"That's a rabbity way to put it."
"All he's ever known is military schools and the navy, war and violence. I won't want him to take the path I did. Teach him the ways of peace, Sunny Joe. He needs a lot of peace right about now."
"Think he'll go for it?"
Remo looked back at the Master of Sinanju and Winston silhouetted against the Gila Mountains of the Sonoran Desert. They were talking animatedly.
"I don't see he has much choice."
"Well, the way I see it, Remo, I never did exactly right by you. I guess I kinda owe you an upbringing. Since it's a mite late for that where you're concerned, I guess I can pay the debt to the next generation."
"Thanks, Sunny Joe."
"Don't mention it, son."
They walked back.
REMO PUT THE OPTION to Winston Smith.
"No one will find you here. You won't have to worry about the navy or Harold Smith or any of it."
Winston scratched his head. "I don't know.... This is sort of weird. What kind of Indian am I supposed to be?"
"A Korean one," said Chiun.
"Sun On Jo," said Sunny Joe.
"Never heard of them. I was hoping I was a Cheyenne or at least a Sioux."
"We're not warriors," Sunny Joe explained. "Fighting isn't our way."
"I've seen my share of fighting. I want to do something different." Winston's ice blue eyes scoured the vast, arid expanse of the Sun On Jo Reservation. "Where's the chief?"
"Dead. I'm the Sunny Joe of the tribe. It's sort of a protector. The name's Bill Roam."
"Roam. Roam. I know that name ...."'
Sunny Joe grunted. "I did a little acting in my time."
"Hey, I know you now! You're Muck Man! I saw every one of those pictures."
"That's right. But my Muck Man days are behind me now."
Remo spoke up. "So what it's going to be?"
Winston Smith looked around. "I could give it a shot, I guess. You got horses here?"
"Can you ride?" asked Sunny Joe.
"No. But I can learn."
"I'll teach you, then."
"Not so fast. Got TV?"
"All you want. But I have to warn you in advance-no squaws. You start hankering to take a wife, you'll have to look beyond these parts."
"I'm in no rush in that department," Winston said quietly.
"Good. It's settled." Sunny Joe put a big arm around Winston's shoulder. "So what do I call you?"
"Big Chief Pain in the Butt, if you ask me," said Remo.
Winston gave a thumb's-up sign. "Call me Winner. I'll come up with a last name later."
"Well, come on, Winner. Let's get you settled in." Sunny Joe looked to Remo and Chiun. "What about you two? Planning on staying a spell?"
"Can't," said Remo. "Gotta get back."
"We will stay long enough to pay our respects," inserted Chiun. "Important work calls us. But we will not be rude."
"We'll catch up," said Remo. "I left something in the chopper."
"Suit yourself. Come on, Winner, let me tell you some tall tales of my wild and wooly days in Hollywood."
Winston held back. His eyes met Remo's. They were full of pain and questioning. Deep behind these stormy emotions was a shine of gratitude.
"Thanks. I can't thank you enough," he said awkwardly.
"Don't mention it," said Remo.
They started walking away. Then Sunny Joe remembered something. "Hey, Remo."
Remo turned. "Yeah?"
"Got any more offspring I should know about?"
Eyeing Winston, Remo said, "Tell you about that some other time."
Winston looked startled. "What's that supposed to mean? Don't tell me I have a brother! Do I have a brother? What's his name. Does he look like me?"
"Later," said Remo. To Sunny Joe, he said, "Swap you a used helicopter for a lift into town?"
"I might see my way clear to that."
THAT EVENING, Remo was loading Chiun's lacquered trunk with the lapis lazuli phoenixes into the back of a Mazda Navajo jeep. The moon rose over the sandstone hump called Red Ghost Butte, washing the Sonoran Desert in a silvery wash of light.