Tularosa kk-1

by Michael McGarrity

  "Yes or no?" Sara demanded.

  "Yes."

  "Good." She gathered up the paintings from Andy's desk.

  "When can you be ready?"

  "At first light."

  "Where do we meet?"

  "Engle," Kerney replied. "Be there at four in the morning. Bring the portfolio with you, wear your riding gear, and pack a change of clothes." She gave him a curt nod and turned back to Andy.

  "Can I get a ride home from one of your deputies?"

  "Absolutely." He walked to his desk, made a short telephone call, and hung up. "It will be just a few minutes."

  "Thanks. I'd like Erma Fergurson to have some protection for the next few days. Can that be arranged?"

  "I'll put somebody on it."

  "That about covers it for now," Sara said, extending her hand to Andy. "Thanks again, Andy."

  Andy covered her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  "Anytime, Captain." After Sara left, Andy and Kerney sat silently. Kerney seemed lost in thought.

  "It looks like you get to go back to your old stomping grounds," Andy finally said.

  "I never thought I would." Kerney shook his head. Andy skipped over it.

  "Do you think Sara is holding something back?"

  "She's got a fire lit under her," Kerney commented.

  "That's for sure."

  "Do you trust her?"

  "I do."

  "So do I," Andy agreed with a grin.

  "She's a piece of work, isn't she?" Kerney nodded and grinned back.

  "We need to get you outfitted," Andy remarked, walking to the office door.

  "How long do you plan to be gone?"

  "Twenty-four hours. We'll leave from the Rocking J Ranch on the Jomada. Dale Jennings's place. Do you know it?"

  "Tell me how to get there and I'll be waiting when you get back." He let Kerney pass in front of him and closed the door.

  "You could both get your asses in a sling. You know that, don't you?"

  "That's a reassuring thought," Kerney replied. *** Sara rang the bell to the communications center security door. It was after normal working hours, and the headquarters staff was gone for the day. She pushed hard on the buzzer until the door opened.

  "PFC Tony?" she asked, her open badge case at eye level for the soldier to see.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Do you know who I am?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Did you speak to Captain Meehan last night?" Sara had the facts at hand: the surveillance team shadowing Kerney had duly noted the event.

  "I've been ordered not to answer any questions," Tony said haltingly.

  Sara snapped at the young soldier. "If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll make sure every damn day you spend in the Army is very unpleasant. Do you understand that, soldier?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Tony looked very unhappy.

  "Well?" Sara demanded. Tony licked his lips.

  "I spoke to the captain."

  "Did you tell him that Sammy Yazzi owned a camera?" Sara demanded. Tony nodded.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Did you mention the jeep trip you took with Sammy to Big Mesa?"

  "No, ma'am. He didn't ask me about that. Am I in trouble. Captain?"

  Sara's smile was tight-lipped. "Not if you cooperate. What else did you tell him?"

  "He asked me if I knew where Sammy stayed when he was in Las Cruces."

  "And?"

  "I told him I didn't know, but that his sergeant had a phone number for how to reach him."

  "Why would Sergeant Steiner have a number for Sammy in Las Cruces?"

  "Sammy told me that Steiner chewed him out once when he got back from town. Steiner needed him at the test site and couldn't find him. He made Sammy give him a phone number where he could be reached in case it happened again."

  "What else did you tell Captain Meehan?"

  "That's it, ma'am."

  "Tell no one about this conversation. No one. Understood?"

  "Yes, Captain." Sara turned on her heel and walked down the hall, unwilling to let Tony see how angry she felt. In her office, with the phone book open to the listing for Erma Pergurson, she called Sergeant Steiner. He told her Captain Meehan had called and asked for the number. He read it off to her. It matched the number in the book. She waited until Steiner hung up and slammed the phone into the cradle.

