Wild Penance

11

It was almost dark when I started riding just north of Chimayo. Redhead, the paint mare I had chosen, was my favorite from the BLM stables. She had done trail riding all her life and was strong and sure-footed. Like most mares, she had a belligerent streak, but we usually got along.

Roy had been right: the backcountry was treacherous. Melting mountain snows had left the slopes muddy and the roads deeply rutted on each side, with perilous high rocks in the middle destined to wipe out even a high-riding vehicle’s oil pan. During the night, these ruts and puddles froze, making the raised earth ridges on either side of them as hard as concrete. We didn’t use horses that much anymore, not since four-wheel drive became the main means of transportation in the Southwest. But, unless one had the time to do it on foot, a horse was the only way to follow this fence line right now.

Riding was one of the reasons I took this job in the first place, one of the things about my work that nourished me. In the saddle, I was someone else-half horse and half human. On a horse, there were no clocks, no stoplights, none of the rigid constraints and limitations of civilization. Instead, I felt a sense of freedom, of rugged challenge, of rightness with the world.

My normal routine would have been to establish a base camp before dark fell and make planned forays from that point, doing the bulk of my range riding during daylight hours. In the remote country where I normally worked, I had few human interactions, and my greatest concern was survival in bad weather. In the areas I patrolled most, I buried caches of supplies and survival gear so that I could travel light. I chose the most beautiful spots for my camps because there was no reason to camp elsewhere. But for this assignment, I would try to cover the fence line first-all the way from one end to the other-so I knew the terrain. After that, I could determine where to place a base camp for the following night, in a spot where I felt it was most important to maintain an active presence. Tonight, I planned to ride just over five miles to meet the forest ranger at our appointed rendezvous site near Cañada de la Entranas, more than halfway to Cañoncito.

There were things only a night rider could discover and report. At least half of the illegal woodcutting went on after dark, for example. A crew of men would muscle four-wheel-drive trucks into a remote area where they wouldn’t be seen or heard at night. Using a generator to power work lights, they would put their chain saws to work and quickly denude a swath of pristine forest, piling their trucks full of cut logs and vamoosing out by daylight, before being discovered. And much of the vandalism and destruction of rock art, ruins, and even fences on public lands took place in the dark, fueled by cases of beer and a lack of respect for the earth’s beauty. Poachers came to take up their positions at watering holes at night so they would be ready to bag illegal prey at first light.

Redhead and I set out in the cold, and soon the sky became a dome of ebony pierced by the cold points of blue-white stars. A low bank of snow clouds in the east obscured the stars in that direction, while a weak quarter moon hid behind another patch of clouds directly above, leaving this isolated landscape as dark as pitch. The biting chill in the air promised to deepen as the night went on, and the dense, pungent smell of mountain sage hung like incense. There was no real trail along the fence, and occasionally a thick stand of brush or an outcropping of rock would force a wide detour from the fence line. The terrain was rugged and sloping. Surging upward to the east were the high peaks of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. The only evidence of civilization was the ever-present barbed wire barrier that separated Carson National Forest from the BLM land I now patrolled.

The quiet was broken only by Redhead’s steady plodding and blustering, as warm breath fogged from her nostrils and quickly vanished into the frigid, dry air. Wherever a rock outcropping sheltered the snow from the day’s sunlight, stands of drought-stunted piñon huddled together like wolves at a watering hole ready to drink the melt. Thin tendrils of white mountain sage reached out to touch Redhead’s legs, seeking to pollinate and thrive for another season.

My nose hurt from the cold. It was slow, tedious work, picking our way along in the dark, looking out for rocks and other hazards. My eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness. I could only make out what was immediately before me.

Redhead was unhappy with the routine, too. She balked going down hills and tried to race going up them. She stopped abruptly several times for no apparent reason. And one of those times, like a mule, she stubbornly refused to take another step. I pushed my heels lightly into her side. “Come on, Redhead.”

She snorted, shook her head.

I dug a little harder with my heels and bounced my seat once on the saddle. “Getup!”

She pawed at the ground.

I kicked a little harder, not wanting to hurt her, but determined to give her the message that I was in control. “Come on, Redhead!” I said.

She’d grown deaf. And apparently immobile.

