7th Sigma Read Free

caravan headed into old Arizona. I was positive I’d seen the boy.”
    She swung her arm, backhanded, toward his face. There was no warning and, he thought, no reason, but she didn’t connect. He moved his head back out of the way and took a back roll.
    â€œHey!” Kimble said, rising to his feet and eyeing her warily.
    She smiled at him.
    â€œTell me about the dojo.”
    â€œOhhhhhhh,” he said, in a quiet voice. He squatted on his heels, still out of arm’s reach. “That was back in Golondrinas. The kids’ class was free if you did dojo chores. They taught karate and judo and aikido.”
    â€œThe same teacher?”
    â€œOh, no. It was a cooperative. There were four different styles of karate. There were two judo instructors, but just one old guy who taught aikido.”
    â€œOld guy?” She stared at him. “Which classes did you take?”
    â€œAikido, of course.”
    â€œOf course? Is that what all the kids took?”
    Kimble shook his head. “Oh, no. If they were the wrestling type, they liked judo. Otherwise, they all wanted to take karate. Punch, kick, punch, kick, and more kicking.”
    â€œSo … why aikido?”
    â€œThey were the kids who weren’t that interested in kicking and punching.” Kimble looked down at the dirt. “I got enough of that at home. Besides, once I got the hang of getting off the line, aikido worked pretty well against the kickers and punchers.”
    Ruth was silent for a moment, then said. “I am building a dojo on the Rio Puerco.”
    â€œOh. Really? You teach aikido?”
    â€œFor over twenty years now.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “So you already had a dojo. Why did you leave?”
    She sighed. “Divorce. You know what that is?”
    Kimble glared at her.
    â€œSorry, of course you do. My ex-husband and his new wife kept the dojo. I left. I left … everything. I’m starting over.”
    Kimble narrowed his eyes. She looked back at him, very still, like a rock, like a predator, like a statue.
    â€œYou’ll need students,” Kimble finally said. “You can’t be a teacher without students. I mean, at least one .”
    She nodded. “Get your things.”
    â€œYes, Ms. Monroe.”
    â€œSensei,” she said gently.
    â€œYes, Sensei.”

2
    Walking to Cold Dog
    â€œWhat should I do, Sensei?”
    Ruth dropped the handles of the travois and said, “Ah, that is always the question, isn’t it?”
    It was their second day on the road, and they’d walked twenty miles since dawn. For Ruth, who’d walked 500 miles in the last six weeks, it was just another longish day, but Kimble’s feet, his legs, his entire body hurt. Ruth had chosen a cluster of cottonwoods on the barest rivulet of a stream to camp.
    â€œI could gather firewood.”
    â€œI’ll bet you could.”
    â€œSensei, just tell me!”
    Ruth smiled. “Ah, I’m too lazy for that.”
    Kimble frowned, tired, cranky, and confused. “Right, then. I’ll just go get some firewood.”
    When he returned with a respectable bundle of deadfall branches, Ruth was setting up her foam-ceramic stove. The collapsible bucket was sitting beside the travois, empty.
    Kimble looked at the bucket and then at Ruth. “Uh, Sensei, should I—”
    She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
    â€œNever mind, Sensei.” He took the bucket to the streamlet, finding a place where the water ran across a rock and dropped down a foot. He propped the bucket there, letting it fill slowly. When he brought the filled bucket back, she thanked him politely.
    That night, before bed, she said, “The trouble with telling someone to do this and to do that is that once you’ve issued orders on that subject, they’ll always expect you to do so. They lose initiative and you end up doing the thinking for two.” She paused. When he did not say