Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  The horses, jaded from the ridge-running, needed rest. Kerney had pushed hard to leave the low ground. It was none too soon. They could hear the growing roar of the torrent below them, crashing through the rocks, sweeping toward the wide mouth of the canyon. He dismounted and dropped the reins over the head of the bay. The horse stood still, legs quivering. Hunched over, eyes cast downward, he went looking for the footpath that would get them off the mesa. The trail started at a rock face along a narrow ledge, then made a series of sharp switchbacks. The old ranch road intercepted the trail on the first step up the mesa. They would have to walk the next two miles, leading the horses. Kerney found the trailhead and returned to give Sara the news.

  She groaned silently at the prospect and dismounted without comment. As she hobbled behind the packhorse she wondered if she would ever get dry and warm again. She assumed Kerney was taking them to shelter, but she had no idea where they were going or how long it would take to get there. She damn sure wasn’t going to ask. There was no way Kerney would hear a whine or a whimper from her.

  The two of them trudged along on gimpy legs, waterlogged, leading miserable, tired animals. There was enough humor in it to make Sara smile every now and then, in spite of the pain shooting up her leg.

  The switchback trail was barely passable and in places only faintly discernible. Scattered rocks and saturated earth along the way made for tough going. The mud turned to thick slop as the intensity of the rain increased. The cloud sank lower and the rain turned to hail. Sara’s only reference points were the trail at her feet and the backside of the packhorse in front of her. She sighed with relief when Kerney signaled her to stop. He stood between two superficial ruts filled with water, intersecting the path. It had to be the jeep trail.

  When he failed to move on she joined him and asked what was wrong. The hood of his rain slick dripped water down the brim of his hat as he bent to study the tire tracks in the mud.

  “These are recent,” he said. “It looks like somebody’s cut a new route.”

  “Going where?”

  “As far as I know, nowhere. It dead-ends up at the rock face.” He pointed up the trail. She might have missed it in the rain. “Drops straight off or goes straight up. There’s no way out.”

  They were quiet for a moment, neither one of them enthusiastic about the obvious need to follow the tracks.

  “The storm should break soon,” Kerney suggested, wiping his nose with a damp hand.

  “Let’s go have a look,” Sara said, with as much energy as she could muster.

  The tire tracks gave out in a circle of flattened grass where the vehicle had turned and backed up near two twisted, intertwined cedar trees close to a seamless cliff that cut off forward movement. At the base was a steep plummet to a smaller mesa below. On the canyon floor a bighorn browsed serenely within yards of a cascading flood of water rushing toward the mouth of Sweetwater.

  Kerney looked at the cliff. It matched perfectly with the bighorn watercolor. They tied the horses to the trees and took a closer look. The lower branches had been cut away to allow passage to the rock face. A tent-shaped crevice in the granite had been carefully filled in with stones and small boulders. It took only a few minutes to remove the rocks. The air that wafted out of the darkness brought the smell of decaying flesh with it.

  Standing at the entrance, Sara used her flashlight to illuminate the cave. It was high enough for Kerney to stand upright and deep enough to hold two dozen or more people. The ground was smooth stone, except for a pile of loose shale at the back of the cave. They walked to the mound, and Sara held the flashlight while Kerney removed the shale. Under layers of rock the outline of a body emerged, wrapped in a tarp. Gagging on the stench, Kerney peeled back the sheath. Escaped gases from the decomposed body had blistered Sammy’s face so that it looked burned. He was barely recognizable.

  “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Kerney said, spitting the words out. He turned away, gasped for fresh air, and looked at Sammy’s face again.

  “Let me help,” Sara said.

  Kerney brushed her hand away. “I’ll do it,” he said hoarsely.

  He felt around Sammy’s neck until his fingers touched the dog tags, undid the clasp, and carefully pulled loose the chain. The canvas beneath Sammy’s head, crusted with dried blood, claimed tufts of hair as Kerney turned the rigid body on its side. The back of Sammy’s head was crushed. Kerney’s breath whistled out of him through his clenched teeth. Underneath Sammy’s torso was a sketch pad. He handed Sara the pad and the dog tags, fished Sammy’s wallet out of his back pocket, and gave it her.

