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Authors: Steven F. Havill
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wanted the acreage, I had never figured out. A sparse fringe of trees softened the jagged prow of Cat Mesa north of Posadas, mostly junipers and slow-growing piñons. There wasn’t a tree worth either managing or cutting for anything other than firewood within a hundred miles.
I didn’t know any rancher foolish enough to want that country for his livestock, although once in a while cattle did wander up into the jagged escarpments that locals called “the Pipes.”
With a commanding view of prairie, mesas, and dry riverbeds all the way south to Mexico, the rim of Cat Mesa was a favorite camping spot, despite the twenty miles of kidney abuse it took to get there. We took our share of that abuse as the road snaked up the face of the mesa, then turned sharply west, cutting through a meadow with several abandoned water-catchment structures. As we started to turn toward the edge of the mesa, we heard helicopters in the distance, and our radio came to life.
“Three ten, three oh eight.”
I reached forward with a grunt and pulled the mike off the dashboard clip. “Three ten.”
“ETA, three ten?”
I glanced at my watch. “About four minutes.”
“Three oh one requests that you meet him at the cattle guard.”
I acknowledged, and almost as soon as I slid the mike back in the clip, I caught a glimpse of white through the trees. Sheriff Holman was parked just off the road, next to the fence. Estelle idled the Blazer to a halt without pulling off the road, just over the steel rails of the cattle guard.
Holman stepped out of the county unit and leaned on my door. “Brought the whole family, eh?” he said, and nodded at Camille. “He’s got you running around already?”
My daughter shrugged good-naturedly and remained silent. He looked at Francis and then at Estelle. “I kinda wondered what was up when Torrez said you were bringing your son out here.”
Estelle nodded, but she didn’t offer an explanation. Holman raised an eyebrow. “Nasty weather and a nasty place,” he said, and I half-expected him to add, with an official rap of his class ring on the door, “Keep the kid in the car.”
If the good sheriff had spent the early hours of the morning in the nasty weather combing every cranny of the nasty place, he hadn’t collected any scuff marks. Holman was dressed in his mail-order outdoorsman’s clothes, with neat waffle-soled boots, expensive chino trousers, and a down vest over a conservative wool shirt.
“Any news?” I asked.
“Nah.” Holman wrinkled his face in disgust and pushed the brim of his Stetson up off the bridge of his nose. “The Guard has a high-tech unit in this morning that’s shooting with infrared. They claim that if there’s anything living on the hill, they’ll find it. Or anything that hasn’t been dead more than a day or so.”
“Really. It would have been nice if they’d brought that up the first day.”
Holman glanced at me, skeptical. “I guess we have to get desperate first. And maybe the thing works like they say it does. One of the troopers was telling me that they can trace anything that’s been dead as much as a week, but I don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Technology is amazing. But I’d rather find him alive on the first day than be impressed that we could find him dead a week later.”
“It’s not for lack of trying, Bill.” Holman waved a hand in the general direction of the mesa edge. “Bernie Tafoya has his dogs up there, but they haven’t found anything. In fact, we’ve had dogs since day one, and not a trace.”
“How many troops are searching the area?”
“About two hundred, give or take. All the vehicles are parked just down the road a little bit, off in one of the pastures.” He leaned down and looked across at Estelle. “We’ve been pretty successful at keeping people out of the original campsite. It’s cordoned off, and I’ve got somebody from the auxiliary there all the time.”
“What about the
I didn’t know any rancher foolish enough to want that country for his livestock, although once in a while cattle did wander up into the jagged escarpments that locals called “the Pipes.”
With a commanding view of prairie, mesas, and dry riverbeds all the way south to Mexico, the rim of Cat Mesa was a favorite camping spot, despite the twenty miles of kidney abuse it took to get there. We took our share of that abuse as the road snaked up the face of the mesa, then turned sharply west, cutting through a meadow with several abandoned water-catchment structures. As we started to turn toward the edge of the mesa, we heard helicopters in the distance, and our radio came to life.
“Three ten, three oh eight.”
I reached forward with a grunt and pulled the mike off the dashboard clip. “Three ten.”
“ETA, three ten?”
I glanced at my watch. “About four minutes.”
“Three oh one requests that you meet him at the cattle guard.”
I acknowledged, and almost as soon as I slid the mike back in the clip, I caught a glimpse of white through the trees. Sheriff Holman was parked just off the road, next to the fence. Estelle idled the Blazer to a halt without pulling off the road, just over the steel rails of the cattle guard.
Holman stepped out of the county unit and leaned on my door. “Brought the whole family, eh?” he said, and nodded at Camille. “He’s got you running around already?”
My daughter shrugged good-naturedly and remained silent. He looked at Francis and then at Estelle. “I kinda wondered what was up when Torrez said you were bringing your son out here.”
Estelle nodded, but she didn’t offer an explanation. Holman raised an eyebrow. “Nasty weather and a nasty place,” he said, and I half-expected him to add, with an official rap of his class ring on the door, “Keep the kid in the car.”
If the good sheriff had spent the early hours of the morning in the nasty weather combing every cranny of the nasty place, he hadn’t collected any scuff marks. Holman was dressed in his mail-order outdoorsman’s clothes, with neat waffle-soled boots, expensive chino trousers, and a down vest over a conservative wool shirt.
“Any news?” I asked.
“Nah.” Holman wrinkled his face in disgust and pushed the brim of his Stetson up off the bridge of his nose. “The Guard has a high-tech unit in this morning that’s shooting with infrared. They claim that if there’s anything living on the hill, they’ll find it. Or anything that hasn’t been dead more than a day or so.”
“Really. It would have been nice if they’d brought that up the first day.”
Holman glanced at me, skeptical. “I guess we have to get desperate first. And maybe the thing works like they say it does. One of the troopers was telling me that they can trace anything that’s been dead as much as a week, but I don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Technology is amazing. But I’d rather find him alive on the first day than be impressed that we could find him dead a week later.”
“It’s not for lack of trying, Bill.” Holman waved a hand in the general direction of the mesa edge. “Bernie Tafoya has his dogs up there, but they haven’t found anything. In fact, we’ve had dogs since day one, and not a trace.”
“How many troops are searching the area?”
“About two hundred, give or take. All the vehicles are parked just down the road a little bit, off in one of the pastures.” He leaned down and looked across at Estelle. “We’ve been pretty successful at keeping people out of the original campsite. It’s cordoned off, and I’ve got somebody from the auxiliary there all the time.”
“What about the
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