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course,” he said. “I was okay even before you got here.”
    I smiled. “Yeah?”
    â€œSure,” he said. “I had ’em surrounded.”

2
    Y ou’re not really a cop,” the old man said.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Private detective.”
    He smiled the faint smile. “Like Magnum P.I.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Exactly. How’d you know I wasn’t a cop?”
    We were sitting, the two of us, on a pair of old ragged logs set at right angles along the ground. The sun was gone, the air was gray and cool, growing grayer and cooler as the sky went from violet to black. We had introduced ourselves—he was Daniel Begay, from Gallup. After he’d built a small efficient fire, he’d pulled an old blue enamel coffeepot from inside the camper shell of the pickup. Now we were both drinking coffee out of old blue enamel mugs. It was good coffee.
    He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Cops carry guns. Even when they’re off duty.”
    True. I wondered if the three bozos in the Winnebago would remember this, and decide they wanted a rematch.
    Daniel Begay smiled and took a sip of coffee. As though reading my mind, he said, “They won’t be back. You scared ’em pretty good.”
    I nodded. I hoped so.
    He sipped some more coffee. “A private detective spends a lot of time scaring people?”
    I smiled. “Not a lot of time.”
    He nodded. “You do murder cases?”
    I shook my head. “That’s police business. Cops don’t like it when you stick your nose in.”
    He tasted the answer for a moment, then said, “So what does a private detective do?” He moved his head in a small polite nod. “If it’s okay to ask.”
    â€œLook for missing people. Gather evidence for insurance companies. Or for lawyers. Or for husbands and wives who don’t want to be husbands and wives anymore.”
    He nodded, sipped at his coffee. “You like your work?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    He smiled again. “And sometimes you don’t.”
    I returned the smile. “And sometimes I don’t.” A log shifted in the fire, crackling, and sent a thin streamer of bright orange sparks up to meet the stars. “Used to be,” I said, “I liked it all the time. Liked getting to the bottom of things.”
    â€œYou don’t anymore?”
    I shrugged. “Too many things,” I said. “Too many bottoms.”
    â€œMyself,” said Daniel Begay, his eyes crinkling as he smiled behind another sip of coffee, “every now and then I like to see a nice round bottom.”
    I grinned. “How about you? What kind of work do you do?”
    He shrugged. Lightly, dismissively. “Some of this. Some of that. A few sheep. A little land.”
    â€œYou like your work?”
    He smiled again. “Sometimes.”
    I finished my coffee. “Are you going to be here in the morning?”
    He raised his eyebrows slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Sure. I came for the fishing.”
    I stood up. “Maybe I’ll see you then. Do you have some water? I’ll rinse out the cup.”
    â€œNo, no,” he said, and waved a hand. “Don’t bother.”
    â€œNo bother.”
    â€œPlease,” he said, and smiled. “Leave it.”
    I didn’t know the proper etiquette here—it was his lake, his forest, his coffee cup—so I only nodded, set the cup down on the log, and told him again that I’d probably see him in the morning.
    â€œWhat about the gun?” he asked me. He nodded toward the big Ruger lying atop the log I’d been using.
    â€œYou keep it,” I told him. “I’m not hunting any bear this season.”
    He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Got a nephew wants a new pistol.”
    â€œNow he’s got one.”
    I was up before dawn, and down at the shore just as gray was seeping into