Relentless Read Free Page A

the end of September and here it was the fourth Friday in October. It was a sudden country.
    He went inside. The café was filled with the bass thumpings of Johnny Cash on the jukebox. “Custer’s Last Fight” on the wall and denim buttocks arrayed in a row along the counter stools; high-top boots and cowboy hats. Ranch fresh eggs and chicken-fried steaks and the smell of fried grease. Over in a booth Buck Stevens was consuming a hamburger with lots of raw onions. Stevens was a wholesome kid with a square sturdy face and bright china-blue eyes that had an antic way of bobbing about, seldom missing much. He was going to make a good cop.
    Jace Cunningham was there in the same booth, wolfing a sandwich, keeping his hat on while he ate. When Watchman reached the table Cunningham slid over into the corner without missing a mouthful and said something muffled that Watchman took to be an invitation to sit.
    â€œHow’s it going, Jace?” He sat down and planted his elbows on the plastic table top.
    Cunningham wore a business suit with an elaborate brazen badge pinned to the lapel. It looked like the kind of badge you could buy in the toy department at Woolworth’s; it said “City Constable.” Cunningham had a long spare body and a solemn little face. His skin was as freckled as knockwurst. He had been born fifty-three years old—dependable, proper, sober, de-liberate. He was employed by the copper company as chief of police in San Miguel and he was one-fourth of its manpower.
    The buxom blonde waitress came over and propped her left elbow into her waist to write in her pad. “Looks like a policemen’s convention here. What’ll it be, Trooper?”
    Watchman studied the chalked menu on the blackboard above the counter. “How’s the chili today?”
    â€œI don’t know. I ain’t tried it.”
    Stevens was watching her and she was aware of his attention; she cocked her hip slightly.
    â€œMaybe you ought to try it,” Stevens said. “Might put hair on your chest.”
    â€œIn a minute,” she said in a tone laced with scorn, “I’m leaving. I can’t take this police brutality.”
    Watchman said chili and coffee. When the girl went away, with a little extra swing in her walk because she knew Stevens was watching, Cunningham said, “They got snow over to Nevada last night. Like as not we’ll catch some tonight. You two planning to stay up here or go on down to Flag?”
    â€œHadn’t thought about it,” Watchman said.
    â€œMaybe you ought to. You don’t want to get caught up in them high passes.”
    The diamond ring in its little box made a hard knot in his pocket and he said, “I guess we’ll start back for Flag, then. All right with you, Buck?”
    There was a rowdy flavor to the rookie’s grin. “Snow hell. You just want to get back to Lisa and cozy up in Flag till it blows over. Snowstorm? Hah—red man speak with forked tongue.”
    Cunningham, with his mouth full, rolled his eyes from face to face to see how Watchman would take that. Cunningham had always been a little uneasy with him: Cunningham was an old wrangler from Texas. Watchman had been down in West Texas once years ago and he hadn’t stayed any longer than he’d had to: in the filling station they’d had three sets of toilets— Whites, Coloreds, Mexicans —and evidently if you were a native American you had to practice extreme continence in those parts.
    Watchman slid the ring case out of his pocket and pushed it across the table. Stevens clicked it open and his mouth formed a circle. “Jesus. I’ve seen Eskimos living on smaller rocks than this. What’d you pay for it—twenty-four dollars in glass beads and red cloth?”
    Cunningham squirmed and addressed himself to the remains of his sandwich.
    Watchman laughed softly and retrieved the ring and Stevens said, “You figure to give