Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

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a post office box number, what Barela paid for his lease, and the location of the ranch, all which could easily be out of date.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 Fergurson’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 top-flight 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 bone. 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.

  The meadow was fenced, and a locked gate and NO TRESPASSING signs barred their passage. Halfway in the meadow stood a new timber-frame house with a blue metal pitched roof. A child’s bicycle leaned against the covered porch. No motor vehicles were present.

  A rectangular greenhouse had been erected at the far end of the meadow, a good distance from the house. Built with concrete blocks and rough-cut lumber, the roof joists were covered with thick translucent plastic panels.

  “They sure are tucked away in here,” Dale said. “Are we going in?”

  “We haven’t been invited,” Kerney said. “How about I buy you lunch in Las Vegas?”

  “It’s a little early to eat.”

  “It won’t be after I track down Nestor Barela and talk to him.”

  “We’re packing it in?”

  “As far as the trail riding goes.” Kerney pointed to a dip in the tree line where the horizontal line of a mesa showed through. “If I’m oriented correctly, that’s my property over there. The defile should be just a little to the south and east. We may have found a neighbor who just might know something about the poaching. I’ll pay him a visit when he’s home.”

  “Then why go see Barela?”

  “Because he may know something the neighbor doesn’t.”

  “Makes sense,” Dale said. “You really do think like a cop.”

  “It’s habit forming.”

  • • •

  Shoe sat in the back of the extended cab on a jump seat, panting quietly, as they made the short fifteen-mile trip to Las Vegas, New Mexico. The city, situated on the edge of the high plains with Hermit’s Peak and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains looming in the background, had its boom days late in the last century when the arrival of the railroad turned it into a major transportation center.

  With almost a thousand historic buildings dating from early in the century and before, Las Vegas was staging a comeback. A number of the old buildings that ringed the plaza and spread down Bridge Street had been renovated, new businesses had opened, tourism had picked up, and newcomers were moving in.

  They stopped at the police department on a corner of the plaza. Kerney went in, introduced himself to the shift commander, flashed his credentials, and asked a few questions. The officer knew Barela, and Kerney got directions to Nestor’s house.

  Barela lived just outside the city limits on land along the Gallinas River that he’d turned into a compound for his extended family. It consisted of four manufactured homes on concrete pads lined up in a row facing the highway.

  A wrought-iron portal arched over the driveway, with the words Los Barelas spelled out in cursive writing. Beneath the lettering was a fabricated cut
out of a cowboy on horseback twirling a lasso. A fenced pasture dipped down to the river where a young man was cleaning out the inside of a four-horse trailer at the side of a barn.

  Six quarter horses in the pasture looked up at the sound of Dale’s truck on the dirt driveway, swished their tails lazily, and went back to grazing. There were eight cars and trucks of various makes parked in front of the house, none of them more than two or three years old.

  The front door to a house swung open as they drew near, and a stocky man in his late thirties with reddish brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard walked off the porch to greet them.

  Kerney waved, got out after Dale slowed to a stop, and limped to meet the man halfway. His right knee, shattered by a bullet in a gunfight, ached from his time in the saddle.

  “I’m looking for Nestor Barela,” he said.

  “Are you here about the horse we have for sale?” the man asked.

  “No, I’m here about the Fergurson lease.”

  “We’re not giving up that lease until it runs out.”

  “When is that?” Kerney asked, knowing full well the lease expired at the end of the year.

  The man thought about answering, shrugged it off, and nodded at the house where an elderly man stood framed in a doorway. “Talk to my father. He’s home.”

  Kerney reached the porch step and smiled at a sinewy man somewhere in his late seventies. His legs were bowed from years in the saddle. The back of his hands carried the scars from a lifetime of hard physical work. He had a full head of gray hair and sharp, clear brown eyes.

  “Mr. Barela?” Kerney asked.

  “Yes,” Barela answered suspiciously.

  Kerney decided not to give too much away. “My name is Kevin Kerney.” He nodded in the direction of the truck, where Dale waited. “My friend and I are interested in buying your grazing rights on the Fergurson land for the summer.”

  Barela’s expression soured further. “I’m not interested.”

  “I’d be willing to pay a premium for it.”

  “I don’t keep it to make money,” Nestor replied.

  “Mind telling me why you do keep it?” Kerney asked. “It hasn’t been put in production for some time, as far as I can tell.”

  “You’ve been on the land?”

  “Just for a quick look. I’d heard you weren’t grazing it.”

  “It’s posted. Stay off.”

  “I’d like to talk to the owner.”

  “You can’t. She’s dead.”

  “Do you think the land will come up for sale?”

  “Everything is for sale at the right price.”

  “Are there woodcutters working in the area?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw a truck hauling logs out this morning.”

  “That’s normal. Since the Forest Service started limiting permits, some of the private land owners have been selling woodcutting rights.”

  “Anyone in particular that you know of?”

  “Osborn and Patterson, I’ve been told.”

  “Is anyone cutting wood on your leasehold?”

  “Nobody cuts wood on that property.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I would know.”

  “Who bought your ranch?”

  “An Englishwoman owns it. I never met her. She lives in Los Angeles. A local attorney handled the sale for her. You ask a lot of questions.”

  Kerney smiled and shrugged off the comment. “I’d really like to find some land where I can summer over my cattle. I’ve heard there is a high meadow north of the mesa. Would that serve?”

  “It’s a small parcel on a bad road. You couldn’t run more than five cows on it. A family from California bought it. The man used to teach college, or something like that.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve taken so much of your time, Señor Barela.”

