Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Thirteen

Surrounded by a windswept desert broken only by the silhouette of the Florida Mountains to the east and the Tres Hermanas to the south, Deming sat sun blistered under a yellow, dust-filled morning sky. A town of modest homes ringed with patches of grass, house trailers on scrub acreage, and a main commercial strip that paralleled the interstate and the railroad tracks, Deming drew its lifeblood from travelers and truckers, and blue-collar retirees seeking the sun and affordable housing.

Billboards cluttered the sides of the highway, advertising lodging, fuel, and food. Warning signs advised travelers that the interstate would be closed during severe dust storms. Not at all an uncommon event, Kerney figured, given the amount of grit from a stiff breeze that covered the windshield of his truck.

He drove the main strip to get his bearings. There were a few older buildings that harkened back to the town’s founding as a railroad stop in the late-nineteenth century, but for the most part the strip consisted of stand-alone gas stations, automotive repair shops, mom-and-pop businesses, eateries, and moderately priced motels.

Kerney had left Patrick behind in the care of the nanny, and he didn’t feel good about it. But he was determined to find out what he could about Agent Fidel’s undercover operation. Maybe he’d learn enough to let him step aside from it completely and give Patrick more attention.

Following Officer Flavio Sapian’s directions, he took the main street east toward the Florida Mountains and followed the road that led to Rockhound State Park. He made a hard right at an intersection and bumped down a gravel road to a 1960s ranch-style house, where Sapian’s state police cruiser was parked under a tin-roofed carport.

He pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the house, shaded to the south by a row of tall poplars. Under the trees a trampoline and a swing set occupied a swath of green grass. Beyond the trees stood an old railroad boxcar that probably served as a storage shed.

Kerney tooted his horn and Sapian stepped out the front door. Off duty, he wore jeans, boots, a long-sleeved Western shirt, and a faded, sweat-streaked baseball cap. He got into Kerney’s truck and the two men drove away.

“Your phone call took me by surprise,” Flavio said. “I thought the Border Patrol was handling the death of that Mexican you found on the highway. Why are you still involved?”

Kerney ran it down for him, leaving nothing out. He concluded with his misgivings about Fidel’s undercover operation. “I just want to know if things really are as they seem,” he said.

“So that’s why you asked me to set up a meeting with the agent in charge of the Deming Border Patrol Station.”

“Exactly. How well do you know him?”

“His name is Steve Hazen and he’s good people,” Sapian answered. “Been here five, maybe six years. If he can tell you anything, he’ll play it straight.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

The station, located just outside of Deming on the highway to the border town of Columbus, was a modern brick building with a sloping metal portal that covered the entrance. Shrubs and trees planted along the front of the building softened the monotonous facade, and an American flag waved from the top of a pole that towered over the building.

Inside, Steve Hazen invited them into his office. A heavyset man in his forties with wide shoulders and a thick neck, he had a military-style hair-cut that showed the bumps and ridges of his deeply tanned skull in full relief. His shipshape office contained all the personal and professional memorabilia some cops loved to display. Framed family pictures, official citations, university degrees, and recognition and award plaques from civic organizations lined shelves and filled walls.

Highly arched eyebrows gave Hazen’s face a persistent quizzical expression. He held up a coffee mug that read # 1 DAD in big red letters. “Can I get you some?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” Kerney answered.

“Not for me,” Sapian said.

“Flavio said you have some questions.” Hazen motioned to a table next to a tall bookcase that held volumes of government documents. “Take a load off and fire away.”

The men pulled out chairs and sat. “What can you tell me about the undercover operation at Playas?” Kerney asked.

Hazen smiled. “Domingo Fidel’s little feint. He said you might not fall for it.”

“Feint?”

“Yep,” Hazen replied. “Eight months ago we got a contingent of National Guard soldiers from a Lordsburg unit assigned to assist us apprehend illegals crossing the border from Columbus west to Antelope Wells. Soon after that human trafficking volume picked up in the Bootheel, especially in those areas manned by the troops. We believe some of the soldiers have been taking bribes from the coyotes. The undercover agent you found dying on the highway was supposed to make his maiden run north of the border to a safe house, which we think is located outside of Lordsburg. Somebody ratted him out and he was killed.”

“Are you saying Officer Mendoza is clean?” Kerney asked.

