Tricked Part 2

"Can I get you anything else?" the waitress asked, a curious half smile on her face.

"Yeah, wow, this sausage is really good," Coyote said. He was already chewing on an entire patty he'd folded into his mouth. "Four more orders o' that, if ya don't mind. I'll be ready when it gets here, I promise."

Atta dog, Coyote! Oberon said. Did she bring the bonus bacon, Atticus?

Yes, she did. Hold on, it's coming.

The waitress returned to the kitchen, shaking her head, and I pa.s.sed my bacon over to Coyote so he could put it on the seat for Oberon.

My omelet looked scrumptious, and I promptly showered it with Tabasco to perfect it. Granuaile slathered her pancakes in b.u.t.ter and maple syrup and sighed appreciatively. For a while we did nothing but celebrate gluttony. After we'd tucked in long enough to take the edge off, I broached a subject that had been pestering me.

"What I don't understand," I told Coyote, "is how you came up with this idea in the first place. This long-range planning, this sudden altruism-well, it doesn't sound like your sort of enterprise, if you don't mind me saying."

"Umf," Coyote grunted around a mouthful of ham. He held up a finger, telling me to wait, there was more to come after he'd swallowed. After he gulped down the ham and chased it with a swig of coffee, he said, "Know what you mean, Mr. Druid. It's a fair question. An' it came about because I asked myself a differ'nt question, like why I'd never bothered to do somethin' good for my people." like why I'd never bothered to do somethin' good for my people."

"Hold up," I said. "What made you ask yourself that question? I mean, you've been around a long time, Coyote, and you could have asked yourself that centuries ago if it was in your nature. What changed your outlook?"

"Oh. That." He looked shamefaced and mumbled something about oompa loompas.

"Pardon me?" I asked.

"I said Oprah Winfrey Oprah Winfrey," Coyote growled, his irritation clear. Granuaile's jaw dropped, and Coyote pointed a finger at her. "Not a word outta you, Miss Druid." She wisely took a large bite of her pancakes and chewed as if he'd been discussing nothing more than the nice weather outside.

It's okay, Coyote, I secretly find her inspirational as well, Oberon chimed in. It's a shame she's no longer on the air. I had a dream once where I was in a studio audience full of famous dogs-I was sitting right next to Rin Tin Tin-and she gave all of us our very own cow. "You get a cow, and you get a cow, everyone gets a cow!" And then, to make it sweeter, she gave everybody their own Iron Chef to cook it up. I scored Bobby Flay, and Rin Tin Tin got Cat Cora. The Tramp got Morimoto but he was p.i.s.sed because he wanted Mario Batali, and I was like, "Tramp, you got a free cow free cow, dawg, you have absolutely nothing to b.i.t.c.h about here," and he was all, "Look, Oberon, I've moved up in the world. I've sold a s.h.i.tload of DVDs and I've single-handedly made mutts adorable, so I'm not going to settle for a guy who specializes in fish. I want an Italian who knows his way around a rack of ribs." Can you believe that guy? Total diva.

Coyote and I chuckled over this, and Granuaile knew Oberon had said something amusing, but she refrained from asking what it was. She was still trying to keep her amus.e.m.e.nt over the Oprah revelation from showing on her face. from asking what it was. She was still trying to keep her amus.e.m.e.nt over the Oprah revelation from showing on her face.

Sensing this, perhaps seeing the flicker of a smile at the corners of Granuaile's mouth, Coyote chose to move on. "Look, Mr. Druid. A long time ago, I f.u.c.ked things up for people. Brought death to the world, you know, made it permanent. It's tough to live that down. I've always done things to satisfy my own hungers; seems like I'm always hungry," he said, gesturing to the stack of empty plates in front of him. He paused as the waitress arrived with his four additional orders of sausage and cleared away his dishes. Then he continued, "But I see now there are other hungers than mine to feed. An' I want to do somethin' about it. I want to do somethin' that is one-hunnert percent good. People will look an' say, where's the downside? What trick is Coyote playin' now? But there won't be any. An' that'll be my finest trick of all."

Coyote ate his sausage even faster than before, then got up to go to the bathroom and didn't come back. That meant I got stuck with the bill; I should have seen that one coming. The trickster was waiting for us out in the parking lot with a grin on his face.

"Took you long enough," he said. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, let's do this."

Coyote called shotgun and was visibly surprised when I moved to the rear door. "She's driving?"

"Yeah. It's my car," Granuaile said, then arched an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

"h.e.l.l, no."

"Good." She beamed at him briefly, then ducked into the driver's seat.

You almost died again, Coyote. Close call, Oberon said.

