Tularosa Page 11

  “In town,” Dale responded. “I’m a bachelor during the week. Both girls are in high school now. You know how that goes. They can’t stand to miss any of the socializing and such. Barbara’s renting an apartment and working part-time at the flower shop.” He put his mug on the top of a fence post and leaned against the railing. He caught Sara’s eye, then tilted his head at Kerney. “The only time we see this fellow is when I take my family up to visit. We use him as a tour guide to show us nouveau riche Santa Fe and all those fancy places we can’t afford.”

  Kerney, looking up the mountain behind the ranch house, wasn’t paying attention. “Can you get Sara saddled up, Dale?” he asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  “I won’t be long,” Kerney said, walking in the direction of a glen behind the house.

  Dale watched Sara’s questioning eyes follow Kerney until he disappeared behind the house. He waited for her to speak. Instead, she gave him an uncertain smile.

  “His parents are buried up in the grove,” Dale explained. “He’s never been back since the funeral. I watched him dig the graves myself. Wouldn’t let anybody help him. Took him all day and into the night. He really loved his folks. His grandfather is buried with them, along with my parents.”

  “I know what happened,” Sara said, trying to think of something to add.

  Dale saved her from the struggle. “Then you know it was a damn shame. He didn’t say a word; didn’t cry—nothing. He put his Army medals in the graves before we covered the caskets.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  Dale shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. He wrote me a couple of letters from Vietnam. Said the only thing keeping him going was the thought of getting back home. With his parents dead and all, I guess he figured he didn’t have a home anymore.”

  “He couldn’t stay?”

  “Hell yes, he could stay. I wanted to take him on as a full partner, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He left the morning after the funeral. This is the first time he’s been back.”

  “How sad,” Sara said.

  Dale shook his head in agreement and changed the subject. “Tell me about this trail ride you’re taking.”

  “It’s best that I don’t,” Sara responded.

  Dale laughed. “That can only mean one thing. Kerney’s taking you onto the missile range.”

  “Is that so?” she asked, unwilling to admit the truth.

  “Hell, it was our favorite sport when we were growing up. I’ve bragged on it so much over the years, now my girls do it and give me grief when I crab at them to stop. It’s gotten to be like a tradition.” He pointed up the dirt road running past the ranch to the outline of a white sign by a cedar-post gate. “There it is. White Sands Missile Range. Half a mile away. The start of Rhodes Pass. It’s our backyard.”

  “Did you and Kerney ever get caught?” Sara asked.

  “Not once. Fifty-three hundred square miles is a lot of territory to protect. You’d have to put the whole damn Army inside the Tularosa to seal it off completely.

  “Hell, we even used to try and get ourselves caught. Once in a while we’d let them Army boys catch a glimpse of us just to make the game more exciting, hoping they’d chase after us. I think they knew who we were and decided it wasn’t worth the effort. There are ways into the range from here I bet the military have never figured out.”

  He opened the gate, stepped inside the corral, and reached for a saddle blanket. “I think the mare will do you.”

  The mare stood passively, head lowered, while the gelding skittered away, spooked by Dale’s sudden presence.

  “What’s the terrain like?” Sara inquired, unconvinced.

  Dale had the blanket in one hand and a saddle in the other, ready to cinch up the mare. “Rough country. The mare’s surefooted. You’ll need that, especially in the mountains.”

  “She’s slow, I bet,” Sara countered, “and won’t keep up with the bay.” She climbed the railing and joined Dale in the corral. She took the bridle off the fence post. “I’ll try the gelding,” she announced.

  “That’s no horse for a lady,” Dale said.

  “Maybe I’m no lady,” Sara said, picking up the bridle. She cornered the gelding and put the bit in his mouth, talking to him softly. When he took the bit, she worked her hand down his neck until he stopped snorting and put his ears forward. Still talking, she reached up for his mane and vaulted easily onto the gelding’s back. The gelding trembled, bent his hindquarters almost to the ground, and started a counterclockwise spin. Sara leaned into the movement, her head low against the gelding’s neck. After six rotations, the horse stopped twisting and settled into a mild canter around the fence perimeter. It had a comfortable, smooth gait.