“He is,” Hazen replied. “But Fidel has put the word out that he’s dirty and is using you and Bratton to convince our target suspects that we’re looking for the wrong people in the wrong place. By now every National Guard trooper on the line has heard scuttlebutt about the Playas operation.”

“Why the charade?” Flavio asked.

“Since we’ve tightened up the corridor crossings in El Paso, the smuggling networks have shifted west to the more dangerous desert and mountain zones. We’re not just after coyotes and soldiers on the pad. We want to shut down this operation on both sides of the border before the Bootheel turns into a sieve like southern Arizona.”

“Why did you keep the undercover agent’s identity secret?” Flavio asked.

“Because we think he was only suspected of being a cop,” Hazen replied. “Confirming it would have blown the operation completely.”

“What about the van I saw on the highway?” Kerney asked.

“Found abandoned in Phoenix. We matched the tires on it to tracks in the desert.”

“Agent Bratton is in over his head,” Kerney said. “I suppose Fidel wants it that way. Put the rookie out there with no training or guidance, give him a lot of misinformation, and let him flounder around for all to see. But why drag me in on it?”

Hazen smiled. “You and Sapian were doing too good of a job. Fidel had to coopt you, so he borrowed Mendoza as a target and fed you a line of bull to get you to back off.”

“He could have just leveled with me.”

Hazen smiled and shrugged. “It was his call.”

Kerney didn’t smile back. Although he’d been played by Fidel for a good cause, he still didn’t like being used as a patsy. “Okay, enough history. What’s the status of the investigation?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”

“Do you or any other federal agency have any other interdiction operations under way I should know about? ATF? DEA?” Kerney asked.

Hazen shook his head. “Nope. Why do you ask?”

Feeling unnecessarily exploited, Kerney decided not to voice his suspicions about Walter Shaw. “Just curious.”

“Can I tell Agent Fidel that you’ll continue to assist him?”

Kerney pushed back his chair. “I’ll play along. What was the dead agent’s name?”

“Roberto Sisneros.”

Kerney stood and shook Hazen’s hand. “Thanks for your candor. Tell Fidel that he can expect to hear from me about his little game playing the next time we meet.”

Hazen laughed. “I’ll pass it along.”

Johnny Jordan stood at the barricade to the Playas access road. Traffic had been closed so an aerial camera could film an overhead master shot of the town. A few steps away Susan Berman was talking to the second unit director and his cameraman. When the plane passed overhead, cars on the streets had to be moving, pedestrians had to be walking about, and kids had to be playing in the ball field or riding their bikes on the sidewalks.

Up at the village dozens of extras were standing by, waiting for their cue. Johnny was astonished at the effort it took to get a fifteen-second bird’s-eye view of townspeople going about their normal lives.

He glanced over at Susan Berman. Last night she’d turned down his invitation to drive to Deming for dinner at a Mexican restaurant, but he hadn’t given up on her. Three weeks in Playas without a woman just wouldn’t cut it.

After the plane took off from the Playas airstrip, the pilot made a few practice runs before the actual shooting began. Then it was all over in a matter of minutes. Johnny turned to see his sister’s car approaching the barricade. He walked to her, and she stopped on the pavement.

“I hear you’re playing house with Barry Hingle,” he said with a grin and shake of his head.

“Have you seen Kerney?” Julia asked.

Johnny hunkered down at the side of the car. “Not since yesterday. What’s up?”

“I just heard his wife got sent to Iraq.”

“No shit? He didn’t mention it to me. Have you come to comfort him?”

“Is that all you can think about?”

Johnny laughed. “Don’t kid a kidder, Sis. I was there when you first started twitching your hips at all the boys.”

“And you were the first to take advantage of it.”

“Those were the days,” Johnny replied.

Julia stuck her tongue out. “Do you know where Kerney is?”

Johnny shook his head. “Did he have a run-in with Shaw?”

“If he did, Walt didn’t say anything about it to me. Why do you ask?”

“Kerney pumped me for information about him. Except for telling him that Shaw was once your lover, I really didn’t have much to say.”

Julia put the car in gear. “You’re such a jerk, Johnny.”

Johnny leaned in and kissed Julia on the lips. “Are you ready for the cattle drive? We start shooting it tomorrow.”

“It should be fun.”

Men removed the barricade from the road. Julia waved ta-ta with her fingers, smiled, and drove away.

