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damn near going to tell itself.”
    Eric took two of the food bombs. “So what do you have that incriminates Dinetah for looting?”
    â€œThe pictures Niyol sent and the video Louis shot. Maybe pot hunting is a bigger moneymaker than we think. Maybe Dinetah provides pieces to collectors all over the world.”
    â€œThat’s a stretch girl. We got to find a shitload of evidence before we accuse Chavez.”
    â€œFrank is introducing me to Yanaha. She’s bound to have seen something, and there’s a pottery expert over at NAU I’m going to talk to.”
    â€œI’m concerned about your going out to Yanaha’s by yourself,” Louis said cautiously.
    â€œShe’s harmless.”
    â€œIt’s not her that worries me.” He furrowed his brow. “I need to see you in action with that Smith & Wesson.”
    â€œI thought you said I needed arrows dipped in ash,” I teased.
    â€œYou do. But you can rile up plenty ordinary humans hunting for evidence of pot stealing.”
    â€œRange time,” Eric agreed.

Chapter 8
    I n the clear morning light, we targeted paper silhouettes stapled to plywood. Louis took his ear protection off and came up behind me. “Good shooting. All within a four-inch range. Very good.”
    We were the only three on the range. “How about you, deadeye?”
    Louis held up a target with a perfect concentric circle of holes on the silhouette’s center mass.
    â€œI’m army good.”
    â€œI’ll save you the trouble of asking,” Eric said as he ambled up. He held up his target with a single bullet hole punched in the left thigh. “Say one word and there’ll never be artichoke dip again,” he warned.
    I smothered a grin. “You have other talents.”
    My cell phone rang. Frank Aguirre told me Yanaha had been to the post and would talk to me. He kept talking, nattering on about a brief rainstorm, gabbing about the shearing season coming up, and who had been in lately to trade. I knew he was lonely and I didn’t want to be rude, but I finally talked over him and said, “I can be there. Thanks, Frank.”
    â€œYou got word on seeing Yanaha?” Louis asked me.
    â€œYes.”
    Louis pointed to the pistol. “Take care. See you at the station later.”
    Â 
    I parked the Rav on the county road and spread the topo map over the steering wheel. The next right should be the entrance to the canyon Yanaha lived in. I rocked the car onto the rutted path. This road saw enough traffic to be packed hard, and I’d be fine if I steered down the middle, staying away from the soft shoulders, and used four-wheel drive. I took the curve slowly, hogging the middle. I hated these narrow roads where one driver had to reverse to a wide spot for the other to pass. Backing up had never been my forte. When I rounded a corner, the tall canyon walls opened up into a stunning view of a stand of willows. Her hogan was nestled under their branches. Deeper in the trees sat an aluminum airstream trailer. I nosed the car past the hedgerow surrounding her home.
    My feet sank in soft sand, making the walk to her door difficult. A wooden door was jerry-rigged into a battered doorframe, set into the hogan’s thick walls. I knocked. Sheep bleated in the wooden corral behind the house.
    A petite old woman dressed in the traditional long velvet skirt and loose blouse opened the door.
    She extended her hands and grasped mine tightly as she scrutinized me. A heavy squash blossom of intricately set turquoise circled her weathered neck. Two heavy turquoise rings adorned her swollen fingers. Her white hair was tamed by a silver comb.
    â€œ Ya-ta-hey ,” she greeted me. “You look as Frank described you.” She pulled me into the gloomy interior; the only natural light came from the open door, one tiny window, and cracks in the stovepipe vent in the ceiling. There was a cot on one wall and a weaver’s