The drive down to Sam Hauk's place took a little over thirty minutes. Other than the occasional direction, Iris wasn't very talkative. She chose instead to stare out of the window at the passing Big Horn Mountains. If it was possible, the sky was even clearer than it was that morning. The chill that had scared Jim into putting on a sweater was long gone and the day was now half over. The sun, high and tipping toward the west, was pounding on the backs of their necks.

As instructed, Jim turned off of Route 10 and gained a smoother Route 85. This move brought the sun to the front of the truck and caused Jim to pull down his visor. They stayed on Route 85 until it crossed Route 8 at a little town called Gila Bend, which was an extension of the Gila Bend Indian Reservation, as Iris pointed out, acting like a tour guide.

"Not far now," she said and pointed to a side road. "Take this left."

Jim did as instructed and turned off of the blacktop Route 8 and started down a dirt track that looked like a lot of roads in that part of Arizona. It looked like a driveway. Some distance away at the foot of a low mesa, a crowd of turkey buzzards was circling. Jim thought of the cattle getting loose and one venturing off a little too far. Maybe it had stepped into a rat hole and broken its leg. "Look over there," he said to Iris and pointed. "Turkey buzzards."