At Coyote's direction, we drove on 160 northeast toward Kayenta, but before we got there we turned off on a dirt road just on the far side of a ma.s.sive sandstone wonder called Tyende Mesa. It was rough, dry country, covered in red rocks and infrequent attempts by plant life to make a go of it. The trees were scrub cedars and junipers; there wasn't the cactus you'd find to the south in the Sonoran Desert. People tend to picture the state of Arizona as all saguaros and rattlesnakes because that's the sort of postcards they keep seeing, but saguaros don't grow on the Colorado Plateau. Parts of the plateau are pretty lush with pine, like the southern tip of it known as the Mogollon Rim, but on the reservation the topsoil is shallow and sandy and mostly unable to support large trees, except in the bottoms of old washes. toward Kayenta, but before we got there we turned off on a dirt road just on the far side of a ma.s.sive sandstone wonder called Tyende Mesa. It was rough, dry country, covered in red rocks and infrequent attempts by plant life to make a go of it. The trees were scrub cedars and junipers; there wasn't the cactus you'd find to the south in the Sonoran Desert. People tend to picture the state of Arizona as all saguaros and rattlesnakes because that's the sort of postcards they keep seeing, but saguaros don't grow on the Colorado Plateau. Parts of the plateau are pretty lush with pine, like the southern tip of it known as the Mogollon Rim, but on the reservation the topsoil is shallow and sandy and mostly unable to support large trees, except in the bottoms of old washes.

The road was extremely rough in places. Discarded tires bore mute testimony to the fact that the thin layer of sand covered sharp rocks. We crossed a one-lane metal bridge that spanned a narrow defile-a flash-flood canyon that eroded anew every time it rained and the water trailed off the bare rock of the mesa-and, shortly after that, Coyote directed us to pull over onto a cleared patch on the left side of the road. There, the mesa rose up steeply in a sort of terraced fashion until it flattened out again, then two magnificent b.u.t.tes jutted up almost like the dorsal fins of some ma.s.sive, mad creature, an avatar of erosion swimming in sand. The flash-flood wash we had crossed no doubt began between those b.u.t.tes. In the other direction, the plateau was flat and covered with various bunch gra.s.ses and a few stunted trees, all the way to Kayenta and beyond. We took some canteens with us and began hiking up the mesa toward the b.u.t.tes.

"First thing I need you to do," Coyote said halfway up, "is make a nice smooth graded ramp here to speed up the construction of a road. Down there where the car's parked," he pointed to the flat, arid plateau, "we're going to build the work camp that will eventually become a town. And once we build the factories for our solar and wind companies, it'll be a proper city. A carbon-neutral one too." He put a hand next to his mouth and whispered as if he were sharing a secret, "I learned that carbon-neutral s.h.i.t from a hippie in Canyon de Ch.e.l.ly." going to build the work camp that will eventually become a town. And once we build the factories for our solar and wind companies, it'll be a proper city. A carbon-neutral one too." He put a hand next to his mouth and whispered as if he were sharing a secret, "I learned that carbon-neutral s.h.i.t from a hippie in Canyon de Ch.e.l.ly."

We continued to hike until we crested the first terrace. The next layer, sort of like a wedding cake, loomed on either side. We walked west down a valley dotted with scrub cedar for about a quarter mile, until Coyote stopped and spread his arms wide to indicate the northern b.u.t.te face. "Here is where you make my people rich," he said. "Move the gold underneath this mesa. We'll put the entrance to the mine in that little cave right there." He pointed to a small depression at the base of the b.u.t.te that qualified more as a niche than a cave.

I shook my head. "You know, Coyote, this makes no sense geologically. You can't put gold underneath this kind of rock. Geologists will scoop out their eyes with a melon baller and ruin their shorts when you start hauling precious metals out of here, because it will put the lie to everything they know. Then you'll have prospectors searching for gold underneath every chunk of sandstone around the world and getting p.i.s.sed when they don't find any."

"I don't care, Mr. Druid. This is the place."

"It has to be here? We can't pick a spot elsewhere on this huge reservation that makes more sense in the natural world?"

"It has to be here. I've gotten permission to build here from the Kayenta chapter, I've gotten you permission to live here while we do it, and my workforce and business connections are all in Kayenta. This here is where we change the world, Mr. Druid."

But no pressure or anything, Atticus.

Chapter 4

As we were hiking back down the hill, three white work trucks rolled up behind the car. They were full of people in jeans and orange T-shirts, some wearing cowboy hats and others wearing hard hats. One man in a hard hat started giving directions, and the workers moved to get stakes and sledges out of the truck beds along with surveying equipment and one of those portable toilets. A woman and an older man stood next to the man in the hard hat. They weren't wearing orange shirts, and thus I concluded they weren't technically part of the work crew.

