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.But he could have killed Cata.Could he be not just amixed-up way-out kid but literally insane? Living some fantasy ofsorcery-witchcraft unreality that made murder just another part of the dream?The question occupied Leaphorn on the steep climb up the saddle over the lipof the mesa and caused him to move more slowly and cautiously as he went abouthis work.Even so, within an hour he had accumulated most of the informationhe needed.In this season, this end of the mesa was the grazing territory for a herd ofperhaps twenty to twenty-five mule deer.They watered at a seep under therimrock and had two regular sleeping places-both on heavily brushed hummockswhere updrafts would carry the scent of predators toward them.Within twohours he had a fair idea of the pattern the herd followed in its dawn,twilight, and nocturnal feedings.This feeding pattern, he explained toSusanne, was followed with almost machinelike rigidity by mule deer-varyingonly with changing weather conditions, wind, temperature, and food supplies.Page 65 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html"From what you tell me about George, he's going to know all this," Leaphornsaid."If he got up here when we think he did, he would have been trying toget one about dusk.He'd have done enough track reading to figure out wherethe deer browsed when they came out of their afternoon sleeping place.Thenhe'd set up an ambush and just wait."The ravens led them to the spot.The guard bird rose, cawing an alert.A dozenfeeders flapped skyward in his wake, noisy with alarm.And down the slope theyfound the small clearing where George had shot his deer.The animal, a small two-year-old buck, still lay beside the trail in theshadow of an outcropping of cap rock boulders.Leaphorn stood on one of theboulders surveying the scene and feeling good about it.For the first timesince he had heard of George Bowlegs, something seemed to be working out withthat rational harmony Leaphorn's orderly soul demanded.He explained it toSusanne, showing her the scuff marks on the lichens where George had crouchedon the boulders; explaining how, at dusk, the cooling air would be moving downthe trail, taking George's scent away from the approaching herd and allowinghim to perch almost directly over their route."From here we pick up his tracks and find where he spent last night.He'llhave the horse hobbled somewhere close, so that should be easy.And if he'smarking time until tomorrow." Leaphorn's voice trailed off.His expression,which had been blandly satisfied, deteriorated into a puzzled frown.He brokethe self-created silence by muttering something in Navajo.A moment ago thisscene had clicked tidily into the framework his logic had built-a deer killedwhere, when, and how the deer should have been killed.Why hadn't he seen theglaring incongruity? Leaphorn's frown decayed into a glower.Susanne was looking at him, surprised."What's the matter?""You wait right here," he said."I want a closer look at this."He swung himself down off the boulders and squatted beside the carcass.It wasstiff, dead not much less than a day.The smell of fresh venison and old bloodrose into his nostrils.It was a fat, young, four-point buck, shot just behindthe left shoulder from above and in front-a perfect shot for an instant killand made, obviously, from the boulder at very short range.George had thenrolled the buck on its back, removed the scent glands from its rear legs, tiedoff the anal vent, opened the chest cavity and the abdomen with a neat andprecise incision through hide and muscles.He had rolled out the entrails, andthen he had cut a long strip of hide and tied it to the buck's front ankles,presumably in preparation for hoisting the carcass from a tree limb to let itdrain and cool away from ground rodents.But the carcass still lay there.Leaphorn scowled at it.He could have understood if George had simply slicedhimself a substantial portion of venison and let the carcass lie.It wouldhave gone against the grain, as Navajo and hunter, to waste the meat.But ifhe had been in a hurry George might have done it.Why this, though? Leaphornrocked back on his heels and tried to re-create it.The boy carefully scouting the herd without alerting it, checking its browsingroutes, checking the wind drift, setting his ambush, waiting silently in thegathering darkness, picking the deer he wanted, firing the single precise shotin the proper place.Then bleeding his kill, taking each step in dressing thecarcass, without sign of hurry.And then, with the job almost done, walkingaway and leaving the meat to spoil without even cutting himself a steak toroast
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