  With her mouth covered to fight off the stench, only Sara’s angry eyes showed. “This sucks,” she said.

  Kerney said nothing. Slowly, he wrapped Sammy in the tarp, his hands tucking the material as though he were putting the boy to bed.

  Standing, he swallowed hard against the bile in his mouth and the piercing anger in his chest. “Let’s get out of here,” he growled, pushing past her and into the moist, fresh air that smelled like earth, pine needles, and cedar.

  Sara’s flashlight beam caught a dull glitter in the fine dust near the feet of the corpse. She picked it up and held the light close to inspect it. It was an old military insignia, two crossed cavalry sabers with a company letter beneath the sheathed blades. She put it in her pocket and joined Kerney outside.

  Savagely, Kerney restacked the rocks to seal the entrance. The violence in his movements as he worked warned Sara that no help was wanted. Finished, he walked to the edge of the mesa. The high winds and rain were gone. Dreamlike on the skyline, the Sierra Blancas gathered the last of the clouds to their crowns. The basin, damp in wet tones of brown, green, and gray, glistened in the sunlight. Below him on a sprawling foothill, the shape of the 7-Bar-K ranch house jumped out at him. The living windbreak his grandfather had planted on the north side of the house was now a dead row of cottonwood trees. A pile of lumber was all that was left of the horse barn, and a few random fence posts marked the remains of the corral. The stock tank, almost covered by drifting sand, showed a rusted lip to the sky. A truck was parked in front of the log porch. East of the ranch, on the flats in the distance, sunlight bounced off a cluster of metal roofs. It had to be the test site. The sound of Sara’s voice startled him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Not by a long shot,” he answered.

  “Kerney…I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” He refused to look at her. “You’d think this old place had seen enough suffering over the years.” He pulled himself together and forced a smile.

  “I know it must hurt, but…”

  His interruption came before she could continue. “It’s okay.” Tears made lines in the dirt on his face. He blinked more away. “Let’s dry out, clean up, and get some rest. I don’t know about you, but I’m a complete wreck.”

  They rode down toward the ranch in the unusually cool air the storm had left behind, Kerney in the lead. Sara prodded the gelding along until she was even with Kerney’s shoulder. He would not look at her.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE SMALL DESK, positioned with a view out the window, gave Eppi Gutierrez a clear line of sight to Big Mesa. He made his last entry in the daily log on the status of the bighorn herd, closed the book, and looked up. Coming down the old trail, two riders on jaded horses trailing a pack animal picked their way through the sandy bottom. His apprehension grew as he watched them come closer. In all his overnights at the 7-Bar-K he’d never seen anybody come down that trail—it went nowhere. He put his logbook in a metal box, found his holstered sidearm, and watched their approach through the front window, nervously snapping open the hammer flap. The riders dismounted at the tailgate of his truck and walked the horses to the porch. Both were limping, the man rather badly, the woman less so. They looked exhausted. He unholstered the pistol, hid the weapon behind his right leg, and stepped outside. The man spoke before he could challenge them.

  “Are you Eppi Gutierrez?”


  “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Kerney, Doña Ana County Sheriff’s Department.” He held out his badge and gestured at Sara. “This is Captain Brannon, Provost Marshal’s Office. Do us a favor and put the gun away.”

  Eppi blushed and stuck the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see anybody riding out of the mountains, especially after the storm that just blew over. How did you know my name?”

  The two began unsaddling the horses. The woman, her face dirty and with a welt on her forehead, was still a looker, Eppi decided.

  “The truck gave you away,” Kerney replied.

  “Did you come through Rhodes Pass?”

  “More or less.”

  “Through the storm?”

  Kerney nodded. “Had no choice. Do you think we can bunk here tonight?” He pitched his saddle onto the porch railing and Sara followed suit.

  “Sure. No problem. Let me help you unload.”

