A thick cloud broke and rolled toward the distant hogback. Sunlight pierced the narrow canyon, casting long shadows and soft morning colors into the ravine. Pale green cottonwoods, shimmering in a gentle breeze, bordered a dry, rocky streambed.
Driving into the sun, Kevin Kerney dropped the visor to block the glare, slowed the truck, and grunted in frustration. He was lost. In front of him juniper and pinon trees climbed steep slopes to a ridgeline that slashed abruptly above the canyon and pointed directly at a serrated peak. From the lay of the land and the piss-poor condition of the forest road, it was unlikely the route would take him to the Slash Z summer pasture.
He stopped and consulted the quadrangle map.
Three private ranches straddled Dry Creek Canyon, deep in the foothills of the Gila Wilderness. He'd passed the first two at the wide mouth of the canyon where rangeland and cactus flats spread to the breaks and dipped down to the San Francisco River. Kerney was a good mile beyond where the third ranch should be.
He glanced at the radio and rejected calling the Glenwood ranger station to ask for directions. He might be new to the job and a seasonal employee to boot, but he was capable of getting oriented without any help. He backed the truck down the road to the cutoff, got out, and found a Forest Service sign that had been ripped off a post and tossed in some underbrush. The spur he'd taken was closed to vehicles. That solved the problem. Kerney backed farther down to the fork and rattled over an equally primitive route that traveled away from the hogback.
After a steep rocky climb, the road leveled as he entered a thick stand of old-growth ponderosa pines that peppered the north face of the mountain. Deep shade made it feel like dawn instead of full morning.
He topped out at the crest and stopped the truck, letting the engine idle. A saucer-shaped park, sprinkled with oak and pine, stretched for several miles in three directions. Smack in the center a cabin sat in a small grove of pine trees. A windmill and stock tank were nearby. A barbed-wire fence encircled the cabin to keep away the grazing cattle that moved slowly through the tufts of long grass.
Kerney took in the view, his thoughts turning over the ways he could restore the abandoned homestead and revive it into a year-round cattle operation.
There was a perfect cove at the far end of the field where a house, horse barn, and feed shed could be sheltered. The old cabin could easily be converted into a repair shop, to be used when winter came and all the things that needed fixing could be attended to when the weather made outside work impossible.
The road to the cabin was in sorry shape and needed to be graded and packed with base course so it could be used year-round. New fences would have to be thrown up to segregate the land into pastures to prevent overgrazing, and a new corral and loading chute were necessary, but all in all, one man could handle it, if he was willing to work sixteen-hour days and forgo time off for a couple of years. With federal grazing rights, he could run several hundred head of cattle and maybe make a small profit, once the operation was up and running.
Kerney shook off the daydream. It was foolish to think that he could ever raise enough cash to buy such prime land, and the owner would be an idiot to sell. He would have to settle for a lot less when the time came to put his money down and get back to the business of ranching. He popped the clutch and drove over the rutted tracks that led to the cabin.
From horseback on the ridge, Phil Cox watched the lime-green Forest Service pickup as it traveled across the field, bouncing in the deep furrows of the ranch road. The driver slowed several times to keep from spooking the cattle that wandered into his path. That was enough to tell Phil that Charlie Perry wasn't driving. Whenever possible, Charlie used his horn with perverse pleasure to run a few pounds off Phil's beef. Charlie believed cattle grazing was destroying the national forest. He wanted the Gila pristine and pure from boundary to boundary; no cattle, no private land, and no ranchers to mess up the wilderness.
Phil didn't recognize the man who parked next to his horse trailer and limped to the cabin fence. After a dozen or so steps his gait smoothed out a bit. Phil hollered, got the ranger's attention, and nudged his horse down the trail, leading a saddled gelding. He wondered who in the hell the Glenwood station had sent to meet him. The ranger waved a greeting as Phil approached.
Phil dismounted, hitched the horses to the back of the trailer, and walked to the ranger.
"I don't believe we've met. I'm Phil Cox."
"Kevin Kerney," the man replied, grasping Cox's hand.
"You're a hell of a way off the beaten path."
Phil nodded.
"True enough. The Forest Service would love to buy me out and retire my grazing rights." He judged Kerney to be in his early forties.
His features were strong and his skin was weathered, with fine lines at the corners of deep blue eyes.
"I won't do it."
"Neither would I," Kerney replied, as he looked around. With no evidence of a holding pen or a loading chute in the shallow valley, there was only one way to get the cattle in and out.
"Do you move your stock on the hoof?" he asked.
Phil smiled. Maybe the ranger wasn't a complete idiot.
"That's right. I use the Triple H pens down on the flats for loading.
It takes a couple of days to herd them out, but it's fenced most of the way, so we don't have to chase a lot of strays."
"About two hundred head?" Kerney guessed. Phil Cox, a slender man with bushy eyebrows and light brown hair, matched Kerney's six-one frame, minus about ten pounds. His eyes were slate-gray and he had a dimple in his square chin. He was in his late thirties, but his voice sounded younger.
"Give or take a few, with the new calves," Cox agreed.
"I could run more on land higher up, if I had a mind to, but when the Forest Service raised the grazing fees, I cut back. I was expecting Charlie Perry to show up."
"He's supervising a prescribed burn in the Blue Range, so you're stuck with me."
"New to the district?" Cox asked.
Kerney nodded.
"They sent me down from the Luna station to fill in until Charlie gets back."
"I thought I knew all the Luna rangers."
"I'm temporary help."
Phil nodded to encourage more of an explanation.
With the cutbacks in funding, hiring seasonal help was now standard operating procedure for the Forest Service, but commissioned rangers were usually career employees.
Kerney didn't volunteer any additional information.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Cox?" he asked instead.
"I'm not sure you can do anything at all," Phil replied.
"I found a bear carcass I thought Charlie Perry would like to take a look at."
"Poachers?" Kerney asked.
"Maybe," Phil allowed.
Kerney nodded. He limped to his truck, opened the door, took out a small day pack and a hand-held radio, and returned to where Phil waited.
"Let's go take a look."
Phil Cox gestured at the gelding as he swung into the saddle.
"We have to ride in. Climb aboard."
Kerney lengthened the stirrup straps, tied down the day pack, and eyed the size of the saddle before swinging himself onto the gelding.
"Who's riding with you?" he asked with a slight smile.
Cox smiled back.
"PJ, my oldest son. He's thirteen.
I've got him posted at the carcass to keep the coyotes away."
Kerney adjusted his rump in the undersized saddle.
Riding with a saddle that didn't fit jarred the back and jolted the tailbone.
"How far do we have to go?" he asked.
Phil looked a bit sheepish. If Charlie had been sitting on the gelding he never would have known why his tailbone was sore at the end of the ride.
Charlie preferred helicopters to horses.
"Not far," Phil replied.
Kerney nodded.
"That's good."
Phil took the lead across the grasslands. There was something familiar about Kerney that he couldn't pin down. He was left with the feeling that he knew the man.
PJ Cox had his father's eyes and the same dimple on his chin. He cradled a varmint rifle in his arm.
Lean and deeply tanned, the boy wore a battered cowboy hat pulled down tight on his head. Phil introduced Kerney, and PJ stuck out his hand.
"Glad to meet you, sir," he said politely.
"Same here," Kerney replied, shaking PJ's hand.
"Thanks for looking after things while your dad went to fetch me."
PJ glanced up at Kerney, pleased with the expression of gratitude.
"No problem," he said.
The carcass was twenty feet away. Kerney took a long look at it.
"When do you think the bear was killed?" he asked PJ.
"Yesterday," PJ answered promptly.
"It hasn't even started to smell bad yet."
Kerney nodded in agreement.
"Did you take a close look at it?"
"No, sir." PJ glanced at his father.
"My dad said to leave it just the way we found it."
"That was good advice," Kerney replied with a smile.
He gathered up some twigs and walked an ever tightening circle around the bear, staking each track and sign that he saw. He could feel Phil and PJ watching him as he worked. Ten feet from the carcass he found the discarded, eviscerated bowels of the animal. Close by were tracks of bear cub prints and the imprint of a boot heel in soft sand. He finished the circle, returned to the horses, got two cameras from the day pack, and started taking pictures. Phil Cox and PJ remained quiet as he shot Polaroid and thirty-five-millimeter photographs of everything he had staked as evidence. Finished with the perimeter search, he walked to the carcass.
The black bear, a female, had been skinned and beheaded, and all four paws had been cut off.
Coyotes had been at her, ripping into the soft underbelly, but the animal had not been fully gutted.
The ground, swept clean with the branch of a cedar tree to remove footprints, was stained with the juices and blood from the coyote feeding. Kerney took more pictures, gathered some hair samples, and scraped dried blood out of the cavity into a plastic bag before returning to Phil and PJ, who were perched on a boulder. Both stood up when he walked over.
"What do you think?" Phil asked.
"Trophy hunter," Kerney speculated.
"Knew what he was doing, from the looks of it. Took out the bladder and bowel before he started skinning. One clean entry hole through the chest from a highpowered rifle. Minimum damage to the pelt. Have you seen anything like this before?"
"Heard about it," Phil replied.
"It happens every now and then. A royal elk or a buck deer with a good set of antlers gets taken, or a cougar or a bear like this. Charlie can tell you more about it."
"What would Charlie tell me?" Kerney prodded.
"That some people pay big money to hang a bearskin on their wall," Phil answered.
"Like who?"
"Nobody I know," Phil replied shortly.
"There isn't a rancher in the county who would kill a bear that's mothering cubs unless it was marauding."
"You saw the cubs?"
Phil shook his head.
"Just the tracks. That's my boot print you took a picture of."
"How long have you and PJ been up here?"
"We camped down at the old cabin last night and came up before dawn looking for strays. When we found the bear I called for Charlie on my cellular phone."
"Have you lost any stock?"
"Not that I know of," Phil replied.
"I wouldn't shoot the damn bear and call the Forest Service to come and fetch it, if that's what you're getting at.
That would be pretty stupid."
"That would be stupid," Kerney agreed.
"Have you seen anyone in the area?"
Phil answered with a tight shake of his head.
"Did you hear any shooting?"
"No."
"Did you pass anyone on the road when you came in?"
"No." Phil stiffened and his eyes narrowed.
"I already told you I didn't shoot the bear."
"I'm not accusing you, Mr. Cox," Kerney replied.
"It sounds that way to me."
"Maybe we should back up and start this conversation over again," Kerney proposed.
Phil gave Kerney a slight shrug of his shoulders.
"Hell, I'm sorry I sound so gruff. It's not you. I guess I've got a knee-jerk reaction to anything that smacks of criticism. Nowadays it seems like us ranchers get blamed for everything that goes wrong in the national forest. At least you're not giving me a Charlie Perry lecture about how my cattle are destroying the forest."
"Is Charlie a hard-core environmentalist?" Kerney asked.
"And then some. He's one of those back-east, urban conservationists. A big-city fellah who wants to save us from ourselves. I take it you haven't met him."
"I haven't had the pleasure." "Well, you're in for a treat," Phil said sourly.
Kerney nodded vaguely, his eyes studying the mesa. From what he could see, the tabletop mesa fell off sharply on all sides. It was a rock-strewn piece of ground, no more than half a mile long and a quarter mile wide, with wide beaches of shale broken by clearings of grass, wildflowers, and clumps of pinon and cedar trees.
"Is the trail the only way in?" he asked.
"Unless you're a mountain goat," Phil answered.
Kerney smiled in agreement, took the hand-held radio from his pack, made contact with the Glenwood office, and gave a brief report. He was told to stand by until relieved.
"Charlie's on his way," Phil predicted.
"You think so?"
"Bet on it."
"While we're waiting for Charlie, would you and PJ like to lend a hand and help me look for the cubs?"
Phil found himself liking the ranger's manner.
"Might as well," he replied with a smile.
They searched the mesa in sectors. Phil and PJ were good trackers. The boy found recent claw marks on a pinon tree near a cow path, and Phil found fresh bear scat by a rotten log. They fanned out, working between the trees, and Kerney discovered a shooter's nest behind a cedar tree.
In the spongy, needle-covered soil a small blind had been constructed of branches and dirt, just large enough to conceal a prone rifleman. There were tracks of a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle in a sandy hollow off to one side.
PJ called out in an excited voice just as Kerney finished photographing the tire tracks. Kerney jogged to catch up with the boy and his father, who stood looking down into a rock crevice. A bear cub, huddled behind the dead body of a sibling, whimpered as PJ bent over with his hands on his knees for a closer look.
Phil turned to Kerney and said something that was lost in the sound of an arriving helicopter.
"What did you say?" Kerney shouted.
