EXCERPT (from Chapter One)

To Owen Garrett's keen sheepherder's eyes, it appeared entirely likely that the woman in the blue shirt and red panties running back and forth between the water faucet and the two copulating dogs was the Californian. First off, the red panties were the itty-bitty lace variety. You didn't come by those easily in a town like Blue Dog unless you ordered off one of those fancy color catalogs. If you did, the folks who worked at the post office got to know your weakness, and before long everyone from Shiprock to Silver City would hear about it. From the way she ran - high up on the balls of her feet - he figured probably she was a jogger. When they weren't driving convertibles, Californians ran everywhere, pumping arms and legs and inhaling diesel fumes from Mercedes, all in the name of health. Every time she banked and turned from the water faucet and raced toward the dogs - hands cupped in front of her, making good time but not good enough to keep hold of the water - he could see those panties strain for all they were worth, a deep Comstock cherry pie red that graced the tops of the longest legs he'd seen all at one stretch i maybe fifteen years. It was common knowledge they all dressed like that out there, you know, certified members of a nation of crazy people. Women who never wore brassieres except as outerwear, doing aerobic exercises twenty-four hours a day in neon-colored girdles. The men, too. What kind of man was it who voluntarily put on tights and went out among them? True, they had to exercise, because they never did any hard work aside from pushing a computer button now and again or sending one another a fax. And in the state of California it was a sin to be soft. Little wonder they all got skin cancer and has nervous breakdowns every fifteen minutes. Good Lord, had she come to Blue Dog to get over one? She might also be one of those New Age crystal-rubbers searching for a cure-all to the kind of depression that came from idleness and too much money.

As Owen pondered these questions, he sat straight atop Red-Bow, his twelve-year-old quarter horse, an animal with just enough mustang thrown in to keep things exciting. Together they surveyed the woman's lack of progress. Hopeful, Owen's three-legged blue Queensland heeler, was locked up tight to the Californian's sorrel bitch, one of those tall skinny dogs that probably cost two month's salary and was too nervous to finish a meal. Long Legs wasn't having much luck breaking them up, though with handfuls of water she was managing to sprinkle them in a pretty kind of way. It brought to mind old Father Morales down at the reservation with his holy-water rattle and the Easter group baptism.

Might even be that the dogs appreciated the water. It was a warm day, somewhere in the high eighties, could hit ninety before noon. He could see she was about to give up now that it was clear the dogs were set on following nature's urgings. He watched her stamp her long, bare foot and give out a holler of frustration. She had powerful lungs, and the yelling indicated she was plenty angry, probably about something or other that happened long before the dogs got into it.