Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  “I took care of it,” Sara said.

  “Good.” He started pulling on his boots. “Did Gutierrez have anything interesting to say?”

  “Let’s talk outside,” Sara suggested, nodding at Gutierrez through the open kitchen door.

  Kerney grabbed a small kit from the pack, and they left the house, walking toward the horses. The bay lifted his head as they approached. Kerney brushed him down with a curry comb and checked his legs for soreness.

  “Well?” he asked. “What did Gutierrez have to say?” He handed Sara the comb.

  “Not much,” she answered, brushing the gelding while Kerney rubbed some antibacterial ointment into a small scrape on the animal’s neck. “I asked if he knew Sammy, and he said he didn’t. But he was on the base when Sammy turned up missing.”

  Kerney worked on the gelding’s hoofs, brushing a dressing under the hair and into the band. “Was he questioned?”

  “Stopped, questioned, and searched,” Sara answered. “Nothing suspicious was uncovered.”

  The packhorse rolled in a patch of wet grass. Sara got the animal to its feet, and while Kerney treated a sore rubbed raw by the pack frame, she gave the roan a fast brushing.

  “We know Sammy was in the area, and Gutierrez sleeps at the ranch when he’s on the base,” Kerney commented as he repacked the kit. “Should we question him some more?”

  “He seems straight enough.”

  “It’s your call,” Kerney noted.

  “I’d rather wait and do it later, when we’re back at the main post.”

  They left the horses and walked to a sheared-off dead cottonwood that had been struck by lightning. One thick branch remained on the tall stump; it bowed and touched the ground. It had the shape of a wizened woman bending over, extending a long hand to the earth. It was the witch tree of Kerney’s childhood, a favorite hangout where he would perch with a book and read until sunset.

  Sara reached in her pocket for the cavalry insignia and held it in her open palm. “Any ideas about this? I found it in the cave.”

  Kerney took it, turned it over several times, and shook his head in wonderment. “Right in my backyard.”

  “What?”

  “Apache plunder. Mexican silver. The Lost Bowie Mine. The treasure at Victorio Peak. I used to sit on the witch tree, read Frank Dobie books, and dream of finding riches.” He tossed the pin in the air and caught it. “Dale and I would spend days on end searching. We never found a damn thing.” He handed the insignia to Sara. “Amazing.”

  “This type of insignia hasn’t been used since the nineteenth century,” Sara said.

  “Did you find anything else?”

  “No. We’ll see what the crime scene unit uncovers.”

  “Let me guess,” Kerney speculated. “We’ll wait to send them out until after we get back.”

  Sara laughed. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  AFTER KERNEY and Sara Brannon were asleep, Gutierrez crept quietly out of the house. He took an alternate route to the cave, picking his way carefully to avoid leaving footprints. The nearly full moon gave him enough light to confirm his fears. The two cops had been nosing around. He stepped cautiously from rock to rock until he reached the cave entrance. The stones were not in the same order he had put them in. It made him sick with worry.

  He knew the law. He could be charged with murder. He was as guilty as the man who had killed Yazzi. No one was supposed to get hurt. It wasn’t his goddamn fault the soldier had showed up at exactly the wrong time. Hiking in the boondocks with a sketchbook, for chrissake. Nosing around where he had no business being. Walking into the cave with a wide-eyed, shit-eating grin. Asking questions.

  Gutierrez retraced his steps until he dropped below the rim of the mesa and sat on a rock, looking at the ranch below. What the fuck was he going to do? The story about a pleasure trip was pure bullshit. He might have bought it if Brannon hadn’t asked all those questions about Yazzi. He’d almost shit a brick when she brought the subject up.

  Damm it! If they had only listened to him and let him move the rest of the stuff right away. That was the smart thing to do. No, no, too risky, too soon, let it quiet down, they said. Shit!