  “Stay off the property,” Nestor said. “It is still under my care.” He closed the door in Kerney’s face.

  • • •

  Kerney made a quick stop at the state police office where he found the district commander on duty. Capt. Victor Garduno briefed him on the continuing search of the mesa. Additional skeletal remains had been found about a mile from the original crime scene, including parts of the spine, ribs, and an arm bone. But no skull.

  “We’re still looking,” Garduno said. A lean, big-shouldered man, the captain had a self-contained, confident manner.

  Kerney switched gears and gave Captain Garduno a brief rundown on his conversation with Nestor Barela, and his hunch that the wood could have been trucked out through the meadow.

  “I’d like to learn more about Nestor, his family, and the owner of the timber-frame cabin,” he added. “Barela said the guy who built it moved here from California.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Captain Garduno said.

  “Can you get me crime statistics for the San Geronimo area?”

  Garduno wrote a note to himself. “Consider it done, Chief. Sergeant Gonzales has asked for a records search on missing women over the last ten years. You should have the report on your desk when you get back to your office.”

  “Good deal. Has Melody Jordan reported in?”

  “She’s back at headquarters, examining the bones. Sergeant Gonzales would like to remain the primary officer on the case, Chief.”

  “Are you recommending him?”

  “He spent five years in criminal investigations before he made his sergeant stripes. I use him as an investigator whenever I can’t get an agent assigned out of Santa Fe.”

  “Can you get along without him for a while?”

  “A senior patrol officer can cover his duties.”

  “Give him the green light.”

  Kerney got back to the truck and Dale groused at him for taking so long, and complained of being hungry. Kerney bought lunch at a Mexican place on the plaza. Dale packed away the food while Kerney watched cars pull up in front of the Plaza Hotel. The hotel, a prominent city landmark, was a three-story brick structure with Gothic Revival columns, overhangs, and windows.

  Dale ate and listened while Kerney repeated the gist of his conversation with Nestor Barela.

  “So Barela wouldn’t tell you squat,” he said between bites. “That’s pretty suspicious. But I don’t think that old man cut and hauled that wood away by himself. Just eyeing him from the truck, he looked pretty much worn down to me.”

  “Maybe it’s a family affair.” Kerney picked at his meal. “He has strong backs to help him. They could haul a lot of wood in that four-stall horse trailer that was parked down at the barn, without raising any suspicion.”

  “I guess I just don’t think like a cop.” Dale wiped his chin with a paper napkin and dropped it on his empty plate. “I’m gonna have to bring Barbara and the girls up here for a vacation.”

  “Any time,” Kerney said, as he motioned for the check. “I’ll fix up my cabin for you.”

  Dale snickered. “I said vacation, Kerney. That means a nice hotel with clean sheets every day, dinners out, and with three women, shopping. Lots of shopping. Since I can’t afford Santa Fe, I’ll bring them here.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Kerney said as he paid the bill and left the tip. “Are you ready? I’ve got some work to do.”

  “More cop stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dale pushed his chair back and stood up. “What a yarn I have to tell when I get home. And it doesn’t need a bit of exaggeration.”

  “I’m glad you had a good time.”

  “Did I ever.”

  In the truck, Dale popped a George Strait tape into the cassette deck and cranked up the volume. Kerney groaned quietly. County and western was his least favorite music.

  Shoe crawled out of the backseat, sat on Kerney’s lap, and stared at him with serious eyes. Either the dog didn’t smell bad anymore, or Kerney was getting used to him.

  He was without a doubt the hairiest beast Kerney had ever owned.

  3

  Kerne
y’s apartment was a furnished one-bedroom guest cottage in the south capital neighborhood, within a short walk to the Santa Fe plaza. Although bland and boxy, it had a fireplace, reasonably decent furniture, and a small enclosed patio. Kerney liked the neighborhood with its old houses, narrow streets, and mature trees that gave a small-town feeling to the area. His landlord, Leo Dunn, was a retired cop who had built the cottage at the rear of his property solely for the rental income.

  Over the years, most of Leo’s tenants were officers going through divorces or just starting out in law enforcement. Leo knew firsthand how poorly cops were paid, so he kept the rent reasonable.

  Kerney stopped at Leo’s house, an older, pueblo-style single story with a long veranda, to introduce Shoe to his landlord. He got provisional permission to keep the dog as long as it didn’t crap on the rug, chew up the furniture, or bother the neighbors.

  Before leaving for the office, Kerney got Shoe settled, and left the patio door open to the small backyard so the dog could do his business outside. Since Leo was around most of the time to keep an eye on things, a burglary was highly unlikely. On top of that, Kerney didn’t really have much worth stealing.

  At the state police headquarters, a building complex that included the Department of Public Safety and the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy, Kerney found Melody Jordan in the laboratory.

  She looked up from the microscope and smiled when Kerney approached. “Great timing, Chief. I was about to ask dispatch to track you down.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Several facts that may help. The body was dismembered while clothed. I found minute fibers embedded in the bones—denim and wool. We might be able to match that fabric scrap you found with the maker. And we may get lucky with the wool fibers.”

  “Do you have any hunches?”

  “The victim wore high-end apparel, Chief. Not the kind of clothing bought at discount stores. But we’ll have to wait for our fiber expert to confirm it.”

  Melody swung her stool to face Kerney. “More good news: We may not need the skull to make an ID. The left humerus shows a severe old break, about a third of the way down. It isn’t the kind of injury that would go unattended.”

  “That is good news. Have the bones told you anything else?”