"I said it's a damn shame," Phil Cox shouted, as they walked to where the chopper landed.
The pilot shut down the engine as a man disembarked and ran, head lowered, through the dust cloud kicked up by the rotor wash. He nodded at Phil Cox and turned his attention immediately to Kerney.
"You're Kerney," he snapped. He was a man in his early thirties, with a serious face and sharp brown eyes. Sand-colored hair flapped over his forehead.
He wore a yellow fire lighter jumpsuit and hiking boots.
"That's right," Kerney replied.
"Charlie Perry," he said, brushing his hair back into place. A strand fluttered back down his forehead.
"I sure hope you haven't fucked everything up."
The helicopter blades slowed to a dull thudding sound.
"That would be embarrassing," Kerney replied.
Charlie's eyes narrowed at the sarcasm.
"What have you done so far?" he demanded.
"Staked evidence. Took photographs. Did a field search."
"Show me the carcass," Charlie ordered, as he started walking away from Kerney.
Kerney didn't move. After a few steps Perry turned to face him.
"There are two cubs over where PJ is standing," Kerney said, motioning toward the boy.
"One is dead. The other one looks sickly."
Charlie walked back to Kerney and gave him a sour look.
"Why didn't you call it in, for chrissake?" he demanded.
"I would have brought my wildlife manager with me."
"We just found those cubs," Phil interjected.
"Get off your high horse, Charlie."
Charlie gave Phil a tight smile and looked at Kerney. "Wait here," he ordered, as he turned on his heel and went to the chopper.
As he talked to the pilot, Phil nodded his head in Charlie's direction.
"Now, isn't he a piece of work?"
"I like his warmth," Kerney replied.
Phil chuckled.
"He sure puts a man at ease, doesn't he?"
Charlie returned carrying a canvas duffel bag.
"I'm sending the chopper back for my wildlife manager after you've shown me what you've done," he said to Kerney.
"The pilot will drop you off at your vehicle. I'll take it from here."
Kerney gave Perry a tour, while Charlie fired questions at him, each one more terse than the last, his tone peevish. When Charlie finished grilling him, Kerney turned over the Polaroids, exposed film, and evidence and stepped back to take another look at the man. Perry had close-set eyes and a pinched nose. His fingers were long and nervous.
Almost skinny. Perry stood just under six feet tall. His shoulders sloped a bit.
Charlie flipped through the Polaroids without comment and stuck them in the breast pocket of his jumpsuit. He looked up at Kerney without any change in expression.
"You can take off. Get back on patrol."
Dismissed, Kerney nodded wordlessly, gathered up his gear, and headed for the helicopter.
Phil Cox walked along with him.
"It seems to me you did a damn good job out there."
"Thanks. This was my first case where the victim was a bear," Kerney admitted.
"What other kind of cases have you had?"
"The two-legged variety," Kerney said as he climbed into the helicopter.
"But that was some time ago."
The pilot cranked up the engine. Phil stuck his head through the open door into the cockpit as Kerney strapped on the seat belt.
"I didn't mean to sound so pissed off at you." He finished the apology with a shrug of his shoulders.
"You didn't. Thanks for your help. And thank PJ for me."
"I'll do it. Stop by for a visit when you have the time."
"Be glad to," Kerney answered.
Phil waited for Kerney to ask for directions.
"I'm over by Old Horse Springs," he finally added, when Kerney remained silent.
"Turn off at the Slash Z sign on the highway."
Kerney smiled.
"I know where it is."
There was no answer to Kerney's knock at the door of the Triple H ranch house. A station wagon with an Albuquerque car dealer's decal on the tailgate was parked in front of a double garage. He knocked harder and waited. The limbs of an old cottonwood at the back of the house overhung the roof. The home, a contemporary single-story ranch style was neat as a pin on the outside. The landscaping, apple trees bordered by a moss rock planting bed filled with flowers, was carefully tended.
Against a small hill within hailing distance stood a weathered horse barn with a corral and a loading chute built out of old railroad ties nearby.
Kerney knocked again, got no answer, and gave up. On his way to the truck, he heard a woman's voice calling from the backyard.
"Cody, you get in here right this minute! I mean it, young man!"
He turned the corner of the house in time to see a shirtless, shoeless boy scoot up some steps and fly through the open door of an enclosed screened porch into an old stone house set back against a ridgeline. The screen door slammed closed behind him. It must be the original ranch house, Kerney thought. Square and chunky, it had a big stone chimney at one end, a rock foundation, and oldfashioned casement windows.
Kerney knocked at the screen door. The porch floor was stacked with moving boxes in various stages of being emptied. From inside the house he heard two children, a boy and a girl, arguing over who had been given permission to feed a puppy. The animal, a short-haired mongrel no more than twelve weeks old, answered Kerney's knock with a wag of its tail, pushed the screen door open with its nose, sniffed Kerney's boots, and wandered down the steps into the yard.
"Hello," Kerney called out.
The children's chattering stopped, followed by their rapid arrival at the porch door. They were attractive kids with brown hair, fair skin, and bright, inquisitive faces.
The girl, about eight years old, had long braids that she twisted absentmindedly with her finger. She gave Kerney a shy smile.
"Hi," she said.
"Hello. Are your parents home?"
"My father doesn't live here."
"Can I speak to your mother?"
"We're very busy right now," the girl replied.
"I won't take much of her time."
"I'll ask her." The girl retreated into the darkness of the front room.
The boy, about five, dressed in cutoff jeans, stood directly in front of Kerney, squinting up at him. He peeled an orange with his fingers, stuffed a wedge into his mouth, and dropped the rind on the floor.
"What kind of policeman are you?" the boy asked as he inspected Kerney's holstered handgun and the badge pinned on his uniform shirt.
"I'm a ranger with the Forest Service."
The boy swallowed the orange slice.
"I'd like to be a policeman when I grow up," he said.
"Or a rancher like my grandfather."
Kerney hunkered down to get at eye level with the boy.
"Which job do you think you'd like best?"
"Ranching," the boy replied.
"You get to ride horses and drive trucks. I like driving the tractor best. My grandfather lets me sit on his lap and steer.
That's fun."
"I bet it is."
The boy held out his orange.
"Want some?"
Kerney pulled off a portion and thanked the boy.
A woman wearing shorts and a peach-colored sleeveless jersey stepped through a side door that led from the kitchen to the porch. She glanced at Kerney, who rose to greet her, and paused to look into some open boxes.
"That's where my saucepan is," she said to herself, taking it out of the carton.
"Cody, pick up that orange peel and go help your sister. I see Cody has been feeding you," she said to Kerney as she approached.
"He gave me a piece of his orange," Kerney answered.
Cody gathered up his litter, stuffed it into a pocket, and refused to budge. He wrapped his arm around his mother's leg as soon as she moved into striking range. Her hand dropped gently to his bare shoulder.
"Your fingers are sticky," she said.
Cody smiled up at her.
"My parents are in Silver City for the day," the woman said.
"Is there something I can do for you?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
"It's not a forest fire, I hope. That damn helicopter flew over twice this morning."
Kerney shook his head.
"No." With creamy skin, cobalt-blue eyes, and black hair that spilled against her shoulders, the woman was very good-looking.
The bones of her face, fine and delicate, were set off by a strong mouth that hinted at toughness. Late thirties, Kerney guessed. He looked down at the boy, who still had his arm firmly wrapped around his mother's thigh. Slightly above average height, the | lady had long, well-formed legs. | "Somebody killed a black bear on the mesa," Kerney explained.
"I'm looking into it. Have you | seen any unfamiliar vehicles go by recently? Or any strangers?" "Why do people do that?" she demanded, stomping her foot.
"That makes me so mad." She shook her head in disgust.
"Just a minute." She pried Cody's arm from her leg.
"Go," she ordered, in an even tone of voice.
Cody didn't move.
"Right now, young man," she added, with the hint of a threat in her voice.
Cody groaned, gave her a dirty look, and shuffled off to the kitchen.
"I've been so busy moving in, I haven't noticed anything except this mess," she answered, gesturing at the boxes.
"Besides, that damn house my parents built blocks my view of the road. I swear I'm going to tear it down after they die. I just hate it. If they want to live in a house like that, they should move to Albuquerque."
"It looks well cared for," Kerney noted, trying to remain neutral.
"My father prides himself on keeping things in perfect order. But the house belongs in a subdivision, as far as I'm concerned."
"It does seem a bit out of place." Kerney took out a business card and wrote his name on the back.
"Could you have your father call me?" he asked, handing her the card.
The woman studied the card.
"Kevin Kerney," she said, looking over his shoulder.
"Bubba, get over here!"
Kerney turned. The puppy was busily digging up a flower bed. It took one short leap, then wheeled and trotted off toward the house the woman hated.
"Cody. Elizabeth. Go get Bubba before he destroys all of Grandmother's flowers."
The children tumbled down the porch steps and started chasing Bubba.
"I named him Bubba because he's so damn stupid," the woman explained.
She looked at the card again, then back at Kerney and caught him staring at her legs. Her eyes measured him directly. He was tall, with square shoulders, brown hair with a hint of gray at the sideburns, and calm blue eyes that looked back at her without flinching. His features, angular and strong, were offset by a mouth that seemed on the verge of a smile.
"I'll give Dad your card."
"Thank you," Kerney said, smiling in earnest now.
She watched him walk down the flagstone path with a limp that threw him slightly off-center. She switched her attention to her children, who had chased Bubba back into the yard and were trying to tackle the puppy as he barked and ran between their legs. She smiled as the chase turned into a game. She tapped the business card against the back of her hand and looked at it once more. Kevin Kerney. She liked the name.
She stuck the card in the frame of the screen door where she wouldn't forget it and went inside. There was an incredible amount of unpacking still left to do.
Stops at the last ranch in the canyon and at the bar, store, and two restaurants in Glenwood yielded no information on possible suspects.
Kerney drove the short distance down the highway to the district ranger station, checked in with Yolanda, the secretary, found an empty desk in a back office, and started writing his report. He was almost finished when Charlie Perry came in and stood over the desk, looking down at him.
Kerney glanced up, said nothing, and returned to his writing. The expression on Perry's face was enough to tell him that Charlie was steamed.
"I don't recall giving you permission to continue the investigation,"
Charlie said sharply.
"You didn't," Kerney allowed.
"That's right. I understand you have some law enforcement experience. I relieved you on the mesa and sent you back on patrol. You should know what that means."
"I do."
"Are you always so fucking insubordinate?"
"Not always."
Charlie scowled. Kerney locked his gaze on Perry's face and settled back in his chair to wait the man out. Charlie blinked first.
"Okay," Charlie finally said, "you're new and you're seasonal, but this isn't the Luna office. I handle all the investigations in the district."
"I understand from Phil Cox that you're good at it," Kerney replied.
"That's nice to hear, but it's not the point," Charlie shot back.
"Poaching and illegal trophy hunting are a way of life for most of the people in this district. It's part of their culture. They do it to feed themselves, to make money, or just for sport.
There are twenty-five hundred people spread out over almost seven thousand square miles in Catron County. A hell of a lot of them are poor as church mice, and they know the forest better than any ranger.
Catching them isn't easy.
"You're wasting your time canvassing. You got two kinds of people who live here-the minority who want poaching stopped, but who aren't going to snitch on their neighbors, and all the rest, who see it as a birthright. Folks poach depending on how hungry they get, how broke they are, or how bullheaded they feel. You can't approach it like a criminal investigation. It doesn't work that way. And the locals aren't going to talk to some newcomer they don't know or trust."
Charlie was still scolding. Kerney didn't want to make it worse.
"I understand," he said.
"Good. I'll be at the Blue Range burn for the rest of the day. Finish your patrol shift and report back to the Luna office in the morning.
Leave your report with Yolanda. I'll read it later."
Kerney tapped his paperwork with the tip of the ballpoint pen.
"Do you have any poaching files I can look at?" he asked.
"I'd like to learn more about it."
"You don't have the time."
"I'll do it after work," Kerney countered.
Charlie considered Kerney. He hoped to God he was never in the man's predicament. He knew Kerney was a medically retired cop from Santa Fe hired on an emergency basis by Samuel Aldrich in the Albuquerque Office to fill in for a permanent employee on extended sick leave. The rest Charlie could see for himself: a hobbled-up, middle-aged man in a temporary job that would end no matter how hard he worked or how much he tried to please-not that placating people seemed to be much of a concern to Kerney. There were simply no permanent staff vacancies, with all the budget cuts.
"Catching poachers isn't your job," Charlie said.
"I thought I made that clear."
"You did." Kerney leaned back in the chair and smiled at Charlie.
"Explain something else to me."