  Kerney nodded wearily. “I’d appreciate it.”

  They relieved the roan of its burden and bedded the horses under the dead windbreak trees after Kerney ran a string line. Eppi helped them carry water to the animals.

  Sara’s butt was sore, her legs were cramped, and the twisted ankle throbbed. She finished watering the gelding, grabbed her sleeping bag and day pack, and walked toward the ranch house. It was a long, wide rectangle, easily sixty years old, with a shallow veranda, partially screened at one end.

  Sara couldn’t resist the temptation to snoop around. The inside contained practical living spaces; an oversized living room and country kitchen on the front side, with a door opening to the partially screened porch, bedrooms and a single bath arranged in a row down a hallway at the rear of the house. She heard Kerney clomp across the oak floor of the front room and dump his gear in one of the empty bedrooms. She caught sight of him leaving. She decided it had to be his childhood room: a rusty horseshoe nailed above the door confirmed it. She spread her sleeping bag on the floor, unpacked a change of clothes, brushed her hair, and washed her face in the cold tap water from the bathroom sink.

  Kerney waited for Sara in the living room. A crudely fashioned desk made of a single piece of thick plywood, supported by two small filing cabinets, was jammed against a sill under a window. A camp stool, too small to make working at the desk comfortable, was pushed under the plywood top. Below the ceiling light in the middle of the room, two army surplus office chairs facing each other served as the lounging area. An army cot against the back wall completed the furnishings. While old memories clattered through his mind, he was struck by the realization that his cabin at Quinn’s ranch had the same feel to it, and in some ways mirrored his childhood home. He wondered why the similarity had escaped him. Maybe he had needed to see the old house before he could fully admit to the dream that constantly chased him to get a place of his own. He couldn’t help but smile, a little painfully, at his silliness.

  Sara came into the living room, her eyes searching Kerney for signs of residual shock. The numbness was gone from his face. “There’s indoor plumbing,” she said quietly.

  “You can thank my father for that.”

  “He didn’t install any hot water,” she replied.

  “To my mother’s irritation.”

  “You’re feeling better,” Sara announced.

  Her diagnosis earned a wan smile. “Barely.”

  Together they went to the kitchen, where Gutierrez had turned his attention to making sandwiches: cold cuts and cheese on sliced white bread.

  “It’s nothing fancy,” he announced, smiling at them over his shoulder. “But you two look hungry.”

  “Ravenous,” Sara replied. The grimy wood cookstove stood proudly on ornate cast-iron legs. The handmade cupboards and cabinets, some without doors, were painted a faded, chipped yellow. Sara wondered what the room had looked like when Kerney’s mother ruled the nest. Probably warm and inviting, she decided.

  They sat at the kitchen table on mismatched cast-off chairs, Sara sinking gingerly onto the unpadded seat. The table, a pine creation fashioned out of planks and rough-cut lumber, wobbled radically.

  Kerney watched Gutierrez as he worked at the counter. In his early thirties, Gutierrez had thick lashes, dark eyes, and large ears. His short neck and wide nose gave his face a fleshy look.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing out here?” Gutierrez inquired as he brought them their plates.

  “Purely pleasure,” Sara replied. “We just needed a few days by ourselves, away from the grind.” She brushed her fingers across Kerney’s cheek and looked at him lovingly. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Kerney, almost blushing, nodded and bit into his sandwich.

  “It’s turned into quite an adventure,” Sara added.

  “I believe it,” Gutierrez replied. “I didn’t know there was a trail that came through Big Mesa.”

  “There isn’t,” Kerney replied, swallowing. He could still feel Sara’s touch on his cheek. “We got lost in the storm.”

  “That can happen,” Gutierrez said, pouring fresh coffee, serving the cups, and joining them at the table, his smile sympathetic.

  To Sara, Gutierrez seemed affable and rather ordinary. “You run the bighorn program on the range,” she said, making small talk.

