“There’s cereal and powdered milk in the top shelf,” he said, pointing.

She turned to look, and he took a quick glance at the hall table. The keys were there.

“Found it,” she said. “Do you want some, too?”

He shook his head. “I’ll eat later. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be outside for about twenty minutes. I’m going to reconnoiter the area.”

“You’re going to do what?”

“I need to make sure no one’s picked up our trail, so I’m hiking farther up the mountain to a good observation spot. By the time you finish breakfast, I should be back. If you need me, just come up the trail beyond the woodpile.”

Ranger went out the back door, wearing his shoulder holster and.45 pistol beneath his jacket. Now it began.

He continued past the woodpile, then climbed about fifty yards farther into the forest. From this spot, surrounded by vegetation and hidden in the shade, he had a good view of both vehicles. All he had to do now was wait.

After several minutes Dana came out and headed for the truck, keys in hand. For a moment he thought that she hadn’t realized that the keys were for the car. Then he saw her bend down by the truck tire.

Dana reached down, but then shook her head, and walked quickly to the sedan. Apparently, she’d thought about flattening the tire, then changed her mind, not wanting to leave him stranded. In a backward sort of way, his respect for her went up a notch. Her actions meant she believed in doing the right thing-which also meant she couldn’t be associated with Trujillo.

Ranger watched as Dana climbed into the sedan, released the brake, then steered as it rolled down the lane, making almost no noise at all except for the tires crunching on the gravel. The car was already out of sight around the first curve when she finally started the engine.

He dialed his brother on the cell phone while jogging back down the trail to the truck. “She took the car,” Ranger said. “For the record, she thought about disabling the truck, but changed her mind.”

“If you need backup, call in. I’ll have a few men I can trust close by.”

“You’re wrong about her, brother,” Ranger said. “I think I know where she’s going. It took me awhile to put things together, but there’s only one answer that makes sense. The medicine man knew about her photographic memory and found a way to make use of it. If I’m right, she’s going to try to find Hastiin Dííl to give him names. She hasn’t said anything about her plans because she was undoubtedly sworn to secrecy.”

“Do you think she has any idea where to go find him?” Hunter asked.

“Maybe. I suspected that she’d used the computer at the safe house so I searched its memory. I know she did an Internet search on medicine men and medicine hogans. It’s possible she also read a news article lifted from the tribal newspaper and has figured out the location of Hastiin Dííl’s medicine hogan. That’s no secret, because our new leader is also a well-known healer.”

“You’re making a dangerous assumption-that she’s innocent, and had nothing to do with the death of the Singer. But based on what?”

“I trust my instincts,” Ranger said, climbing into the truck and starting the engine.

“You said you believed she has the names of the Brotherhood of Warriors. If so, then she must know that you’re part of us.”

“The way I see it, she didn’t get all the names because I don’t think she knows quite what to make of me. I would have seen some kind of indication if she knew I was in the brotherhood. But it’s also possible she’s guarding the secret she was given.”

“So we’ll play this out and see what we get,” Hunter said. “ Trujillo ’s place-or more to the point, one of his places-is southeast of Farmington, near the Bolack Ranch. There’s only one road leading from the highway, so if she goes in that direction, you’ll have your answer. But what if she decides to make a phone call instead? There are pay phones at every convenience store between Shiprock and that location.”

“Then she only has to go as far as Shiprock, doesn’t she?” Ranger answered. “I’ll stay close in case she makes a stop, and keep in touch.” As Ranger ended the call, he took out the small unit with the GPS screen and turned it on. It would show, on a simple display, where Dana was headed.

He’d been certain that she wouldn’t go to Trujillo ’s, and was satisfied to see that his guess had been right. Currently she was taking the road that led to a small community called Rattlesnake. It was a mixed area, but traditionalists outnumbered modern Navajos four to one.

Ranger dialed his brother as he hurried on, taking a shortcut down a fire road that would get him out of the foothills. “Are there any medicine hogans close to Rattlesnake? She’s driving south in that direction.”

Hunter didn’t respond right away. “Not that I recall, but there’s the Bilagáana Trading Post. It’s farther south down the same road, maybe ten miles from Rattlesnake.”

Ranger had heard of it. Bilagáana meant white man, and the trading post had been aptly named by the white man who ran it. Jonas Sullivan was in his eighties, and had lived among the Diné almost all of his adult life. Jonas was one of the few white men who truly understood the concept of the Hohzo- maintaining beauty, order, harmony and stability in one’s life. Though it was a concept the Anglo world-the white world-found unattainable for the most part, Jonas Sullivan walked in beauty.

Twenty-five minutes later, after having just topped the hill leading into Rattlesnake, he saw the sedan passing the last house of the old settlement. Hanging back, he followed the dust trail down the graveled road.

Dana reached the trading post, a low, white cinder block structure with a nearly flat metal roof and one of those old-west-style fronts. She parked and walked right past the pay phone, disappearing into the store.

Ranger parked just down the road beside a small grove of stunted trees and waited. She was on a hunt of her own, but it wasn’t for a phone, obviously, or Trujillo, unless she was meeting him there. But that seemed unlikely. Trujillo, like Dana, would be remembered by everyone who saw him.

Ranger leaned back and prepared to wait and see how things played out.

DANA WENT INSIDE the trading post, stepping around the familiar potbelly stove, well-stoked at the moment to take the chill out of the interior. A cast-iron kettle on the top was steaming, adding humidity to the dry desert air.

Although it was barely 9:00 a.m., the general store was already crowded. Most of the patrons were Navajos, but there were two or three adventurous Anglo tourists who’d taken the back roads early today.

The sights and scents were all familiar to her-canned and packaged food, saddles, leather goods, garden implements and motor oil. Space in establishments like these was always at a premium, and every counter, corner and section of wall was lined with merchandise.

Soon Dana spotted Jonas Sullivan, the owner, speaking to a Navajo woman holding a child. Although he’d glanced her way, he hadn’t recognized her. She hadn’t seen him in over a decade but, to her, he hadn’t changed much. As far back as she could remember, Mr. Sullivan had always appeared old to her.

She waited, looking at some finely woven Navajo rugs. Most had the natural blacks, whites and browns of undyed wools. Woven from handspun wool, these were exquisite, and expensive as well. Mr. Sullivan had always carried the best of the best-including her mother’s paintings of the Navajo Nation. Dana waited her turn patiently, and eventually he came over.

“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

Dana beamed him her best smile. “Mr. Sullivan, don’t you remember me?”

His eyes narrowed and suddenly he smiled. “Dana! Of course! I haven’t seen you in ages. You know, I still have one of your mother’s paintings of Window Rock hanging in my living room.”