  Damn Meehan! she thought. If she could ever get him on a level playing field, she would clean his clock. *** A thin ribbon of light flowed over the crest of the mountains, as the night sky began fading into lighter grays. Thick clouds moved rapidly into the mountains, blotting out the color on the ridgeline. Ahead, through the windshield of Kerney's truck, Sara could see the flicker of house lights in the foothills, like a beacon with no reference point. It was the first indication of human habitation in twenty miles. For a very long stretch along the dirt road, the truck headlights revealed nothing but desert; not even fences or utility poles. Kerney had Bach's Brandenburg Concertos playing softly on the cassette deck, a perfect choice against the tapestry of the last gloom of night. They climbed out of the desert, the house lights above them appearing and vanishing as the road twisted gently, following the contours up the slope of a small valley pinched between outcroppings of the San Andres Mountains. The valley narrowed to a canyon that gave way to mountain meadows of grass and thickets of cedar trees.

  A band of clouds passed over the mountains as they reached the ranch gate. A weathered board nailed to a fence post by the gate displayed the brand for the Rocking J Ranch. Beyond the gate, in a grove of pine trees, warm light poured from the windows of the ranch house. It was the centerpiece of the surrounding buildings, still hard for Sara to discern in the early light.

  Kerney got out and opened the gate. Without giving it a thought, Sara slid behind the wheel, drove through the gate, and stopped. Kerney swung the gate closed, pointed to the corral, and started walking. She drove to the corral and waited for him to catch up. He walked past the truck and leaned on the top rail of the corral, eyeing the four horses inside. Dale had saddled a bay and cinched a pack frame to a slightly sway-back roan. The bay was perfect for Kerney; it had high shoulders, big hips, and a nicely proportioned frame. The horse would move smoothly, with good speed if needed. That left the gelding and the mare for Sara to choose from, Kerney thought. He wondered which one she would select. From the truck, Sara studied the horses carefully.

  A mare like that would do nicely when she was ninety years old and needed to ride in a surrey. It had a potbelly and weak hindquarters. The gelding's deep chest, flat back, and thick haunch showed the promise of endurance and quickness. The first moment of true daylight touched the crowns of the pine trees as the sun crested the mountains. The foreman's quarters, within easy hailing distance of the main house, was a small cabin with a narrow porch running the length of the building. A hay shed sat conveniently next to the horse barn and corral. The windmill by the water tank grabbed Sara's attention. Old, squatty, and made of wood, with a small platform beneath the blades, it creaked and hummed in the slight breeze. She loved the sound of it.

  A screen door at the ranch house slammed shut, and they both turned toward the sound. Dale Jennings strode toward Kerney, one hand grasping a large coffee thermos and the other hand juggling three mugs. Dale put his load down on the hood of the truck and bear-hugged Kerney.

  "I didn't think anything would ever get you back here," he announced, grinning affectionately as he released Kerney from his grasp. Kerney grinned back.

  "Strange things can happen. Thanks for doing all this." He gestured at the waiting horses.

  "Nothing to it. Coffee?" he asked Sara, as she stepped out of the truck. Kerney broke in.

  "I'm forgetting my manners.

  Dale Jennings, this is Sara Brannon."

  "Ma'am," Jennings acknowledged, picking up a mug and holding it out to her. Dale Jennings was in his forties, maybe an inch under six feet tall, dressed in work boots, a western shirt, a goose-down
vest, and faded blue jeans, topped off by a cap with a feed store logo. His eyes were widely spaced under a long forehead. His mouth seemed set in a permanent smile.

  "I'd love some coffee, Mr. Jennings," Sara answered, taking the mug.

  She watched Dale pour it carefully, so as not to spill a drop, thinking she had been too long away from home and the company of people like Dale Jennings.

  "The name's Dale," he said as he finished.

  "Call me Sara," she replied, unable to contain a smile. The coffee smelled wonderful. Dale repeated the ritual with Kerney, then poured a mug for himself, and together all three watched the sunlight spread into the canyon, the warm mugs cupped in their hands, the coffee quietly sipped and savored. Kerney broke the pleasant silence.

  "Where are Barbara and the girls?"

  "In town," Dale responded. "I'm a bachelor during the week. Both girls are in high school now. You know how that goes. They can't stand to miss any of the socializing and such. Barbara's renting an apartment and working part-time at the flower shop." He put his mug on the top of a fence post and leaned against the railing. He caught Sara's eye, then tilted his head at Kerney.

  "The only time we see this fellow is when I take my family up to visit. We use him as a tour guide to show us nouveau riche Santa Fe and all those fancy places we can't afford." Kerney, looking up the mountain behind the ranch house, wasn't paying attention.