  “He likes to turn to the left,” Dale allowed, pleased at the sight of a good rider.

  Sara patted the neck of the gelding and slid to the ground. “He’ll match the bay,” she predicted.

  “That he will,” Dale agreed, walking to her with the saddle and blanket.

  They saddled the gelding and loaded the gear on the sway-back roan. From the looks of it, Kerney had brought all of the essentials for the journey and then some. He rejoined them as they were finishing up.

  “The lady can ride,” Dale remarked as he opened the gate to let the small caravan out of the corral.

  “I’m not surprised,” Kerney replied. He lifted his head toward Rhodes Canyon. “Does the pass get much use?”

  “Three vehicles a week is a traffic jam,” Dale joked.

  “Any regulars?”

  “Military police. State Game and Fish. Some Bureau of Land Management types.”

  “Any one in there now?” Kerney asked, walking his horse to the dirt road. He stopped and mounted the bay. Sara was already astride the gelding.

  Dale nodded. “Eppi Gutierrez went in yesterday. Manages the bighorn herd for Game and Fish. Should be back out in a day or two. How are you going in?”

  Kerney looked down at his boyhood friend and winked. “Washout Gap, if it’s still open.”

  “The worst trail in,” Dale declared. “Why that one?”

  “We’re going to Indian Wells first,” Kerney explained.

  “Well, that’s the shortest way.” His hand ran down the withers of the bay.

  “We’ll be back no later than tomorrow morning, early,” Kerney told his friend.

  “I’ll be looking for you.” Dale moved his hand to the bridle to hold Kerney back. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know what made you come back, but I’m glad you did.”

  Kerney felt the horse under him and looked at the expanse of desert and mountains that ran out from the canyon below. The turquoise sky rolled with cumulus clouds, heavy and moist.

  He smiled at his friend. “So am I. Thanks for the loan of the horses.”

  Dale smiled back. “Watch out for rain,” he said, looking skyward.

  “Yeah.”

  MOUNTAINS TINGED WITH RED EARTH, richly forested in the protected canyons, rose to serrated peaks. Only the clatter of hooves on the rock-strewn trail, the breathing of the horses, and the occasional call of the waking birds in the evergreen forest broke the silence.

  Kerney led them away from Rhodes Pass, down a gradual limestone staircase into a long, deep ravine that seemed to cut into the heart of the mountains with little chance of an outlet. There was no trail to speak of at the bottom, rather a confusion of loose rock, gravel, sand, and deadwood washed into the draw by countless flash floods. The gelding moved easily through the maze, relaxed under Sara’s confident touch. The walls of the canyon were as finely etched as a delicate cameo, with veins of strata running through the rock at sharp angles.

  They continued down, descending into the shadows of narrow-walled bedrock, sidestepping large boulders polished smooth by torrents of floodwater. She saw absolutely no way out and wondered if Kerney’s memory of the trail was flawed. A cluster of boulders, each taller than a man, blocked their passage.

  Kerney dismounted a
nd motioned for Sara to do the same. “The horses won’t like this,” he said to her. There was a faint echo that bounced off the walls. “I’ll walk them through.”

  Sara joined him by the rocks. He pointed to a jagged cutout in the ledge, barely distinguishable in the indigo shadows, exactly the height of the large boulder embedded in the gravel. The vent showed the crushing impact of the boulder, which had hollowed out a passage before recoiling off the wall. She peered into the opening; a slash of blackness with a gleam of light at the end. It rose precipitously on rough-hewn, chiseled steps, with scarcely enough room for a horse to pass. The packhorse won’t make it, she thought, and turned back to see Kerney already busy uncinching the straps to the pack frame. She helped him unload and carry the gear through the opening.

  She walked in deep gloom for a good twenty paces before she could see her feet. The crevice widened to meet a small ledge on an abrupt precipice that dropped at least a hundred feet straight down. Looking over the edge, she could see the faint outline of a trail.

  “Where are we?” she asked, setting her cargo on the ground.

