by Lynne Hinton
She kneaded the dough with her hands and was smiling as she listened to the coffee perking. She raised her nose to get a good sniff. Francine loved nothing better than the smell of coffee in the morning. She was just about to grease the baking pan, using a slab of butter and sliding it across the bottom and sides of the pan, when she noticed something move outside the kitchen window.
At first, she thought it was just the limb of the big cottonwood tree that stood at the corner of the house. The wind had been blowing, she thought, causing it to dip and sway, catching her eye. And then she thought it was an animal of some kind, a cow moving out across the pasture, a coyote maybe, but then changed her mind about that. It was bigger than a coyote, and it appeared to walk on two legs. She put down the pan and the butter and leaned into the window, curious now about what or who was moving across the yard toward the back acreage of Bernie’s ranch.
It had been a few months since Bernie had taken her for a drive to see his property. It had taken more than an hour to get from one border to the other, and in some places the two of them had to exit the truck and walk. There was a canyon, several washes and arroyos, a small grove of Russian olive trees, and lots of land for grazing. She knew that the King ranch went on for miles beyond what could be seen from the house, territory stretching past McAllister Draw to the north and practically out to Tres Lagunas to the east. She knew there were lots of trails on Bernie’s land that hunters used to get up to Techado Mountain and Veteado Mountain and even over to Highway 117 and Fence Lake. Bernie never seemed to mind letting the locals use his land as long as they didn’t cut the fences, vandalize the property, or harm the livestock. He was particularly generous to hunters, knowing the elk and turkeys were plentiful on the North Plains.
She blinked, clearing her vision, and saw now that it was a person moving across the pasture. She wondered what hunting season it was and whether or not she was just watching somebody set out to get his family’s dinner. She kept looking, the figure close enough to make out but moving away from her line of vision, and as she studied the view out of the window, the person in the distance, Francine thought there was something familiar about the way the trespasser walked, that this was someone she recognized. It was the limp, a leaning to one side, and as soon as she recalled who she had recently seen walking with that gait, Bernie slipped into the kitchen and eased behind her.
He followed her stare, peering out the window, and wrapped his arms around her. He had been so quiet, and she had been so intent studying the man in the distance, that he startled her when he kissed her on the cheek and said, “I wonder what Raymond Twinhorse is doing out here at this time of the morning.”
ELEVEN
Make sure you don’t overcook the bacon this time,” Oris yelled in the direction of the kitchen. He was the second customer at the diner the day after the storm. Frank Twinhorse was sitting at the counter when Oris made his way inside. They greeted each other with a nod.
“You know I like my pork chewy,” he added. He had taken his place at a table next to the door and ordered his usual: two eggs, three slices of bacon, side order of skillet potatoes, tortillas, and chopped green chile, coffee with sugar and cream.
“You’ll get it the way I cook it,” Fred yelled back. He was used to the old man’s complaints. “Drive over to Magdalena if you don’t like our breakfast.”
“I am not driving all the way down there because you haven’t learned how to fry bacon. Just cook the strips like you do for everybody else except take them off the heat when you get ready to flip them over the fourth time.”
Bea poured him a cup of coffee, and he reached across the table and grabbed a couple of packs of sugar. “Ain’t rocket science.”
Fred shook his head and went back to work. He was fixing Oris’s breakfast on the large grill in the center of the kitchen.
Frank laughed.
“What’s so funny to you?” Oris asked.
“Just how nothing ever changes around here, Oris.” Frank took a bite of his breakfast.
“Well, that’s a good thing, right?” the older man asked. “Living in a place where you count on folks being the same week to week.”
“Not when they’re assholes,” Bea said with a wink. She was cleaning up the area around the coffee maker and was already making another pot.
Oris waved her off. “Ya’ll lose anything in your coolers last night?” he asked, deciding not to respond to her comment. He stirred the sugar in his coffee and reached over for the creamer.
“No, I don’t think the power was off that long. Everything seemed okay when we got here this morning,” she replied.
“You mean you don’t know if your meat is spoiled?” Oris asked, sounding concerned.
“Nope, you’re the guinea pig, Oris. Frank only ordered a sopaipilla with honey. So we’re glad you’re here so early. If you fall over dead before you finish eating, we’ll know we need to throw out the pork and the cream.”
Oris still held the creamer in his hand. He thought about it and then set it down without pouring any in his cup.
Bea grinned.
“Francine quit working mornings?” he asked.
“She stays pretty busy baking all afternoon and evening,” Bea answered. “She must have been here late last night because she didn’t put her pies away. And the lights were on in the kitchen when we got here this morning.”
“Must have been here when the power went out, and she didn’t know which lights she left on,” Oris noted. He shook his head. “Same thing happened to me. I went to bed in the dark and then about eleven o’clock, the television started blaring and every light in the house came on. Scared the devil out of me.”
Bea brought over some silverware for him. “Well, wouldn’t that be a great day?” she asked.
Oris seemed confused.
“You getting the devil scared out of you,” she responded. “Why, that’d be worth going to church on a weekday, wouldn’t you agree, Frank?” She glanced over at her other customer.
“Yep, I think that might even get me through the doors,” he replied.
Bea turned to Oris. “There’s nothing wrong with the cream,” she said, eyeing his cup. She knew how he liked his coffee.
“I think I’m going black from now on,” he said, taking a sip and then frowning.
“Order up,” Fred announced. “Eggs, browns, tortillas, and green chile on the side.” He paused. “With three slices of bacon, extra crispy,” he added, grinning.
Oris rubbed his hands together and made room for the plate of food Bea brought over. He picked up a strip of bacon and broke it. He just shook his head. “You’re right, Frank, nothing changes.” Oris started to eat.
“Guess there was a lot of excitement over in Magdalena yesterday.” Fred headed out of the kitchen and was making his way around the counter to sit down and read the paper.
“You mean the bust that was a bust?” Oris asked while he chewed. He wiped his mouth. “Roger said it took him all morning having to deal with the feds from Albuquerque.”
“I saw it on the news last night,” Bea said. She had picked up Frank’s plate and was setting it in the dishpan underneath the counter.
“What did I miss?” Frank asked. He drank the last of his coffee.
Bea pulled out the pot and walked over to him.
“The FBI thought there was a drug operation over near Alamo,” Fred announced. He folded the paper to show the headline to Frank. It read, “Major Drug Sting in Catron County.”
“I knew sooner or later your people were going to get in trouble for your desert weed smoking.” Oris had another mouthful of food.
“My people are not from Alamo,” Frank responded. “Those are the Puertocito. We’ve not associated with them for over a hundred years. And peyote is not a weed, it’s a cactus, and you eat it, you don’t smoke it.”
“Still Navajo, ain’t they?” Oris asked.
“Tsa Dei’alth,” Frank replied.
He paused while the three othe
rs looked at him to translate.
“Stone chewers,” he said. “They’d get so mad when they fought in battles, they chewed rocks.”
“Well, they could have just asked Fred to cook ’em some bacon.” Oris grinned, taking the last strip of bacon and breaking it into pieces to make his point.
“Your people are from Ramah, right, Frank?” Bea asked. She had walked over and poured Oris another cup of coffee before returning the pot to the maker behind the counter.
“Home of KTDZ-FM,” Oris announced. “I used to listen to that radio station every evening I got off the ranch,” he added. “I liked to hear who was stuck at the bus station in Gallup.” He reached for the creamer and poured some cream in his coffee. He looked up to see if Bea was watching.
She was. “I remember that station too,” she said.
“Yeah, we’re from Ramah, and we were so spread out around there, that station was the only way our folks could communicate with each other,” Frank responded.
“What? No smoke signals?” Oris drank a sip of his coffee.
Frank shook his head. “No, Oris, no smoke signals for my people, just desert weed smoking ceremonies.”
Fred laughed. He was still reading the paper. “Looks like your son-in-law got a line in the story.” He read, “Catron County Sheriff Roger Benavidez reported that even though there had been no arrests made in this sting, there had been some suspicious activity in the county in the last few weeks.”
“That was just his way of trying to make nice with the FBI,” Oris said as he continued to eat every bite of his breakfast. He chewed and swallowed. “He told me last night that they were forty miles from where he suspected the drug runners were, but that the feds refused to listen to him. They drove up Highway 169 blaring at full blast, making such a racket that the Puertocito”—he turned to Frank—“as you like to call them, thought Kit Carson had come back to life and was taking them back to Fort Sumner.”
Fred nodded. “Yeah, there’s a mention here that the sixty-four-year-old school principal had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital over in Socorro. It appears as if they scared her so bad, she went into cardiac arrest.” He turned the page of the newspaper and started giving out the baseball scores.
It was Bea who first noticed Father George when the station wagon pulled into the parking lot. She was standing behind the counter, facing the door. However, Frank immediately noticed her staring out the window and turned to look in that direction.
“Well, he sure seems troubled for it to be so early in the morning.” Bea reached down to get a cup and set it at the counter for the priest to join them for breakfast.
Fred and Oris turned to see him just as he walked in.
Father George glanced at Oris, nodded, and then turned immediately in Frank’s direction. His tone was soft but severe. “I need to see you, Frank,” was all he said and then headed back out the door.
TWELVE
Gilbert had fixed a pot of coffee and was sitting at the end of the bar, glancing over receipts, when Roger made his way into the Silver Spur. He watched as the sheriff walked over in his direction. “Took you long enough to get here,” he commented.
Roger smiled. He headed toward the bartender. “You got enough of that to share?” He was eyeing the coffee.
“Help yourself,” Gilbert replied. “Mugs are on the left side.”
Roger reached behind the counter and pulled out a coffee cup, then walked over to where Gilbert was sitting, poured himself some coffee, and sat down on the stool beside him. “Feels like it’s going to be a hot one,” he noted.
“You come to talk the weather?” Gilbert asked. “ ’Cause I ain’t interested in talking about the heat.”
“No, I guess you aren’t,” Roger responded. He took a sip of his coffee. “So why don’t you fill me in on why I’m here.”
“I already told your deputy, Barney Fife out there. Raymond Twinhorse threatened me, and then he robbed me, stole my money, and let me just say, when I find him I’m going to get back every nickel he took and a little more for the trouble he’s caused.” Gilbert had stacked the receipts beside him.
“Well, let’s just hold up on that idea,” Roger said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly how you know for sure this was a robbery and that Raymond Twinhorse is involved.”
“First of all, it’s a robbery because my cash is gone.” Gilbert glanced over at the cash register. The drawer was open, apparently left that way to show the sheriff. “There was a couple hundred dollars in there when I left last night. Now, if you’re paying attention, you can see there’s nothing in there. Where I come from, when you had money and then you don’t and you didn’t take it out yourself, then it’s a robbery.”
Roger nodded. He had known Gilbert most of his life. He knew it was his nature to be ornery. “And you’re sure you didn’t take the money and move it somewhere, put it in the cash bag last night?”
Gilbert blew out a breath. “The power was out, if you recall, and I turned off the generator when everybody left. After I did that and then got back to the counter, I couldn’t open the cash drawer because it can’t open without electricity. Never should have bought this new computer. The old one took money just as good.” He reached in his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “Instead of turning the generator on again, I just decided to leave it.”
Roger thought about his answer. “Then how would Raymond or the alleged robber have opened the drawer later?”
“Hell if I know. Maybe he waited until the power came back on.” He held out the pack to Roger, who shook his head, refusing the offer. “Oh, that’s right, you’re still on the wagon.” He knew the sheriff had quit smoking.
Roger nodded.
Gilbert took out a cigarette and lit it, and then he stood up and poured himself another cup of coffee. He held out the pot to offer Roger some more.
Roger shook his head and took another sip from his cup. “Where’s Oscar?” he asked, referring to Gilbert’s brother, the co-owner of the Silver Spur.
“Left this morning for a camping trip up north, going with an old army buddy from Houston.”
“He didn’t work last night?” Roger wondered if Oscar might have something to add to the mystery of the missing money.
“He worked the day shift. Left about five, when I got here. Said he was going to Socorro to gas up. I haven’t talked to him since. Can’t reach him while he’s camping.” He took another draw on his cigarette.
Roger thought for a bit, lifting his face to breathe in the smoke. He still loved the smell of cigarettes.
Gilbert continued. “But I can tell you right now that I don’t need to talk to Oscar. I don’t need to talk to anybody. Raymond Twinhorse snuck in here sometime this morning and stole from me. He was mad that I threw him out, mad that I didn’t let him finish his beer, flashed that stupid gun of his around, and he threatened me. And I know that he made good on his threat. And when I catch that little. . . .”
“I know,” Roger interrupted. “You’ve made it clear you intend to make him pay you back.”
“Worthless, lazy son of a bitch.” Gilbert spat the words out. “I want him charged with armed robbery, not just burglary.” He flicked a few ashes in the ashtray near his arm.
Roger shook his head. “It doesn’t really qualify as an armed robbery if there was nobody here.”
“There’s a gun, right? He waved it around. I’d call that armed. Worthless, lazy. . . .”
Roger broke in. “Let’s just hold up a minute, Gilbert, because I’ll be truthful with you, I don’t believe any of this about Raymond Twinhorse. He’s a good kid, never in any trouble with the law, always had a job when he was in school, helped Frank at the garage. He was an exemplary young man. Then he served his country as a soldier in Afghanistan. Let’s not forget what he faced over there.”
“Listen, I don’t have no beef with Frank. He’s a good mechanic, honest, hardworking, always has been. But his boy is messed up. Everybody in town knows that. He ain’t
been right since he got back. You’ve seen him loitering around here, around the diner. He don’t talk to anybody, drinks too much. I didn’t know him when he was a boy, but I know him now, and he’s trouble, I tell you. I figure he’s doing drugs, probably wanted the money to buy some more.” Gilbert put down his cigarette and drank some of his coffee. “Why else would he need a gun?”
“I thought you said the motive for the robbery was just revenge,” Roger noted.
“Started that way maybe, but you know those druggies got to have their fix.” Gilbert paused. “Maybe he’s dealing too.” He picked his cigarette up again, held it to his lips.
“Gilbert, that’s a long stretch to make from robbing you out of spite to becoming a drug dealer. And I have to tell you, I think you’re wrong about all of this.” Roger shook his head. “Raymond Twinhorse isn’t a thief, and he isn’t dealing drugs. There is no evidence that he’s the one who did this. And besides, we both know that it’s still legal in New Mexico to carry a firearm.”
“I ain’t got no problem carrying a gun, unless you’re a criminal or crazy. But you know it seems like to me somebody’s dealing something to bring the FBI out here. Maybe they were actually searching for Raymond.” He inhaled from the cigarette and then crushed it in the ashtray.
“Maybe I’ll call them and tell them about his robbing me, about him being armed last night. Maybe they had some of their story right when they headed over to Alamo. Maybe they just went after the wrong Indian.”
Roger put down his coffee mug and peered straight at the bartender. “You can do what you want, Gilbert, but since you made a report with my office, this is presently a matter for the county. Besides, I don’t think the FBI is going to be interested in your little bar and a missing couple hundred dollars.”
He stood up. “You do what you want,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “but if I find out you’re harassing either Frank or Raymond, accusing them of this crime and making trouble for either of them, I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice.” He studied Gilbert. “Now you let me handle this the right way.” He paused. “Am I clear?”