  "Can you get Sara saddled up, Dale?" he asked.

  "Sure thing."

  "I won't be long," Kerney said, walking in the direction of a glen behind the house. Dale watched Sara's questioning eyes follow Kerney until he disappeared behind the house. He waited for her to speak.

  Instead, she gave him an uncertain smile.

  "His parents are buried up in the grove," Dale explained. "He's never been back since the funeral. I watched him dig the graves myself. Wouldn't let anybody help him. Took him all day and into the night. He really loved his folks. His grandfather is buried with them, along with my parents."

  "I know what happened," Sara said, trying to think of something to add.

  Dale saved her from the struggle. "Then you know it was a damn shame. He didn't say a word; didn't cry-nothing. He put his Army medals in the graves before we covered the caskets."

  "Why did he do that?" Dale shook his head.

  "Can't say for sure. He wrote me a couple of letters from Vietnam. Said the only thing keeping him going was the thought of getting back home. With his parents dead and all, I guess he figured he didn't have a home anymore."

  "He couldn't stay?"

  "Hell yes, he could stay. I wanted to take him on as a full partner, but he wouldn't hear of it. He left the morning after the funeral. This is the first time he's been back."

  "How sad," Sara said. Dale shook his head in agreement and changed the subject.

  "Tell me about this trail ride you're taking."

  "It's best that I don't," Sara responded. Dale laughed.

  "That can only mean one thing. Kerney's taking you onto the missile range."

  "Is that so?" she asked, unwilling to admit the truth.

  "Hell, it was our favorite sport when we were growing up. I've bragged on it so much over the years, now my girls do it and give me grief when I crab at them to stop. It's gotten to be like a tradition." He pointed up the dirt road running past the ranch to the outline of a white sign by a cedar-post gate.

  "There it is. White Sands Missile Range. Halfa mile away. The start of Rhodes Pass. It's our backyard."

  "Did you and Kerney ever get caught?" Sara asked.

  "Not once. Fifty-three hundred square miles is a lot of territory to protect. You'd have to put the whole damn Army inside the Tularosa to seal it off completely.

  "Hell, we even used to try and get ourselves caught. Once in a while we'd let them Army boys catch a glimpse of us just to make the game more exciting, hoping they'd chase after us. I think they knew who we were and decided it wasn't worth the effort. There are ways into the range from here I bet the military have never figured out." He opened the gate, stepped inside the corral, and reached for a saddle blanket.

  "I think the mare will do you." The mare stood passively, head lowered, while the gelding skittered away, spooked by Dale's sudden presence.

  "What's the terrain like?" Sara inquired, unconvinced. Dale had the blanket in one hand and a saddle in the other, ready to cinch up the mare.

  "Rough country. The mare's surefooted. You'll need that, especially in the mountains."

  "She's slow, I bet," Sara countered, "and won't keep up with the bay."

  She climbed the railing and joined Dale in the corral. She took the bridle off the fence post.

  "I'll try the gelding," she announced.

  "That's no horse for a lady," Dale said.

  "Maybe I'm no lady," Sara said, picking up the bridle. She cornered the gelding and put the bit in his mouth, talking to him softly. When he took the bit, she worked her hand down his neck until he stopped snorting and put his ears forward. Still talking, she reached up for his mane and vaulted easily onto the gelding's back. The gelding trembled, bent his hindquarters almost to the ground, and started a counterclockwise spin. Sara leaned into the movement, her head low against the gelding's neck. After six rotations, the horse stopped twisting and settled into a mild canter around the fence perimeter. It had a comfortable, smooth gait.

  "He likes to turn to the left," Dale allowed, pleased at the sight of a good rider. Sara patted the neck of the gelding and slid to the ground.

  "He'll match the bay," she predicted.

  "That he will," Dale agreed, walking to her with the saddle and blanket.

  They saddled the gelding and loaded the gear on the swayback roan. From the looks of it, Kerney had brought all of the essentials for the journey and then some. He rejoined them as they were finishing up.

  "The lady can ride," Dale remarked as he opened the gate to let the small caravan out of the corral.

