At Ease with the Dead Read Online Free Page B

best is, exactly. I suspect that Daniel Begay was quiet because that was simply the sort of man he was. But his silence was as companionable as most conversations.
    At one point, I nodded to the fly rod. “That’s a nice piece of equipment. Had it long?”
    â€œFew years. A gift.”
    â€œYou’ve taken good care of it.”
    He nodded. “Gifts should get good care. Like this one.” Smiling, he pointed his fork at the fish on his plate. Then he waved the fork lightly around, taking in the lake, the forest, the far-off mountains. “And this.”
    No argument there, not from me.
    He wouldn’t let me help him with the dishes. He rinsed them down at the lake, dried them with an old strip of terry-cloth towel, and then packed everything, including the gun and the fly rod, into the camper. Finished, he turned to me and said, “Well. Got to go now.”
    I was surprised—I had thought he’d stay for the day. And I suppose I was disappointed; I’d been enjoying his company. But mountain men don’t whimper when they say ciao. I nodded and asked him, “Where’re you heading?”
    â€œTuba City. Got to see some people.”
    â€œLong drive.”
    He nodded.
    I didn’t offer my hand—some Navajos, I knew, aren’t comfortable with the tradition—but he offered his, and I took it. “Drive carefully,” I told him.
    He nodded. “Good fishing,” he told me. He smiled his faint smile. “You watch out for those bottoms now.”
    I smiled. “I’ll do that. You too.”
    â€œI will,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “I will.”
    Two months later, and a week after the first snow up in the Ski Basin, I was sitting with my chair swiveled around so I could stare up at the crisp line of bright white mountain against pale blue sky. A thin banner of creamy cloud was sailing over the ridge. It was as though a big fluffy ball were unraveling behind the mountain, sending out a pale streamer that slowly feathered, dissipated, finally disappeared.
    The temperature out there was in the forties. Like a lot of other people in town, I was looking back to the summer’s heat wave with a certain fond regard.
    Maybe I should take up skiing, I told myself. Go shussing down the slopes in a pair of tights, showing off my teeth and my crotch. Hang around the lodge afterward, get loaded on hot buttered rum. Chatter about base and powder while I ogled trim butts and jouncing sweaters.
    But I’d been raised mostly in New England, and in my circles snow had been something you shoveled, like manure. Except at a distance, I haven’t liked the stuff since.
    Still, every year about this time, especially when business is slow, I go through the same interior argument.
    And business was slow. Pedro had long since gotten the goods on the unfortunate Mr. Murchison. Three runaway kids had been traced, two to LA., one to New York. Once case of insurance fraud had been proven, another was about to be disproven. When that was closed out, the Mondragon Agency would be clientless.
    And then someone walked into the office.
    For a moment I didn’t recognize him. For one thing, it had been a while since Lake Asayi. For another, when I last saw him he’d been wearing jeans, a plaid western shirt, and battered cowboy boots. Now he was wearing a gray wool suit, a white shirt, and a black bolo tie. Boots now, too; but dressy ones, highly polished. With the steel gray hair knotted behind his head, he looked very dapper indeed.
    Then I noticed the cane. Suddenly his features became familiar, swimming up into focus on the surface of the stranger’s face. “Daniel,” I said, and stood up and came around the desk. He held out his hand, I shook it. “Daniel Begay. Good to see you. How goes it?”
    â€œPretty good,” he said, smiling that faint hint of a smile. “And you?”
    â€œI’m okay. Have a