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  Sara nibbled her lower lip. “Maybe Gutierrez was forced to wait until he found someone to handle the transaction. It can’t be easy to convert this stuff into cash without raising a lot of eyebrows.”

  “Which means somebody may be expecting a delivery and might get worried if it’s late.”

  “Exactly.” Sara grinned. “Do you want to play it out?”

  “Why not?”

  She flicked a glance at the truck. “What we have here is a tragic accident. Not quite what Gutierrez had in mind. Let’s put it back the way we found it and see what happens.”

  “Including the coins and letters?” Kerney inquired.

  Sara paused to think about it. “We’ll give those to Andy for safekeeping.”

  “Let’s do it and get the hell out of here.”

  Together they restacked rocks around the truck. Kerney wrapped the treasure in his rain jacket and tied it to the saddle on the bay. They walked down the road, the bay favoring a bruised hind leg, until the grade dipped enough to let them cut back in the direction of the dead roan. They dug a shallow trench in the soft earth under a stand of trees that blocked any view to the road above, gathered up the debris, and dumped it in. Sammy’s portfolio was intact and the watercolors undamaged.

  Kerney hitched a rope to the bay, tied it off on the dead animal, and had to quirt the bay to drag the carcass to the trench. They covered the roan with dirt and rocks to keep the coyotes away and retraced their route to the road.

  “I’m taking the portfolio to Sammy’s parents,” he announced, looking at Sara for a reaction.

  She sensed his decision was not negotiable. “When?”

  “Today.”

  “What do you plan to tell them?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll ask Andy to get a search warrant for Gutierrez’s house.”

  Sara nodded her approval.

  They lapsed into silence. The bay snorted in discomfort, and Kerney stopped to give him a rest, stroking him gently on the forehead. “Dale isn’t going to like the way we’ve treated his horses.”

  “The Army will pay full damages,” Sara promised.

  “That’ll be a first,” he said, as he got the animal moving again.

  “I expect you’re right.”

  They walked down one last sharp series of turns before entering the rolling hills of the western slope. The Jornada fanned out in front of them. Kerney hobbled and Sara limped along. The bay favored his bruised leg, snorting in annoyance. Still crusted and streaked with rock dust, they looked like pale apparitions. Dale’s ranch came into view. He was at the fence line with Andy, both scanning the pass with binoculars. Dale saw them first and waved.

  “What a sight we must be.” Sara began to laugh, and before he knew it, Kerney was laughing with her.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE ONLY SOUND on the deserted plaza was the idling engine of Kerney’s truck. The tourists were gone for the day and the pueblo was quiet. Kerney stopped at the end of the dirt lane that bisected the plaza. Across the empty square was the tribal administration building where Terry had his office. A long, squat structure with a series of narrow doors and small windows, it looked like an unfriendly sanctuary built to keep out intruders. At one end of the building, three squad cars were parked in front of the police station door.

  Kerney turned his head and looked over the line of adobe houses that bordered a section of the plaza. Against the western mountains, the setting sun seemed cold in the pink light. He tried not to think about the pain that faced Terry and Maria. His own sadness felt like a sharp wound cutting through him. How much worse it would be for Terry and Maria he could only imagine. He touched the portfolio on the seat next to him. The five thousand dollars was safely tucked inside. He put the truck in gear and coasted to a stop in front of the building.

  From the moment Kerney stepped through the door of the one-room office carrying the portfolio, Terry knew his son was dead. A phone call would tell him Sammy was alive, but only his death would bring Kerney to his door with that grim look. His heart sank and he stood up slowly, testing the steadiness of his legs. The two young officers in the room were suddenly quiet, shoptalk frozen in the air like hot breath on a cold winter’s day.

  Terry tilted his chin in a wordless greeting, afraid to speak, his unblinking dark eyes locked on Kerney’s face.

  “I came here first,” Kerney explained.

  Terry nodded his appreciation and cleared his throat. No words came. He unbuckled the Sam Browne belt that held his holstered pistol and stowed it in a desk drawer. “Will you walk with me to Maria’s?”