  "I'm not surprised," Kerney replied. He lifted his head toward Rhodes Canyon.

  "Does the pass get much use?"

  "Three vehicles a week is a traffic jam," Dale joked.

  "Any regulars?"

  "Military police. State Game and Fish. Some Bureau of Land Management types."

  "Any one in there now?" Kerney asked, walking his horse to the dirt road. He stopped and mounted the bay. Sara was already astride the gelding. Dale nodded.

  "Eppi Gutierrez went in yesterday. Manages the bighorn herd for Game and Fish. Should be back out in a day or two. How are you going in?" Kerney looked down at his boyhood friend and winked.

  "Washout Gap, if it's still open."

  "The worst trail in," Dale declared. "Why that one?"

  "We're going to Indian Wells first," Kerney explained.

  "Well, that's the shortest way." His hand ran down the withers of the bay.

  "We'll be back no later than tomorrow morning, early," Kerney told his friend.

  "I'll be looking for you." Dale moved his hand to the bridle to hold Kerney back. His voice dropped to a whisper.

  "I don't know what made you come back, but I'm glad you did."

  Kerney felt the horse under him and looked at the expanse of desert and mountains that ran out from the canyon below. The turquoise sky rolled with cumulus clouds, heavy and moist. He smiled at his friend.

  "So am I. Thanks for the loan of the horses." Dale smiled back.

  "Watch out for rain," he said, looking skyward.

  "Yeah." Mountains tinged with red earth, richly forested in the protected canyons, rose to serrated peaks.

  Only the clatter of hooves on the rock-strewn trail, the breathing of the horses, and the occasional call of the waking birds in the evergreen forest broke the silence. Kerney led them away from Rhodes Pass, down a gradual limestone staircase into a long, deep ravine that seemed to cut into the heart of the mountains with little chance of an outlet. There was no trail to speak of at the bottom, rather a confusion of loos
e rock, gravel, sand, and deadwood washed into the draw by countless flash floods. The gelding moved easily through the maze, relaxed under Sara's confident touch. The walls of the canyon were as finely etched as a delicate cameo, with veins of strata running through the rock at sharp angles. They continued down, descending into the shadows of narrow-walled bedrock, sidestepping large boulders polished smooth by torrents of floodwater. She saw absolutely no way out and wondered if Kerney's memory of the trail was flawed. A cluster of boulders, each taller than a man, blocked their passage. Kerney dismounted and motioned for Sara to do the same.

  "The horses won't like this," he said to her. There was a faint echo that bounced off the walls.

  "I'll walk them through." Sara joined him by the rocks. He pointed to a jagged cutout in the ledge, barely distinguishable in the indigo shadows, exactly the height of the large boulder embedded in the gravel.

  The vent showed the crushing impact of the boulder, which had hollowed out a passage before recoiling off the wall. She peered into the opening; a slash of blackness with a gleam of light at the end. It rose precipitously on rough-hewn, chiseled steps, with scarcely enough room for a horse to pass. The packhorse won't make it, she thought, and turned back to see Kerney already busy un cinching the straps to the pack frame. She helped him unload and carry the gear through the opening. She walked in deep gloom for a good twenty paces before she could see her feet. The crevice widened to meet a small ledge on an abrupt precipice that dropped at least a hundred feet straight down.

  Looking over the edge, she could see the faint outline of a trail.

  "Where are we?" she asked, setting her cargo on the ground.

  "Bear Den Canyon is below us. The ledge gives way to a good trail around the corner. Wait for me there. I'll get the horses."

  "I'll bring the gelding through," she announced firmly. Kerney began to argue, thought better of it, and said, "If it suits you." The gelding made the journey nervous and snorting. Kerney left Sara holding the bridles and went back for the roan. Remounted and repacked at the trailhead, they rode down to the east, the blockading mountains occasionally dipping to give them a view of the immense Tularosa Valley and White Sands National Monument, sparkling brilliantly in the distance. North of the monument, huge manmade swaths cut into the desert floor defined the space harbor where shuttle pilots practiced landings. At the bottom, Kerney turned them out of the canyon floor and up a dry streambed that snaked back into the high country. Once again on a crest, they stopped to rest the horses.