All three of them were very happy to see Coyote. They shook hands and traded smiles full of affection for one another. Their faces turned expressionless, however, when Coyote began to introduce the white people. He remembered our fake names, thankfully.

"Reilly and Caitlin Collins," he said, "this here is my construction foreman, Darren Yazzie." The man with the hard hat nodded at us and mumbled a "Pleased to meet you." He was a well-muscled fellow in his mid-twenties, his eyes mere slits in a sort of perpetual squint from working outside all the time. He wore his hair long and braided in the back in a single thick queue.

Coyote pointed next at the woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a thin black Windbreaker over a yellow polo shirt. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a simple ponytail, and she had a pair of eyegla.s.ses with thick black rims resting on her nose. A hundred subtle cues of body language told me that there was a keen intelligence behind those eyes; I knew she was important to this project before Coyote said a word. "This," he said, "is Sophie Betsuie, the head engineer." black Windbreaker over a yellow polo shirt. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a simple ponytail, and she had a pair of eyegla.s.ses with thick black rims resting on her nose. A hundred subtle cues of body language told me that there was a keen intelligence behind those eyes; I knew she was important to this project before Coyote said a word. "This," he said, "is Sophie Betsuie, the head engineer."

"h.e.l.lo," she said, shaking our hands firmly. "Nice to meet you."

The elderly gentleman had character carved into his face, arroyos and washes of years trailing above and below his mouth, around his eyes, and down his neck. His black cowboy hat sported a silver band set with turquoise in the front, and he had a b.u.t.toned-up broadcloth shirt tucked into his jeans. He had a giant chunk of turquoise floating at the base of his throat, because he'd apparently missed the memo that said bolo ties were out of style and quite likely had never been in style at all. His belt buckle was an enormous silver job worked in fine detail, though I couldn't say what the design was, since I didn't take time to examine it carefully. I was too distracted by his aura, which had the telltale white light of a magic user in it.

"That's Frank Chischilly," Coyote said. "He's a hataaii hataaii."

Did he say hot tamale? Oberon asked as I shook hands with Frank.

No, he said hataaii. hataaii. In the Navajo language, it kinda sorta means a medicine man In the Navajo language, it kinda sorta means a medicine man.

Who needs medicine?

Excellent question.

"I'm honored to meet you, sir," I said.

"Likewise," he replied. To Granuaile, he didn't offer his hand but rather tipped his hat and said, "Miss." His voice was scratchy and warm, like a wool blanket.

"What brings you out here, Mr. Chischilly?" Granuaile asked before I could.

"Well, he has to be here," Coyote explained.

"Oh," Granuaile said, nodding, then added, "Sorry, but why does he have to be here? I'm not too clear on what that thing was you called him. Are you a tribal official, Mr. Chischilly?"

"Nope," he said, a faint trace of a smile on his chapped lips. "I'm here to do the Blessing Way ceremony, once we get a hogan built up there."

"Cool!" Granuaile said, a huge grin lighting her face, and then it disappeared, replaced by uncertainty as Frank's vague amus.e.m.e.nt vanished. "Oh. I mean...I didn't mean to a.s.sume. I would love to watch, but I'm not sure if that's allowed. I actually don't know what the Blessing Way ceremony is, so forgive me if I just sort of stepped on your toes there, I feel really stupid if that makes you feel any better, and-"

Chischilly raised a hand to stop her stream of apologies and gave a shrug. "Hey, it's okay with me if it's okay with Mr. Benally."

Before I could ask who Mr. Benally was, Coyote said, "It's okay with me."

Interesting. Granuaile and I pivoted on our heels to face Coyote with our eyebrows raised, and Oberon said, Hey, if everyone around here is going to use a fake name, then I should have one too!

"Thank you, Mr. Benally Mr. Benally," I said, emphasizing the name.

I want to be introduced to these people as Snugglepumpkin. You have to say it seriously too, Atticus; you can't laugh.

Sophie Betsuie chose that moment to ask, "Is this your dog? What's his name?"

"Snugglepumpkin," I said.

Sophie snorted in disbelief but recovered rapidly, wiping a nascent grin off her face. "Oh. That's really his name?" a nascent grin off her face. "Oh. That's really his name?"

Tell her yes! Play it straight.

But why?

Just do it!

I nodded somberly. "That's his name."

"Oh. Well, that's...simply...adorable." Sophie put her hands flat on her thighs and bent her knees a bit as she looked at Oberon. Her voice took on that saccharine-sweet tone people use when they talk to something they think is cute. "Yes, you're adorable, aren't you? Are you a good boy, Snugglepumpkin?"

Oberon wagged his tail and came over within petting distance.

"Oh, yes, you are are a good boy, yes, you a good boy, yes, you are are." She stopped making sense and instead made high-pitched squeals of delight as she scratched Oberon's giant head; the rest of us stood and watched as a woman with an advanced degree completely lost her mind.