  In too deep to back out, he almost wished he’d never found the cave. Can’t cry over spilt milk. The last load was behind the seat of his truck. Two thousand gold and silver coins and a leather dispatch case filled with historical military letters. Worth plenty. Fuck the others! He didn’t need them. He’d sell it himself in Mexico and just disappear.

  As far as he could tell, he wasn’t under suspicion, but that could change. He looked down at his shaking hands and clasped them together to stop the trembling. He needed a plan. Something he could pull off. There was no way in hell he was going to prison.

  “I’ve got to improvise,” he whispered to himself.

  IT WAS STILL DARK. The bare ceiling light cast a harsh glow throughout the kitchen, and the aroma from a wood fire in the cookstove filled the room. Sara, drying two plates at the sink, turned and looked at Kerney as he came in.

  “Is Gutierrez gone?” Kerney asked. There was a pot of coffee and pan of scrambled eggs on the top of the cast-iron stove. He was stiff from head to toe, but rested.

  “Before I got up,” Sara reported, putting the plates on the table. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “How long will it take to get back to the Rocking J?” She asked, putting a mug of coffee in front of him.

  “We can make good time if we run the ridges over Rhodes Canyon.”

  “That may not be wise,” Sara said.

  Kerney sipped his coffee and laughed. “Trust me, your people won’t even see us coming. I watched the Army build that concealed outpost in the canyon when I was a kid.”

  “You’re not supposed to know about that,” Sara chided, half-jokingly.

  “I won’t tell a soul.”

  They ate breakfast, enjoying each other’s company, cleaned up the dishes together, and headed out to saddle the horses.

  GUTIERREZ WATCHED the three horses and two riders leave the ranch veering south and west. At first light he had picked a vantage point that would keep them in view for some time. His plans depended on the route they took.

  He would use his knowledge of the terrain and his speed to his advantage. He knew the mountains and could outrun them easily in the truck. Yesterday’s storm had brought a blessing. The usual telltale funnel of dust thrown up by the tires would be missing.

  He followed them with his binoculars. Going southwest was good, he thought. It would take them to Rhodes Canyon, probably above the pass. Anything farther on was more than a day’s journey by horseback. They weren’t provisioned for another night. He had searched the pack and knew what supplies they carried. He just had to be patient. He held their shapes in the lenses until they turned into dots, then fired up the truck.

  He got in position just in time to watch Kerney bypass the canyon that ran out of Tipton Spring. They were running the ridge tops to Rhodes Canyon. Had to be. From where they were now, they had no alternative. Water still filled the washes from the storm. It would be too dangerous to ride through the draws.

  Two canyons over they’d hit Amole Ridge. There would be two steep steps up and down. They would have to break trail and lead the horses through it on foot. Above the eastern scarp of the ridge they would reach high country of broken benches, cedar breaks, and gentle slopes. After that, they could easily pick up the road through Rhodes Pass.

  He moved the truck again and watched until they entered a stand of cedars. He held his breath as he scanned the prehistoric reef Kerney had to use to scale Amole Ridge. They came back into view just where he had his glasses trained. He watched them weave slowly back to the west. Gutierrez was starting to feel good. He would be way ahead of them when they reached the road.

  SARA HELD THE HORSES while Kerney fed them the last of the oats from the bag Dale Jennings had provided. The view was stunning; so completely different from the slashin
g gorges and mean canyons on the ride in. On both sides of the tight pass the land rolled in soft hills that hid the vast desert from sight.

  The road below her, carved and blasted out of the mountainside, clung to the edge of a drop-off dotted by the crowns of tall pine trees, rising seventy-five feet from the canyon floor, that formed a natural border along the shoulder. Here the turns in the road were gradual. Farther along it slashed in a series of cutbacks that pierced deeper into the canyon.

  Sara had traveled the road many times before, but the vantage point from the top of the canyon threw her off. She asked Kerney to locate the MP outpost for her. He smiled and pointed at her feet. They were standing on top of the outpost, which was carved out of the mountainside.

  Kerney finished with the horses and swung into the saddle. She mounted the gelding and took one last look at the breathtaking beauty around her before moving her horse down the slope to the road.