Damn, it was cold! “Okay, all right. Fine. We’ll rest a little.” I slid off the saddle.

Redhead blew steam out of her nostrils, flicked her ears. She turned to look back at me, then, catching my mood, quickly faced forward again.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I told her as I worked the strap of my canteen out from under where my rifle was holstered beside the saddle. My butt felt like it had been pounded flat and put in a freezer. I walked around a little, leaving Redhead’s reins wrapped around the saddle horn. She followed me like a dog.

“Oh, you can move now, can you?” I challenged, spinning around to confront her.

She turned her head away but her eyes watched me. I pulled off my glove and held my hand out low, palm up. She pressed her warm muzzle into it and felt with her lips for a treat. “Oh, all right.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a carrot, broke it in half, and offered it to her. She took it, and as she chewed it, I stroked her cheek, then her neck. She pushed at me with her nose, almost knocking me over, her way of showing affection.

My joints were stiff, my muscles nearly asleep from the cold. I drank a little water, my lips freeze-burning as they touched the steel mouth of my canteen.

After a few minutes, the chill was unbearable. “Do you think we might get on with it now, Your Highness?” I tied my canteen back on the saddle strap, then tightened her girth strap.

Redhead nosed the ground, threw her head back, and whinnied.

I climbed aboard. “Well, let’s go then.” She broke into an easy trot.

As morning drew near, I had to cross a narrow, steep-sided stream. I eased Redhead down the bank into a cold cloud of mist and through the ice along the edge, and then the fetlock-deep water. As we crossed, the fog grew thicker and rose to encompass and obscure the horse’s legs, as if her massive torso were floating on a thick pool of steam. I felt her feet striking ground but I could see nothing beneath the tops of my boots. I saw the opposite bank rising sharply ahead of us and thought we had made it across without incident. But as we started back up the slope on the other side, a figure suddenly loomed up like a ghost out of the mist right in front of us, a dark cape or blanket obscuring both face and form. A man’s voice cried out in a horrible scream, “Aaaaaaghhh!” Redhead reared and bolted before I knew what was happening, and she threw me flailing into the fog as she charged up the slope. I landed hard, a stone smacking so violently against my right buttock that I could hear the jarring impact ringing in my ears along with the thud of Redhead’s hooves and the sound of someone scrambling up the slope in the opposite direction on foot and then running away. I was stunned for a moment, and when I tried to get up, I felt like I might faint. I sat groaning and rolled my weight off of my right side. The smarting emanated from a strong, tight epicenter out in recurring, circular, throbbing waves-growing more diffuse as they got farther away from the point of impact. I gave myself a minute or two before I tried to get up again, muttering under my breath, “Great, Jamaica. That’s twice you’ve landed on your backside in just two days!”

I listened for any sign of the specter. He was long gone by now. I limped around on the icy bank of the stream a bit, testing my weight on my right side. It hurt when I walked, but I was pretty sure it would be better if I kept moving. Redhead whistled from above me and shook her head as if to say, “Let’s go!”

“You did this!” I griped at her. “Don’t tell me to hurry up!” I groped around among the thin willow reeds looking for a limb to use for a cane. The bank was too steep for me to climb without support.

I whistled. “Come here, Redhead.”

She pawed at the ground and snorted. She didn’t like the slope any better than I did.

I whistled again. She looked at me. I made a gesture, waving her toward me. “Come on, Redhead! Come here!” I was calling her like a dog trainer, in that fake-happy voice, trying to make my tone pleasant while my buttock ached unbearably.

Redhead wasn’t buying it. She lowered her head and looked at me. She reached down and pulled with her lips at the vegetation on the ground, feigning interest.

There was a stand of cottonwoods downstream a bit, so I staggered along the frozen water’s edge, wincing as my butt throbbed with each step. I almost stumbled over some whitened, weathered limbs lying at the edge of the water. I picked one of the limbs up and tried it-it would do in a pinch.

I noticed a ring of stones demarking a campfire site. I pulled a small flashlight out of my coat pocket and examined the area. The mysterious stranger had evidently camped under these cottonwoods; the ashes looked fresh but no longer warm, no more than a day old. There was no sign of litter or debris, and it was a poor choice for a camp as there was no dry, flat ground for a sleeping bag. The site of the fire was the only dry spot. A downed tree trunk probably served as a seat near the fire, but other than that, the steep ascent up the bank and the close proximity of the water to that slope ruled out camping. So, why would anyone build a fire where they couldn’t camp? Especially back here where the nearest dirt track was still miles off, and the only way in was to hike or ride.