  “Of course.”

  “I will be with my son’s mother,” he told the officers, not seeing them at all. “Ask her family to join us there.”

  The two officers nodded wordlessly as Terry walked out the door with Kerney.

  Crossing the plaza, Terry felt detached from his surroundings. The familiar buildings looked strange, and his heart pounded in his chest like a powerful drumbeat. Oddly, he thought of cornmeal and pollen. He needed to gather both for the burial ritual. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he reached Maria’s front door. She looked at him, glanced at Kerney, and her hand flew to her mouth. Terry opened his arms and she exploded against him, small and vulnerable. She buried her head in his chest and sobbed.

  He looked for Kerney, and found him at his side, fretfully shifting his weight, staring at the ground. When Maria stopped crying and relaxed her grip, he spoke to Kerney. “Come inside and tell us what happened.” His voice sounded gruff as the words tumbled out. Supporting Maria, he led the way.

  In the small living room, Kerney listened to the sounds of the house while Terry and Maria waited, dull-eyed and stunned, for him to speak. A breeze sighed through an open window, the old wood ceiling creaked, and the hum of the refrigerator drifted in from the kitchen. Kerney wanted to melt away with the sounds.

  Maria and Terry sat close together on the small love seat. Terry’s hand clutched Maria’s.

  Maria spoke first. “What happened to my son?”

  The truth would only send Terry on a rampage. “It was a hiking accident,” Kerney lied. “In the mountains. On the missile range.”

  “When did you find him?” Terry asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Did he suffer?” Maria asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “And his body?” Terry asked. “Is it…”

  “Intact,” Kerney replied quickly.

  Terry looked relieved.

  Maria smiled bravely, her gaze riveted on empty space. She touched her hair, pinned casually into a loose bun, and quickly forced her hand back into her lap.

  “He was saving his money for a new car,” she said in a faraway voice. “He wanted to pay for it himself. He was so proud about doing things on his own. I kept asking him to come home for a visit, but he wouldn’t. Not until he could take me for a ride in the car.”

  Kerney picked up the portfolio from beside the chair and handed it to her. “For you.”

  Maria took the case, put it on her lap, stroked it gently, and with a shaking hand unzipped it. Terry leaned close as Maria unfolded the portfolio. For a very long time, they examined Sammy’s work without speaking. It seemed so personal, Kerney wanted to vanish. When they finished, Maria closed the case and smiled in Kerney’s direction, her mouth a razor-thin line of grief.

  Terry held the envelope with the five thousand dollars in his hand. “This is your money,” he said hoarsely.

  “No,” Kerney replied.

  “Take it, please,” Terry countered. His face looked ready to shatter into pieces. He was barely in control.

  Kerney shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  Sounds from outside the house intruded; cars arriving, subdued voices, footsteps on the gravel path. The family was gathering.

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nbsp; Kerney stood up. “I have to go.”

  Maria held him from leaving with a gesture. “Do you know when they will send Sammy home to us?” she asked.

  “Soon,” he promised.

  Maria stood and hugged him, patting his back as though it would ease her pain.

  “I’m sorry,” Kerney said.

  Maria looked up and released him. “I know.” She walked away to greet her guests.

  Old and young began to fill the front room, children hushed, adults somber. Condolences expressed in several languages floated on the air.

  Terry was at Kerney’s side. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I did nothing.”

  Terry grunted in disagreement, searching for more to say. “I’ll call you about the services.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He smiled dismally. “Sammy would like that.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth before answering. “I need a drink. A dozen drinks.”

  “Will you take them?” Kerney asked.

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. Call me if you need to talk.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Terry held out his hand. Whatever rancor Kerney felt about Terry was gone, part of a dim, unimportant past. He pulled Terry to him in a hug, and held him tight while his old friend finally cried.

