Hermit_s Peak kk-4 Page 3

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning you."

  "Get serious."

  "That was a thousand-watt smile she gave you when we showed up. Did you know that a lot of relationships nowadays start in the workplace?"

  "Is that a fact?" Kerney said.

  "That's a fact. You should take advantage of those opportunities when they come along."

  "Since when have you become an expert on relationships?"

  "I read about it somewhere."

  Kerney laughed again.

  "I thought so."

  "But I've been living with women for over twenty years. A wife and two daughters can teach a man a lot about how women operate, how their minds work."

  "I defer to your experience."

  "That'll be the day. Think you have a chance of finding the killer?"

  "There's always a chance."

  They passed the stock tank and rode south through a thicket of big sagebrush that spread across the grassland.

  They found the second windmill and tank, both in good working order, with no recent sign of cat de milling at the water source. Unless forced to move, cows stayed near water, trampling the ground bare and sterile.

  The mesa rose gradually and seemed to run hard up against the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. They crossed a brake of cholla cactus, moving carefully around the long, spindly branches that could dig dusters of thorns into a horse and rider, and entered another large sweep of open country.

  All Kerney saw told him the range had been well rested. New grass was greening up nicely among the un foraged knee-high blue grama. His mind started racing with all that needed doing to put the land into production.

  Maybe the cabin-the only structure on the ranch-could be shored up to serve as temporary quarters.

  He would need to get inside and inspect it. But a place to stay wasn't the half of it: a barn, stables, corral, shipping pen, a loading chute, and new fences to segregate pastures were essential to put the land to use. Then he had to buy livestock.

  Reality hit: starting up a ranch wasn't going to be cheap. It would take a big mortgage to get things underway, and Kerney had no idea if he could swing a large bank loan. The thought that he might not be able to pull it off put a knot in his stomach.

  "Deep thoughts?" Dale asked, as he rode alongside.

  "You could say that," Kerney answered, nodding at the stand of ponderosas that denned the far edge of the mesa. He didn't want to talk about his newfound worries.

  "Let's see what's on the other side of those trees."

  They followed a game trail into the woods, tall pines cutting the afternoon sun to half-light, and reached a treeless, rocky shoulder that jutted out over the backside of the mesa. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains, austere and vast against the skyline, stood a close two ridgelines away.

  Below, in a small defile at the edge of a narrow valley, a forty-acre swath of trees had been dear-cut. Only stumps, dead branches, and slash remained. An alluvial fan of gravel and sand spread out from a small occasional stream that ran through the defile. Erosion had begun in the sandy soil; water-filled down-cut troughs twisted around tree stumps at the edge of the stream.

  "Jesus," Dale said, "who would do something like that?"

  "Good question," Kerney said, trying to contain his anger. He nudged Soldier ahead and the horse picked his way carefully down the slope.

  In the defile they scoured the area and found tire tracks that petered out on a rocky Jeep trail that climbed up the adjoining mesa. A hundred feet in, they discovered a cut barbed-wire fence and a discarded motor oil container.

  Kerney had started the weekend with no intention of doing any police work. He was totally unprepared to collect or document evidence. He left the container where it was, staked it with a tree branch, and noted its location. Back in the defile, they inspected the tree stumps. The absence of weathering pointed to recent harvesting.

  "What do you think?" Dale asked, as he picked out some burrs that had galled Pancho's flank.

  "I think we've got a poacher who sells firewood for a living. Someone who knows his way around the area."

  "He sure picked a spot to cut where he wouldn't be seen."

  "Exactly" "You're going to lose this acreage to erosion if you don't act fast. About the best you can do right now is slow it down and keep it from spreading. It's gonna take a chunk of money and a lot of hard work to save it."

  "I know." Kerney looked up at the mesa. The tips of the ponderosas were tinged gold by the afternoon sunlight.

  "We need to get started back."

  "Do you think the poaching and the murder are connected?"

  "Could be. You never know."