During the next three days Kerney had little time to think of anything other than herding cattle back and forth for the cameras along a ten-mile stretch of the Jordan ranch. Johnny’s rodeo cowboys, and the character actor who played the rancher bedeviled by the BLM officials, all knew how to sit a horse, as did Johnny, Julia, and the locals hired as extras. But the ingenue was a complete disaster on horseback. Although she’d taken riding lessons in preparation for her role, she bounced in the saddle like a raggedy doll whenever her mount broke into a canter.

When her stunt double took over, things went fine. However, several scenes with dialogue required the young woman to be mounted. She had a hard time controlling her horse and jerked the reins every time it moved, making it shy and turn away from the camera. After several failed attempts Usher shot the scenes with her dismounted.

As a circle rider Kerney ate dust on the perimeter of the herd. He wondered if he’d feel self-conscious when cameras started rolling, but he was far too busy prodding cattle back into the fold to pay any attention to them. Fortunately, he had a sound cutting horse with a good mouth named Lucky who did most of the work.

On the second and third mornings there were predawn calls for wardrobe and makeup. All the working hands, stuntmen, and actors exchanged their costumes for identical outfits that were a bit more grungy, and then had their faces smudged and dirtied to make it look like they’d been driving cattle for days. The real cowboys from the area ranches who’d hired on for the movie got a big kick out of it.

Two of the cowboys were Kent Vogt and Alberto “Buster” Martinez, who worked full-time at the Jordan outfit. Vogt, a cheerful, talkative man in his late thirties, loved movie trivia.

During one break Vogt reined in his mount next to Kerney and said, “Did you know Steve McQueen filmed most of Tom Horn just across the state line in the Coronado National Forest?”

“I didn’t know that,” Kerney replied.

Vogt pushed back his cowboy hat to reveal a white forehead above a rosy brown, tan face. “Did you see that movie?”

“I did, a long time ago.”

“Well, I played the boy sitting on the fence who got bushwhacked. My fifteen seconds of fame.”

“No kidding?”

Vogt nodded. “This will be my second time being in a movie. Ain’t that a hoot?” He flicked a rein gently against his horse’s neck. The animal turned smoothly and trotted away in the direction of Buster Martinez.

Grim and reticent, Martinez was the complete opposite of Vogt. Although Kerney didn’t recognize him, the MVD report had listed Martinez as the owner of the pickup truck that had arrived behind Shaw’s panel van at the barn. Kerney had watched Shaw and Martinez drive south toward the Sentinel Butte Ranch where he later found the landing strip and signs of a recent cargo drop.

Kerney’s attempts to draw Buster out had gone nowhere. Pushing fifty, Martinez had an oval face with small, narrow eyes that made him look like he was always squinting. He had a beautiful saddle, obviously custom made, with silver conchos on the cantle, a horn embellished with a sterling silver cap that bore his initials, and fenders tooled in a basket weave pattern. It had to have cost at least three or four thousand dollars new. Kerney wondered how a working cowboy could afford such a luxury.

During the next break he sought Martinez out at the new corral, where he was feeding his horse some crushed oats.

“That’s a fine-looking saddle,” Kerney said as he dismounted.

Martinez, who was inside the corral, grunted and nodded in reply.

Kerney climbed over the top railing, stepped up to the horse, and ran his hand over the padded seat. The craftsmanship was high quality. “Handmade, I bet.”

“Yeah, it is.” Martinez took his horse by the reins.

On the seat by the horn was the saddlemaker’s name, Matt Thornton.

“Does it have a wood tree?”

Martinez nodded.

Where did you get it?” Kerney asked.

“Up in Nevada.”

Kerney shook his head and smiled at Martinez. “It’s sweet.”

Martinez swung into saddle and pointed at the corral gate. “Get that for me, will you.”

Kerney opened the gate and Martinez trotted his horse out of the corral toward Walter Shaw, who was about a hundred yards away on a nice-looking sorrel gelding, harrying a cow back into the herd. Martinez reached Shaw just as the cow scampered into the fold, and the two men paused to chat.

Although he couldn’t be certain, Kerney had the strong impression that he’d agitated Martinez. Why would admiring the man’s saddle get him riled? Most working cowboys were pleased to show off their prized tack. Martinez’s behavior made Kerney all the more curious about him. He dialed his office and asked to be put through to the investigation unit.

