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he Enemy Dead； but close enough so the Blue Policeman wouldn't think to look。
Horseman felt his knife in his pocket pressing painfully against his hip。 He shifted his weight； took it out； opened the long blade and laid it across his chest。 Soon the moon rose over the plateau； and lit the figure of a thin young man sleeping； barefoot； on a hump of drifted sand。
Horseman was at the seep a little after daylight。 He drank thirstily from the pool under the rock and then cleaned the porcupine stomach sac thoroughly with sand； rinsed it； knotted the tube to the intestine and filled it with water。 It held about two cups。 The sweat bath would have to wait。 He couldn't risk building the sweat house here。 And； if he built it in the protection of his camp； he had nothing large enough to carry water to pour on the rocks after he had heated them。 He erased his tracks thoroughly with a brush of rabbit brush； and kept to the rocks on the long climb back to the canyon rim。
Four of his deadfalls had been sprung but he found dead kangaroo rats under only two of the stones。 Another yielded a wood mouse； which he threw away in disgust； and the other was empty。 He glumly reset the traps。 Two rats were not enough。 There were frogs around the seep； but killing frogs would make you a cripple。 He would try for the prairie dogs。 A grown one would make a meal。
The place Horseman had seen the prairie…dog colony was about a mile to the east。 He used thirty minutes covering the distance； remembering the sound of the truck motors and moving cautiously。 Maybe another of those rockets had fallen。 He remembered the first time that had happened。 It was the year he was initiated and there had been Army all over。 Trucks and jeeps and helicopters flying around the valley； and they had e around to all the hogans and said there would be 10；000 paid to anyone who found it。 But nobody ever did。 Then they cut that road up Tall Poles and built the radar place and when the next rocket fell a year ago they had found it in two or three days。
He stopped by a dead juniper； broke off a crooked limb and started whittling a throwing stick。 He could sometimes hit a rabbit with one； but usually not prairie dogs。 They were too careful。 While he shaped the stick he stared out across the Kam Bimghi。 Nothing at all was moving now； and that probably meant it wasn't a rocket down。 There would be a lot going on now if it was that。 Besides； they wouldn't have been hunting a rocket at night。
He didn't have a chance to use the throwing stick。 The burrows of the colony were bunched below a hummock of pi？on and one of the rodents saw him long before he was in range。 There was a chittering outburst of warning calls； and in a second the dogs were in their holes。
Horseman put the throwing stick in his hip pocket and broke a smaller limb from a pi？on。 He sharpened one end； split the other。 Back at the prairie…dog colony； Horseman selected a hole which faced the west。 He stuck the stick in the ground in front of it； pulled a thin sheet of mica from his medicine pouch； and slipped it into the split。 He adjusted the mica carefully so that it reflected the light from the rising sun down the hole。
Now he could only wait。 In time the light would attract one of the curious prairie dogs。 It would e out of its hole blinded by the reflected sun。 And he would be close enough to use the stick。 He glanced around for a place to stand。 And then he saw the Navajo Wolf。
He had heard nothing。 But the man was standing not fifty feet away； watching him silently。 He was a big man with his wolf skin draped across his shoulders。 The forepaws hung limply down the front of his black shirt and the empty skull of the beast was pushed back on his forehead； its snout pointing upward。
The Wolf looked at Horseman。 And then he smiled。
〃I won't tell；〃 Horseman said。 His voice was loud； rising almost to a scream。 And then he turned and ran； ran frantically down the dry wash which drained away from the prairie…dog colony。 And behind him he heard the Wolf laughing。
Chapter 2
That night the Wind People moved across the Reservation。 On the Navajo calendar it was eight days from the end of the Season When the Thunder Sleeps； the 25th of May； a night of a late sliver of moon。 The wind pushed out of a high…pressure system centered over the Nevada plateau and carved shapes in the winter snowpack on San Francisco peaks； the Sacred Mountain of Blue Flint Woman。 Below； at Flagstaff airport； it registered gusts up to thirty…two knots…the dry； chilled wind of high…country spring。
