He couldn't quite think of the mesa as his land. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The old stone cabin came into view with a pickup truck parked inside the open gate. He turned in and recognized Nestor Barela walking toward the cabin.
Barela heard the sound of Kerney's vehicle and reversed his direction.
"So, it is the policeman who now owns the Fergurson land," Barela said when Kerney approached. His tone wasn't friendly.
"Mr. Barela," Kerney replied.
"I do not like being made to a seem a fool," Barela said.
"You came to my house under false pretenses."
"I saw no need at the time to tell you who I was."
"Because you suspected me of wrongdoing?"
"The thought crossed my mind."
"And now?"
"I haven't reached any conclusions," Kerney replied.
"I would never spoil this land."
"I'm not saying you did. Why are you here, Mr.
Barela?"
"To see for myself what was done." Barela gestured at the cabin.
"The wood covering the door must be replaced, and the gate must be locked."
Kerney shook his head.
"Not until the police investigation is concluded. When it is, I'll close the cabin up, buy a lock for the gate, and give you a key."
"When will that be?"
"It could be days, maybe a week."
"Make sure you do as you promise," Barela said, turning away abruptly.
Kerney watched as the old man got into his truck, wondering why Barela even cared about a worthless structure on the verge of collapse.
He closed the cabin door, got a crime scbnb warning placard out of his unit, and taped the warning on the door. He taped another placard to the gate and closed it before leaving.
Emmet Griffin opened the door to the Horse Canyon Ranch foreman's residence holding a bowl of stew in one hand. Kerney displayed his shield, identified himself, and asked for a few minutes.
"I thought you might be a cop," Griffin said as he motioned with his head for Kerney to enter.
"What gave me away?"
Griffin padded across the hardwood floor in his stocking feet. A pair of cruddy work boots were carefully placed on some newspapers by the door.
"I used to talk the talk, and walk the walk. Spent five years as a deputy sheriff in Texas before deciding working with animals was a hell of a lot safer." Griffin sat in a worn wicker armchair with a matching ottoman, pulled the ottoman close, placed the bowl of stew on it, and started eating.
"No lunch," he said between spoonfuls.
"You don't mind?"
"Not at all."
Besides the chair and ottoman, the only other furniture in the room consisted of a small TV on a low table and a floor-to-ceiling pole lamp with three light canisters that was right out of the 1950s.
"One of your officers stopped by earlier," Griffin said.
"A Sergeant Gonzales. He was asking about Rudy Espinoza."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I had to let him go because he wasn't worth a damn. About a week after he started, we began losing things." Griffin paused to wipe his mouth on a shirt y sleeve.
"I didn't pay much mind to it at first. Stuff can get misplaced. But when a couple of good saddles turned up gone, I fired him."
"Did he admit to taking the saddles?"
"No."
"Did you report it to the sheriff's office?"
Griffin laughed.
"A lot of good that did. The deputy came out and took a report. End of story."
"Did you ever actually catch Espinoza stealing?"
"Nope. But I knew the rest of my crew wasn't doing it. They've been with me since I moved over to this job."
"Where were you working before?"
"The Box Z down on the Conchas River."
"Did Espinoza cause any other problems?"
"Not with me."