  "Barbara and the girls aren't going to believe a word of this when I get home."

  "Don't start polishing up your story yet. The weekend isn't over."

  "What else can happen?"

  "Just about anything," Kerney replied.

  They rode back to the crime scene. Another chopper was on the ground and additional techs were busy field searching an expanded area. He could see Melody Jordan in the distance at another grove of trees. She turned and waved, but she was too far away for Kerney to tell if she had a thousand-watt smile on her face.

  He found Sergeant Gonzales and filled him in on the wood poaching.

  "Do you want me to jump on it right away. Chief?"

  Gonzales asked.

  "How far along are you here?"

  "Nothing more has turned up. We'll be back out in the morning."

  "Do you think Officer Thorpe can pick up some evidence and photograph tire tracks without your supervision?"

  "He should be able to handle it."

  "Send Thorpe in the chopper. Loan me your notebook and I'll sketch the scene for him."

  Gonzales pulled a notebook from his pocket and held it out. Kerney drew a rough map of the defile, noting the location of the tire tracks, the cut fence, and the empty oil container.

  "Have Thorpe bring back a sample of the cut barbed wire," Kerney said.

  "We might get a good tool mark to use as evidence."

  "Will do," Gonzales said.

  "Stay with it. Sergeant."

  "We'll be here until last light."

  The chopper carrying Officer Thorpe took off soon after Dale and Kerney left. They watched it rise in the distance and turn toward the poaching site. Enough daylight remained for the two men to follow the south end of the mesa back to the cabin. They dropped off the crest and skirted around a sheared bluff that resembled a poorly chiseled arrowhead. A ranch road plunged down the mesa in a series of switchbacks, and faded into ruts that followed a fence line.

  They made the turn around the mesa and joined up with the county road.

  Dead ahead, barely visible in the growing dusk, stood the cabin, truck, and horse trailer.

  Before they reached the cabin, Kerney could hear Shoe barking. He dismounted to the clamor of the dog scratching at the metal floor of the horse trailer. The mutt was trying to dig his way out of captivity. When Kerney spoke to the dog, it stopped scratching and sat expectantly, eyes fixed on Kerney.

  "You'll have to wait a few minutes," Kerney said.

  Shoe's tail flapped in response.

  Dale got busy with dinner and Kerney tended to the horses, watering them at the stream and feeding each a bag of grain. Then he hobbled them nearby for the night on some good grass where they could graze.

  As he walked back to the trailer, rotor noise cut the stillness. He watched the lights of the helicopters pass out of the valley, let Shoe out of the trailer, and tied him to the bumper. The dog rolled on his back, and lifted his front paws in the air. Kerney gave him a tummy scratch.

  When dinner was ready. Dale found Kerney in the truck with the cab light on, studying a plat map.

  "According to this map, Nestor Barela owns land that parallels mine on the backside of the mesa," Kerney said, taking the plate from Dale's hand.

  Dinner consisted of steak, a baked potato, and a large slab
of homemade apple pie. He got out of the truck and followed Dale to the campfire.

  Two camp stools had been set up. He sat down, balanced the plate on his knees, and cut into the steak with a knife.

  "He might be worth talking to," Dale said.

  "He holds the grazing rights on my property."

  "He sure hasn't been using them."

  "Maybe he went into the wood cutting business instead." Kerney took a bite of steak.

  "This is good."

  "Homegrown range-fed beef. Can you pay the taxes on this place?"

  "I'm trying not to think about it. The appraisal is due next week. I don't have a due what the inheritance tax will be."

  "It will be a pretty penny."

  "Yeah, and it'll take a huge mortgage to cover the taxes and make the improvements the place needs."

  "I've been yearning for some high-country summer grazing land."

  "What are you saying. Dale?"

  "This land is like a grass bank waiting for cattle that need fattening up. I've got yearlings that will add two hundred pounds easy in a summer up here."

  "Do you want to buy me out?"