Detective Matt Chacon took the call. Kerney described the saddle and asked him to track down the maker in Nevada.

“Sure thing, Chief,” replied Chacon, who had never been on a horse in his life. “I know what a saddle horn is, but what’s a cantle, fender, and tree?”

“The cantle is the back of the saddle seat,” Kerney replied, “fenders are wide pieces of leather along the stirrup leathers, and the tree is the frame of the saddle. Have you got all that?”

“I wrote it down, Chief,” Chacon said.

“Good. I want as many facts as you can get. Who the buyer was, when it was bought, how much was paid, and the type of transaction. Leave me a message after you run it down.”

“Ten-four.”

Over a bullhorn one of Susan Berman’s production assistants ordered the cast and extras to report for a wardrobe and makeup check. Kerney mounted and rode to a tent to be looked over to make sure he was appropriately scruffy for the cameras. Far in the distance he could see Malcolm Usher and a camera crew on the cliff overlooking Granite Pass. Two other cameras were in place at the mouth of the pass, one on tracks with a boom and the other on a crane. A fourth camera, mounted on a truck, would parallel the cattle as they were driven toward the pass.

Up the valley a ways and out of sight, helicopters, squad cars, and stunt men were standing by, ready to roll into action for the exciting chase scene into the pass. High above Granite Pass a small plane with an onboard camera circled. It would capture the arrival of the squad cars and whirlybirds.

After getting his face smudged Kerney helped separate the herd into two groups. Usher wanted some of the cattle stampeded by the approaching police helicopters and cruisers as they entered the pass. According to a crew member Kerney talked to, all the cameras would be rolling simultaneously, and if everything went okay, there would be enough raw footage in the can to edit the sequence to a final cut. But the chances were good, the man added, that Usher would want to shoot the sequence twice.

Trampled by thousands of hooves over three days, the rich grassland pasture Julia Jordan had bragged about now looked pale yellow and used up. The cattle Joe Jordan had rented out for the production were dust covered, thirsty, and cantankerous. In the strong afternoon sun heat waves quivered up from the ground, made more visible by the dust that swirled in the air. The mouth of Granite Pass revealed a narrow rocky trail that wedged and wound along the cliff face toward the Playas Valley.

Johnny joined up with Kerney as he trailed behind the cattle moving toward the pass. “Are you ready?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Have you ridden through the pass?” Kerney asked.

“Twice.”

“There’s bad footing in there,” Kerney said, “and mesquite and cactus on either side just waiting to jab man and beast. These cows are going to go every which way on that trail.”

“Don’t get throwed off that horse,” Johnny said.

“Isn’t that what you used to do for a living?”

Johnny threw back his head and laughed. “More often than not.”

The man with the bullhorn began a countdown. Johnny spurred his horse and veered away to flank the herd on the side where the dolly camera had been positioned. Suddenly, the sound of helicopter rotors and police sirens filled the air and spooked the lead cows into a slant away from the pass. From that point on every working hand forgot about the movie as they ate dust and tried to keep the cattle from scattering.

Kerney entered the pass at the rear of the herd. Pressed tightly together, the cows were clambering over the rocks, crashing through the brush, stumbling against the canyon walls. Some stragglers turned for the valley. Kerney hit them on their snout with his lasso, but only one animal retreated toward the herd. The rest thundered past him to safety.

He pushed Lucky forward, reached out, and slapped a cow on the rump with his coiled lasso. The cow broke right and Lucky cut him off, pivoting and digging with his rear legs, sticking to the animal like a burr in its tail.

Kerney worked the stragglers until the sound of the helicopters and police sirens faded away. He glanced skyward. The choppers were leaving the valley. Behind him the police units were at a full stop.

Johnny’s horse threw dirt as he reined in next to him. “That’s it,” he said. He pointed at the cliff above the pass, where one of the crew stood waving everyone off. “We’re done.”

Kerney looked up the trail through the pass. A bottleneck of frightened cows bawled and kicked in frustration. “Not yet. We need to turn those cattle around, get them out of there and watered.”

“Let the working hands do it,” Johnny said.

Kerney gave him a long, hard look, remembering the day years ago when Johnny had left him out on the Jornada in the fierce afternoon heat, fixing fence ten miles from nowhere, and never returned.

“What?” Johnny asked.

