Wild Indigo Read Free Page A

I had to call the FBI.”
    Roy blew air out of his nose loudly. “Well, we’ll have a big damn stink if you’re going to call this thing anything but a suicide. We’ll be in a cold war with the pueblo, and our asses will be strapped to the FBI’s on this one like Siamese twins. If the tribe already took the body, it’ll be an uphill fight. Big fight. Nobody can win, either. I don’t see a happy ending on this one. This could make us both a lot of enemies.”
    â€œSo, what do you want me to do? Lie in my report? Not mention that he looked like he’d been drugged?”
    â€œI didn’t say that.” The Boss put his hat back on and straightened the brim. “I don’t know, Jamaica. You get yourself into the weirdest predicaments. At least you weren’t hurt.” His eyes panned around. Then he noticed my Jeep. “Jesus Christ!”
    It was dusk now and the open-sided hull of my white Cherokee stood in relief against the dark face of the mountains. Dozens of flashlights swarmed like fireflies in the foothills beyond as Indians and BLM personnel hunted for stragglers from the herd in the deep shadow of the tall peaks. The radio I had obtained for the roundup squawked and sputtered as members of the search party talked to one another. Roy had moved to the front of my vehicle and was staring at the smashed windshield and the concave front quarter panel. “Damn! You’re lucky to be alive. You know that?”
    I didn’t say anything. I remembered Jerome Santana’s eerily blissful expression just before he died—he looked as if he felt lucky.
    The Boss shook his head repeatedly as he circled the vehicle, studying the damage. “I don’t know what it is about you. I put you on as liaison to the pueblo so you’d have to relate with two- legged animals every once in a while. I thought maybe putting you closer to civilization would keep you out of trouble after that fiasco last spring. But look…” He pointed to my car, then put his forehead into his hand and rubbed at his temples.
    Roy had been my field manager for six and a half years, the whole time I’d been with the BLM. Before this assignment, I’d been one of a handful of resource protection agents—the Range Riders—charged with riding the fence lines in open territory. Only a few months ago, Roy had transferred me from the high-terrain work I loved after I’d gotten involved in a life-threatening situation. A priest friend of mine had been murdered, and I had launched my own unofficial investigation. This culminated in a backcountry standoff that proved deadly. I’d solved the crime, but narrowly escaped suspension by the BLM for overstepping the bounds of my authority. And both the Boss and I had had to endure a lengthy internal investigation.
    Roy’s voice brought me back to the present: “Well, this Warm Hands guy said he doesn’t need our help, says he has most of the herd rounded up. Why don’t you go ahead and call your people in.”
    â€œOkay, but I’m staying.”
    â€œSuit yourself, but when your crew’s done and gone, you git, too. No more visiting.” He opened the door of his truck, then looked over his shoulder at me. “And before I forget, I want to see you in the office first thing on Monday morning. I’m going to get a look at that incident report before it goes anywhere else.”
    â€œOkay, Boss.”
    â€œWell, I guess I’ll go say howdy to the FBI.” He started to climb in the truck, but paused, turned. “You want to hear something funny?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOn the way here, I got a call from one of the county commissioners. He was hotter than a chile pepper because two Texans were sitting in a hot tub a few miles up the road to the ski valley, at some tourist trap, and a couple of buffalo came smashing through the privacy fence. Caught ’em with their skivvies