  Kerney slipped through a group of people waiting outside and walked up the dirt lane. On the plaza, filled with people moving in small groups toward Maria’s home, he felt even more like an intruder. Some of the older women were veiled, and several elders were wrapped in ceremonial blankets. All looked at him with sidelong, passive glances. At the front of the police station, the two young tribal officers were in their squad cars, emergency lights flashing. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror. The officers had blocked the plaza with their cars. The pueblo was now closed to outsiders.

  ANDY CAME THROUGH with a search warrant, signed by a local judge and delivered to Kerney by a bored city patrol officer who was parked in front of the apartment complex where Eppi Gutierrez lived. Kerney thanked the patrolman, turned down his offer for backup, and went to find the apartment manager. He showed the warrant to the man and learned that Eppi lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. He got the key and directions to the unit.

  The complex, on a main throughway of Santa Fe, had been built by an out-of-state developer. Gutierrez’s apartment was a string of three boxy rooms on the second floor, the layout dictated by the developer’s computer program and slapped up with a few touches to create a cut-rate Santa Fe style. Gutierrez liked his toys: the living room had a big-screen television and a costly rack sound system, the kitchen counter held a variety of expensive gourmet appliances, and the bedroom contained a king-size water bed and a top-of-the-line mountain bike. The bike was against the wall, used as a dirty clothes rack.

  Kerney tore the place apart systematically. There was nothing taped under the dresser drawers, no incriminating notes in the pockets of clothing, and no coins and letters like those found in Gutierrez’s truck. He dug through clothing, shoes, boxes, and papers. The living room, bathroom, and kitchen yielded the same dismal results. Packages in the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets held nothing but food. A high-powered hunting rifle and a set of golf clubs were in the hall closet, just where a burglar would expect them to be. The bathroom, including the toilet tank, held no surprises. What jewelry Gutierrez owned was scattered on the top of the sink counter, in plain view. Either Gutierrez had nothing to hide or he was an expert at concealment.

  He started over again, reversing the search. He upended the living-room furniture and pulled apart all of the cushions. He dug through the dead ashes of the fireplace, turned over the pictures on the walls, and looked through every book on the bookshelf. Gutierrez’s taste ran from horror novels to popular mysteries.

  He took one last look around the room, put the couch upright, and sat down in disgust, thinking maybe there was absolutely nothing to find. On the carpet by the overturned lamp table was a stack of unopened mail, mostly bills and advertising flyers. He flipped through the accumulation. One thick envelope had a return address from Gutierrez’s office and carried first-class stamps instead of the usual metered imprint government agencies use. He opened it. Inside was a handwritten list on sheets of lined yellow paper. Kerney read it with growing awe. Rifles, pistols, saddles, uniforms, sabers, holsters—all in quantity and all dated as over a hundred years old. Many were brand-new, according to Gutierrez’s estimate.

  If the list was real, and there was no reason to doubt it, Gutierrez had been moving truckloads of material off the base. He read on.

  Military clothing: boots, coats and hats, dress uniforms, greatcoats were listed by the dozens, all packed in the original crates. There was enough to outfit several squads of pony soldiers and their horses. The tack list was just as impressive: saddles, halters, bridles, saddle girths and blankets, saddler and blacksmith tools.

  The inventory went on for pages, written in Gutierrez’s compulsively neat script: leather cartridge boxes, forage sacks, waist and saber belts, fatigues and stable frocks, halter chains, gloves, cartridge belts, and spurs.

  Kerney stopped reading and visualized the cave at Big Mesa. It must have been packed to the ceiling. He returned to the list. Gutierrez had recorded every coin and letter recovered from the truck. Each coin was described by type, denomination, date, and condition. Each letter was summarized by author and subject. The last entry was for another mail pouch. Again, Gutierrez provided a summary of each letter; most of them were from members of the 9th Cavalry to family and friends back home. Gutierrez had added a note in the margin, written with a different pen. It read: “Delivered to buyer to prove authenticity.”