“Do you always leave a job unfinished?” Kerney didn’t wait for a reply. He spurred Lucky forward and spent the next hour helping the hands untangle the cattle and move them back into the valley. Johnny was long gone when the work was done.

By sunset the temperature had cooled down nicely and a refreshing breeze washed across the Bootheel. At the Playas apartment Kerney turned off the air conditioning and opened all the doors and windows. Weary from three days in the saddle, he pulled off his boots and sprawled on the couch. On the living room carpet Patrick was busy building an airplane out of a Lego set borrowed from the nanny’s treasure trove of toys.

Realizing that he’d forgotten to check for messages, Kerney speed-dialed his cell-phone voice mail. Matt Chacon had called, but instead of leaving any information, he’d asked for a call back. Kerney got Chacon on the phone.

“There was no saddlemaker named Matt Thornton in Nevada, Chief,” Chacon said, “so I did an Internet search and found him in Arizona. That saddle was stolen out of his shop a year ago. It has a retail value of forty-five hundred dollars. Whoever took it must have added the sterling-silver cap with his initials to the saddle horn. Do you have a suspect?”

“Possibly,” Kerney said. “Did you confirm the theft?”

“Yes, sir. It was entered into the NCIC computer system the day after it was stolen. The thief got into the workshop by breaking a rear window. He took only the saddle, and it wasn’t even the most expensive one there.”

“Where is Thornton located?”

“In Duncan, Arizona. He does custom saddles for clients all over the country. You want his address and phone number?”

“I do.”

Kerney scribbled down the information, thanked Chacon, disconnected, and watched Patrick circle the living room, airplane in hand, making a buzzing engine sound with his lips.

Duncan was only a few miles away from Virden, where Shaw had his farm. Martinez had helped Shaw unload cargo from a plane at the Sentinel Butte landing strip. Were they trucking it to Virden? Did Martinez spot the saddle at Thornton’s workshop during one of their runs and go back to steal it? Or had Martinez bought the saddle from a fence or at a pawnshop in Nevada?

At the very least Kerney was fairly sure Martinez knew the saddle was stolen property. But he would need to tie Martinez to the theft in order to gain enough leverage to tease out an answer to the bigger question: What in the hell had been off-loaded from that plane?

Patrick crashed into the couch cushion next to Kerney and put the airplane on the armrest. “I want to read Pablito the Pony.”

Kerney rubbed his son’s head. “Go get it.”

Patrick scooted to his bedroom, came back with his book, and settled on the couch. When Kerney reached for the book, Patrick shook his head. “I want to read it to you,” he said.

“Okay.”

Patrick opened the book to the first page. “This is the story of Pablito the Pony,” he said, “who lived on a ranch.”

“Very good,” Kerney said.

Patrick smiled and turned the page. “Pablito was a pretty pony.”

“Don’t you mean pinto?” Kerney asked.

Patrick corrected himself and continued to pretend to read as he looked at the pictures and told Kerney the story. When he finished, he closed the book, gave Kerney a pleased look, and said, “The end.”

“What a good story,” Kerney said, “and you read it very well.”

“I know.”

Kerney sent Patrick off to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas. Through the open door he heard Johnny Jordan talking to someone.

“Come on,” Johnny said, his words slightly slurred, “have a drink with me.”

“No, thank you,” Susan Berman replied.

Kerney stepped outside. Johnny stood halfway down the walkway with a whiskey bottle in his hand, blocking Susan Berman’s passage.

“I like a woman with spunk,” Johnny said. “One little drink.”

“Let me pass, Mr. Jordan,” Susan said sharply.

“It doesn’t sound like the lady is interested,” Kerney said as he walked toward Johnny.

Johnny turned and squinted. “There’s my old amigo.” He waved the bottle. “How about you and me and Susan here having a little drink together?”

“You’re drunk, Johnny. Leave Ms. Berman alone and go to bed.”

Johnny laughed. “Are you giving me a lawful order?”

“You could say that.”

Johnny shot Kerney a dirty look, took a swig from the bottle, and stepped out of Berman’s way. As she passed by, she smiled and mouthed a silent thank-you in Kerney’s direction.

“I thought you were a pal,” Johnny said.

“Drunks don’t have friends.”

Johnny gave him a surly look. “Seems you and me just don’t get along anymore.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Johnny.”