  “Bear Den Canyon is below us. The ledge gives way to a good trail around the corner. Wait for me there. I’ll get the horses.”

  “I’ll bring the gelding through,” she announced firmly.

  Kerney began to argue, thought better of it, and said, “If it suits you.”

  The gelding made the journey nervous and snorting. Kerney left Sara holding the bridles and went back for the roan. Remounted and repacked at the trailhead, they rode down to the east, the blockading mountains occasionally dipping to give them a view of the immense Tularosa Valley and White Sands National Monument, sparkling brilliantly in the distance. North of the monument, huge manmade swaths cut into the desert floor defined the space harbor where shuttle pilots practiced landings.

  At the bottom, Kerney turned them out of the canyon floor and up a dry streambed that snaked back into the high country. Once again on a crest, they stopped to rest the horses. The morning sun’s heat shimmered up from the desert floor in waves. The blackness of the lava flow at the northern end of the basin spread across the valley. The Malpaís, the Spanish called it, bad country, where a horse could break a leg and a rider could break a neck. Behind the sharp coils of lava, snow still capped the twin peaks of Sierra Blanca, the centerpiece of the Mescalero Apache Reservation, and in the depressions where the basin dipped, shallow salt lakes held the residual water of winter, not yet evaporated by the furnace of a summer sun.

  They moved beneath the timberline in old-growth evergreens, breaking into the open only once to cross another knuckled canyon before the final push to Indian Wells. Sara could see game trails converging at the base of a mountain. There were spoor and sign of coyote, deer, and rabbits along the trail, but no prints of man or domestic animals.

  The horses smelled water and picked up the pace, breaking into a gentle trot as the hill leveled out to form a saucer at the foot of the mountain. Kerney dismounted and Sara followed suit. He led her through a small grove of cedar trees and into a clearing against the mountainside. Indian Wells, a pool of water in a rock catchment basin at the base of the mountain, seemed to have no source. The water overflowed into a natural causeway and quickly disappeared into a rock crevice.

  They let the horses drink before tethering them. A search of the pool and surrounding area turned up nothing of interest. They ate a light lunch under the weak shade of a tree.

  “How long would it have taken Sammy to hike in?” Sara asked. She had the open portfolio in her lap and was perusing the watercolors.

  “Not long, if he drove partway up the last canyon we crossed,” Kerney speculated. “Two hours, maximum, on foot, I guess. The game trails make the hike reasonable.”

  “I didn’t see any tire tracks in the canyon,” Sara noted, as she rose and walked to the edge of the pool.

  “Washed away,” Kerney called after her, chewing on a cracker. “All the canyons carry water east into the basin. There’s no other outlet. It’s a closed system.” He got to his feet gingerly and joined her at the pool.

  Squatting, Sara inspected the petroglyphs just above the water line. “Here they are,” she said, pointing at the rock face. She looked again, this time more closely, at some scratches in the stone next to the devil dancer. “Are those your initials?”

  Kerney grimaced. “I’m afraid so. I got my fanny warmed for that mischief. I thought this was a magical place when I was a kid.”

  “It still is,” Sara replied. “The pictographs are wonderful. I’d love to know what they mean.”

  “I’m not real sure anyone knows, except the Apaches. I used to study them and try to figure out the symbolism. I think you have to know the story.”

  “I would love to,” Sara reflected, getting to her feet. “So where’s the cliff from here?”

  “I have no idea,” Kerney said. “Somewhere near Big Mesa, I think.” The clouds had turned the sky a solid gray. “Time to go. There are two old mines close by at Sweetwater Canyon I want to check out. Sammy may have used those locations in several of his paintings. We’ll cut up there and then come down to Big Mesa.”

  “And after that?” Sara inquired.

  “It depends on the weather. We’ll stop off at the 7-Bar-K.”

  “What did the family brand stand for?”

  “The seven was for luck and the K stood for Kerney. The lucky Kerneys. What a joke that turned out to be.” He looked skyward again. “We need to get moving. I don’t want us caught in a gully washer.”

