Storm of Locusts

Chapter 2

Hastiin and the Thirsty Boys are gathered by their vehicles. Three of us pile into an armor-fitted jeep, Hastiin in the driver’s seat, me at shotgun with my shotgun literally across my lap, and another Thirsty Boy, the young one who was petting my traitorous pup, in the back. Two other Boys climb onto terrain-friendly motorbikes and lead us out. My dogs escort us, tails wagging, as far as the cattle guard that marks the edge of my property.

“Take care of the old man,” I tell my dogs, as the jeep rattles its way over the metal grating. They bark a happy farewell before turning back toward the trailer. Hastiin pulls out onto the road and turns us west.

“So how far to Asááyi these days?” I ask. “I hear that road’s shot to shit.”

“Half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” I ask, incredulous. “It’s eight, ten miles tops. Your jeep can’t go any faster than that?” Granted the road isn’t much more than a winding suggestion up the side of a mountain and down into the canyon and drought has pockmarked the red earth with massive potholes, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t get there in half the time Hastiin suggests.

“He drives like an old man,” the Thirsty Boy in the back remarks cheerfully. I glance back. He’s young, fifteen. Sixteen, maybe. Hair in a traditional bun, nice brown eyes. Somebody’s kid brother. No, check that. Now that I’m closer, I can see. Somebody’s kid sister.

“A girl?” I ask Hastiin. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hastiin frowns. “Just ’cause I don’t like you much, Hoskie, doesn’t mean I don’t like women.”

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m the best tracker in Dinétah,” the new girl says. “He had to bring me if he wants to catch the White Locust. He didn’t have a choice.”

“I thought I was the best tracker in Dinétah,” I say.

The new girl’s eyes get big, and I give her a smile to let her know I’m not serious. Turn in my seat to get a good look at her. That almost bony frame, the crooked nose, the dimple I can see clear enough on her cheek, but that Hastiin hides behind his scruff of a beard. I turn back to Hastiin. “You’re related, aren’t you?”

He grumbles something.

“Speak up, Hastiin.”

“He and my mom are cousins!” the girl says. “Brother-sister, Navajo way.”

I used to think Hastiin was a hard-ass, one of the grizzled mercenary types that had seen it all and learned not to give a shit. Granted, he was always a dick to me before Black Mesa, so I might have been biased. But these past few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time with the man, and I’ve learned that underneath that rough exterior is a bit of a softie. I’m starting to appreciate him, and I think he feels the same way. I won’t ask him though. He’ll just deny it and demand that I crawl through a field of prickly goat’s head to prove how much he doesn’t care. But it doesn’t mean I can’t tease him.

“Our tracker’s got a point about your driving, Hastiin. Why don’t you let me drive?”

“Why don’t you sit there and look pretty, Hoskie?”

“Why don’t you retire while you still can, old man?”

Hastiin’s niece makes a choking sound. He looks back in alarm. “You okay?”

“No,” I say, “she’s not okay. She’s dying, very slowly, because it’s taking too long to drive to Lake Asááyi.”

Hastiin snorts, amused at my dumb joke. The jeep jerks forward as he presses the accelerator. I don’t even crack a smile. Like I said. Softie.

We make it to Asááyi in under twenty minutes.