Kerney turned and went back to the apartment. Patrick, dressed in his pajamas and about to burst into tears, sat frozen on the couch.

“Where were you, Daddy?” he asked.

“Just outside for a minute, champ.”

“I thought you went away just like Mommy.”

“Never.” He pulled Patrick off the couch, nuzzled him, and carried him to the bedroom. “Mommy and I will always be with you until you’re grown up.”

The call sheet for the next day didn’t have Kerney’s name on it. The scene at the copper smelter had been pushed back to rest the stock. In the morning he spent an hour after breakfast with Patrick before heading off to Lordsburg to seek out Leo Valencia. He sat in Leo’s office at the Sheriff’s Department and told him about Buster Martinez and the stolen saddle.

Leo rubbed his walrus mustache with his fingers and said, “Interesting.” He picked up the telephone and asked for a records check on Martinez. “Either Martinez is a real dumb thief, or he bought the saddle not knowing it was stolen.”

“I’m hoping he’s dumb,” Kerney said. He handed Leo the background information on Walter Shaw. “Several weeks ago I saw Walter Shaw and Martinez drive toward a landing strip on the Sentinel Butte Ranch. Soon after, a plane traveling from that direction passed overhead. I inspected the landing strip and it showed evidence that cargo had been unloaded.”

Leo’s eyes widened. He read the report on Walter Shaw and grunted in disappointment. “There’s nothing here that tells me Shaw is a bad guy. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. What do you want to do?”

“Talk to the saddlemaker and show him Martinez’s photograph. Ask around in Virden to learn if Martinez has ever been seen up there. Try to discover if there is a pattern to Shaw’s visits to his farm. If the two of them are moving product, I’m guessing he’s using his property to warehouse it.”

Leo pulled himself out of his chair. “I’ll go with you to make it official. We’ll take my unit.”

They picked up Martinez’s records on the way out the door. He had a DWI conviction and one arrest for battery against a household member, which had been dropped when the victim refused to press charges.

Leo bypassed the cutoff to Virden and drove straight to Duncan through desert breaks that hid the Gila River from view. There wasn’t much to the town. The mountains beyond were uninviting shadows in the distance. Railroad tracks bordered the main highway, which ran through the river valley toward some low-lying westerly hills. Along the main strip were a smattering of local businesses and a much larger number of vacant buildings with fading signs and chipped stucco exteriors. An old Korean War-era air force jet mounted on a tall arched pedestal overlooked the town from the knob of a small hill. Below, house trailers, manufactured homes, and pitched-roof cottages sat on dusty, dirt-packed lots sheltered by occasional trees. Only a glimpse of the shallow valley could be seen as it spread toward humpback mountains.

From the main strip a hand-painted billboard planted on the side of the road directed them to Matt Thornton’s saddlemaking establishment. A quarter mile off the pavement on a gravel road, they arrived at a tree-shaded house and adjacent shop. Surrounded by a lawn, it was a cool, inviting oasis, but no one was there to greet them.

At a local eatery Kerney asked the proprietor, an older woman with dyed blond hair, if she knew where Thornton might be. She told him Thornton was the president of the Greenlee County Rodeo Association, and if he wasn’t in his shop, he’d most likely be at the county fairgrounds and racetrack just outside of town.

The access road to the fairground was lined with trees and the entrance gate stood open. Matt Thornton was in the office behind the rodeo arena and covered bleachers. A shade under six feet tall, he had curly graying hair and a droopy mustache that almost matched Leo’s in size.

“What can I do for you, gents?” Thornton asked, eyeing the shield and sidearm clipped to Leo’s belt.

Leo made the introductions and after handshakes all around, he showed Thornton the driver’s license photo of Buster Martinez.

“Have you ever seen him in your shop?” he asked.

Thornton studied the picture. “Yep. He’s been in once or twice, but not for a while. Who is he?”

“Possibly the man who broke into your shop and took the saddle you reported stolen late last year,” Leo replied.

“I’ll be damned. Have you got my saddle back?”

“Not yet,” Kerney said. “When did you last see him?”

“Now that I think of it, before the break-in at the shop. In fact, I was finishing the saddle at the time.”

“Do you know Walt Shaw?” Kerney asked. “He grew up in Virden.”

“Can’t say that I do. I’ve only been here ten years. Came down from Wyoming to get away from the harsh winters.”