"What is it?"
"Why are you pulling my chain? I don't think asking a few questions has damaged the investigation."
"That's your point of view," Charlie replied bluntly.
"Is there more to this case than meets the eye?"
Charlie exhaled loudly through his nose and shook his head.
"You don't get it, do you? It's not your case. It's not your business.
End of discussion."
"Whatever you say."
Charlie left, and in a few minutes Kerney heard the helicopter lift off to take Perry back to his fire. As he paper-clipped the report together, Kerney wondered why Charlie had stonewalled him about the case. It made no sense, and dismissing Perry as an arrogant, hard-nosed son of a bitch wasn't a completely satisfying explanation.
Kerney walked down the hall and gave his report to Yolanda for typing.
She promptly dumped it on the top of an overflowing tray. A heavyset, slow moving woman with expressionless eyes, she held Kerney back from leaving.
"Charlie said for you to work a double shift," she informed him.
There was a bite to the announcement. Charlie had obviously made his feelings about Kerney known to Yolanda.
"Did he really? What does he want me to do?"
"Campground patrol." She pulled open the desk drawer and handed him two keys on a chain.
"For gasoline and the office," she explained.
"Just leave your paperwork on Charlie's desk."
"Anything else?"
Yolanda shook her head and turned back to the typewriter.
It looked like the dead black bear was going to be the high point of his day. *** The district office was dark and locked when Kerney returned from his double shift. He sat in Charlie's office reading closed poaching cases he'd found in the bottom desk drawer. It was meager stuff; mostly small-fry poachers who had been snitched off, caught taking game out of season, or found spotlighting prey at night. A few trophy hunters had been busted while transporting carcasses out of the forest.
Charlie's open cases were stuffed in a file cabinet and consisted of a mixture of poaching and trophy kills, with no solid leads, witnesses, or hard evidence.
All of Charlie's attention seemed focused on game-taking within the Glenwood District. Kerney wondered about similar activity in other areas. He scanned through a stack of game-kill bulletins from other agencies. One bighorn sheep had recently been taken on state land by a poacher using an ATV, and several exotic ibex from the herd in the Florida Mountains east ofDeming had been harvested earlier in the year.
An all-terrain vehicle had been seen in the vicinity by a Bureau of Land Management officer.
With the bear kill on the mesa, that would make at least three cases where an ATV had been used to get to the killing ground. It was enough to raise Kerney's interest. He went to the map posted in the front lobby and studied it. Aside from Forest Service land, there were large parcels under the control of the Bureau of Land Management and smaller sections owned by the state. Maybe Charlie Perry had tunnel vision.
Just for the hell of it, Kerney decided to query every state and federal park and conservation agency in the region and ask for information on kills where an ATV was used. He typed fax messages at Yolanda's desk and sent out the inquiries, asking for responses to be sent to him at the Luna office. As he fed the messages through the fax machine, Kerney wondered how ticked off Charlie Perry was going to be when he discovered this most recent act of insubordination.
He got home to Reserve late. His trailer, painted a bright blue by his landlord in a desperate attempt to rent it, sat in an empty field across from the high school. Inside it was hot, stuffy, and smelled like mouse piss. He opened all the windows. Across the field the parking-lot lights at the high school burned pale yellow. He heard the deer mice under the floor-much more established tenants of the trailer than he was-scurrying around, upset by his arrival.
He would put out some traps on his next day off.
The trailer was a dump, but Kerney didn't mind.
A single-wide furnished with a bed, kitchen table, couch, ragtag easy chair, and several lamps, it served his temporary needs. He was banking all his paychecks and living on much less than his retirement pension.
Along with the money the Army had paid him for the recovery of the stolen artifacts from White Sands Missile Range, he just might finish the summer with enough cash for a down payment on some land. Not much, and certainly nothing as extensive as the Slash Z summer grazing acreage, but something that could get him started.
Kerney really didn't give a damn what Charlie Perry might do. Four weeks on the job was long enough to convince him that he could never permanently return to patrol work. Not even the beautiful landscapes and startling sunsets in the Gila could ease the boredom of long hours in a vehicle. Maybe a wilderness assignment would be different, but that was a plum job reserved for forestry and wildlife specialists.
It had been years since he'd worn a uniform, and he had never liked them-not when he had served in the Army nor when he had started out as a street cop. He stripped off the garments, dressed in his sweats, and limbered up the knee for his nightly run, wondering how long it would take Phil Cox to figure out who the hell he was.
As he jogged away from the trailer he thought about the good-looking woman he had talked to at the ranch house. He didn't even know her name.
Even the rawest rookie cop on the street knew enough to ID all possible witnesses. It was a dumb blunder, and his appreciation of the lady's splendid legs didn't justify the mistake. He laughed out loud at himself as he picked up the pace.
Hector Maria Padilla had heard the story of his family's history many times from his grandfather.
He listened to it again as he drove through the mountains north of Silver City on a winding two- lane highway. The trip from the border through the desert had gone smoothly, but in the high country of southwestern New Mexico he felt less confident behind the wheel. He drove a new four-wheel-drive Ford truck Grandfather had bought specifically for the journey, and towed a travel trailer they had rented in El Paso.
Grandfather finished the story of how his ancestors had settled the Mangas Valley soon after the end of the American Civil War, and now embarked on the tale of his arrival in Mexico City as a young man.
"My father wanted all his children to be educated," Dr. Jose Luis Padilla said, continuing his narrative in Spanish.
"He decided the village needed a doctor. So, I first went to the university in Albuquerque and then to Mexico City to study medicine."
"And that's where you met Grandmother," Hector said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.
"Yes." Jose Luis Padilla sighed inwardly. He missed his dear Carlotta, dead these past three months.
"She was the only woman enrolled in my class at medical school. All the men pursued her. I was amazed that she took notice of me. Her family opposed our marriage."
"Because you were not from Mexico," Hector noted, slowing the vehicle as a car approached them from around a curve.
Jose Luis Padilla chuckled.
"Yes. I was unacceptable-a nobody from the United States."
The road was clear. Hector glanced with a worried look at his grandfather, who sat with a road map on his lap. Since they'd entered the mountains. Grandfather's breathing had become more labored. He looked for signs of oxygen deprivation. Grandfather's skin had good color, and his lips were pink.
Reassuring signs. He decided to inquire anyway.
"How are you feeling. Grandfather?"
Dr. Jose Luis Padilla turned his head and smiled at the young man. His dark brown eyes were clear and lively. He was rail-thin, with wispy gray hair that curled up over the tip of his ears. His skin, heavily wrinkled, was tight against his skull.
"I am free,jito. You must remember that until your graduation next year, I am the only doctor on this journey."
"Your breathing is rapid," Hector observed.
"As well it should be at my age, with so much activity at this altitude.
If I require rest, you can park the truck so that I can take a siesta in the trailer. Pay attention to your driving."
Of all his grandchildren. Hector pleased Jose the most. He was a serious, hardworking young man who would one day be an excellent doctor.
Hector reminded him of Carlotta. He had his grandmother's beautiful olive-black eyes that always seemed lively and amused, a resolute spirit, and a sound intellect.
"You never came back to New Mexico after the death of your father,"
Hector said. It was part of the story Grandfather always seemed to skirt.
"I brought your grandmother here for my father's funeral, and she hated it. It was too isolated and alien to her nature."
"But it was your father's wish that you should return home to practice medicine," Hector reminded him.
"There was nothing to come home to. Pull over to the side of the road."
Grandfather's answer surprised Hector.
"Nothing?" he questioned. He stopped the truck on the shoulder of the road next to a cluster of cabins surrounding a tourist lodge. They were in Glenwood, a small mountain town strung out along both sides of the highway. The town-a few businesses, tourist cabins, and small houses fronting either side of the road-perched in a wandering valley cut by the course of a river.
"My father lost everything in the Great Depression," Jose replied, as he unsnapped the seat belt.
"My brothers had already left home to find work, and the village was dying. Gringos from the Dust Bowl moved into the valley and took most of the public-works jobs. Building roads. Logging. Drilling wells.
All my father had left was his land, his sheep, and a few herdsmen willing to work on the promise of future wages. All was lost after he was murdered."
"Murdered?"
"Yes, murdered. Your grandmother and mother made me promise never to speak of it to the family.
But I think I owe it to my father's memory to uncover the truth."
"Sixty years is a long time. Grandfather," Hector replied.
"Perhaps it is too late."
Jose Padilla opened the passenger door.
"I think not," he said abruptly.
"I have a letter we must deliver. I will ask for directions at the store. Wait here." "I'll go," Hector said hurriedly.
Dr. Jose Padilla waved a finger at his grandson as he stepped carefully out of the cab.
"I am an old man, not an invalid."
When Jose returned, he guided Hector to a dirt road off the highway that bisected a small valley, pierced a series of arroyos, and climbed into the foothills. Hector maneuvered the truck and travel trailer cautiously, especially where the sides of the road dropped off into the arroyos. Grandfather had him stop in front of a ranch house and gave him a sealed envelope.
"This is for Mr. Edgar Cox," Jose said.
"Do you wish to see him if he is home?"
"Not yet."
Mr. Cox was not home, but a very pretty Anglo woman, who said she was his daughter, took the letter and promised to deliver it. Grandfather simply nodded his thanks when Hector returned and gave him the message.
Back on the highway. Grandfather navigated with a road map on his lap.
Hector continued north, climbing steadily through mountain passes covered in dense pine forests.
Well past the town of Reserve, Grandfather spoke.
"The turnoff to Mangas is not far ahead."
"What kind of road is it?" Hector inquired.
"The map shows it to be an all-weather road. If that is so, it has been much improved over the years."
"A dirt road," Hector corrected.
"Unpaved."
Jose laughed.
"You worry like an old woman who has left the barrio for the first time in her life. You are driving very well. I would be lost without your help."
Hector slowed the truck and pulled to the shoulder of the highway.
"I think we have traveled far enough for one day," he said.
"But the day is still young, and I want you to see those beautiful mountains." Jose nodded at the peaks that rose up before them.
"If I can remember the way, perhaps I will be able to show you Mexican Hat."
"It's not on the map," Hector reminded him.
Jose waved off the comment.
"Not every place is named on a map."
"And not every day has to be spent driving from morning until night,"
Hector said, stifling a yawn.
"Today, I would rather stop and stretch my legs for a while. Please look on your map for a campground."
"Of course," Jose said.
"Will I be allowed to explore tomorrow?"
Hector saw the twinkle in Grandfather's eyes, nodded his head, and laughed. He checked for oncoming traffic, saw none, turned the truck around, and started driving back toward the town of Reserve.
Kerney left the Forest Service truck in front of the old schoolhouse, now the Luna District Ranger Station, glad to be finished with the Glenwood assignment. In the high country, no matter what the season, early morning was chilly, and across the valley plumes of wood smoke drifted from the chimneys of the homes that were still occupied.
Over the years many houses had been abandoned, and the village presented a neglected face to the world.
The former classroom that served as an office for the commissioned rangers was a snarl of desks, file cabinets, map cabinets, and office chairs. The walls were plastered with posters, maps, memorandums, and aerial photographs of the Apache National Forest, which was managed as part of the Gila east of the Arizona border. There were several responses to Kerney's fax inquiry on the top of his desk.
Clipped to them was a note for him to see the boss.
He didn't have a chance to read the replies. Carol Cassidy, the district supervisor, came into the room and stood in front of the blackboard that stretched along one wall. A quotation from Edward Abbey, written on the board with a warning not to remove it, read, "The idea of wilderness needs no defense. It only needs defenders."
"What are you doing?" she asked, nodding at the fax papers on Kerney's desk. Carol's full lips accentuated her round cheekbones. She brushed her short blond hair back from her forehead. Her oval light brown eyes, usually impish and cheerful, were serious.
"Nothing, yet," Kerney replied, waiting for more.
"Are you trying to give Charlie Perry a heart attack?" she asked, walking to him. She picked up the thin sheaf of fax papers and let them float down to the desktop one at a time.
"From what I've seen, he doesn't need any help from me," Kerney answered.
"He's wound up pretty tight." He scanned the replies quickly. No hits on his inquiry so far.
"He's hyper," Carol agreed.
"But Jesus, Kerney, it's his investigation. I don't need any grief from Charlie." "Why would he give you grief?" Kerney asked.
Carol leaned back, hand on her hip, and stared at him. She was short and blocky-the legacy of a Nordic grandmother-but carried herself with poise. In her late forties, she was delighted to be running the Luna office and planned to keep doing exactly that until she retired.
"This will be a turf issue for Charlie," Carol answered.
"It's his district and his case. You did your part. The rest is up to Charlie. Did he put a burr under your saddle?"
