“Ruger ranch rifle,” he said. “Got to be a million of ’em around.”
“I would think so.” Estelle took the gun and turned so it was pointing off toward the distant hills. She racked the bolt back, and a cartridge spun out of the rifle. Bill Gastner almost caught it in midair, then bent to retrieve it and dusted it off before handing it to Estelle.
“Yeah, I shoulda done that,” Prescott muttered.
“I’d like to borrow this firearm for a day or two,” Estelle said. She pocketed the cartridge. “Would that be all right with you, sir? I’ll bring it back out to you tomorrow.”
“Well, no, I don’t guess that would be all right at all. You don’t just wheel in here and confiscate my guns, lady. I mean, just what are you up to?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to his two daughters, who’d remained silent though the entire conversation, watching the back and forth like spectators at a ping-pong tournament. “I’d kinda like some privacy here,” he said, and his tone had abruptly softened.
“He’s right,” Estelle added, and Christine looked from her father to the undersheriff, eyes pleading. But this was no time for Gus Prescott to be dealing both with the undersheriff’s questions and an audience as well. “I’ll need to talk with both of you again, but if you’d give us a few minutes?”
For a moment it looked as if Christine would refuse, but then she nodded and touched Casey on the elbow. Estelle noticed that the two girls did not walk back toward the house, where their mother waited. Instead, they crossed the yard again to the corral and the horses. No wonder Christine had felt the need to hurry home from college for this mess, Estelle thought. All Christine’s skills honed over years as a bartender would be needed for a family guided by a father who could always find the deepest rut in a mud hole.
“I don’t think it’s right that you come in here and upset everybody,” Prescott said. “It’s a hard time for Casey.”
“I understand that.” She turned the rifle this way and that, and passed the muzzle close by her nose. Turning the rifle, she looked into the dark recess of the chamber. The aroma was not one of bore solvent or oil. In fact, the rifle itself was grubby, the action speckled with dirt, lint, and dog hair. But it had been fired recently enough that the characteristic aroma lingered.
For an instant, she was tempted to hand the rifle to Gastner, who during his many years in both the military and law enforcement had inspected a myriad firearms, but she decided against it. Prescott was watching her as if he’d handed the rifle to a tourist who had never seen one before. His hand kept reaching out, an almost involuntary motion that said he expected her to drop the little Ruger any moment.
“Could use a cleaning,” she said.
He almost sneered. “You’d know about that, would you, lady?”
“Well, probably not, sir.” She smiled at him innocently. “Do you practice a lot?”
“No. You obviously ain’t bought ammunition lately. God damn near have to mortgage the ranch to afford it. When they got any of it, that is.”
“How about on Thursday?”
“Thursday what?”
“Did you shoot this on Thursday, sir?”
Prescott took a long time forming an answer, and Estelle watched a range of emotions on his face, as if he were trying to solve a really tough Sudoku puzzle.
“You ever seen the number of prairie dogs we got, lady? You let them run, and you won’t have a stick of grass for ten miles.”
“You don’t poison ’em?” Bill Gastner asked.
“Sure. Some. It don’t work. We try everything.”
“Doesn’t seem like there’s as many as there used to be.”
“Hopin’ not.”
“So you were out shooting Thursday?” Estelle was facing southeast, with a full view of the two-track that wound in toward the ranch. In the distance, without stirring dust, the county patrol unit had appeared around the end of the mesa and now idled along the road into the Prescott’s. Still too far away for her to recognize which unit it was, she knew that it had to be either Deputy Tom Pasquale or Sheriff Robert Torrez. The sedate approach, like someone out ambling about with no real destination, suggested the Sheriff himself. The breeze, light and fitful, was to her back, and it would be several minutes before Prescott could hear the vehicle.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t keep track of things like that.”
“Sir, we have reason to believe that at least one shot was fired at Freddy Romero when he was riding on the Bender’s Canyon road.”
“What are you sayin’?”
“Just that. Someone took a shot at him.”