On the west slope of the Lukachukai Mountains； the Wind People whined past the boulder where Luis Horseman was huddled； his body darkened by ashes to blind the ghosts。 Horseman was calm now。 He had thought and he had made his decision。 The witch had not followed him。 The man in the dog skin didn't know him； had no reason to destroy him。 And there was no place else to hide。 Soon Billy Nez would know he was on this plateau and would bring him food； and then it would be better。 Here the Blue Policeman could never find him。 Here he must stay despite the Navajo Wolf。
Horseman opened his medicine pouch and inspected the contents。 Enough pollen but only a small pinch of the gall medicine which was the best proof against the Navajo Wolves。 He removed the turquoise bear and set it on his knee。
〃Horn of the bica； protect me；〃 he chanted。 〃From the Darkness to Be One； protect me。〃 He wished； as he wished many times now that he was older； that he had listened when his uncle had taught him how to talk to the Holy People。
A hundred miles south at Window Rock； the Wind People rattled at the windows of the Law and Order Building； where Joe Leaphorn was working his way through a week's stack of unfinished case files。 The file folder bearing the name of Luis Horseman was third from the bottom and it was almost ten o'clock when Leaphorn reached it。 He read through it； leaned back in his chair； lit the last cigarette in his pack； tapped his finger against the edge of his desk and thought。 I know where Horseman is。 I'm sure I know。 But there is no hurry about it。 Horseman will keep。 And then he listened to the voices in the wind； and thought of witches； and of Bergen McKee； his friend who studied them。 He smiled； remembering； but the smile faded。 Bergen； himself； was the victim of a witch…the woman who had married him； and damaged him； and left him to heal if he could。 And apparently he couldn't。
He considered the letter he had received that week from McKee…talking of ing back to the Reservation to continue his witchcraft research。 There had been such letters before； but McKee hadn't e。 And he won't e this time； Leap…horn thought。 Each year he waits to pick up his old life it will be harder for him。 And maybe now it's already too hard。 And； thinking that； Leaphorn snapped off his desk lamp and sat a moment in the dark listening to the wind。
At Albuquerque； four hundred miles to the east； the wind showed itself briefly in the apartment of Bergen McKee； as it shook the television transmission tower atop Sandia Crest and sent a brief flicker across the face of the TV screen he wasn't watching。 He had turned off the sound an hour ago； intending to grade final…examination papers。 But the wind made him nervous。 He had mixed a shaker of martinis instead； and drank slowly； making them last until； finally； he could sleep。
Tomorrow； perhaps； there would be the answer to his letter； and Joe Leaphorn would tell him that it was a good season for witchcraft gossip； or a poor season； or a fair season。 And maybe； if prospects were good； he would go to the Reservation next week and spend the summer pleting the case studies he needed to finish the book that no longer mattered to him。 Or maybe he wouldn't go。
He snapped on the radio and stood by the glass door opening on his apartment balcony。 The wind had raveled away the cloud cover over Sandia Mountain and its dark outline bulked against the stars on the eastern horizon。
Ten stories below； the lights of the city spread toward the foothills； a lake of phosphorescence in an infinity of night。 Behind him the radio announced that tomorrow would be cooler with diminishing winds。 It then produced a guitar and a young man singing of trouble。
〃But；〃 the singer promised； 〃life goes on。〃
〃And years roll by；
And time heals all；
And soon we're dead；
We're peaceful dead。〃
The sentiment parodied McKee's mood so perfectly that he laughed。 He walked back to his desk…a bulky； big…boned； tired…faced man who looked at once powerful and clumsy。 He shuffled the ungraded exam papers together； dumped them into his briefcase； poured a final martini from the shaker； and took it into the bedroom。 He looked at the certificate framed on the wall。 It needed dusting。 McKee brushed the glass with his handkerchief。
〃Whereas；〃 the proclamation began； 〃it is monly and universally known by all students of Anthropology that Bergen Leroy McKee； B。A。； M。A。； Ph。D。； is in truth and in fact none other than MONSTER SLAYER； otherwise identified as the Hero Twin in the Navajo Origin Myth；
〃And Whereas this fact is attested and demonstrated by unhealthy obsession and preoccupation of said Professor McK