"No burr," Kerney replied.
"I'm just following up. I plan to pass along whatever comes in."
Carol liked Kerney, which was a pleasant surprise.
Often the temporary personnel hired out of the regional office in Albuquerque either lacked a strong work ethic or couldn't adapt to the rural culture of the area. Self-contained yet easygoing, Kerney fit nicely into the team.
"What's the issue?" she finally asked.
Kerney hesitated.
"Come on. Give," Carol prodded.
"From what I can tell, Charlie's wearing blinders.
He isn't coordinating his investigations with other agencies or looking at trends. I thought it might be worth a shot to see what else is out there."
Carol gave Kerney's assessment some thought before responding.
"You can make that same criticism about every district in the region," she replied.
"The whole system is understaffed, under budgeted and under siege. Top that off with the Sagebrush Rebellion and the People of the West movement, and what we've got here is a damn near explosive situation."
"I understand," Kerney replied.
"Perhaps you do in a general way," Carol responded, "but you haven't been here long enough to know the depth of the anger that's out there.
Logging has been curtailed because of the Endangered Species Act. Mines have shut down because of water pollution. Grazing fees have been raised. Everybody blames the environmental movement and the government.
People feel that nobody outside the county gives a damn about their survival.
"In the last twelve months, four homemade bombs have been found on hiking trails in the wilderness. Bombs, for chrissake. Some people are more than angry."
"Any ideas of who is responsible?"
"Nobody has a clue."
"Not even rumors?"
"Some think it may be the county militia, but nobody is talking to me about it."
"Who knows about the militia?"
"I haven't the foggiest. Some time back, when the first bomb was found, I asked to have an investigator assigned from the Inspector General's Office to look into the situation. Instead the acting regional forester referred the request to Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"And?"
"Andnada."
"Do you want me to drop the poaching research?" Kerney asked.
Carol took a minute to think it through.
"No, you can follow up, as long as it doesn't cut into your other duties. Charlie won't like it. He's been handling all the Luna District cases, as well as his own, for the past two years. But it's my call to make, and I'd just as soon put your experience in law enforcement to good use. Remember, you're a ranger, not a chief of detectives in a police department anymore."
"I know that," Kerney replied dutifully. He wished he could avoid the never-ending sermons that came with being a rookie newcomer.
Carol's expression softened, and she laughed.
"I'm lecturing, aren't I? Sorry about that."
"It was more informative than what I learned from Charlie," Kerney allowed, grinning at her.
"Tell me about him."
Carol's smile was half a grimace.
"He's a golden boy. Can't seem to do anything wrong, as far as Sam Aldrich, our acting regional forester, is concerned.
Charlie transferred here about two years ago. He's single and not very social. Keeps pretty much to himself. There's not much to tell."
She wiped the piqued expression off her face.
"Like him or not, he does a good job. He's a Young Turk on a fast track. There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Are you ready to do something different for a while?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"We're finishing up a new campground at the foot ofMangas Mountain. It's nothing fancy. Parking for vehicles. A well and water line. Some picnic tables.
An outdoor toilet. New hiking trails. I can use you there for a couple of days."
"No problem," Kerney answered with a smile.
"Any special instructions?"
"Amador Ortiz will put you to work. Keep the area closed until the job is finished. I don't want anyone camping there until it's ready to open." "You got it, boss," Kerney said, getting to his feet.
"Take a horse and trailer with you," Carol added.
"When we open the campground it will be on your patrol route. Get to know the lay of the land."
They parted in the foyer, at the counter where generations of children had presented notes from parents to the school secretary. Carol's office, once the principal's domain, sat at the far end of the building with a clear view of the hallway leading to the classrooms.
Kerney drove a mile down the road to the housing and district maintenance compound, where Carol and her husband and family lived, along with several other senior staff. Tucked away under some full growth pine trees, the area contained living quarters, horse barns, tack rooms, repair shops, a heavy machinery lot, a garage, and storage buildings.
The Luna Valley dipped away to the south, a shallow, wide depression of grassland ringed by deeply forested mountains. The spire of the Mormon church, prominent in the little settlement, caught the morning sun like a beacon. The highway cut through the valley, past a small cluster of vacant commercial buildings that once served the settlement and occasional tourists driving the scenic route to and from Arizona.
Kerney walked to the corral and inspected the small herd of horses. He took his time before settling on a white-stockinged chestnut stallion with strong legs that stood sixteen hands high. It was a powerful looking animal with a prominent chest and solid legs that promised good balance. Kerney smiled as he hitched the trailer to the truck and led the horse out of the corral. It was going to be a good couple of days.
Anything was an improvement over patrolling campgrounds filled with temporary refugees from urban America.
Edgar Cox sat at the table sipping his morning coffee and looking at the row of Royal Copenhagen Christmas plates carefully arranged on a long open shelf above the double kitchen windows. He didn't have to count them; there were forty. One for each year of their marriage. Margaret had bought the first plate as a Christmas gift to herself when they were newlyweds. After that, he made sure she got another plate each holiday season. It always pleased and delighted her. Edgar wondered if he'd get to give Margaret any more. It didn't look promising. He heard the hinge of the back door squeak, looked over, and smiled as Karen came into the kitchen.
"Hi, Daddy. You got home late," Karen said.
"You know how your mother is when she gets to visiting," Edgar replied, a smile easing across his face.
"Are Elizabeth and Cody up?"
"Just barely. They helped me with the unpacking.
I think the chaos is under control."
Karen walked to the counter, got a cup and saucer from the cupboard, and poured some coffee. Barefoot, in shorts and a loose undershirt with no bra, she was only just dressed. Edgar was used to it. At the age of three, Karen had started taking off her clothes and running around buck naked. His daughter hadn't really changed much over the years, especially when she was at home. The funny thing about it was that Karen was absolutely stunning when she got dressed up, which wasn't often enough to Edgar's way of thinking.
He waited for her to join him before speaking again.
"Are you going to enroll the children in school?"
The question made Karen sigh.
"We've talked about this before. Daddy, and the answer is still no.
I'll tutor them at home for now. You know how I feel about public schools."
"You've got a teaching certificate and a law degree," Edgar countered.
"That's not bad for a country girl who went to public schools."
"I want Elizabeth and Cody to learn how to think, how to love ideas and books. Then they can go to school. Besides, my job with the district attorney's office is only half-time. The kids will get lots of attention from me."
"What does Stan think about it?"
Karen made a sour face at the mention of her ex husband's name.
"It's not his decision to make."
"He's still their father."
"He couldn't care less. In fact, I think he's delighted to have us out of Albuquerque and far enough away to be conveniently forgotten."
"That's a pretty harsh judgment."
Karen laughed.
"No, it's an honest one. The harsh judgment came from the court when I was awarded sole custody."
"You didn't tell us that."
"There was no need to drag you or Mother into the messy particulars of my divorce."
The look on Karen's face made it clear that further discussion was closed.
"You start work on Monday?" Edgar asked.
She smiled.
"Bright and early. I can't wait."
Her father smiled back at her. His gray hair was thick and curly, cut short and combed with a severe part, and his eyes were as blue as her own. Edgar Cox was a big, lean man with a strong chin, a deeply lined face, and an easy grin. He reached over and patted her hand.
"I know you'll do a damn fine job."
She smiled at the compliment.
"Thanks. What's on your schedule for the day?"
"I'm going to put out fresh salt licks, patch a hole in a water tank, and round up a cow I spotted that looks like it has a touch of foot rot."
"You need to slow down. Daddy."
"Why should I? I only turn seventy-five this year, and God willing, I got another good ten or fifteen years left in these old bones."
"Well, I think you need some more help. Two hired hands aren't enough."
Edgar laughed at the suggestion.
"Find me somebody who knows just a little bit about ranching, is willing to work in bad weather, and doesn't expect to get paid more than he's worth, and I'll consider it."
"Sell the place." Karen's smile was devilish.
"We've had this discussion before. The ranch stays in the family.
That's what I want, and that's what your mother wants."
Karen laughed.
"In that case you'd better make sure that Cody and Elizabeth learn everything you forgot to teach me, so they can help me run this place after you and Mom finally decide to slow down. Think of it as home schooling."
"Touche," Edgar replied.
"Oh, I almost forgot. You had visitors yesterday."
"Did Phil and PJ stop by?"
"No." She reached in the pocket of her shorts, took out an envelope and a business card, and put them on the table.
"A poacher killed a black bear on the mesa. A ranger wants to talk to you about it.
Charlie Perry was here too, asking the same questions."
Edgar shook his head sadly, picked up the card, looked at it, turned it over, and read the scribbled name.
"Kevin who?" he asked.
"Kerney." "Don't know him. He must be new. This card says he's working out of the Luna station. I wonder what he's doing in Charlie's neck of the woods." He put the card on the table.
"I'll talk to Charlie." He picked up the envelope.
"What's this?"
"A young Hispanic man left that for you. Very polite and well-spoken; based on his accent, I'd say he was from Mexico," Karen added.
"Nobody we know?"
Karen shook her head.
"I never saw him before.
He was with an older man."
"Were they looking for work?"
"I don't think so."
Her father tore open the envelope, read the contents quickly, and grunted to himself. The smile in his eyes faded.
"Is anything wrong?" Karen asked.
Edgar shook his head.
"No. Nothing. Some old business, that's all."
"Is it something I should know about?"
The smile on her father's face was forced.
"Don't worry. Peanut. It's not important."
She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the childhood nickname.
He stuffed the letter and envelope into a shirt pocket, pushed his chair away from the table, and stood up.
"Your mother is sleeping in," he said.
"She had a long day."
Karen didn't know that her mother might have cancer. It wasn't going to be discussed until the test results came back. Margaret had made him promise.
It would be an anxious wait before their next appointment with the doctor.
"I'm going to town to see Charlie Perry and pick up supplies," Edgar announced.
"Do you need anything?"
"No, but I'm sure Cody would love to go along with you."
"Not today. Tell him I'll take him and his sister horseback riding before dinner." He came around the table, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her gently on the cheek.
"It's good to have you back home. Peanut."
"You and Mom are going to be stuck with us for a long time. Daddy,"
Karen answered, patting his hand.
"That's just what we want to hear." He kissed her again and walked into the living room. When she heard the front door close, Karen got up and followed, watching him through the window. He got behind the wheel of his truck, took the letter from his shirt pocket, and read it again before driving away. It worried Karen. Something in that letter had upset him, and she didn't have a clue what it might be.
She returned to the kitchen, rinsed out the coffee cups, and quietly left the house. There were still tons of books to unpack.
Edgar Cox absentmindedly waved back at the folks he passed on the highway, his anxiety growing.
When he turned off at the Slash Z sign at Old Horse Springs, his heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry. He stopped in the middle of the ranch road and looked at the Mangas Mountains. It had been sixty years since he'd been back to the Slash Z. Six decades since he rode his horse to the old highway, left it at the gas station-now boarded up and abandoned-hitchhiked to Albuquerque, lied about his age, and enlisted in the Army. He shook his head in disbelief. A lifetime. A fifteen year-old kid running away as fast as that damn pony could carry him.
He knew what was waiting for him. His nephew, Phil Cox, kept him informed, even brought him snapshots from time to time, trying hard to keep some family ties going-at least on the surface. But Edgar suspected that what really interested Phil was getting first crack at the Triple H if he ever decided to sell it.
Hands sweaty, he took a deep breath, touched the gas pedal with his toe, and started down the ranch road. It felt as if he had stopped breathing when he coasted to a halt in front of the two-story ranch house. The old trees around it were gone, replaced by young willows and a row of poplars in the front yard. Painted white, with green trim, a pitched roof, and a small covered porch that served as a balcony for the second floor, the house looked the same as when he was growing up. The red brick chimney on the north side with wild ivy still clinging to it; the old wooden sash windows; the rosebushes bordering the low rock wall that surrounded the front yard; the picket fence and gate painted white to match the house-all the same.
Slowly, Edgar got out of his truck, turned, and looked across the large horse pasture where, half a mile away, the home Phil Cox had built for his family stood. A low adobe structure with a portal across the front and lots of windows, it faced the Mangas Mountains. Phil's pickup truck was parked outside. Edgar wouldn't have much time alone with his brother. Phil would come running out of sheer curiosity once he spotted Edgar's vehicle.
He walked quickly up the wheelchair ramp and entered the house without knocking. It was quiet inside. He went down the long hall past the closed front-room door and staircase. In the kitchen he found Eugene with his back turned and his arms propped up on a table. He was reading a magazine and drinking a cup of coffee.
"Is that you, Phil?" Eugene asked, without turning around.