Prescott looked across the yard toward where Casey and Christina were standing, communing with the horses. Casey had been watching them, and for a long moment father and daughter’s eyes met across the distance.
“Nobody told me that the kid got shot,” Prescott said finally. “Enough people been out there that talk would go around. Somebody’d know. Nobody said nothin’.”
“I said that someone shot at him, sir. He wasn’t struck by the bullet.”
“Then how do you know, lady?”
“His four-wheeler was hit, sir. We have bullet fragments that were found in the front tire.”
“And you think I did that? Is that what this is all about?”
“You left the Broken Spur Saloon shortly after Freddy passed by, sir. You’re not the only one who did, but you’re the only one seen driving across the mesa toward Bender’s Canyon Trail, the same route that Freddy took.” Prescott didn’t respond. “I’d have to wonder what it was that the Romero boy was doing that concerned you so much,” Estelle continued. “I can’t believe that it was just his courting of your daughter.”
In the seconds of silence that followed, Estelle could hear the gentle whisper of the approaching Expedition patrol vehicle, and the rancher turned to look. By now, the vehicle was close enough that they could see the shield on the doors and the roof-rack of lights. The figure behind the wheel could only be the sheriff, large and broad-shouldered, one arm out the window as if trying to stroke the heads of the chamisa that passed by the door.
“Spit it out, lady.” Prescott’s voice was almost a whisper.
“I think that Freddy Romero found the remains of Eddie Johns when he found that cat skull, sir. He found Johns’ handgun, and maybe knew exactly what was in the cave. He wanted to come back, but not with your daughter. Casey said that they had an argument about his reckless driving. You read in the newspaper about the discovery of the cat skull, or your daughter told you-either way, you wanted to warn Freddy away so you’d have time to cover up that little cave. You fired a shot at Freddy, and he panicked and crashed.” Estelle watched Prescott, watched the set of his shoulders, the placing of his feet, the flicking of his eyes. The whisper of the Expedition’s V-8 grew louder.
“That’s what I believe happened, sir.”
Prescott turned to watch Torrez’s approach. “I don’t know where you get these wild stories. You can’t prove a word of it.”
“Actually,” Estelle hefted the rifle, “I think we can.”
“You can’t just come onto my property and confiscate my goods.”
“If you’re in the clear on all this, then maybe that rifle will prove it,” Gastner said. “Think this thing through, Gus.”
“That rifle don’t have a thing to do with me and Eddie Johns,” the rancher said.
“What does, Gus? You think we’re not going to be able to trace that wrecked truck? Match up the damage to it with that old road grader of yours? Something like that?”
Gus Prescott looked down at the ground, then to his left as Sheriff Robert Torrez idled the county unit closer, coming to a stop a few feet behind Prescott’s truck, angled so that it didn’t block the sheriff’s view of them.
“I always thought a lot of you, Sheriff,” Prescott said finally. He looked up at Gastner, eyes sad.
“And we’ll work through this, Gus.” Gastner made it sound as if they were engaged i
n “working through” a simple neighborhood fence spat, Estelle thought. His mellow voice and grandfatherly manner could be a grand defuser, and she guessed that was his intent.
“That’s pretty damn easy for you to say.” Prescott looked as if he wanted to say something else, but it stuck in his throat. His gaze wandered off again toward his daughters, and Estelle saw a deep sadness there, more than the beer or rum-soaked depression of the chronic drinker during a moment of self-recrimination.
“Lemme get my keys,” he mumbled, and turned to his truck. Estelle stood a pace or two in front of the right front fender holding the carbine, while Sheriff Torrez now approached from the right rear. As the rancher turned to round the left front fender, Gastner took a step toward him, a casual enough move that kept him close. Gus opened the driver’s door and slipped inside, and did two maneuvers at once. The ignition key hung from the column, and instead of removing it, he twisted it forward, the big diesel starting with a sharp bark.
Without an instant’s hesitation, he yanked the gear lever into reverse and swung the door first toward him as if to close it, but then banged it hard open, aiming for Gastner.