  Gutierrez nodded. “Going on five years now. I work out of Santa Fe but spend a lot of time down here. Especially this time of year.” He took out his wallet and gave Sara a business card. “If you’d like to see the herds, give me a call. We do periodic flyovers to track the herd and check on the new lambs. I took the commanding general up last year. He enjoyed it.”

  “That would be fun,” Sara admitted. “Can I heat some water? I’d like to wash up.”

  “I’ll put the pot on for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  After eating, Sara took the pot of hot water into the bathroom, stripped out of her clothes, and sponged off the sweat and dirt, feeling better by the minute. She wondered what Kerney must feel like to see the ranch for the first time in so many years.

  She dressed in fresh clothes, barely managing to get the boot on her injured foot, and limped out of the bathroom. The living room and kitchen were empty. The packhorse gear was on the living-room floor. She searched through it for the handheld radio. Andy needed to know they would be late getting back to the Jennings ranch. The case, seriously cracked, came apart in her hands. The radio was dead as a doornail. Probably damaged when the gelding slammed into the roan during the storm, she thought, returning it to the pack. She went looking for Kerney and found him stretched out on his bedroom floor, his jacket stuffed under his head, fast asleep, and breathing generously through his mouth. She brought her gear into his bedroom, spread it next to him, and shook him gently with her hand. He woke up quickly.

  “So we’re a couple now, are we?” he said, sitting up.

  “In your dreams, Kerney.”

  “How did you guess?”

  Sara suppressed a blush and gave him an unreadable look. “Did you question Gutierrez?”

  “No. I fell asleep.” He rubbed his face with his hands and looked at the sleeping bag and pack on the floor next to him. “Are you bunking with me?”

  She poked his arm with a warning finger. “Only for appearance’ sake. Go back to sleep. I’ll talk to Gutierrez.”

  Kerney nodded and rolled onto his side. “Thank you, dear.”

  Sara stuck out her tongue and left.

  Gutierrez, stretched out over the seat of his truck, was cleaning out an accumulation of trash. As Sara approached, he climbed out and moved the bench seat back as far as it would go. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Sara replied. “I wonder if you have time to answer a few questions.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Did you know Sammy Yazzi?”

  “I never met him, but I know who he is,” Eppi answered. “I was uprange when the search team started looking for him. I heard all the radio traffic. I
stay tuned to the military police channel whenever I’m on the range.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Camped out up on Sheep Mesa, identifying animals for a relocation project. I was stopped and questioned by a patrol when I got back down here, the day after the search started.” Gutierrez chuckled. “They even searched my truck.”

  “Did you ever have any unexpected visitors at Sheep Mesa?”

  Gutierrez shook his head. “I would have remembered something like that. The areas I work in are mostly off-limits. The only people I see are military police and other wildlife officers.”

  “Thanks. Would it be all right if I used your radio?”

  “Go ahead.” Gutierrez started to move away, then stopped. “I guess you haven’t found that soldier yet.”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “Well, good luck with it. There’s fresh coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”

  “I’ll do that.” She waited until Gutierrez left, keyed the hand mike to the radio, called the base dispatcher, and left a message to be passed on to Andy Baca that they would be late returning.

  Inside the house, Eppi looked up from the desk, closed his notebook, and put down his pen. “That was fast,” he said conversationally.

  “How long will you be on the range?” Sara asked.

  Gutierrez gave a harried sigh. “You’ll have the place to yourselves in the morning. I’m heading back to Santa Fe. We’ve got a drawing for bighorn hunting licenses this week.” His expression brightened. “I could get you a VIP permit, if you like.”

  “I’ll pass, but thanks just the same.”

  He shrugged. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  KERNEY EMERGED from the back of the house into the kitchen, scrubbed and clean, wet hair plastered to his forehead, carrying his boots in one hand and his still-damp cowboy hat in the other. Sara was drinking coffee at the table.

  “I couldn’t go back to sleep,” he admitted, sitting down. He shaped the hat to get the right crease back in the brim and placed it on the table. “Andy’s going to start looking for us in the morning unless I give him a call.”