  Kerney folded the list and put it back in the envelope. Gutierrez had hit a treasure trove; definitely the spoils from at least one Apache raid—maybe more. He couldn’t begin to estimate the value, but people paid enormous sums of money for rare historic objects. He needed to get a general idea of the value, just to be sure. The next question was equally simple: where would Gutierrez find the most likely buyer? Probably through a broker, eager to do business with him. It was stuff that museums, universities, and individual collectors would drool over.

  There was no sign of activity at the ranch when Kerney got home. His arrival was greeted by the whinnying of the mustang in the horse barn. It was the lonely sound of a neglected animal. He chastised himself for keeping the horse penned up for no good reason other than his own convenience. He apologized with fresh oats, a clean stall, and some soothing words, which didn’t seem to be quite enough. The mustang snorted and turned away. He got a halter from the tack room and slipped it over the animal’s head.

  “You deserve better,” he said, leading him out of the corral.

  There wasn’t going to be any breeding stock on Quinn’s ranch for a very long time, if ever. No big deal. It was just another setback.

  He opened the gate to the north section, where the grass was best and the restored windmill fed clear water into a stock tank. The horse picked up his ears in anticipation. Kerney scratched the mustang’s nose and apologized again. Halter off, he wheeled through the gate and galloped into the darkness. Silently he watched until the thought struck him it was time to give the mustang a name. He’d call him Soldier, in honor of Sammy.

  It wasn’t very imaginative, but he hoped Sammy, wherever he was, approved.

  GREG BENTON picked the lock to Gutierrez’s apartment, flipped on the light, and surveyed the mess. Not good, he thought to himself as he closed the door and eased the semiautomatic out of the pocket of his windbreaker. He did a quick room-to-room search, encountered nothing except more disarray, and left the apartment complex, hurrying quickly to his car. Two blocks away he stopped at a convenience store, dialed a long-distance number, let it ring three times, and disconnected. He repeated
the process, got back in his car, an inconspicuous compact rental that was too cramped for his large frame, and headed for the interstate.

  His mind was racing. It was bad enough that Gutierrez had blown the rendezvous to deliver the merchandise, but now it looked as though Eppi had flapped his mouth and queered the whole gig.

  Time for damage control, Benton decided, with a tight smile. He held the car at 65 and settled back to think things through. Traffic on the interstate was light. In the distant Jemez Mountains, Los Alamos winked down at Santa Fe. The piñon-studded hills along the right-of-way were filling up with subdivisions, and across the valley, streetlights lined new roads to new neighborhoods outside the city limits.

  Too much was riding on the deal to let it go sour now. Benton wondered if Eppi had decided to keep the last shipment for himself and do a little freelancing. A dumb move. But the apartment had been tossed by a pro, probably looking for the goodies.

  Benton had to find Gutierrez.

  LEONARD GARCIA smiled warmly at his visitor and had him sit by the window with the nice view of the interior courtyard of the Palace of Governors Museum. The morning sun barely touched the tops of the trees and the robins were undisturbed, yet to be chased off by museum visitors.

  As a high school senior, Leonard had persuaded a small band of his friends to help him protest the closing of the last drugstore on the Santa Fe Plaza. Armed with a truckload of cow manure, they waited for the day the new art gallery was to open in what had once been their favorite hangout. In the middle of the night they dumped fresh dung against the entrance and drenched it with gallons of water. It was so much fun they did it again the next night.

  The daily newspaper carried the escapade as front-page news. It was the talk of the town. It was heady stuff for the anonymous heroes or villains—depending on the point of view. Leonard had plotted a third foray against Santa Fe gentrification and been caught in the act by the man sitting in his office.

  Leonard owed Kerney one very big favor. Officially, he and his pals were never apprehended. Kerney took them one by one to their parents and had each boy confess. Punishment was left up to the family. Leonard lost his driving privileges for the summer, which, in turn, resulted in the loss of his girlfriend. For that he was grateful. He might never have started college if Loretta hadn’t broken up with him in order to date Roger Gonzales, who, at the time, owned a very fine raked and lowered Chevy. Roger was now paying considerable child support to Loretta for their three children.