Sweeping the area with my penlight, I spotted a canvas backpack. I picked it up and straightened, looking around, wishing I could see farther in the dark. My rifle was in the scabbard on Redhead’s saddle. I had no idea where the pack’s owner had gone, nor if he might have doubled back and was now watching me. I pressed the button, switching off the flashlight, and stood quietly for almost a minute, listening and looking for any sign of the illegal camper. I put an arm through one of the backpack straps and, using the limb for support, scrambled up the slope to my horse.

An hour later, as I listed to my left in the saddle, I tried not to grimace when I rode up to the Forest Service truck at the rendezvous point. The ranger was leaning against the hood of the truck watching me approach. His narrow hips were pressed against the front quarter panel and one long leg was crossed at the ankle over the other. He wore a uniform coat, his hands thrust casually in the pockets. Beneath his ranger hat I saw a shadow of stubble on his handsome face. Rosa had been right!

I leaned over Redhead’s neck and whispered in her ear as I drew her to a halt. “You be sweet and hold real still, okay, girl?” I had lashed my cottonwood “cane” behind my saddle, and I untied this and used the staff to support myself as I gingerly stepped off the left stirrup and onto the soft ground. I could not suppress the contortion of my face as I felt the anguish that came with standing upright.

The forester came toward me in long strides. He wore a worried expression. “What happened?” he asked, arms reaching to help, moving as if to gather me up.

“Crossing that little stream back in the valley, my horse threw me,” I said, embarrassed to admit it.

He took charge, extending his right arm around my waist and holding my left forearm with the other. We walked toward his truck, almost as if we were promenading in a square dance, two by two, except that I limped on the offbeat. Redhead followed us, a few paces behind. At the truck, he opened the door and then watched as I awkwardly tried to turn around. He startled me when he reached out with both hands and lifted me by the waist. Our eyes met as he gently eased me into the seat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his face full of concern. “I probably shouldn’t have…” His eyes were a warm green-flecked brown color, with small crinkly lines at the corners.

“It’s okay, “I said. “But my horse-”

“I’ll get her in the trailer with mine. You just make yourself comfortable.”

I felt my poor backside throbbing and I was cold and tired. It had been a wretched night. I was too numb and sore to protest, so I just watched with pleasant surprise as he took a blanket from behind the seat and began tucking it in around me. Redhead looked at me over the ranger’s back as he bent over. She was flicking her ears, which usually meant she was excited. That made me grin.

The man had a healthy look about him. His face was roughened a little by wind and sun, and his prominent brow was dressed with thick eyebrows that almost met over the bridge of his slender nose. His eyes were deep-set beneath that brow, and his long, thin face was set off by a strong jaw. There was a small white scar on his chin, and another narrow one under the outer corner of his right eye, adding some masculine character to what otherwise might have been called a pretty face. He was too good-looking for me not to notice, no matter how much my bottom hurt.

“You sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asked. “Maybe you’d let me take you someplace warm where we could get some breakfast while we exchange reports.”

“Okay,” I said, “I could use a decent meal and something hot to drink.”

“Let me just see to your horse,” he said, “and we’ll get on the road.” He grabbed Redhead’s reins.

She followed him like a slave.

I sent her a telepathic postcard: Be nice.

She nickered softly.

I could hear the ranger talking to her in a low, quiet voice. “Yeah, you’re cold and tired, too, aren’t you, girl? Yes, you are. We’ll get you some hay up at the ranger station, how would that be?”

We had to crawl back to the Forest Service road in his truck, easing over one bump at a time, and the riding was rougher than in the saddle. Redhead and the ranger’s horse had to be working hard not to get slammed around in the trailer behind the truck. I kept looking back to make sure they were all right.

