The tract houses were spaced so regularly along the roads, they created more of a wind tunnel than a blind, so that the blue pickup truck, on turning into the housing development, seemed almost to be pulled of its own accord—or perhaps with the accord of other, less familiar forces. The man driving the blue pickup was Taylor. A man of less familiar forces. Taylor was part Hopi, part Anglo, part Navajo—and full brother to the spirits of the earth. Broad in the shoulder, he was yet tall enough to appear wiry; the brown-red weathered furrows of his face seemed sufficiently deep nearly to hide his eyes—just as the dry gullies of the land where he lived sometimes hid flecks of opal, fire agate, or bright obsidian. And such were the colors of his eyes. But still, a gentle face. A face of many smiles, many sorrows. In years, he was fifty, though in wisdom twice fifty; and in visions twice that again. It was his custom to wear faded denim, the color of the sky before an autumn rain; and a tan Stetson hat, the color of the same sky clouded by sandstorm; and the feather of an eagle in the hatband; and his black-and-moonlight hair braided in the manner of his people.
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