  GUTIERREZ SURVEYED the roadside patiently before selecting his spot. Where the granite changed to limestone, the ground was still soggy from yesterday’s storm. At a blind corner, a large slab of limestone had separated from the top of the cliff. Chunks of stone and earth partially blocked the roadway. He drove around it carefully, the truck tires inches away from the fall-off into the canyon, found a place to turn around, and parked close to the rock wall below the slide. He climbed to the top of the cliff and scanned in all directions. Above him, there was no possibility of passage down to the pass. Kerney and Brannon would have to join the road long before they reached his position.

  He stayed back from the ledge, stretched his arm over the crevice, and poked at the crumbling limestone. A small clump broke away and dribbled down the bluff. He kept working on the slab until rock blocked the entire road.

  After climbing down he moved rocks into a pile, then stopped to think things over. His back ached and his shirt stuck to him like a wet rag. He walked around the blind corner and then back to his truck, studying the road. He got a shovel from the truck and moved dirt and rocks from the lip of the road, leaving just enough space to allow foot traffic around the rockpile. He sprinkled earth and pebbles over it to make it look natural.

  He put the shovel in the bed of the truck and walked back up the road, pacing off five-yard increments, marking each with a small rock until he was fifty yards from the corner. He turned and examined his labors. The slide would look passable to anyone approaching on horseback. He went back to the slide and eyed the height of the pile. He needed it to be at least to the top of the truck’s bumper and loosely packed. He threw some of the bigger stones over the side and hollowed out a peephole where he could watch the road without being seen.

  Judging the timing and the amount of force he would need was the only remaining problem. He estimated distances and moved the truck farther down the road. He walked from the farthest marker, timing himself as he went. He did it once more, walking backward to erase the footprints. It might be a Rube Goldberg scheme, but it would work. Shit happens, Gutierrez thought, smiling to himself. He spread some damp dirt over the rocks to make the pile look more natural. Kerney and Brannon would have to ride single-file to get around it.

  He stretched out at the peephole, still sweating from the exertion, and waited. When everything was over, he would erase any traces of his presence and be on his way. He checked his watch. He would be long gone before anyone came looking. Maybe to Yucatán or Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico. He had visited both areas before, and Spanish was his first language. He’d blend right in.

  An hour passed. He was starting to get restless when Kerney came around the last bend. Kerney reined in and stopped, the roan packhorse siding up to the bay. Gutierrez held his breath. Finally Kerney moved and Sara Brannon came into view, closing the gap between her and the roan. Gutierrez counted off the seconds as Kerney passed the first marker. The pace of the animals was perfect. He forced himself to wait, timing Kerney’s progress over the next thirty yards. Still perfect. He crawled backward and scrambled to the truck. It was going to work! He started the engine, jammed it into gear, and plowed it into the rockpile, only a second or two faster than planned.

  Kerney was past the nose of the truck and on Gutierrez’s right side, but the rocks still splattered his horse. Kerney spurred the bay desperately and dropped the reins to the roan. The bay was flying, landing with forefeet on tumbling rocks, fighting for solid ground, hind feet flailing in the air. The packhorse dropped over the edge, making sounds Gutierrez had never heard from a horse before.

  Amazingly, the truck continued to roll. He braked hard, fish-tailed into the wall, bounced over the remains of the rockpile, and landed hard on the undercarriage, the front wheels dangling over empty space. On his left, Sara Brannon and the gelding were spinning counterclockwise in a tight circle away from the scatter, out of danger. Gutierrez wondered how she was able to do that.

  He cursed and looked for Kerney. A few feet from the truck the riderless bay, eyes wild, ears back in fear, pawed the ground. Hatless, facedown on the roadbed, Kerney pushed himself upright and started running toward Gutierrez with murder in his eyes. How could the lame bastard move so fast? Gutierrez panicked, reached for the door handle, and heard a sharp, splintering sound from above. He twisted around to look out the rear window. The cliff gave way, burying the truck with rock, crushing his skull, and pulverizing his chest against the steering wheel.