“Your horse is going to be just fine,” the ranger said. “Peter-he’s a guy that works up at the ranger station-he’s excited about having horses there this week. They normally don’t have horses in their stables there except in the summer. So both these guys will get lots of attention.” He had brought a big red travel mug full of coffee, and he wiped the cap off with his glove and handed it to me. I sipped a little of it, but after the second time I sloshed it all over myself, I gave up and just held it to warm my hands. I was wrapped up to my chin in the blanket and I felt like my nose was about to thaw out, but my feet still ached from the cold.

“So you’re Jamaica Wild.” He looked at me and smiled.

“And you’re Kerry Reed.” When I returned the smile, my face felt like it would crack, it was so dry from the cold.

“Where’d you get that handle of yours?” He reached across me to take a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment.

I could smell his scent as he leaned near, his head over my lap, his smooth, tan neck right below my left shoulder, a perfect line where his hair had been recently trimmed. I could almost feel the warmth of his skin, right through the blanket.

He straightened up in the seat, put the glasses on, and turned to look at me, waiting for an answer.

I stared at him blankly for a moment. “Oh, my name!” I recovered. “Well, same as most people, I guess. My father gave me the second one, and my mother gave me the first.” I looked out the window, hoping to change the subject. Everyone asked me about my name. I got tired of trying to come up with a glib rejoinder.

“So, was your mother from Jamaica, or were you born there, or what?”

“No, I was born in Kansas, but I don’t think my mother liked it there very much. Maybe Jamaica sounded better to her somehow.” I fidgeted in the seat. I always felt uncomfortable when the subject of my mother came up.

He seemed to sense my mood and let it go. After a few minutes, he tried a different approach: “Did you see anything out there last night?”

“Only one thing, I don’t know what it means. It’s the reason Redhead threw me. Some guy had built a campfire in the draw of the stream-an impossible place to camp. Who builds a campfire where there’s no dry ground to sleep? Anyway, I would guess that he’d been dozing, maybe sitting on a downed tree. He was wrapped up in a blanket and it was dark-I didn’t get a look at him. We must have startled him and almost ran him over because I didn’t see him there. He screamed, Redhead bucked, and I landed on my behind. The guy ran off. I tried to track him after I got back up but the ground up top was frozen, no tracks. He didn’t have any gear there except a flimsy canvas backpack. I didn’t get to look through it yet. The ashes from his fire looked to be a day old. Besides having an illegal campfire, something must have been up for him to run off like that.”

“Huh,” he uttered. It was the kind of sound you make when you notice something curious and you can’t quite figure it out.

“What?”

“Oh, probably nothing.” He shifted into low. “Someone has definitely been going back in there for some reason. Last night, I saw Santiago Suazo’s pickup pulled over on the four-wheel track north of there in the national forest. The truck was down that track about two clicks. The road is impassable, so he must have gone in farther on foot. There was no one around, and I didn’t see anything in his truck I could hold against him, but of course I couldn’t get inside it to look around. It looked like there were several sets of ruts there that were fresh. Maybe someone with a good four-wheel drive met up with him, and they managed to get down that road. When I went back around dawn to check on it, Suazo’s truck was gone, and then it was time for me to come meet you. I don’t know what he’s up to this time. He can’t lift much firewood when the roads aren’t passable, but he could have been scoping out a site to cut from later, or he could even have been poaching. He’s been known to take elk out of season. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Everybody knows who Santiago Suazo is. He’ll sell you illegally cut firewood in the afternoon, then steal it from you that night and sell it to your neighbor the next day. One of ours busted him two years ago with three eagles that had been shot with a high-powered rifle, and he got off because the agent hadn’t followed procedure to the letter; the judge wouldn’t even allow the photographs of the birds to be used as evidence. Suazo has done probation for petty theft, a little lockup time for an assault with a deadly weapon conviction, but he’s gotten off on two different charges of possession of unlicensed firearms and one minor drug charge. He’s got a second or third cousin who’s a lawyer. Nobody has managed to nail him for illegal woodcutting yet, but almost every time we discover an area that’s been clear-cut, he’s been seen around. We get reports, the sheriff gets complaints, but we can’t prove anything. One of these times Suazo is going to steal somebody’s firewood and they’ll shoot him. We won’t hear about it, but they’ll find that pickup of his at the bottom of some arroyo the next spring.”

He looked at me and chuckled. “You got it.”