  "I had a partnership in mind: your land, my beef. I'll take out a loan each year to make the tax payments, and you give me half interest in the property. You carry the bank note for the improvements. That way we share the load."

  Kerney shook his head.

  "I won't let you borrow against your land on my account. It's too risky."

  "You're one stubborn son of a bitch."

  "I know it."

  "Well, think about it. It might work."

  "I didn't know being land rich could be so damn frustrating."

  "If you want to ranch, you're going to have to use somebody else's money to do it."

  "I guess that's true. Hold off until I know what the taxes will be.

  Okay?"

  "Okay" "Did Barbara bake the pie?"

  "She did, and sent it along with her love."

  "Save your steak bone for Shoe," Kerney said.

  "It's already got his name on it."

  The dog, still tied to the bumper, flapped his tail, drooled, and kept his eyes fixed on the two men.

  In the morning, it was Kerney's turn to cook. At first light, he fixed enough chow to insure leftovers for the dog. After cleaning up the dishes, he fed Shoe, put on the makeshift collar and leash, and took him for a walk.

  Dale laughed as Kerney led the dog away. Shoe seemed perfectly content to be on a leash, and after sniffing around for the right spot, he did his business. The dog still limped. Kerney hoped that some weight gain and exercise would correct the problem.

  Sergeant Gonzales arrived in a four-wheel drive pulling a horse trailer, followed by a Game and Fish truck, with another trailer, and several patrol units. Kerney questioned him about the crime scene search, and Gabe reported that nothing more had been found. Gonzales, his team, and the Game and Pish officer were all dressed in riding gear.

  "Have the techs work the site one more time," Kerney said.

  "They're on the way," Gonzales said.

  "We'll cover the mesa on horseback. If anything else is there, we'll turn it up."

  Kerney saw Gonzales and his team off, tied Shoe to the bumper of the trailer, borrowed Dale's truck, and promised to return in a hour. He wanted to pay a friendly visit to Nestor Barela and see what kind of neighbor he had inherited.

  The ranch road leading to Barela's place was an expensive piece of work. Graded, crowned, and topped with packed base course, it was far superior to the poorly maintained county road. The headquarters sat in a horseshoe canyon about a hundred acres deep and half as wide. From the last cattle guard into the headquarters, the road was asphalt.

  Kerney stopped before he crossed the cattle guard and looked the place over. The most prominent building was an indoor arena near a large horse barn. Expensive white pipe fences enclosed cool down areas, exercise rings, show jumping gates, and corrals. Two smaller outbuildings, a hay shed, and a loading pen were sheltered at the side of the canyon.

  Across a pasture, tucked on the other side of the canyon, was an adobe house with a half-story attic framed with battens, a pitched roof, and a row of cottonwoods along the windward side. Laundry flapped on a clothesline steps away from a side porch.

  The main residence dominated high ground at the back of the canyon where the winds would swirl and bluster. It was enormous, and obviously positioned for the view rather than for protection from the elements.

  Built in a symmetrical H with pitched roofs, the house had a deep veranda running across the core of the structure that connected the two lateral sides. A chimney protruded in the center of each distinct roof line. A low wall with white-picket gates confined some shade trees at the front of the house. A free-standing three-car garage built in the same style stood below and to one side of the residence.

  All in all, it looked like Barela had sold the place to somebody with a hell of a lot of money, who had converted the cattle operation into a horse ranch.

  Erma's lawyer and executor, Milton Lynch, who lived in the southern part of the state, had only been able to provide sketchy information about Barela. Kerney had a name, a post office box number, what Barela paid for his lease, and the location of the ranch, all which could easily be out of date.

  He stopped at the horse barn, where several trucks were parked. A hand-crafted sign above the doors read horse canyon ranch. He could hear the sounds of men and animals inside the barn. He called out and a middle-aged Anglo man, thick through the chest, wearing a stained felt cowboy hat, a plaid snap button shirt, jeans, and a pair of work boots caked with manure and straw, walked out to greet him.

  Kerney introduced himself by name only.

