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digging in with two oars on either side of the rubber raft, while Henry kept switching sides, paddling with a single oar. The front of the raft lifted, but Henry continued to struggle as the float shot through a water funnel and turned sideways toward a large boulder the size of an automobile.
    Rosey stepped toward the edge of the cliff. “Oh my God.”
    I shook my head, figuring there wasn’t a lot I was going to be able to do if they crashed into the thing, except possibly fish for parts.
    The Bear dug in and turned the front of the raft toward the right side of the boulder as Dave paddled like a steamship, attempting to get them to the side of the rock before they hit it.
    Fortunately, the central current caught the raft and shot them alongside the boulder. They flew underneath us around the next corner, but not before the Cheyenne Nation turned our way and, throwing up his hands, screamed at the heavens, “Howouunoni—yehewihoo!”
    The sound of the Bear’s voice reverberated off the rock walls as they disappeared, and she turned to look at me. “Do you think you have to be crazy or Indian to willfully do that sort of thing?”
    “Maybe to enjoy it.” We listened as the battle cries grew distant, and I figured they’d made it. “So . . . what does he say?”
    “Who?”
    “The midnight caller.”
    She walked back to my truck. “He calls in a 10-78, officer needing assistance.”
    “Simple as that?”
    “There is a loud static noise and then he identifies himself as Unit 3, which is my number. The first time I got the call, I answered and asked him if he was TroopG or belonged to a different detachment, and if he wasn’t, who was he and how can I help?”
    “Then what?”
    “Nothing for a few minutes, and then he repeated the call, identifying himself as Unit 3 and once again calling for a 10-78.”
    “Did you try and talk to him anymore?”
    “I did.”
    “And?”
    “Nothing, he just repeated it again.”
    “Verbatim?”
    “Yes.”
    “Could it be a recording?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “There are slight variations in the cadence, tone, things like that.”
    “How do you know it’s Bobby?” She looked at me again. “Hey, I’m an investigator—I’m investigating.”
    “There are audio recordings of him at the library in Shoshoni. I went and tracked them down—heck, some of them are on the Internet. It’s him, Walt, I’d swear to it.”
    “Do you know Sam and Joey Little Soldier at the college?”
    “No.”
    “Sam teaches down there and Joey’s his grandson—Sam knew Womack and his grandson appears to be an expert on the man.”
    “You think either of them would come up and listen?”
    I watched the clouds topping the canyon walls. “I think we better get some corroborating evidence before we try and draw a crowd.” I waited a moment and then asked a more philosophic question. “So, are you saying that he’s still alive?”
    She slipped off the glove with the pearl snap and bit her thumbnail. “I don’t know.”
    I stuffed my hands in my jacket and attempted to be a voice of reason. “Bobby Womack is dead, Rosey.”
    “You know, the legend goes that the Indians arrived here after crossing the great sea of the Big Horn Basin, and the land was so big that it made it impossible for the people to find game, so they prayed to the Creator and asked him to help. He did, by draining the sea and catching the water and the fish and game in the narrow canyon, and the people were saved.” She stared at the ground and didn’t move. “But what if that isn’t all that got caught? What if there’s a little bit of Bobby left here in the canyon, too?”
    “Why now?”
    She finally looked at me, a strong lock of blond falling over one eye. “Exactly.”
     • • • 
    “I talked to Vic and Ruby back at the office and they said to tell you they were glad you didn’t drown.”
    “Tell them thank you for me.” Henry sat on the bench outside our motel room and wrung the water