"It's Edgar."
The man in the wheelchair froze, the muscles of his neck tightening.
"Get the fuck out of my house," he said harshly without turning around.
"Not this time," Edgar said evenly.
"Not until you read what I've brought."
"You've got nothing I want to see," Eugene replied.
"Turn around, Eugene," his brother demanded.
Eugene's hands dropped off the table, and he swung the wheelchair in Edgar's direction.
"What do you want to show me, little brother?" he asked sarcastically.
For the first time in six decades, Edgar looked at his identical twin, older by three minutes. Eugene's pasty complexion and the stubble of a day-old beard made him look ill. His watery pale blue eyes were filled with loathing. His hair flopped over his ears, white, shaggy, and uncombed. He's old, Edgar thought. We're both old. He took the letter out of his pocket and handed it over.
"Read this."
Eugene read it quickly and gave it back, his outstretched arm shaking.
"So what? Jose Padilla wants to talk to you about his dead daddy. It doesn't mean anything," he snapped.
"Don't be stupid," Edgar replied.
"He wants to know the truth."
Eugene laughed.
"The truth. That's something now, isn't it? Tell you what-you write him back and tell him anything you damn well please. There's nobody left alive except you and Jose Padilla that gives a rat's ass."
Edgar put the letter away and stared at his twin brother. The nastiness was still there. The bullet in his spine that had crippled him hadn't subdued the bully in Eugene.
"You've turned into a mean old son of a bitch," he said.
Eugene pushed the wheelchair suddenly in Edgar's direction. His laugh was as violent as the movement.
He stopped short of running into Edgar, and looked up at him.
"And you're still a weak-kneed pussy," Eugene retorted, color rising in his face.
"Jose Padilla sends you a letter and it puts you in a tailspin." "He's here," Edgar explained, "and he wants to talk to us."
"So send him over to see me if you don't want to handle it. Now get the fuck out of here and don't come back."
Edgar Cox, Lieutenant Colonel, United States Army Retired, a man with two wars, six major campaigns, and more than enough military decorations under his belt to prove his courage, bit his lip for a long, hard moment, turned on his heel, and walked out of the house. He got back on the ranch road just as Phil started the short drive over to his father's house, and tore the hell out of there, throwing up a smoke screen of dust behind him. Of one thing he was certain: Eugene wouldn't say a damn thing to Phil about what had made Uncle Edgar come to visit after all these years.
He stopped at the highway, got out, shredded up the letter, and burned it. When the last charred fragment curled and turned black he ground the remains under his boot and scattered the ashes.
Amador Ortiz watched Kerney remove the horse from the trailer, run a string line between two trees, and snap a come-along on the chestnut's halter.
Kerney walked toward him with a stiff gait and nodded a greeting. Amador wiped the vexation off his face with a tight smile. What in the hell was Carol Cassidy doing sending him this busted-up seasonal who couldn't pull his own weight? He needed an able-bodied man on this job, not a reject from some police department.
He nodded curtly when Kerney drew near.
"Anybody else coming?" he asked hopefully.
"Not that I know of," Kerney replied.
Amador grunted with displeasure.
"Too bad.
What did Carol tell you to do?"
"Whatever needs doing," Kerney answered, looking over Amador's shoulder.
A crew of four Hispanic men stared back at him from a half-completed trench that ran from a wellhead to a water spigot. He didn't know any of them. Eight-inch plastic water pipe lay in a line next to the trench. A small backhoe idled nearby. Off to one side of the construction site a temporary chain-link enclosure protected construction supplies, bags of concrete, a stack of cedar fence posts, and some new picnic tables.
Amador looked down at Kerney's leg.
"What can you do?" he demanded.
"Whatever," Kerney repeated.
"Get a pest hole digger from my truck," Amador Ortiz said flatly.
"I need fence posts set in concrete every eight feet. It's all staked out where I want them." He swung his arm in an arch.
"From the well to the trailhead. Can you handle that?"
Kerney smiled.
"I think so."
Amador's expression remained skeptical. He scratched his armpit and grunted. A stocky man with arms that were too short for his body, Ortiz was broad in the chest and sported a beer drinker's belly.
"I need the posts in by lunchtime," Amador said in an ill-tempered tone.
"That's three hours from now. Be finished by then."
"Okay," Kerney answered, walking away, counting the small red flags that marked the locations for the pest holes Twenty-four holes to dig, two feet deep, a like number of posts to set, and three hours to do it. He poked the ground with the toe of his boot. Not much topsoil to speak of. Mostly hard packed gravel and basalt. There was no way it could be done by one man in the allotted time.
When Amador and his crew quit for their noon meal, Kerney worked on.
There was no order to help and no suggestion that he break for lunch.
The men were grouped in the shade of a stand of trees, speaking softly in Spanish, but loud enough for Kerney to hear the insults and the jokes about how much fun it was to watch the crippled gringo sweat like a pig.
The day was hot and getting hotter. Kerney stripped to the waist and kept working. Grunting with every thrust of the digger, he kept a steady rhythm, finished a hole, and moved on while the ridicule behind him continued. The group was debating his sexual preferences as he started digging the last hole. Ortiz walked slowly toward him, checking the depth of each hole with a tape measure.
He made a rude comment over his shoulder about Kerney screwing sheep that got a laugh from the men, and approached with a smirk still on his face.
Thoroughly pissed off at the unnecessary ill-will from Amador and his boys, Kerney stopped digging and waited for the foreman. His back ached and his arms were sore.
"I needed those posts set by now," Amador said, looking at the nasty scar on Kerney's gut. Kerney's stomach was flat. His chest and arms were muscular.
There was no fat on the man. Self-consciously, Amador sucked in his beer belly.
"I'll get it finished," Kerney said flatly.
Amador smiled thinly.
"Take your meal break.
My crew will set the posts. You get that in Nam?" he asked conversationally, nodding at the ugly scar.
Carol had told him Kerney was a Nam veteran.
"No."
"What happened?"
"It's a long story."
"Don't like to talk about it?" "Something like that," Kerney said.
Amador shrugged.
"Go eat. The boss wants for you to get familiar with the area. I'll mark the new trails on a map."
Kerney nodded in reply and dropped the posthole digger on the ground at Amador's feet.
"Do you need me back here today?"
Amador looked at the tool with half a thought to tell Kerney to pick it up, and decided against it. The gringo's smile was somehow challenging.
"Come back in the morning," he said, retrieving the tool.
"We've got to pour footings for the picnic tables. If they aren't set in concrete and bolted down, they get ripped off." "I'll be here,"
Kerney said.
"Anything else?"
"That's it."
"Another six inches and this last hole is done," Kerney remarked, kicking some loose dirt back into the opening and covering Amador's boots with dust.
It was a childish thing to do, but it felt good anyway.
He grinned at Amador, barely containing a desire to bust the man in the chops, hoping Ortiz would give him an excuse. He didn't like bigots of any nationality. Amador looked at his boots, raised his glance to Kerney's face, and said nothing.
"Think you can handle it?" Kerney asked.
Amador didn't answer. Watching Kerney walk away he thought maybe the gringo wasn't somebody to fuck with.
It was midmorning when Hector returned with his grandfather to the Mangas Mountains turnoff.
Jose's insistence that they stop every so often so he could reminisce made the drive through the mountains slow but enjoyable. Hector relished listening to Grandfather's stories of his childhood and youth in the vast and beautiful land of western New Mexico.
And today there was no mention of murder.
The road was good, there was little traffic, and Hector had no trouble pulling the trailer up the grades and around the turns. They passed a campground construction site and paused at a beautiful lake to watch fishermen casting for trout on the shore and trolling from small boats on the water.
After leaving the lake, they traveled in a wandering circle that took them to a mountain village called Quemado, which was Spanish for "burned," then east through a hamlet named Pie Town. Hector found the names amusing.
It was afternoon when they arrived in what had once been the village of Mangas. To the east, a high, lone peak, at least ten thousand feet in elevation, rose in the distance. To the west, mountains filled the skyline. The narrow valley where Jose had been born was thick with grass. A small herd of cattle grazed along a fence line near an abandoned adobe church with a wooden spire. A single cross was nailed on the cornice below the steeple.
Hector parked well off the road and walked quickly to catch up with Jose, who had left the truck when Hector had paused at the church. Most of the mud plaster on the building was gone, exposing eroded adobe bricks. The roof drooped crookedly on the melting walls. Near the church a small cemetery, shielded by a row of cottonwood trees, sat enclosed by a rusted wrought-iron fence.
In the cemetery Jose stopped at a tombstone, obscured by weeds and tall tufts of grass. He stared silently at the grave before dropping to his knees to clear away the vegetation. Hector helped. Soon the name of Don Luis Padilla appeared. Grandfather ran his fingers across the chiseled letters, a strand of wispy hair falling down his forehead as a light gust of wind rolled across the valley.
Finally, Dr. Jose Luis Padilla rose, smiled at his grandson, and spoke.
"It is a beautiful valley," he said, his eyes fixed on the mountains.
"Yes," Hector responded.
"It is sad to see it abandoned."
Jose looked at the little row of buildings across the road, all in various stages of decay. Someone had nailed chicken wire over the empty doors and windows of the old schoolhouse to protect the structure.
His father's hacienda was gone; only the thick rock foundation marked its location. He took Hector to the site and described the layout of the old hacienda, room by room.
"None of this was given up willingly," Jose remarked.
"After my father's death, the government took much of the land for the national forest. There is a high, wonderful valley where I would tend sheep each summer when I was old enough to be left alone."
"Mexican Hat?" Hector asked.
"It is near the valley. A hidden amphitheater that falls away in heavy timber. Not many people know of it."
"Are you glad you came back?"
"Very glad," Jose answered, as he began to walk to the truck.
"Come. We can unhitch the trailer and leave it behind. This will be a good place to camp tonight. We have time for a drive to Mexican Hat. I will take you on the wagon road my father and his brothers built. It starts behind the school."
"What kind of road?" Hector asked dubiously.
Jose laughed. He was refreshed and enjoying the day. While he would never admit it to his grandson, he was grateful for the early end to yesterday's drive.
"There you go again, jito. Always worrying. It should not be a problem. At first, it will be nothing more than a trail through the rangeland into the foothills. It climbs gently. After that, if I remember correctly, it is a hard rock surface in the mountains.
Let us explore, quo no? As you promised when you forced an end to yesterday's adventures."
"Am I to be constantly reminded of my decision?"
"Only as it becomes necessary."
Hector found the rutted road easy to follow, and the truck, with its high suspension and four-wheel drive, handled the hard-packed terrain without difficulty.
He began to relax and enjoy the excursion. As they entered the foothills, the road changed to a mild incline that snaked over ridge tops. The forest, a dense mixture of pinon, cedar, and pine trees, intruded over the road when they reached the mountains.
Low branches brushed against the windshield and scraped against the sides of the truck. As they climbed, the road got steeper and more narrow.
Hector's uneasiness returned. He wondered how far they must go to find a turnaround. Soon he was driving in low gear up a cutback in the mountain, with a deep drop less than a foot away from the truck tires.
He stopped where the road forked and ran in both directions toward the summit. Here he could turn around.
"Shall we continue?" Hector asked anxiously.
Jose chuckled.
"Had we come here yesterday, this part of our journey would be over. But we stopped and rested, as you desired."
"I see that I need more reminding," Hector noted.
"We're almost there," Jose replied, pointing to the left fork in the road.
Hector nodded, put the truck in gear, and eased it slowly up the road, over jagged rocks that occasionally forced him to weave much too close to the dropoff.
The road seemed to top out up ahead. He glanced at Grandfather, who smiled reassuringly.
"Just a little bit farther," Jose said.
Hector breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the top, then the front suspension of the truck slammed into a deep washout that cut across the road.
"Dios!" he said.
"What happened?" Jose asked, startled.
"I'll check and see."
Hector cursed to himself as he stood at the front of the Ford. The front wheels dangled in the air, and the drive shaft was broken. Even if he could free the truck, he could not drive it. He shook his head and told his grandfather the bad news.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"I will stay here and you will go for help," Jose said, calming himself.
"There's a horse trail up ahead-a shortcut-that goes back to Mangas.
You should be able to walk out easily."
"I don't want to leave you alone."
"I'll be fine. I have water. The truck heater will keep me warm.
Believe me, I've spent many nights in these mountains in much less comfort than this.
We have no choice," Jose added.
"I do not think it would be wise for me to try to walk out. Here. You take one canteen and I will keep the other."
Hector took the canteen from Jose's hand. At that moment, the sound of a rifle broke the silence.
"Perhaps we are lucky," he said, his spirits lifting.