The older man pivoted back a step, almost losing his balance. With a spray of gravel and dirt, the truck shot backward, its massive back bumper crashing into the left front fender of the Sheriff’s Expedition. Bodywork crumpled backward like tissue, jamming into the front wheel. Even as the crash resounded, Prescott yanked the gear lever into drive and accelerated hard, the homemade, welded iron grill guard catching the left front wheel, tire, and fender of Estelle’s Crown Victoria.
The undersheriff dove off to one side, sailing over the sedan’s hood to crash to the ground, the carbine skidding away. She felt more than saw the pickup swerve past her, and scrambled to her feet, yanking out her automatic.
Sheriff Torrez had reacted faster. As soon as the truck had driven clear of both Gastner and Estelle, he fired quickly, holding his.45 in both hands. The back window of Prescott’s pickup dissolved in a shower of glass, and Estelle could see the holes punching down the side of the truck even as it sped away. One of the rounds struck a back tire and howled away toward the west.
Both girls had dived to the ground by the fence, and the horses whirled in panic, nickering loudly. Christine’s arm was clamped around her younger sister, but Casey broke loose and dashed after the fleeing pickup truck.
“Daddy!” she screamed. Estelle twisted to yell a warning at Torrez, but saw that the sheriff was already holstering his weapon.
“Everybody all right?” Gastner sounded as excited as if somebody had dropped a box of books.
“Yes,” Estelle replied. She stepped around the mangled front of her car. The left front wheel was jammed inside the crumpled fender, pointing off in a direction all its own.
“Give a hand here,” Torrez shouted. He was yanking at the Expedition’s bodywork, then backed away. “Need something to pry with.” In a few seconds he returned with the handle from his handiman jack, and he and Gastner heaved at the stubborn sheet metal.
As they worked, Estelle watched the retreating pickup, heading out the same trail she had taken to meet with Casey at the windmill. There was no open road out there, no back trail to refuge. The undersheriff pulled her phone from her pocket and touched the speed dial. Gayle Torrez’s response was immediate.
“Gayle, Bobby and I are down at the Prescott ranch and need assistance from a uniformed deputy ASAP.”
“Pasquale is on the road just west of town. I’ll have him swing down that way.”
“We’ll be apprehending a single male subject who is armed and may be dangerous.” She hesitated. What did Gus Prescott think he could accomplish? Did he think the law would simply let him go? Did he think he could evade a manhunt? Judging by his effective performance as a truck driver, he wasn’t as inebriated as might first appear. Run, she thought. Panic and run. “Tell Thomas to alert us when he swings off the highway at Moore.”
“Affirmative.”
She felt the hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach as she watched Bob Torrez take the heavy steel bar and thrash the fender into submission. His face was flushed with both effort and anger. For his part, Gus Prescott was not going to change his mind and drive meekly back to them.
“And Gayle, you might as well have an ambulance en route. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll be a wasted trip for them.”
“Affirmative. You want a heads-up to the state police? And Jackie Taber is in the deputies office doing paperwork. I can send her.”
“Affirmative on the SP’s, Gayle. And go ahead and send Jackie. This is going to be a confrontation thing, not a chase. There’s nowhere the suspect can go.”
”You guys be careful.”
“Absolutely.”
She snapped off the phone in time to see Torrez give a mighty heave that seemed likely to tip the Expedition on its side. Something cracked and the sheriff nodded. “Now we go,” he said, panting with the exertion.
“Casey!” Estelle shouted. The girl had lugged saddle and tack out of the small barn, and was in the process of rigging the mare, who’d been wearing only the hand-woven rope hackamore. Estelle jogged over toward the girls. She could see that Christine was confronting her sister, and had taken the bridle from her. Their conversation was intense and private, their faces just inches from each other.
“Casey,” Estelle said, “Do you know where your father is going?”
The girl was crying, and she waved a hand hopelessly, taking in the open country to the north and east.
“His favorite spots are the breaks over east, out beyond the windmill,” Christine said. She reached out a hand and gripped Estelle’s. “Don’t let him hurt himself,” she whispered.
