When he reached the small substation that served the local police, his partner Don Olander had just finished brewing some coffee. He was a lanky descendant of Anglo farmers known for his in frequent speech. Gallup colleagues called him “Silent Cal” behind his back, a tribute to Yankee President Calvin Coolidge.

“Got company,” Don said, gesturing with his chin. An elderly Navajo man, his black and silver hair tied back with white yarn, sat on the uncomfortable leather sofa meant for visitors. Pete walked over, switching at once to Navajo. He greeted Hosteen Elgar Nakabito politely, enquired into his health and, after formalities were exchanged, asked him, “What brings you here, my uncle?”

“Not this bad coffee,” Hosteen Nakabito replied, hoisting his half-drunk mug. He was a respected man known for his hand trembling divination. “I had a dream last night.”

Pete waited as the man drew out a checked pocket handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Everybody’s talking about this marauder who steals food, leaves gates unlocked, and eludes all the town’s dogs.” Pete nodded, knowing more was coming. “Then I saw your house in my dream and there was a cloud over it. I could hear the song of sorrow, an old chant.” He took another sip from the mug and put it down decisively. “Now you know where to look, my nephew.”

Pete showed the old man out, standing by to assure himself the elder’s bow legs folded up into his old Chevy flatbed truck. He thanked Hosteen Nakabito politely, trying hard to keep any emotion from showing on his face. He spent the next couple of hours in a silent fog before leaving the station. He drove home locked in internal debate. The front door of the house swung open as he parked in the driveway.

The boy’s narrow face was so familiar. He had Chris’s looks all right and now his wide hazel eyes were open with apprehension. “Dad, everybody’s talking about the mystery bandit!”

Pete pulled off his cap, feeling it suddenly too tight. “And you know who it is?” He placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Okay, we should go inside.” The boy wiggled under his hold, protesting. “Let’s go out back, please?” Pete tightened his grip and steered him into the living room. What was he going to say?

Danny squirmed in obvious discomfort. “Dad, out back…”