"Someone is nearby."
"Be careful, jito."
"I'll be back soon," Hector said, smiling with relief.
"Don't worry."
Hector jumped the gully and followed the road around the last bend.
Below him a vast, high valley of grassland stretched fingerlike into the forest. At the top of the next summit he could see a radio tower and the faint outline of a building. He scanned the forest for a road to the peak. There was no discernible access. He saw movement in the tall grass at the center of the meadow. A man stood up and bent back down again, doing something Hector couldn't make out. Too far away to be heard, he squinted against the harsh afternoon light and waved to get the man's attention, but without success.
Relieved that help was close at hand. Hector walked into the meadow until he was within hailing distance. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out. The man stiffened and turned.
Hector closed the gap with hurried strides until he could see the man's face.
"Hold! My truck is disabled," he said.
"Can you help me, por favor?"
The man nodded and gestured at him to come closer.
Jose rested in the truck, half asleep. The effects of the altitude were wearing, and he was more fatigued than he cared to admit. Some time after Hector's departure, a second gunshot rang out. Perhaps Hector had found the hunter and asked him to signal that everything was all right.
He composed himself on the seat and waited for his grandson's return.
Finally he heard the sound of an engine. Surely now Hector was on his way back. He climbed stiffly out of the truck.
Hector did not come. Jose carefully negotiated the gully and walked slowly up the road. An afternoon breeze blew out of the valley, chilling him slightly as he looked down on the meadow, searching for a sign of his grandson. The wind whisked his hair into his eyes. He caught the distant sound of the engine again. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the horse trail. The two large pine trees that Jose remembered from his boyhood still stood majestically at the edge of the meadow where the trail began. He could not remember seeing the grass so lush and thick. With the sheep gone for so many years, the land had come back richly.
Hector was nowhere to be seen. Jose decided he must walk a little farther and investigate before returning to the truck. Something wasn't right. c clouds filled the sky and ran like waves heading for a distant shore.
Kerney watched them in the predawn light, waiting for rain that didn't come. For once, the ranchers wouldn't mind the absence of moisture. The high country was lush with abundant grass and wildflowers that told of a wet year and plenty of water. Some of the locals were predicting it would be the best rainy season in fifty years.
Kerney broke camp feeling rested and unruffled.
The afternoon on the trail with a good horse under him and the night alone on the mountain away from civilization had been a wonderful break in his normal routine.
He got to the job site at first light as the last of the thick clouds created a searing red sunrise. To the west a cloudless sky began to deepen into turquoise blue. He found Amador Ortiz tucked into a sleeping bag. Seeing him brought back Kerney's instinctive dislike for the man. He unsaddled the horse, tied it to the string line, and turned back toward Amador, who was sitting up rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"You're here early," Amador said grouchily, between yawns.
Kerney nodded in agreement and looked around.
The posts were set, the wire strung, the water line buried, and a flatbed truck was parked next to the temporary equipment pen. It carried a large modular outdoor privy. Hitched to the bumper of the truck was a trailer with a forklift. He watched Amador get out of the bag, fire up a camp stove, and put water on for coffee.
"I'm ready to start," Kerney said.
Ortiz looked at him, yawned again, and shrugged.
"Suit yourself. I need footers dug for each picnic table," he said sullenly.
"Location?" Kerney asked.
Amador tilted his head in the direction of his truck.
"The plans are on the seat. Three tables go on each side of the water spigot, under the trees, this side of the fence. You can read plans, can't you?"
Sarcasm laced the question.
Kerney nodded briefly in response and turned away to water the chestnut.
He didn't want to start the day in a pissing contest with Ortiz. The chestnut drank deeply before moving off. Surefooted and quick to respond, the horse had pleased him on yesterday's ride.
The softer soil made for faster digging than the day before. By the time Ortiz's crew showed up, Kerney had finished trenches for two tables and sweated away his irritation with Amador, who kept his distance. The crew started cutting steel re bar sledge hammering the short pieces into the trenches and tying off long sections horizontally, in preparation for the concrete pour.
Kerney finished at midmorning. He watched the crew mix and pour concrete into the first trench, trowel it smooth, and set the anchor bolts.
"Anything else you need me for?" he asked Ortiz, who had watched the work proceed from the comfort of his truck.
Amador shook his head.
"You're finished. We'll post the trail signs, take down the equipment pen, and be out of here today."
Kerney washed up and saddled the chestnut, looking forward to another afternoon in the mountains.
He would ride the trail that looped around Mangas Mountain and eased down the foothills to a place called Upper Cat Springs. As he tightened the cinch, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming fast down the dirt road. A state Game and Fish truck pulling a horse trailer stopped next to the equipment pen. A tall young man jumped out, spotted Kerney, and walked to him.
"Mr. Kerney," he said, smiling, extending his hand.
"Bet you don't remember me."
Kerney shook the man's hand. He had a friendly smile and a strong grip.
Kerney guessed him to be in his late twenties.
"Refresh my memory."
He chuckled.
"I'm Jim Stiles. I took an advanced course in investigation from you a while back, when you were still with the Santa Fe Police Department.
Up at the law enforcement academy in Santa Fe."
"You do look familiar," Kerney allowed.
"Did you learn anything from me?"
"Good course, good teacher," Stiles replied. Almost as tall as Kerney, with long arms and legs, he had white, even teeth below a neatly clipped red mustache that matched his hair. His eyes were light green and friendly. His nose, slightly broad, had a small line of freckles across the ridge.
"Thanks for the compliment," Kerney said.
"What can I do for you?"
Stiles didn't get a chance to answer. Amador walked up and poked him in the ribs with a finger.
"What are you doing here?" he asked cordially in Spanish.
"Be polite," Stiles chided back in Spanish.
"Don't make the man feel bad because he can't speak the language." He nodded in Kerney's direction.
"I need him to ride along with me." Kerney said nothing. From what he'd heard so far, he spoke Spanish as well as Stiles.
Amador shrugged his shoulders and switched to English.
"What's up?"
Stiles looked at both men and tilted his head toward the high country.
"We've got a mountain lion down somewhere east of Elderman Meadows.
A male three-year-old we trans located two months ago from the San Andreas Mountains.
Since it's on federal land, Mr. Kerney gets to help me find it." Stiles switched his attention to Kerney.
"Carol Cassidy said to come and take you along. It should help you get oriented to your new patrol route. And you'll see some pretty country to boot."
"How do you know it's down?" Kerney asked.
"Radio collar," Stiles explained.
"If the animal doesn't move for six hours, the radio sends out a rapid mortality beep. Our wildlife biologist did a fly over yesterday around dusk. It shouldn't be that difficult to find. I have a pretty good fix on the animal."
"Maybe he lost the collar," Amador suggested.
Stiles shook his head.
"No way, Amador. Those collars don't come loose. You got to cut them off."
Stiles looked at Kerney's horse.
"I'll be ready to ride in a few minutes."
"I hope you know where you're going, because I sure the hell don't,"
Kerney said.
Stiles laughed, an easy, careless chuckle.
"If I get us lost, my granddaddy will turn over in his grave.
His name was Elderman. The meadow is named after him." *** They were two miles off the access road to the fire lookout tower on Mangas Mountain, moving down a switchback trail, when Jim Stiles turned sideways in the saddle and looked back at Kerney.
"You don't ride a horse too bad for a city boy," Stiles said.
"I wasn't always a city boy," Kerney answered.
"I can tell you've ridden some," Stiles responded.
"Where do you hail from?"
"A ranch west of Engle," Kerney replied.
"The place doesn't exist any more."
"The Jomada. I heard a story about you down there. It had something to do with a Game and Fish employee by the name of Eppi Gutierrez, now deceased."
"We ran into each other."
"Did that silly son of a bitch really try to kill you?"
"Damn near succeeded."
"I don't believe it. I worked with Eppi for a spell down at White Sands before I transferred back home. He was a wimp."
"Wimps can be dangerous," Kerney replied.
Stiles shook his head.
"I guess. Did Gutierrez really find a stash of old Indian treasure?"
"Plunder from raids against the pony soldiers," Kerney said.
"Worth millions. He was trying to smuggle it out of the country. The Army shipped it to West Point."
"I'll be damned." Stiles stopped and waited for Kerney to come alongside.
"So, tell me something.
What the hell are you doing with the Forest Service?
Aren't you retired?"
"Sort of. Working keeps me out of trouble," Kerney answered, reining in the chestnut next to Stiles. The switchback ended a few yards ahead. A thicket of wild grape in front of a stand of sycamore trees seemed to block the way. Beyond the sycamores rose enormous crowns of ponderosas from the canyon floor.
"Think you'll get a permanent job at the Luna station?" Stiles asked.
Soft mare's tails, thin ribbons of clouds, flowed across the sky and steamed out of sight. Kerney shook his head.
"That isn't going to happen," he said.
"So what's next?" Stiles asked, dismounting and throwing the reins over the head of his horse.
"Hell, I don't know," Kerney said, following suit.
"I'll think of something."
"We walk a little," Stiles announced.
"The trail gets rough for the next mile. Horses don't like it much."
The barranca dropped quickly past a series of volcanic flows that jutted against the deep cliff. The live stream at the bottom of the canyon undercut the vertical flows, creating an uneven line of columns suspended above the water. Stiles and Kerney waded around slippery rocks and plodded through the soft sand of the streambed under a canopy of evergreens. Cottonwood and willows took over at the narrowest stretch of the canyon, crowding the bank, making progress slow through the low branches. The remnant of a stone wall in the cliff face ten feet above the stream caught Kerney's eye.
Behind the wall was a natural cave, the mouth blackened from the soot of numerous campfires.
Small steps leading to the cave were chiseled out of soft rock under the opening.
Suddenly, the barranca opened on a pinon forest that spurted and stopped in the rangeiand of a high valley. They were off the mountain, Mangas Peak hidden from view by the foothills. Stiles remounted.
"Hold up," Kerney called to him.
Stiles turned in his saddle, and Kerney gave him the reins to his horse.
He walked back into the barranca, crossed the stream, climbed the stairs to the cave, and ducked inside.
The cave was deeper than Kerney expected. He sank to his knees under the low ceiling, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness, and listened for a sound. It came as shallow breathing.
"Who's there?" Kerney asked.
The breathing stopped.
Kerney raised his voice and asked the question again. He could hear Stiles climbing up to join him.
"Do not hurt me," a shaky voice answered in Spanish. It came from a small room at the back of the cave.
Kerney crawled toward the voice on his hands and knees, answering in Spanish.
"I am a policeman," he said.
"No one will hurt you." He could see the shape of a man pressed against the rock wall, his body shaking.
"Policia," he said again.
"Policia," the man repeated, unbelieving.
"Yes," Kerney replied softly. Eyesight adjusted to the dim light, he could see the man more clearly. Old and thin the way some men get as the body wears out, he was curled up with his knees to his chest. Kerney reached for his hand. It was wet and trembling.
The man's clothing was soaked.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I do not know," the old man moaned, his voice breaking.
"I cannot remember."
"What have you got?" Stiles called from outside the cave.
Kerney told him, and Jim crawled in to see for himself. Together they carried the man out of the cave and across the stream into the sunlight.
The old man's lips were blue, his pulse rapid and uneven, and shaking racked his body. He was losing core heat. They stripped off his clothes, and Kerney dried him with a towel from his saddlebags while Stiles fetched a blanket. Wrapped in the blanket, the old man still shivered. Kerney started a small fire, and after warming his hands over the flames, rubbed them on the man's clammy skin. He kept repeating the process while Stiles checked the soaked clothing for identification.
"Anything?" Kerney asked.
"Nope," Stiles answered.
"But these aren't any cheap threads. We got designer labels here. How did you know he was in the cave?"
"The steps were wet," Kerney explained.
"It took a minute for it to register. The cave is too high above the stream for any water to reach it. He must have scrambled in when he heard us coming."
"I didn't notice," Stiles said. He keyed the handheld radio to call for help, then took his finger off the button.
"You don't see too many people hiking in the mountains wearing expensive city clothes.
What's this old man been up to?"
Kerney shrugged as he kept rubbing the man with his hands.
Stiles leaned over and spoke in the old man's ear.
"Who are you?"
The old man looked at Stiles, his eyes blinking rapidly.
"Ask him in Spanish," Kerney counseled.
Stiles tried again, this time in Spanish.
"I do not know," the old man answered haltingly.
"Where did you come from?" Stiles inquired.
"Mexican Hat," the man answered, his teeth chattering.
"Where were you yesterday? Last night?" Stiles prodded.
"Mexican Hat," the man repeated.
"Damn," Stiles said, looking at Kerney and shaking his head in disbelief.
