It was almost another hour before he saw the light, a firefly wink, and then a candle until, finally, it became shafts of light pouring out the windows of a long building. A few dusty pickup trucks were parked alongside, their hoods catching the dim neon reflection of a beer advertisement. When they got out of the car, he could hear Western music. The place was as raw and makeshift as the buildings on the Hill, and for a moment he was afraid he had imagined it. There seemed no reason for it to be here in the empty landscape, just something conjured up because they were tired and hungry.
Inside, there was a brightly lit general store and next to it a dimmer bar area filled with smoke, beer signs, a gaudy swirl of jukebox, and a few wooden booths that looked filled with slivers. At the far end of the bar several Indians in jeans and ranch shirts were drinking silently, barely talking to one another, the bar in front of them a sea of beer bottles. Nearer the door, two old ranchers in Western hats were parked on stools. Everyone looked up when they came in. The Indians quickly retreated into their quiet huddle, but the ranchers looked openly at Emma, then smiled and tipped their hats. Behind the bar was a tall Indian woman, clearly of mixed blood, her long Anglo face set off by unexpected high cheekbones and long braided hair. Her breasts, drooping from years of nursing, spilled into a white blouse decorated with beads.
“Can we get a drink?” Connolly asked.
“Sure,” she said, her face as expressionless as her voice. Without asking, she set up a boilermaker of whiskey and a beer. There was no sign of anything else. Connolly handed one whiskey to Emma.
“You’re like to catch your death in them shorts,” one of the ranchers said to Emma, nodding toward her legs.
“Like ’em?” Emma said, stepping back to display them.
The rancher laughed, surprised at her boldness. “I guess I do.”
Emma took a drink. “Thanks. Me too. That’s why I keep them to myself.”
The rancher laughed again. “Well, I guess so.” Then, to Connolly, “I don’t mean nothing by it. You don’t see that every day around here.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a look,” Emma said.
“Well, I guess not,” the rancher said good-naturedly. “Where you folks coming from so late?”
“Chaco.”
“Well, now, isn’t that something? I thought they closed it. Not too many goes out there these days. With the gas. They say it’s real nice, though.” Everybody in the West, it seemed to Connolly, wanted to talk. Only the movie cowboys were silent.
“I know it’s late,” he said to the woman behind the bar. “Is there anything to eat?”
She hesitated.
“Come on, Louise,” the rancher said, “you give these nice folks some of that stew. Ain’t nobody here going home anyways.”
“Anything would be fine,” Connolly said to her.
“Sure,” she said, pouring two more whiskeys. She pointed to a booth.
“Nice meeting you. That’s a pretty wife you got there,” the rancher said to both of them. “You ought to cover her up, though. Never know who you’re gonna run into.”
“Oh, she can usually take care of herself.”
The rancher found this funny. “I’ll bet she can. Yes, sir.” His eyes followed them as they went over to the booth to nurse their drinks.
“Another window shopper?” Connolly said, smiling.
“Well, this one might be after a sample. Not like our Boy Scout.”
“Really?”
“Oh, he’s harmless. He just wants watching.”
“Can you always tell?”
“Of course. Any woman can. It’s what we’re trained for.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.”
He looked at her, aware now of the drink. The booth seemed surrounded by a faint haze. He took another sip. “What do you think this stuff is?”
“Firewater.” She giggled.
“You’re not kidding,” he said, holding his throat.
“Careful it doesn’t go to your head.”
“Like the song.”
“What song?”
“You don’t know that song?”
She shook her head.
“Just a song. You’ll hear it sometime. We’ll go to a club-they’re always playing it. Encourages the drinking.”
“Like here?” she said, cocking her head toward the jukebox, still pumping out Western music.
“They don’t need encouragement here. If you can drink through that, you can drink through anything. God,” he said, reacting to another sip. “I’d better slow down.”
“It always hits you when you’re tired.”
“That was before. When we were hiking and fighting rattlesnakes and then had to watch Charles Atlas kick sand in my face.”
She laughed. “Did we do all that?”
“On one lousy sandwich.”
“Sounds wonderful.” She put her hand over his. “Let’s do it again.”
He looked at her eyes, bright in the smoky light. “Whenever you say.”
The Indian woman stood at the edge of the table, waiting for them to separate hands before she unloaded the tray-big heavy bowls of mutton stew with a large basket of Navajo fry bread. She set the table with surprising delicacy, placing clunky spoons down without a sound, arranging a bandanna-like napkin.
“Thank you,” Emma said.
“Sure.”
“And another round of drinks when you get a minute.”
“Sure.” She moved slowly away, pulled by an unseen tug.