  "Is the foreman here?"

  "I'm the ranch manager," the man said, pulling off his work glove to shake Kerney's hand.

  "Emmet Griffin." His voice carried a trace of a brush-country Texas accent as he rolled his words together.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for Nestor Barela," Kerney answered.

  "Barela sold out three years ago and moved to town," Griffin said.

  "I understand he leases the Fergurson land."

  Kerney's statement raised Griffin's interest.

  "He does, but he doesn't really use it. He puts a few cows on it each spring, fattens them up, and slaughters them for his freezer. It keeps Pergurson's taxes down and fills Barela's stomach."

  "That's a pretty expensive way to fill a freezer."

  Griffin laughed, showing his teeth below his mustache.

  "It sure the hell is."

  "Do you think Barela would be willing to consider a sublease?"

  Griffin shook his head.

  "I've tried that. He won't sublease it, and the Fergurson woman won't sell. My boss would love to buy that property as a buffer. A lot of the big spreads east of here are being carved up and sold in five- to twenty-acre tracts. She doesn't want that kind of development along her boundary. She likes her privacy."

  "Is your boss here?"

  "Nope. She should be back in a day or two."

  "What's her name?"

  "Alicia Bingham."

  "What breed of horses is she training?"

  "We breed and train. Dutch Warmblood and English Anglo-Arab, for dressage and show jumping. We sell to an international market. Our buyers are mostly topflight competitors."

  "Do you know how I can contact Barela?"

  "Not really. One of his sons and a grandson go up to the mesa now and then to check on their lease holding.

  But I don't know where they live, exactly. I heard the old man moved his whole family onto one piece of land."

  "Thanks for your time."

  "Hell, I'd rather talk to you than muck out stalls.

  Good luck with old Nestor Barela. You'll need it."

  Back at the cabin. Soldier and Pancho were saddled and ready to go, and Shoe was caged inside the horse trailer working on a steak bon
e. He wagged his tail when Kerney called his name.

  Dale had pulled the wood off the cabin door and was nowhere to be seen.

  Kerney found him inside, knee-deep in rotting hay. Thick cobwebs hung down from the log rafters, which had been nailed and tied with bailing wire to the bond beam that ran along the top course of the stone walls.

  The tin roof was rusted through in spots, and one of the logs that spanned the ceiling had decayed and broken apart.

  "You might as well knock this damn thing down and start over from scratch," Dale said.

  "You've got vermin droppings and black widow nests everywhere."

  He held out a yellowed, chewed-up piece of stationery.

  "What's this?"

  "Part of a love letter from Erma Fergurson."

  "To whom?"

  "Can't tell."

  Kerney studied the faded handwritten letter. It spoke of a starry night on the mesa, not liking the idea of sleeping alone, and bodies entwined. It carried Erma's signature and had no date.

  "Good for her," Kerney said with a smile.

  "I hope she had a lot of fun with him, whoever he was."

  "Want to look for more letters?"

  "We'll let Erma's affairs of the heart stay where they are for now." He dropped the piece of stationery on the moldy hay.

  "Did you see Barela?"

  "Barela sold out and moved to town three years ago.

  I haven't talked to him."

  "So, no arrest is pending?"

  "Not yet."

  "That's disappointing."

  "Don't fuss. Dale. You've got Erma's love letter to add to your adventures, once you get home." Kerney stepped outside.

  "Let's go. I want to find out how those poachers hauled that wood away. There has to be an outlet from the valley through the next ridgeline. Let's see if we can find it on the north side. We haven't covered that stretch of land yet."

  "Lead the way," Dale said, striding to Pancho.

  They rode off Kerney's land toward the mountains where the country road veered toward San Geronimo.

  An unimproved dirt track sliced into a canyon along a small stream, showing signs of recent vehicle travel. At the junction where two small creeks converged, snow covered the ground. Fresh tire tracks forked up the side of the foothills. They topped out to find a high mountain meadow, wedged between a small mesa and the mountains.