"What the hell is an old t in a place where people aren't supposed to be?"
"Beats me," Kerney replied.
"Call it in. Let's get this old guy to a hospital."
Stiles switched to the state police frequency, keyed the unit, and made contact. He asked for a chopper from Silver City and paramedics.
"The only place called Mexican Hat I know of is in southern Utah,"
Stiles said, when he was finished talking on the radio.
"A small town near the Arizona border."
Kerney shook his head.
"I don't think that's where he came from."
"How in the hell did he get here?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Kerney answered.
"Let's get him warmed up."
Stiles put away the radio and joined Kerney.
Together they massaged the old man until his trembling started to subside.
"He's going to make it," Stiles predicted.
Kerney wasn't so sure; there was a nasty bruise on the man's temple, and his eyes were unfocused.
The rescue helicopter made good time, and Stiles used the radio to guide it in. It landed as close to the mouth of the canyon as it could. Two men carrying backpacks and a stretcher hiked quickly up the hillside.
The old man's breathing had improved, and a bit of color was back. The paramedics took over, wrapped him in more blankets, got an IV started, and carted him on the stretcher to the waiting chopper.
"Where are you taking him?" Kerney asked, as he walked alongside the stretcher. The old man wouldn't let go of Kerney's hand.
"Gila Regional in Silver City," one of the paramedics answered.
"You guys did a good job."
"Take care of him."
"No problem. He looks like a tough old bird," the paramedic answered.
Kerney had to pry his hand free as the old man was lifted into the chopper.
"You're going to be fine," he said in Spanish.
"Cariotta," the old man whispered.
Kerney leaned closer.
"Who is Cariotta? Your daughter? Your wife?" he asked.
The man looked confused.
"My wife," he said.
"You should know that, little one. She is your grandmother."
"Where is Grandmother?"
"Dead."
"Was she with you last night?" Kerney insisted.
The man shook his head sadly.
"I'm not sure. You are a good boy. Hector. Take care of my father's sheep."
The chopper pilot waved Kerney away before he could question the old man further. He walked back to Stiles.
"Did the old man say anything?" Jim asked.
"He rambled on a bit in Spanish."
"Could you make anything out?"
"He called me Hector and said Cariotta was dead."
"So he speaks English," Jim ventured.
"No."
"Did he use the word muerto for dead?"
"That's what I heard," Kerney answered.
"Cariotta, who could that be?" "His esposa, he said."
"Exposa, that means wife. Damn! I should have gone with you. My Spanish is pretty good. Maybe I could have gotten more out of him."
"Maybe," Kerney allowed.
"But while we're looking for that mountain lion, I think we'd better keep an eye out for at least one or two lost people."
"Lost or dead," Stiles replied. He wadded up the old man's clothes and expensive oxford shoes and stuffed them into the saddlebags.
The helicopter, a speck in the sky, followed the gravel road that cut across the high valley of the mountains, on a fast track to Silver City through the passes.
Kerney turned, looked up at the mountain and back at Jim Stiles.
"That old man didn't travel through the canyon we rode in on. We would have seen his sign."
Stiles nodded in agreement.
"My bet is that he came in on the Mangas road or walked down from Elderman Meadows." "Any way in by vehicle?" Kerney asked.
"An abandoned road goes to the meadows. Hardly anybody knows about it.
It's not marked on any of the maps." Jim Stiles pointed at the lowest range of foothills that curved below them, running in a broken wave.
"Mangas used to be a village around that bend. The road takes off behind the school and climbs to the meadows. Maybe he tried to drive in and got himself stuck. It happens. Last winter an old couple from someplace back east decided to take a side trip on a ranch road. Storm came up, and two weeks later they found the man dead in a snowbank and his wife frozen solid in the car. You ready to look for that mountain lion?"
"Think that's all we're going to find?" Kerney replied, putting out the small fire.
A grin broke across Jim's face.
"This is getting more interesting all the time, isn't it?" He mounted and nodded at the closest foothill.
"We'll drop below that hill and pick up the trailhead. Shouldn't be long before we know what the rest of the day will bring."
At the trailhead, it took only a few minutes for Jim to find the radio collar under a juniper tree.
"Cut," he said, picking it up with a stick.
"Somebody killed the cat." He wrapped the collar in plastic and tied it to the saddle pommel.
"We need to find the carcass." His expression turned sour.
"If there is one to find."
Kerney walked parallel to the trail, leading his horse, studying the ground.
"What's up?" Jim asked.
"ATV tracks. And some shoe prints. Give me the old man's oxfords."
Stiles dug a shoe out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Kerney. The prints matched perfectly.
"Looks like we found his trail," Kerney said.
"But which came first? The old man or the ATV? The tire tracks match the ones I saw at a black bear kill."
"You're sure?"
"Same wear on the rear tires. Same tread pattern." Kerney looked up the trail. It disappeared into a shadowy climax forest of ponderosa pines, bare of undergrowth, entrenched in the rich soil. The land rolled up and up, lofty trees masking deep ravines.
He looked back to find Stiles leaning out of the saddle studying the ATV tracks.
"You're not the only one who has seen these," Jim said.
"I took plaster casts of the same treads at a bighorn sheep kill up in the Tularosas."
"You're positive?"
"Yep. I had the state crime lab analyze the casts.
Two different brands of tires, front and back, with the same wear on the rear wheels. Looks like we got ourselves a serious poacher here."
Jim pulled a camera out of his saddlebag and gave it to Kerney. He shot some pictures while Stiles rode his horse slowly up the trail. He finished and climbed into the saddle just as Stiles called back at him.
"Come on. I want to show you Grandfather Eldennan's meadow. It's a damn pretty sight. And who knows what else might turn up?"
Kerney got on his horse and followed Stiles toward the climax forest.
"You like this stuff, don't you?" he called out.
Stiles turned and nodded his head vigorously.
"Hell yes, I like it." he called back.
"Who doesn't like a good mystery?"
The meadow looked like an outstretched hand with elongated fingers cutting into the forest at the base of the mountain. On the peak, the Mangas fire lookout station surveyed hundreds of square miles of national forest. Spring wildflowers, hot yellow and pale blue, scattered color throughout the native grass that fluttered in a mild breeze. ATV tire tracks flattened the grass in two lines, running straight toward the center of the meadow.
Jim reined in his horse at the edge of the meadow and waited for Kerney.
"Bet you a dollar we don't find the carcass," he said when Kerney pulled up next to him.
"Why do you say that?"
"Every part of a cougar is valuable. The blood. The bones. The skin.
If it's a male, even the testicles are worth significant money. It all gets ground up, cut up, boiled, or mixed with other ingredients and sold as medicine and folk remedies on the Asian market.
"Did you know poachers are killing all the tigers in China and India?"
Stiles continued.
"Most are about done in. It's at the point now that any big cat is at risk, the demand is so great."
"What about the black bear?" Kerney asked.
"A lot of that animal was left behind."
"It's still the same MO. The poachers only take what's valuable. The gallbladder is worth its weight in gold. It's used to make an aphrodisiac. With bighorn sheep, they go after the horns. It gets ground into powder and used for a medicine to treat a dozen or more illnesses."
"So this is poaching for pure profit," Kerney replied.
"Big-time," Stiles agreed, moving ahead.
"What we're gonna look for is evidence of the kill. That's the best we can hope to find."
In the middle of the field they found what Stiles expected, the remains of a partially eaten, hamstrung rabbit used to lure the cat, and a small patch of dried blood where the lion had fallen after the kill. Kerney took pictures and Stiles bagged all the evidence.
"That should do it," Stiles said as he finished.
"We have enough blood samples for a DNA comparison."
He stuck the evidence in a canvas tote bag and tied it to his saddle.
"I'll get this up to the Santa Fe crime lab tomorrow."
"How much would a poacher stand to make on a kill like this?" Kerney asked, passing the camera back to Stiles.
Stiles stuffed the camera in the saddle bag.
"Two or three thousand dollars, easy. But the profit is in retail sales. Whoever markets the product overseas stands to make four or five times that amount." He pointed behind Kerney.
"The old wagon road I talked about comes out over there, at the side of that mountain. Want to take a look? Maybe we can find out how that old man got up here."
First, they found the body of a young man thirty yards from the kill site. A coyote had chewed away most of the face and feasted on the chest cavity.
When they turned him over, they saw the exit wound from the bullet hole.
Kerney took a wallet from the dead man's pants and scanned the contents.
"Who is he?"
"The man's name was Hector M. Padilla," Kerney said.
"A Mexican citizen."
"Hector," Stiles repeated.
"Well, I'll be damned.
Isn't that what the old man called you? Let's see what other surprises we can find before we call the state police."
Then they found the truck.
All that could be done to secure the crime scene and conduct a preliminary investigation was accomplished quickly. Kerney found himself frustrated by their lack of equipment but at the same time pleased with Jim Stiles. He worked efficiently, made few mistakes, and had good cop instincts. They had a confirmed identity of the dead man and a strong suspicion, from the registration papers found in the truck, that the old man in the cave was Dr. Jose Padilla.
Positioned on a small rise with a clear view of the body. Stiles had a rifle in hand just in case the coyotes came back for another meal. He could see three of them moving in the tall grass, fifty yards away.
Kerney sat down next to him. As they waited for the state police to arrive, he started asking Stiles questions.
"What do we know, so far?"
Stiles grinned.
"Are we debriefing?"
"Why not?" Kerney replied.
"That's great. I haven't had anybody to debrief with since I transferred to Reserve. It gets boring analyzing things by yourself."
Kerney laughed.
"I know that feeling. Let's build a scenario of what may have happened." "Okay," Stiles said.
"Hector and Dr. Padilla, citizens of the Republic of Mexico, drive up to the meadows, for God knows what reason, and get the truck hung up in a gully. Hector Padilla decides to hike out and get help, leaving the old man to wait in the truck. Why he decides to walk to the meadow instead of heading back down the road is a mystery.
It's a shorter route, but how would he know about it?
He runs into the poacher and gets himself blown away. Probably the old man would have been murdered too, if the killer knew he was in the vicinity."
"That makes sense. What about the killer?"
"He's got to be one of the locals."
"Why do you say that?"
"Elderman Meadows is protected. Off limits. Has been for years. It's prime elk breeding ground."
"Okay," Kerney said.
"Not much traffic. Known only to locals and off the beaten path. What about the lion? You said it was relocated. Would the killer know it was here?"
"The word is trans located It's a technical term we Game and Fish types love to use. You've got to use it if you want to be politically correct."
"Okay, trans located Tell me how the killer knew about the lion."
"We don't publicize translocations. Just a few of the area ranchers are informed so they don't start shooting when they see a cougar."
"Who knew?" Kerney prodded.
"Phil Cox and his father. The Johnstons, over by Allegros Mountain. Al Medley. Vance Swingle. Ray Candelaria down in Bear Canyon. Law enforcement personnel. That's it."
"Did any of the ranchers protest?"
Stiles shook his head.
"Not a one. I know these people. They'd be on the telephone yelling at me in a minute if there was even a remote possibility that a lion was taking their stock. Demanding permission to kill it."
"People talk," Kerney suggested.
"True enough. We can't keep a project like this completely secret. That would be impossible. But I don't think folks sit around in Cattleman's Cafe talking to tourists about wild mountain lions."
"So it's a local," Kerney agreed.
"Are there any prime suspects in other cases we can check out?"
"Not really." Stiles tugged at his ear.
"How did these guys find the road up the mountain? It hasn't been used in decades. You can barely see the ruts. In fact, you can't see a damn thing at all from the highway."
"The Forest Service map in the truck was folded open to Mangas Mountain."
"I missed that," Stiles admitted.
"That could mean these guys wanted to come here. Why?"
"Beats me," Kerney replied.
"Let me ask you a question. Are you ready for the shit to hit the fan?"
"What does that mean?"
"Last unnatural death we had in the county was this Texan who bought a ranch over by Spur Lake.
The guy goes out rabbit hunting last summer and kills himself with a shotgun. Almost the whole damn county turned out for that one." "Were you there?" Kerney asked.
Stiles laughed.
"Damn right. Wouldn't have missed it for the world." He looked up at the sky.
"Give it a while and this meadow is going to look like an annual convention for the Forest Service, the local cops, every EMT, and every search-and-rescue volunteer in Catron County."
"What do you suggest we do with our guests?"
"I'll tell you what I'd like to do. Let the sons of bitches figure it out for themselves. None of them are worth spit as investigators."
"Not even Charlie Perry?"
Stiles groaned.
"That prissy, uptight asshole? If he gets his hands on this case, we can kiss it goodbye. It will disappear into the woodwork. By the time the party's over, you'll wish we had just kept our mouths shut and done the investigation on our own," Stiles predicted.
