one warm and invisible and the other a cool, boiling blue. The invisible wall retreated, the dark one advanced, casting twenty miles before it an opalescent shadow.
    Beneath the feet of the clouds was a washboard road, a clapboard store, an outdoor freezer, and a mud-and-log hogan. Gilboa was the name of the place. It wasn’t a town any more. The U.S. Postal Service no longer delivered mail; the half dozen inhabitants of Gilboa had to go to Shongopovi on the mesa for letters. Maps ignored it, as did the utilities and telephone companies. For that matter, the washboard road vanished at either end about ten miles out, erased by wind and sand.
    Fat globules of water rode on the wind. The real storm hadn’t begun yet. Youngman stopped in front of the hogan, picked up Abner in his arms, and went inside. After he laid the dead man out on the floor, he reached up and twisted a hanging light bulb.
    The deputy’s office consisted of a rolltop desk and chair. Two-way radio. A metal locker for his gun shells, two bottles of Jim Beam, plastic bag of marijuana, and underwear. Dirt, a lot of dirt because he was away from his office for weeks at a time. Two maps—one of the reservation, another an Arizona State Highway map—were pinned to the wall. They rustled from the breeze Youngman let in to air the hogan out.
    He slid up the desk’s ribbed top and took a report form out of one of the pigeonholes. The forms were bought surplus and the rubber-stamped heading “Phoenix Police Department” was crossed out in pencil. He found a leaky ballpoint in another pigeonhole.
    NAME —Abner Tasupi. OCCUPATION —garage owner. D.O.B. —unknown, RACE-SEX —Indian male, CRIME —death. Under MODUS OPERANDI , Youngman entered “attack of undetermined animal, possibly rabid.” Then he went out to his jeep.
    Dust devils wove back and forth over Gilboa’s road. A hundred yards away and across the road, lightning illuminated Selwyn’s Trading Post. The store was a tombstone of past aspirations. From the clapboard wall a peeling sign promised “Tourist Rooms-Gas-Candy-Dry Goods-Indian Curios.” The tin Coke sign had a broken thermometer. The twin screen doors were patched with electrical tape.
    The front of the store carried flour, pinto beans, cheese, blankets and cloth, axe and hoe heads, buck knives and ammo. An eyeless elk was mounted over the counter. Under the counter were pawned jewelry and whiskey in pints. Selwyn was in the rear room with John Franklin and the other whites. An old Hopi woman and four half-breed girls were on the floor, pots and ropes of clay at their feet. Anne was away in her van, searching for firewood before the rain hit.
    Selwyn had once been a Quaker missionary. He wore his white hair long, touching the velour shirt which draped open over his gut. A turquoise necklace nestled in the hair of his chest.
    “You don’t have to tell me these people need help. Next you’re going to tell me the desert is dry. I know! Excuse me.” Selwyn burped against the back of his hand. “Look, I’ve dedicated my life to these Indians. Speaking absolutely frankly, I personally have poured love and blood over them.”
    “That’s very admirable.” Mrs. Franklin launched a smile into Selwyn’s alcoholic haze.
    “What do I get in return? A spit in the eye. Look, you folks can hallelujah lizards and get more gratitude. Now I told the Bureau people when they came through a dozen years ago or so, throw your money away on going to the moon. I was willing to testify as an expert. Pardon.” He frowned at a piece of tobacco he picked from his tongue because he couldn’t remember when he’d smoked last. “There wouldn’t be a Gilboa if it wasn’t for me. Did you know that? It’s my generator provides the power here, not just for me but for that freezer they throw their goddamn deer in and for that bum they have for a deputy. You see it? They hate me ’cause I help them. I sell them food on credit. They hate me more for