“I’ll try my best. You girls need to stay here with your mother.” If Jewell Prescott had heard the gunshots and ruckus, there was no sign.
“The sheriff tried to shoot him,” Casey cried.
“No, he only wanted to stop the truck,” Estelle said. Behind her, the Expedition fired up, and she turned. “Promise me?” Christine nodded, but Casey was having none of it.
“If I can find him, I can make him listen,” she wept, and swung up on the mare. She didn’t wait for the bridle, but seized the hackamore and twisted the mare’s head around, away from her sister’s reach. The gate had been drawn to one side, and the mare made for it, the unsaddled gelding in hot pursuit.
Chapter Forty-two
Now that he was underway, Sheriff Robert Torrez drove with no particular sense of urgency. He let the battered SUV heave along the rough two-track out toward Lewis Wells, and occasionally in the distance they could see the dust cloud raised by Casey’s mare. The gelding kept easy pace, no doubt reveling in free running with no human to kick his ribs or jerk his mouth.
“So what’s he gonna do?” Torrez asked. “He don’t have nowheres to go.”
“We can hope just what Christine said…go out and find a quiet place to sit down and think.”
“He’s going to have a lot of time to do that,” Gastner said from the back seat. “You have to wonder,” he added, and braced himself as Torrez maneuvered over a short patch of slick rock bordering a small arroyo. “Is there a back road out of here?”
“Nope.” The sheriff shook his head. “Unless he wants to try driving cross-country. The arroyos ain’t going to let him do that.”
The windmill appeared first as a speck on the horizon, then gently turning, the rudder swinging the blades to track into the fitful breeze. Lewis Wells sprouted out of a swale, a slight depression where the cattle had trampled the grass to dust.
“That well was drilled in 1951,” Gastner announced as they approached the last slight rise before the swale. “I wish I could remember the homesteader’s name. It’ll come to me. Lewis bought the property, but he didn’t do the drilling.”
Torrez leaned forward as he drove, both arms on the steering wheel. To the north and east of the windmill, the country looked as if a giant had snapped
folds into a tawny, rock-studded blanket.
“There she is.” Estelle pointed. She pulled the binoculars out of their case and found the image. Casey was urging her mare up a rough slope, the gelding following close.
“Over to the left,” Torrez added. She swung the binoculars and the pickup truck burst into focus. Prescott had pulled the vehicle near a copse of ragged, stunted elms, opportunistic little trees that responded to even the hope of water. They managed to tower over the sharp-spined acacias.
“Stop here,” Estelle said suddenly, and Torrez looked at her, puzzled. “No. Stop here, Bobby. Stop.” He did so, and she handed him the binoculars. “If we drive in on them, we’re going to push him to do something. We don’t want to do that, not with Casey over there. There’s no point in forcing his hand. He has nowhere to go.”
“You got that right,” Gastner leaned forward, his fingers clutching the prisoner grill that separated front from back.
Estelle popped the door. “I’m going to watch from here,” Torrez said. Estelle knew exactly what he meant even before he hefted the compact, scoped rifle from the rack that stood vertically beside the transmission hump. He could sweep the hillside four hundred yards away. “He ain’t going to want to talk to me anyway.”
“I think I should go,” Gastner said.
The undersheriff slipped out of the truck and opened Gastner’s locked, prisoner-proof door. “You’re feeling like a stroll, sir?”
“A stroll, yes. I don’t think Gus sees me as much of a threat.”
They watched Torrez arrange a folded jacket on the hood of the truck, with a heavy bean bag in front of that. He settled behind the rifle, working this way and that so that weapon didn’t rock on its short magazine. For a moment he visually roamed the hillside, eye close to the scope objective. The bolt of the rifle rode open.
“Casey’s tied her horse to a stump behind the acacia grove,” he said. “She’s makin’ her way up the slope.” Estelle saw the barrel of the rifle tilt upward, then drift from side to side before freezing. “He’s sittin’ on a big slab of sandstone,” the sheriff said. “Range finder says four hundred and twenty yards.”
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