An hour after the arrival of an assorted cast of characters that included the county sheriff, three of his five deputies, a rookie state police officer who had never seen a dead body before, two Game and Fish officers who were general nuisances, and the officious Charlie Perry, who arrived with Carol Cassidy and several others, Kerney admitted that Jim's prophecy had come true. Finally, when the search-and-rescue team arrived like a posse on horseback, hoping maybe somebody else might be lost and in need of their services, Kerney gave up, found Stiles, and broke him loose from his Game and Fish buddies. There were tight pockets of people scattered across the meadow holding earnest conversations about who was going to do what.
"This is a disaster," he bitched, pointing to the three helicopter pilots standing next to their aircraft, scanning the meadow with binoculars.
"I told you so," Stiles reminded him.
"Think about it. What else is there to do in Catron County for recreation? Drink? Watch videos? Go to church?
Poach game? That gets boring after a while. It can't be sex. The birth rate keeps steadily dropping. This is much more fun. In fact, it doesn't happen often enough to suit most people."
"How can you stand it?" Kerney asked. He watched the state cop line up the search-and-rescue team and send them across the meadow in a field sweep, looking for evidence.
"These are my friends and neighbors," Stiles said solemnly.
"Good people, one and all. Look. Fred Langford just walked right over the poacher's nest without blinking an eye."
"Thank God we took pictures," Kerney said, grimacing.
"Who's the medical examiner?"
Stiles answered with a straight face.
"Petra Gonzales. She was a dental assistant in the Navy. She's almost finished with her training."
Kerney stifled a snicker.
"This is just round one," Stiles commented.
"Wait until they start fighting over who gets to be in charge.
I bet they divvy it up. The state police will give it to an investigator out of Socorro, the sheriff will make local inquiries which will lead absolutely nowhere, Charlie Perry will assign it to himself, and we'll get to write a report on the poaching incident that everybody will want for their files. End of story."
"And who's interviewing Dr. Padilla at the hospital in Silver City?"
Kerney asked.
"Nobody, yet," Jim answered.
"They'll get around to it as soon as Petra announces Hector's death was a murder."
"Can we trust her to do it?"
"The exit wound in Hector's back is pretty hard to miss," Stiles reassured him.
"If you want more, we'll have to do our own investigation."
"We?" Kerney queried.
Stiles grinned.
"Why not? You got something to lose?"
"Not really."
Stiles slapped him on the back.
"Neither do I. Besides, my uncle is the chairman of the state Game and Fish Commission. How's that for job security?"
"That should keep you on the payroll." Kerney looked at the sky. Maybe four hours of sunlight left, he figured. Enough time to get back to the Mangas campsite before dark.
"What are we waiting for?"
He started for the horses.
"You got a plan?"
"First we talk to the lookout at the fire tower, then we visit everybody who lives on the road to Mangas.
How many cars travel that road in a day?"
"I'd say no more than ten," Stiles answered, quickening his pace to keep up with Kerney.
"The highway department says it's one of the lightest traveled roads in the state. They want to make the Forest Service maintain it. Only five families live on that road."
"Maybe somebody saw something."
"Is this real police work, Kerney?" Stiles was grinning from ear to ear.
"Yeah, but don't get your hopes up."
Carol Cassidy stopped them before they could leave the meadow. She greeted Jim Stiles and turned her attention to Kerney.
"Are you taking off?"
Stiles answered before Kerney had a chance.
"Yep. We'll leave it in the hands of the experts."
Carol laughed, an amused, throaty chuckle.
"It is like a zoo out there," she agreed.
"If I knew what to do, I'd put it right," she added, looking directly at Kerney, waiting for him to volunteer.
"Ma'am?" Kerney said, as innocently as possible.
Carol laughed again.
"I can see that you two will make quite a team." Her expression became thoughtful.
"What would you have done, Kevin, if this crime had happened in Santa Fe when you were chief of detectives?"
"I'd kick everybody who doesn't belong off" the meadow, assign my best people, and give it top priority," Kerney answered.
Carol nodded as Kerney spoke.
"I've been thinking the same thing."
"Let me guess," Stiles interjected sarcastically.
"You're going to ask Charlie Perry to handle the case."
Carol didn't laugh.
"Don't do that to me, Jim," she snapped.
"I am not going to get sucked into sniping at a colleague."
Stiles clamped his mouth shut, swallowed hard, and nodded.
"You're right. Sorry. I was out of line."
"No damage done," Carol replied, turning her attention back to Kerney.
"Kevin, I want you fulltime on this investigation until further notice.
Tell me what you need and I'll try and get it for you. Use your discretion on how you want to proceed and keep me informed. But remember, your police powers are limited."
"I understand. I'd like Jim to work with me, if that's possible."
Carol's eyes widened in mock disbelief.
"I said use discretion, Kevin, not poor judgment."
Stiles groaned and clutched his chest.
"That hurts.
I am truly mortified, Mrs. Cassidy."
"Good," Carol responded with a chuckle.
"I'll call your boss, Jim. He's sat at my dinner table too many times to turn me down if I ask for a favor. It won't be a problem."
"Good deal," Jim said, his eyes dancing with pleasure.
"Thanks."
Carol nodded.
"Get going," she ordered the men.
After Carol left, the two men mounted and started down the trail. Jim Stiles looked over his shoulder, brushed his mustache with a finger to force down a smile, and said, "Hot damn! Real police work."
Kerney shook his head and rolled his eyes in response. From the meadow behind them the sound of Carol's voice, magnified by a bullhorn, floated down the trail. She ordered the area cleared of nonessential personnel.
One of the helicopters fired up and soon flew over the men as they pushed the horses through the canopy of the forest.
Amador Ortiz watched his crew through the windshield of the truck, one foot propped against the frame of the open door. He reached down and changed the frequency on his radio so he could listen in on the sheriffs traffic from Elderman Meadows.
Nothing but static. He switched back to the state police channel. The state cop was asking for an ETA on the forensic team. He saw a shadow move across the windshield and looked up. Kevin Kerney was standing by the open truck door.
"Keeping up with the local news?" Kerney asked.
Amador nodded.
"Who's the guy that got killed?"
"A Mexican national."
"How long has he been dead?"
"It's hard to say. Maybe twenty-four hours. Did anything unusual happen while you were camped here last night?"
"Nothing." Ortiz watched Jim Stiles put the horses in the trailers.
"Did you have any visitors?"
"No." Amador scratched his armpit.
"Why all the questions?"
"Was there any traffic on the road?"
"Just a few campers and trucks pulling boats down from the lake."
"You saw nothing? Heard nothing?" "That's what I said. Stop playing cop with me. If the guy has been dead for twenty-four hours, do you think whoever shot him would still be hanging around?"
"Sometimes it happens."
Amador snorted.
"Not likely."
"Did you leave the campsite at any time last night?"
"No."
"Thanks, Amador." Ortiz's crew had knocked down the fence to the temporary equipment pen and were finished loading stuff onto the flatbed truck.
"I'll see you around."
"Maybe," Ortiz answered. He pulled the truck door closed, cranked the engine, and waved at his crew, who were waiting for him. The men piled into the flatbed cab and followed Ortiz as he drove away.
Kerney found Jim bent over the trailer hitch to his truck. Jim unfastened the safety chain, pulled the pin to the hitch, and lowered the tongue to the ground.
"No need to pull the horse trailer up to the lookout station," he said as he stood up.
"I'll leave it here."
"I take it you're planning to interview the man at the fire tower,"
Kerney remarked.
"Is there something you'd like me to do?"
Jim blushed.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to sound pushy."
"I'll let you know if you get too obnoxious. Go ahead. Meet me at the Luna office when you're done.
You can introduce me to the good folks who live along the Mangas Valley road."
Stiles smiled in relief.
"You got it."
The blare of the alarm brought Karen out of a deep sleep. With one eye she squinted at the clock radio. God, it was only six in the morning.
She reached out, hit the off button, rolled onto her stomach, put the pillow over her head, and tried to go back to sleep. Then she remembered: she had agreed to meet Phil for breakfast in Reserve. She groaned, kicked the blanket off, got up, and walked into the living room.
Elizabeth and Cody were bundled in sleeping bags on the floor, fast asleep. They had been such dears during the move back to the ranch. As a reward to celebrate the final day of unpacking, she had rented their favorite movies, made popcorn to munch on, and let them stay up late. It had been great fun.
She tiptoed around her children, went to the small bathroom adjacent to the kitchen, and ran a tubful of water. There was time for a long soak before she needed to dress and leave. She wondered what Phil wanted to talk about. He was so insistent that they meet alone and away from the family as soon as possible.
Karen took off her panties, stepped into the deep cast-iron tub, and sank into the water. It felt wonderful.
Coming back home had been the right thing to do, she decided. It had been a happy place for her as a child, as it would be for Cody and Elizabeth.
It was Sunday morning, and Cattleman's Cafe on the main highway through Reserve, the premier drinking, dining, and recreation center in town, opened early, serving up good food along with local news, politics, and gossip. With no newspaper or radio station in the community.
Cattleman's was the de facto communication center for the county.
Kerney and Jim Stiles sat in the back dining room drinking coffee while they waited for breakfast to arrive. Dog-tired, Kerney was more than willing to let Jim do the talking. They had both been up all night, but Kerney thought Jim looked good for another nonstop twenty-four hours, while he felt like one of the living dead.
Two young cowboys were at the pool table in the front barroom. One of them, his cowboy hat pushed back at a jaunty tilt, looked no more than sixteen.
He bent low over the table, studied the angle of the cue ball, and made an excellent bank shot into a side pocket. His companion, a slightly older kid with a broad, open face, grimaced as the ball dropped. Both boys wore holstered pistols in plain view, and the two older men sitting at the bar were also packing weapons on their hips. As far as Kerney knew, the state law prohibiting firearms in drinking establishments had not been repealed.
Stiles stopped talking, and Kerney nodded, not sure what he was agreeing with.
"Isn't there a law against weapons in bars?" he asked.
Jim responded with a laugh.
"Of course there is.
But the county commission passed a proclamation last year urging all citizens to arm themselves to protect home, family, grazing rights, and timber sales. Most people around here believe in home rule, so as far as they're concerned the proclamation supersedes state law. Besides, it's damn inconvenient to have to shed your weapon every time you want to play a game of pool or have a drink, and the sheriff isn't going to enforce a law that everybody violates. That would be political suicide, especially in an election year."
"Do you agree with the sheriff?"
"Hell no, I don't. But there isn't a damn thing you or I can do about it, unless you want to start a gunfight."
"I'll pass," Kerney replied. He had been in one too many gunfights already. The knee that had been shattered in a shoot-out hurt bad. It felt as if the steel pins that held it together were grinding against bone.
While Stiles slugged down the rest of his coffee and waved his cup at the waitress to signal for a refill, Kerney mentally reviewed the events of the night. They had found the Padillas' abandoned trailer, and then waited four hours for a search warrant. Omar Gatewood, the county sheriff who showed up with the warrant, refused to let Kerney and Stiles conduct the search and did it himself.
About the time Gatewood finished, Charlie Perry arrived and demanded to be briefed. With dawn breaking, Kerney and Stiles decided not to get involved in a jurisdictional tug-of-war with either man, so they left.
"Why were the Padillas at Elderman Meadows?" Kerney asked.
Stiles waited for the approaching waitress to pour his refill and leave before answering.
"Don't know."
"Speculate," Kerney urged.
"Padilla is an old family name from around these parts. There's even a Padilla Canyon north of Mangas Mountain."
"Do you think the old man is from around here?" Kerney queried.
"It's possible. But all of the original Padillas are long gone, as far as I know. My granddaddy bought Elderman Meadows when it was sold at auction for taxes back in the Depression, but I don't know anything more about it."
The waitress brought breakfast, and Jim stopped talking. Kerney picked at his food. With part of his stomach gone, from a bullet taken in the same gun battle that had busted his knee and forced him into retirement, he ate lightly and carefully.
"When we found Padilla, he said he'd come from a place called Mexican Hat. Are there any land forms in the area that resemble a hat?" he asked, watching Jim pack away his breakfast.
Jim sighed.
"I've been trying to figure that one out myself. There are none that I know of, unless he meant Hat Mountain down by Lake Valley. But that's a good long ways south, on the other side of the Black Range. Maybe the old man was just babbling," Stiles added.
"Maybe," Kerney replied, unconvinced.
Cattleman's got busy with breakfast traffic. Several customers joined the two men at the bar and ordered up a whiskey breakfast. A sign taped over the mirror behind the bar read: