Mexican Hat Read online

  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 José had been born was thick with grass. A small herd of cattle grazed along a fenceline 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 José, 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 José 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. José 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,” José 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,” José 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.

  José 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, qué 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 piñon, 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.

  José 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,” José 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 drop-off. The road seemed to top out up ahead. He glanced at Grandfather, who smiled reassuringly.

  “Just a little bit farther,” José 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?” José 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 driveshaft 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,” José 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,” José 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 José’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 finger-like 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. “Hola! My truck is disabled,” he said. “Can you help me, por favor?”

  The man nodded and gestured at him to come closer.

  JOSÉ 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. José 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, searchin
g 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 José 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. José decided he must walk a little farther and investigate before returning to the truck. Something wasn’t right.

  3

  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, and 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 rebar, sledgehammering 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 translocated two months ago from the San Andres 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 flyover 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 anymore.”

  “The Jornada. 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 Servi
ce? 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 streamed 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 piñon forest that spurted and stopped in the rangeland 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.