By this time, we had reached the Forest Service station. Kerry pulled the truck into the dirt lot and backed the trailer to the path in front of the stables.

I began trying to untangle myself from my blanket cocoon, balancing the full mug of coffee carefully in one hand. “I’ll get Redhead-”

“No.” He reached out a hand and pulled the blanket back over my shoulder, tucking me in. “You stay here and get warm. I’ll take care of your horse. I think she likes me better than you, anyway.” He winked and smiled.

“Well, that’s probably true. But she needs to be brushed and her hooves…”

“Look-here comes Peter. He would probably love to do it.”

“Well, okay. Here.” I reached into my coat pocket. “Give her this.” I handed him the other half of the carrot. “And could you get my rifle and that backpack that’s tied to my saddlebag?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat playfully. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, how long do I have to wait for this breakfast?”

“We’ll just drop your royal steed at this here palace, Your Highness, Peter will help me unhitch the trailer, and then we’ll be on our way.” He smiled again, then got out of the truck and left it running so I would have heat.

I watched Peter lead Redhead to the stables and felt a pang of guilt for not taking care of her myself. I turned on the radio and let the morning sun warm my face through the windshield. I could barely hear the broadcast above the low rumble of the truck’s idling engine, so I reached to turn the volume up. “And in local news,” an announcer said, “a search and rescue team has recovered the body that had been carried downriver after it was spotted beneath the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge two days ago. New Mexico State Police agent Lou Ebert said the investigative team is not releasing any details in the case, other than to say that the body has not been identified. When contacted, the Office of the Medical Investigator in Albuquerque declined to comment.”

Suddenly, I felt too hot. The windshield had amplified the sun’s rays like a magnifying glass and I felt like I was roasting. My mouth tasted sour from the few sips of coffee I had taken and it made me feel a little queasy. I opened the door of the truck and worked my way out from under the blanket. But I had forgotten about the mug of coffee, which fell to the asphalt and bounced, coming apart, the red cap spinning away, the liquid from inside flying up as one glistening brown steaming organism in slow motion, and then disconnecting into hundreds of drops and falling down to the cold asphalt, where it immediately began to freeze.

I squatted to retrieve the cup and its lid and felt a pang as the muscles in my backside stretched. Although it hurt, it felt good to have my weight off the bruise and to stretch the muscles. And the cold air made my tummy relax. I sat on my haunches and took several deep breaths, feeling better with each one.

After I’d taken one last deep breath, I noticed a pair of brown smoke-jumper boots on my periphery. I had no idea how long Kerry Reed had been standing there. “You okay?” he asked, his hat shading my face from the now-blinding sun.

I straightened up, guardedly. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry about the coffee. All of I sudden, I just felt hot.”

“You going to be all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” I turned and started to get back in the truck.

“Here, let me help.” He took my arm and held it for support. “Do you need to go home?”

“No, I’m all right.”

In the truck, he looked at me before putting the truck in gear. “If you’re not feeling well, I can take you back to the BLM, and if you want, we can go get your truck and trailer at the drop point later. I got your rifle. Your horse is all taken care of.”

“Did you get that backpack?”

He reached behind the seat, pulled up the canvas bag, and handed it to me. “It’s right here.”

As we drove, I stuck my head out the window and into the wind. I could feel the numbing cold move from my face through my chest and into my middle. After a few minutes, I was too chilled. I rolled up the window.

We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then I zipped open the top on the backpack and rummaged through its contents. “There’s no wallet or I.D. in here, no personal items at all. No way to tell who that guy was. The only things in here are a few camera accessories.”

“What kind?”

I held up the items one at a time. “This looks like some kind of lens filter. This must be a lens cleaning kit. There are two of these-extra batteries. I think that’s everything.” I swept the bottom of the bag with my hand. “No, wait. What’s this?” I held up a small flat square.

Kerry took his eyes from the road for a moment and glanced at the item in my hand. “That’s a memory card.”

“I wonder what’s on it.”

“We can find out. I bet I’ve got something that you can use to read it.”

I put everything back in the pack and zipped it up again.

“How are you feeling now?” Reed asked, looking at me.

“I’m good. But I think I need to eat something.”

“So, breakfast?” He looked at me with a hopeful grin.

“Yeah. Breakfast would be nice.”