“I’ll let you know when we have your saddle,” Leo said. Outside the office he chuckled. “Don’t you just love dumb crooks?”

“I do,” Kerney replied.

They made their way to Virden, past deep green fields, pastures, and the lush river-bottom bosque that lounged against a spate of rocky hills. Kerney had Leo slow down as they passed Shaw’s farm.

“I didn’t get many votes in this part of the county,” Leo said. “Folks around here like their politicians conservative. Where do you want to start?”

Kerney pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “At Shaw’s neighbor behind us.”

Leo made a U-turn and stopped at the farmhouse where Kerney, on his earlier trip to Virden, had seen a woman hanging wash on a clothes-line. Before they could gain the porch steps a man and woman stepped out the front door. Both in their late middle-age, the man was lean and blue eyed with lips that sagged at the corners. The woman, round in the torso with a sharp face, directed her attention to Leo. “How can we oblige you, Sheriff?”

Leo touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “I have a few questions, ma’am. Can I have your names?”

“Isaac and Priscilla Klingman,” the man said grudgingly, casting a wary eye at Leo. “What is this about?”

“We’re trying find a fellow who may have stolen a saddle from Matt Thornton over in Duncan.” Leo handed Mr. Klingman Martinez’s photo. “Do you recognize him?”

“Isn’t Arizona out of your jurisdiction?” Klingman asked as he scanned the photo.

“A bit. Does he look familiar?”

Isaac Klingman shook his head and handed the photo to his wife. “I’ve never seen him,” she said.

“Who leases the Shaw land?” Kerney asked.

“I do,” Klingman replied. “Can’t get him to sell it to me.”

“Do you have use of the barn?”

“Shaw keeps it locked up tight. I don’t go near it, or the house. That’s the deal.”

“Have you ever seen a white van parked outside?” Kerney asked.

“Yep, but not for long. After it pulls in, it gets put away in the barn. Stays there until he leaves.”

Leo took the photo back from Klingman’s wife. “Until Shaw leaves?”

“Can’t say that I know who comes and goes all the time. Sometimes it’s Shaw, sometimes not. There’s another man who shows up about twice a month driving the van. Comes in the evening, so I’ve never gotten a good look at him. Parks in the garage and then leaves after an hour or so. Heads west on the highway.”

“How long has this been going on?” Leo asked.

“A year or more. Maybe two.”

“Can you remember the last time you saw the panel truck?” Kerney asked.

Kingman shook his head.

“I remember,” his wife said. “I was driving back from town and it was stopped on the side of the highway with a flat tire. I didn’t get a good look at the driver, but Nathan Gundersen’s truck was parked behind it.”

“When was that?” Leo inquired.

“A week ago last Thursday, the evening our ladies’ quilting society meets.”

“Gundersen lives down the road.” Isaac Klingman nodded to the left, eager to be rid of his visitors. “Maybe he can help you. Turn in on the second lane. His house is the third one on the right.”

“Thank you,” Leo said.

Klingman grunted.

Gundersen wasn’t home, but Kerney spotted his pickup truck parked on a farm road that cut through the pastureland toward the river. He had the tailgate down and was encouraging a six-month-old calf up a ramp into the bed of the truck. He nodded in recognition at Kerney as he tied the calf to a side railing, dropped the ramp, and closed the tailgate.

“What brings you back here with the sheriff? Is it about Walt Shaw?”

“Not exactly,” Kerney said. “That calf looks sickly.”

“It is,” Gundersen replied. “The vet thinks it’s influenza, but he can’t come out until tomorrow, so I’m taking the patient to him. Don’t understand it, though. The calf was vaccinated along with all the others.” Gundersen glanced at Leo. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I understand you recently stopped to help a man driving a white van with a flat tire.”

“Can’t say I was any help at all.”

Leo held out the photo of Martinez.

“That’s him, all right,” Gundersen said.

“Was that a week ago last Thursday?” Kerney asked.

Gundersen nodded. “I’d say so. Are you a police officer too?”

“Yes, I am.”

Gundersen pulled off his gloves. “Sure had me fooled.”

Leo put the photo in his shirt pocket. “Did anything unusual happen when you stopped to help?”

“He wasn’t a very pleasant fellow. When I pulled up behind him, he scowled and waved me off before I could even get out of my truck. Sent me on my way without so much as a word.”

