 Recorded books presents Coyote Weights by Tony Hilliman, narrated by me, George Goudel. CHAPTER I Officer Jim Chee was thinking that either his right front tire was a little low or there was something wrong with the shock on that side. On the other hand, maybe the road grader operator hadn't been watching the adjustment on his blade and he'd tilt to the road. Whatever the cause, Chee's patrol car was pulling just a little to the right. He made the required correction frowning. He was dog-tired. The radio speaker made an uncertain noise, then produced the voice of officer Delbert Ness. Running on fumes, I'm going to have to buy some of that high-cost Red Rock gasoline or walk home. If you do, I advise paying for it out of your pocket, Chee said, better than explaining to the captain why you forgot to fill it up. I think, Ness said, and then the voice faded out. Your signal's breaking up, Chee said. I don't read you. Ness was using Unit 44, a notorious gas hog, something wrong with the fuel pump, maybe. It was always in the shop and nobody ever quite fixed it. Silence. Static. Silence. The steering seemed to be better now, probably not a low tire, probably, and then the radio intruded again. Catch the sound of a bitch with the smoking paint gun in his hand, Ness was saying, I'll bet then. Ness's voice vanished, replaced by silence. I'm not reading you, Chee said into his mic. You're breaking up. Which wasn't unusual. There were a dozen places on the 25,000 square miles the Navajos called the Big Res, where the radio transmission was blocked for a variety of reasons. Here, between the monolithic volcanic towers of Shiprock, the Carrizzo range and the Chuscac Mountains was just one of them. Chee presumed these radio blind spots were caused by the mountains, but there were other theories. Deputy Sheriff Cowboy Deschi insisted that it had something to do with magnetism in the old volcanic necks that stuck up here and there like great black cathedrals. Old Thomasina Bigthum had told him once that she thought witches caused the problem. True, this part of the reservation was notorious for witches, but it was also true that old lady Bigthum blamed witches for just about everything. Then Chee heard Delbert Nez again. The voice was very faint at first. His car, Delbert was saying, I wasn't his truck or his pickup. Exactly precisely what had Delbert Nez said. Suddenly the transmission became clear. The sound of Delbert's delighted laughter. I'm going to get him this time, Delbert Nez said. Chee picked up the mic. Who are you getting? He said, do you need assistance? My phantom painter, Nez seemed to say. At least it sounded like that. The reception was going sour again, fading, breaking up into static. Can't read you, Chee said. You need assistance? Through the fadeout, through the static, Nez seemed to say, no. Again, laughter. I'll see you at Red Rock then, Chee said. It's your turn to buy. There was no response to that at all, except static, and none was needed. Nez worked up US666 out of the Navajo Tribal Police Headquarters at Wendell Rock, covering from Yachtahay, Northward. Chee patrolled down 666 from the Shiprock Sub-Agency Police Station, and when they met, they had coffee and talked. Having it this evening at the service station post office grocery store at Red Rock had been decided earlier, and it was upon Red Rock that they were converging. Chee was driving down the dirt road that wandered back and forth across the Arizona-New Mexico border. Southward from Veclavito, Nez was driving westward from 666 on the asphalt of Navajo Route 33. Nez, having pavement, would have been maybe 15 minutes early, but now he seemed to have an arrest to make. That would even things up. There was lightning in the cloud over the Chuskas now, and Chee's patrol car had stopped pulling to the right and was pulling to the left. Probably not a tire, he thought. Probably the road grater operator had noticed his maladjusted blade and overcorrected. At least it wasn't the usual washboard effect that pounded your kidneys. It was twilight, twilight-induced early by the impending thunderstorm when Chee pulled his patrol car off the dirt and onto the pavement of Route 33. No sign of Nez, in fact no sign of any headlights, just the remains of what had been a blazing red sunset. Chee pulled past the gasoline pumps at the Red Rock station and parked behind the trading post. No Unit 44 police car where Nez usually parked it. He inspected his front tires, which seemed fine. Then he looked around. Three pickups and a blue Chevy's. Sample complete. Ready to continue?