Okay, explain to me what you're doing, I said.

I'm testing a hypothesis, and so far it's working. It states that any human female who can be cla.s.sified as a "dog person," when confronted with a friendly-looking dog of any breed bearing a ridiculously cute name, will begin to make sounds at least two octaves above her normal register within thirty seconds of meeting said dog. She went there in less than ten seconds. He sounded particularly smug about that last part.

Oberon, you shouldn't have done this.

I am Snugglepumpkin. Hear me roar.

When she snaps out of it she's going to be embarra.s.sed, and we just met her.

Bacon is the Way and the Truth! But I'm beginning to have my doubts. These noises she's making are kind of annoying.

Bark once and she'll stop out of surprise.

Oberon barked.

"Oh! You're getting excited, aren't you, Snugglepumpkin? I'd better stop, then."

Hey, good call, Atticus.

"So how long you think it's gonna take you to get that road graded for us up to the top of the mesa?" Coyote said, redirecting us back to business. "I wanna start buildin' that hogan as soon as possible."

"Should be good to go by tomorrow morning," I replied.

Sophie frowned. "I beg your pardon? You're going to have a functional road built to the top of that mesa by tomorrow morning?"

This was also news to Darren Yazzie, whose workers would presumably be accomplishing all this. "Wait, how are we gonna do that? We don't have the right equipment out here."

Whoops. Coyote had already clued me in that these people weren't aware of his true nature-or mine-but I'd answered him without adjusting for "normal" ears. I covered brilliantly: "Uh-"

"I think we're talkin' 'bout two differ'nt things," Coyote interrupted, a sly smile on his face and a glint in his eye that told me he was enjoying my mistake. "Don't mind Mr. Collins here. He's just a geologist. Completely worthless when it comes to buildin' s.h.i.t. He can 'splain the f.u.c.k outuva rock though, heh heh."

I shot Coyote a glare while Granuaile coughed to hide a laugh. Darren and Sophie confined themselves to smiles, but Frank Chischilly chuckled hoa.r.s.ely.

I think he got your goat, Atticus! And I've been meaning to ask you about that expression. When people get your goat, what do they do with it? Do they eat it or hold it for ransom or what?

See, this is why I enjoy Oberon's constant commentary. Much of the time it's a bit distracting and funny enough that I might laugh inappropriately in the face of people who can't hear what he says. But in this case, it saved me. If he hadn't been around to point out that I looked irritated, I might have said something stupid and escalated things with Coyote. Instead, I excused myself by saying, "It was nice to meet you all, and I hope to speak with you later. I have some work to do right now though." I turned and strode up the incline to the base of the mesa, Oberon and Granuaile following in my wake. enough that I might laugh inappropriately in the face of people who can't hear what he says. But in this case, it saved me. If he hadn't been around to point out that I looked irritated, I might have said something stupid and escalated things with Coyote. Instead, I excused myself by saying, "It was nice to meet you all, and I hope to speak with you later. I have some work to do right now though." I turned and strode up the incline to the base of the mesa, Oberon and Granuaile following in my wake.

Typically you never get your goat back, I explained to Oberon. So you're left with two choices. Either you let it go and get another metaphorical goat, or you try to get their goat in a sort of eye-for-an-eye revenge thing. Most people get another goat So you're left with two choices. Either you let it go and get another metaphorical goat, or you try to get their goat in a sort of eye-for-an-eye revenge thing. Most people get another goat.

Wow. Sounds like a sweet deal for the metaphorical goatherders! Those guys must be livin' large.

"That was an interesting encounter," Granuaile observed, once we were safely out of earshot. I grunted sourly, and my apprentice laughed. "You're going to build that road tonight out of spite, aren't you?"

I grinned, amused that she could read me so easily. "If I can get the elemental to cooperate, I will. Then I want to see our so-called Mr. Benally explain it to Sophie and Darren, because I'm supposed to be a geologist who can't build s.h.i.t."

"I think it's funny how he messes with you," Granuaile said.

"You do, eh? Well, we'll see how you like it once he starts playing his tricks on you. They're not always harmless tricks, you know. There's a dark side to all tricksters. Coyote laughs at other people's misfortune more than anything else, and this little name and occupation game of his could be the setup for something bigger down the road."

Granuaile's amus.e.m.e.nt faded. "We're protected against him, though, aren't we?"

"Protected how? You mean magically?" I snorted. "Coyote doesn't need magic to trick us. The only thing we can do is try to stay ahead of him. Gotta be smarter than the anthropomorphic canine."

Whoa, did you just talk smack about canines?

No, I said that Coyote's a dog in the shape of a man.