“Were you able to see inside the van?” Kerney asked.

“No.” Gundersen turned his gaze to the calf. “If you gents don’t mind, I’d better be off to the vet’s. I don’t want to lose this youngster.”

They watched Gundersen drive away. In a nearby holding pen the mother cow lowed miserably for its departing calf. “All we’ve got is circumstantial evidence,” Leo said. “Not enough to arrest Martinez or get a search warrant for Shaw’s barn. Do we pull Martinez in for questioning?”

Kerney nodded. “I think I know where to find him.”

The day had turned uncommonly humid. Kerney looked at the sky. A line of squalls was building to the south, broken by a daunting sun fueling a gathering wind. It could be storming fiercely in the Bootheel, dropping hailstones the size of quarters. Or clouds of dust could be whipping across the flats without so much as a drop of rain hitting the ground. “Let’s go,” he said.

All night, Buster Martinez had worried about the Santa Fe cop’s interest in his saddle. He’d read somewhere that cops could get information about stolen merchandise from a computer back East in some government office that kept national records. Hopefully, Buster had thrown Kerney off base by telling him he’d gotten the saddle in Nevada. If push came to shove, he’d say that he bought it off a guy for cash money at last year’s National Pro Rodeo Championship Finals in Las Vegas. He’d been there during slack season and could prove it.

At the Shugart cabin Martinez and two day hands, Ross and Pruitt, loaded cattle into stock trailers the film company had hired to move fifty head to the copper smelter. They’d trailed the animals up from an adjacent pasture where the herd had rested overnight. According to one of the truck drivers the cows would be used in a scene at the copper smelter sometime soon. A big holding pen had been thrown up where the animals would be fed and watered until needed.

Except for the heavily foraged, harshly trampled grass, the soft cow pies surrounded by fly swarms that littered the land, and the numerous tire ruts in the ground, all signs that a movie had been filmed in the valley were gone. Above Martinez’s head the sky crackled with thunder and a lightning flash cut through the thick cloud bank that had settled over the valley. Suddenly, the light drizzle changed to a torrent of hard, howling, windblown rain that pelted Martinez’s face.

He dismounted, lashed the last of the cows up the ramp into the stock trailer, slammed the tailgate closed, and turned to see Ross and Pruitt riding at a hard gallop, making for the safety of the partially standing wall of the old line shanty. As he remounted to join them, car headlights lurched over the crest of the ranch road. Through sheets of rain he could see the light bar on the roof, the five-pointed sheriff’s star on the door.

Martinez hesitated. Were the cops coming for him? He could think of no other reason for them to be here. Under another lightning flash he held his horse in check and waited until the squad car drew near. He saw Kerney’s face through the windshield, saw him curling his forefinger at him in a come-here gesture, and the thought of going to jail again made him bolt. Getting arrested and locked up on a DWI for one night had been bad enough. He spurred his horse toward Granite Pass.

Behind him he heard the sound of the squad car in pursuit. The hard rain beat against the packed earth, pooling and running into the draw that led to the pass. Martinez pushed his mount into the draw, forced it up an incline, and clattered it into the rocky canyon mouth. The sound of the engine receded and he turned in the saddle. The squad car stood snout up on the lip of the draw, wheels spinning, digging to gain traction. But behind the car, riding Pruitt’s dapple gray, came Kerney, head down, low in the saddle, at a full gallop.

Martinez gave his horse free rein. Rainwater gushed down the cliff face, submerging the narrow trail. The horse stumbled on a rock, pitched, recovered, and wheeled into a mesquite that sent it spinning. Martinez clamped tight with his knees, kept pressure off the bit, and let it come to a stop. Twenty feet down the trail Kerney sat watching him on Pruitt’s soaked and dirty dapple gray.

“Can you hear me?” Kerney called out over the roar of the storm.

“I can,” Martinez yelled back, blinking hard to keep the hammering rain out of his eyes.

“Do you have a weapon?”

Martinez raised his hands to show that he did not.

“Would you like to stay out of jail?” Kerney asked.

“What do I have to do?”

“Let’s get out of this storm and we’ll talk,” Kerney said.

Martinez nodded and approached. “I didn’t steal my saddle.”

“Of course you did,” Kerney replied with an easy smile. “But if you cooperate, that saddle may buy you your freedom.”