  Kerney watched the last of the rubble trickle over the truck, the thick limestone dust rising in the air like a plume of smoke. The roar of the slide gave way to the sound of stones careening into the canyon below. He scrambled over the truck looking for Sara. She stood with her back pressed against the rock face, holding the skittish gelding by the bridle.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She took a breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. “Let’s not do this anymore.”

  “Not enough excitement?” Kerney inquired, holding her arm to keep her steady.

  “Too much of a good thing can be dangerous,” she said.

  “That’s almost funny.”

  Sara coughed and rubbed the tip of her nose. “It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Gutierrez?”

  “Dead,” Kerney answered.

  “We lost the roan.” She was covered in limestone dust from head to foot.

  “I know.”

  The landslide completely blocked the road. “I can’t get the gelding across,” she said.

  “Cut him loose. He’ll find his way home.”

  She removed the bridle and wrapped it around the pommel. Unrestrained, the gelding wheeled and trotted up the pass. Tentatively, she walked to the edge of the road and looked down. Seventy-five feet below, the dead roan was wedged between the base of two pine trees, surrounded by supplies from the shattered pack.

  She stepped away from the edge and looked at Kerney. He had lost his cowboy hat, and his hair, flattened by the hatband, curled up into wings above his ears. He was covered from head to foot with fine limestone dust. “You look like shit,” Sara commented, the fluttery feeling in her stomach subsiding.

  “I suspect you’re right,” he answered, brushing off the front of his shirt. Puffs of limestone dust floated into the air. “Seems like we upset Gutierrez. Let’s see if we can find out why.”

  They cleared away enough rubble from the truck to uncover and pry open the passenger door. The seat, thrown off its tracks by the impact, pinned Gutierrez to the steering column. His shattered skull dripped blood and brains, soaking his clothes and the floorboard.

  Behind the seat were ten packages, wrapped and taped shut. Kerney reached in and handed them to Sara one at a time. He was searching the glove compartment when, with an incredulous whistle, Sara made him stop.

  “Look at this,” she said, holding out an open package filled with gold coins. “The mint dates are all from the eighteen hundreds. Do you know what these are worth?”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Kerney said sourly. He opened a flat, rectangular
box that had slid under the seat. It contained a military dispatch case, the leather desiccated and veined with cracks, filled with faded documents.

  Sara moved next to him. “What is that?”

  Kerney shrugged and closed the flap. “Just some old letters.”

  “Don’t tease,” she chided, pulling the case out of his hands. She sat on the ground and skimmed through the documents. Gingerly, she detached a letter and read it with growing amazement. She studied two more papers before speaking. “Incredible. These are letters written by General William Tecumseh Sherman and President Ulysses S. Grant.” She patted the case. “This has to be General Howard’s official document file.”

  “Who?” Kerney inquired.

  Sara replaced the letters, closed the pouch, stood up, and brushed off the seat of her pants with a hand. “The letters are addressed to O. O. Howard. He was a Civil War general. Grant sent him west during the Indian Wars. He negotiated a treaty with Cochise. These letters are historical treasures.”

  “It looks like Gutierrez found the mother lode. Isn’t that the luck of the Irish?”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Do you think Gutierrez killed Sammy?”

  “It’s possible,” Kerney allowed, “but not likely. I don’t think murder was Gutierrez’s strong suit.”

  “Sammy found the coins and documents and recruited Gutierrez to help him,” Sara proposed. “Instead, Gutierrez decided he wanted it all for himself.”

  The theory didn’t sit well with Kerney. “Why would Gutierrez wait almost two months after he killed Sammy to move the merchandise?”

  “Caution?” Sara suggested. “He wanted things to cool down.”

  “This case cooled down a month ago. If you had a clear shot at making tens of thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—of dollars, would you wait any longer than absolutely necessary? Especially if you had a dead body concealed with the goodies? