The Triggerman Dance

Finally, they hit State 371, which took them east and higher in elevation. Dumars handled the car well on the curving, rising road, passing a cement mixer and a pickup filled with hay bales without taking her left hand from the armrest. In fact, her shoulder holster and 9mm were uncomfortable enough against the left side of her rib cage without moving around any more than she had to. There were just a few houses out here, set far back amidst the boulder-strewn hills. They looked planted. Occasionally, a dilapidated trailer peeked into view from a deep ravine or precipitous hilltop.

"I guess the people who move out here don't like anyone around them," Sharon offered. The landscape was quite pretty in an austere way.

"Or no one likes to be around them" said Josh absently.

They passed a sign that said "Cahuilla Indian Reservation", then, a few miles on, a sign for the city of Anza Valley, elevation 3,918 and population less than that.

The town appeared ahead of them. Dumars cut her speed to fifty. They passed a real estate office that was closed, a hardware store that was open, and a liquor store that had three pickup trucks parked in the dirt patch out front and windows filled with beer posters featuring beautiful women.

"We want Olie's Saloon—it's on the left," said Josh.

They drove past the market, the gas and propane station, a tire and brake center and the Feed Bin. Dumars slowed behind a faded gold Mercury four-door slung so low to the asphalt it looked like its trunk was filled with bowling balls. She could see through its dirty rear window a passel of dark-skinned children in the back seat, a huge female with raging black hair behind the wheel, and beside her a graying head lost in a cowboy hat. Dumars thought of the current battle back in Orange County between two tribes claiming rights to the land—the Gabrielenos and the Juanenos—and all the backbiting, corruption and betrayal in the name of federal funds and perhaps a bingo palace. Dignity is a hard thing to come by anymore, she thought.

"Is this reservation land?" she asked.

"Not the city. But all around it."

Olie's was a fragile-looking structure of dark wood, with a sagging roof and a hitching post out front. There were more pickup trucks in the dirt lot. It was either built to look like something from 1870, thought Dumars, or actually was. She pulled in and parked where Joshua pointed. The air outside the car was clear, dry and hot. An Indian in a white shirt watched them as they pushed through the saloon-style doors and into the late afternoon darkness of the bar.

They took a booth along one wall and studied the plastic-sheathed menus. The chili cheese omelet was being heavily discounted that day. The waitress was a thin, dry looking woman in her fifties who smiled tightly at them and talked about the omelet. They ordered soft drinks. Dumars thought that they couldn't have been more conspicuous if they had dressed in sequins, though it hardly mattered.

"So, you come here a lot?"

"I want you to listen, and corroborate when you can. What I want, when we're finished, is a candid, honest, and hopefully helpful opinion."

"Joshua, does this have to do with Rebecca?"

"This has to do with everything. He'll be here in ten minutes."

In fact, he was there in less than ten minutes. He came through the saloon doors with a soft clunking of boots and, like the regular he was, walked straight for a row of bar stools that stood along one window, facing the street. He set his fedora on the counter beside him.