  KERNEY PUSHED ALONG at a faster pace; he could smell the faint tinge of salt in the air. Gray clouds were foaming into black tiers, building up to an angry squall, and canyon winds were whipping tree branches, whistling through the gullies. The storm could hit at any time or jump right over them.

  They moved along the back side of stair-stepped mesas, through troughs that plunged into stands of virgin forest. Climbing again, they reached the first mine site only to be greeted by horizontal lightning in a thick sky, the cracking sound muffled in thunderheads. Kerney knew he was searching for Sammy’s body, but it was hard to say so. He appreciated Sara’s silence.

  A light rain was falling as they finished searching the caved-in mine and moved downslope to the next shaft. The wind pushed the rain against their backs with enough force to soak through to the skin. They stopped briefly below a ridgeline to don rain slicks.

  The tunnel to the second mine, partially open and buttressed by large beams, had enough space beneath a rockfall for a person to crawl through. Sara dismounted, gave Kerney the reins to the gelding, got the flashlight from the packhorse, and wriggled cautiously into the cave before he could take the lead. She stopped, half in, half out, to sweep the blackness with light, looking for rattlesnakes and rats. A scurrying movement and the flash of red eyes at the edge of a vertical shaft made her freeze. It took all her self-control to keep from flinching while she waited for more movement. She fanned the light slowly over the floor of the cave. There were no snakes that she could see and no evidence of any two-legged visitors. She wormed completely inside the tunnel, stopping at the sound of scampering beyond her line of sight. The noise ended and the beam of her flashlight caught a pack rat frozen in the light. She sighed with relief and switched her attention to the shaft. It was filled in with rubble.

  Kerney scouted the outside area on foot as the rain came down harder and harder. He smiled when Sara emerged. There was dirt on her chin and the tip of her nose. She shook her head back and forth.

  “Nothing?” he asked.

  “Just a pack rat.”

  “Let’s move on.”

  The wind roared up to gale force, pelting them with cold rain as they mounted their horses.

  Sara shouted over the gale, “We’ve got to get out of here.” Lightning cracked above her. The gelding reared, ears back, rotated in a quick counterclockwise spin, and slammed into the packhorse. The roan backstepped and went down. Sara was out of her saddl
e, fighting to stay seated. The gelding spun in a tighter circle, whirling into a juniper tree at the fringe of the trail. The branches whipped Sara’s face, and she tumbled off the gelding, trying to take the fall on her shoulders and get away from the horse. She landed hard, the breath jarred out of her. The gelding, snorting with fright, reared above her. She could barely see through the sheet of rain as she rolled to avoid the hoofs. The impact never came. Kerney had the bay between her and the gelding, switching it with his reins. He got it settled down and hitched securely to a tree, tied off the bay and the roan, and ran to her.

  Sara struggled to sit up.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “I caught my foot in the stirrup and twisted my ankle.” She held out her hand so he could help her to her feet. “That’s all.”

  “Let me look at it,” Kerney ordered, holding her firmly in place. There was a red welt on her forehead.

  “It isn’t broken.”

  “Which ankle?”

  “The right one.” She shook off Kerney’s grip, tried to stand on her own, grimaced in pain, and sank back to the ground.

  “Stay put. I’ll tape it.”

  He got the first-aid kit, took off her boot, and inspected the ankle. It was sprained but unbroken. He wrapped it tightly and got the boot back on before it would no longer fit over the swelling. He supported her as she stood up and took a few tentative, painful steps. Then he laughed.

  “What’s so damn funny?” Sara demanded.

  “You and me,” he said, still chuckling, as he walked her to the gelding. “Now we’re a matched pair.”

  THEY HURRIED across Sweetwater Canyon. There was no time to stop. The storm covered the range from north to south. Any runoff would catch them before they could reach the desert. Kerney led the small caravan to the side of a high mesa, into the stinging rain of a low cloud. There was nothing above them but the blackness of the storm.

  Big Mesa curved between two canyons, encased in the cloud that spilled over into the basin and blocked the basin floor from view. Fog came at them from every direction and wrapped them up. It was gray and wind-lashed, with fleeting breaks in the cover that brought a glimmer of creamy light into the haze.