“Nothing else whatsoever,” White answered mildly, but between stiff lips.
“That suits me fine.” Cavanaugh lit a long black cigar in defiance of a NO SMOKING sign, and strutted out. All heads turned to watch him go and a buzz of conversation started.
“Wheeuw!” Ralph said in Sandy’s ear. “That Pinta Dome area had a big helium strike some years back. Wells in that region are all closed in now, and the government is very hush-hush about the whole thing. What’s Cavanaugh up to?”
White picked up another bunch of bids and called Hall to the table.
“You know, John, that bids on land in the disputed Navajo-Hopi area can’t be accepted. I’ve told you so again and again. So has Chairman Paul Jones of the Navajo Council. Why do you keep submitting them?”
“Because I’m a stubborn man, Ken.” Hall grinned, tilting his gray head as he always did when he was being stubborn. “And because I think there’s oil under those lands. And because I also think the tribes will get together soon. You just let my bids stand and tell me where I can locate Jones.”
“Hosteen Sandez, do you know where Mr. Jones is today?” White asked a lean old Indian who sat next to him.
“Gone to Chinle,” was the reply. “Two families there having dispute—with shotguns—about irrigation water. He trying to settle it before Navajo police come.”
“Thank you,” said Hall. “I think we’ll just mosey on up Chinle way.”
The jeep followed a good paved road as far west as Ganado, but when it turned north toward Chinle it got back once more on a trail made of stones from which none of the corners had been removed. They were driving through a wild country of mesas, washes and canyons which made conversation almost impossible.