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body, dress him properly, put his ceremonial moccasins on his feet, properly reversed [40] to confuse any witch who might be hunting dead skin for his corpse powder bundle. Then his body would be carried to some secret place where no skinwalker could find it, no coyotes or ravens could reach it, no anthropologist could come to steal his little vial of pollen and his prayer jish to be stored in their museum basement. Then the sacred wind within him would begin its four-day journey into the Great Adventure that awaits us all.
    Chee sighed.
    Osborne took off his headset. “That Taylor stuff’s too sad for you,” he said. “You want something more upbeat? How about—”
    Chee violated a traditional Navajo rule by interrupting.
    “Look down there,” he said. “I think I see our blue Volks van pulling up to the pumps at Huerfano Trading Post.”
    “OK,” said Osborne, starting the engine. “Let’s go talk to Carl Mankin.”
    “Or whoever stole his credit card.”
    It didn’t seem to be Mankin. He had just finished hosing gasoline into his tank, a short man, burly, needing a shave, and wearing greasy coveralls. Probably part standard white man and part Jicarilla Apache. He was screwing on the gas tank cap when Osborne braked his Ford beside him. He glanced at Chee through a set of dark sunglasses, and then at Osborne, looking as if he expected to recognize them and surprised that he hadn’t.
    Osborne was out of the car, thrusting his FBI identification folder toward the man and asking him his identity.
    Sunglasses took a step backward, startled. “Me? Why, I’m Delbert Chinosa.”
    [41] “Could we see your credit card?” Chee asked.
    “Credit card?” Chinosa was clearly startled by this confrontation. “What credit card?”
    “The one you’re holding there,” said Osborne. “Let me see that.”
    “Well, now,” Chinosa said. “It’s not actually mine. I’ve got to give it back to my brother-in-law. But here.” He handed the card to Osborne. A Visa, Chee noticed. Chinosa had taken off his sunglasses and was looking tense and uneasy.
    Osborne examined the card and nodded to Chee.
    “This card is made out to Carl Mankin,” Osborne said. “You say you’re not Carl Mankin. Is your brother-in-law Carl Mankin?”
    “No sir. He’s Albert Desboti. South of Dulce. I think this Mankin fella loaned it to him. Told him he could go ahead and use it.” Chinosa rubbed his hands on his coverall legs and managed a smile. “So Al told me I could go ahead an buy gas with it.”
    “At the pumps where you don’t have to sign the credit card form,” Osborne said. “Was that his idea?”
    Chinosa managed another smile. “Said that would be all right. Said no harm in that.”
    “Well, not unless you’re the one getting stuck with the expense,” Osborne said. “And now we’re all going to have to go find Albert Desboti.”
    They did, making the long drive into the Jicarilla Reservation; Chee with Chinosa guiding them in his van through the maze of dirt roads and past endless evidence that this famous oil and gas field was still producing its wealth of fossil fuel and Osborne following. Desboti seemed to have heard them coming. His little [42] single-width mobile home was located on the east edge of Laguna Seca Mesa, and Desboti was standing in its door.
    “Hey, Delbert,” he shouted. “You just in time for supper.” Then added something in Apache, which Chee interpreted as: “What you doing with that Navajo cop?”
    Osborne was out of his sedan, flashing his FBI credentials, introducing himself. Chinosa was saying he’d told them Desboti had loaned him the credit card.
    “What credit card?” Desboti said. He grimaced.
    “You’re Albert Desboti?” Osborne said. “That correct?”
    “That’s right. Al Desboti.”
    Osborne displayed the Visa card. “You loan this to Mr. Chinosa?”
    Desboti looked as though he didn’t know how to answer that. He said: “What?”
    Osborne laughed. “We’re going