Relentless Read Free

poked his jaw toward the café. “Buy you a lunch.”
    â€œNaw. I got to es-stick close to the bank.” Jasper indicated the green armored truck parked across the street in the shade. “It’s the fourth Friday.”
    Every second and fourth Friday of the month the company-owned bank had a heavy load of cash brought in from Salt Lake to meet the payroll needs of the mine and smelter. On weekends the casinos over in Vegas wouldn’t accept out-of-state payroll checks and San Miguel accommodated its employees by cashing their checks before they set out for the Nevada weekend.
    It was one of the regional facts of life they had impressed on Watchman when they had assigned him to the district. At first he hadn’t believed the size of the sums involved but when you worked it out it added up. You had more than twelve thousand workers drawing down an average wage of two hundred dollars a week. With a biweekly payroll that added up to five million dollars every two weeks. If five thousand of those men drew half their pay in cash that came to a round million dollars, part of which made a one-way trip to Las Vegas. Usually it didn’t come to that much but the bank had to prepare for the maximum and so every other Friday morning the armored truck brought in one million dollars in tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds: largely hundreds, because the big bills were popular with weekend gamblers. The truck waited all day and after closing it would transport whatever was left back to the head office in Salt Lake City. It was a long day’s run and the Utah office provided maximum security: the armored truck carried four guards and was convoyed by two cars, one in front and one behind, each containing two armed men. The run itself was judged to be that risky. But once the money reached the San Miguel bank it appeared to be safe enough, partly because the eight armed guards and the driver hung around the bank all day but mostly because the single highway through town could be stoppered at both ends on five minutes’ notice to prevent getaways. There were no other roads out. Not even dirt tracks. And the buckled terrain around the flats was impassable to anything but goats.
    Even so, these Fridays were tense for old Jasper. He was the head guard: the safety of all that cash was his responsibility.
    Jasper took it very seriously because it had taken him thirty-five years to work his way up to this job from a sheep-flock beginning in a hardscrabble back-country hogan forty miles from Kiacochomovi village on the Window Rock Reservation. Jasper and Sam Watchman’s father had been Agency Policemen at Canyon de Chelly together; Jasper was like an uncle to Watchman and he still called Watchman by his Navajo name, which was Tsosie Duggai, and Watchman loved the fat old man with deep fond warmth.
    Jasper flapped a hand toward the bank door. “I keep telling Mr. Whipple we ought to put in some of them bank protection devices. We going to get hit one day.”
    â€œI doubt it. More likely they’d go for the truck out on the highway someplace. Up in Utah.”
    â€œWith all that armor plate and all them guards?”
    â€œIf they hit the bank how are they going to get out of here? You want to relax, Jasper.”
    â€œMaybe. I es-still think we ought to put in some cameras and bulletproof plexiglass panes for them tellers to work behind.”
    â€œYou’ve got a good alarm system and a big gun on your belt. But I’ll tell you what, Jasper, if you really want to keep the bad guys scared off maybe you ought to get yourself a feathered headdress and a tomahawk.”
    3
    He stopped just outside the café and looked at the sky: he could smell a change in weather coming, a thin scent of winter in the air. The sky was clear cobalt, only a few cloud banks to the west, but there was a sharp chill to it and those clouds were advancing fast. Snowstorms sometimes hit the high plateau as early as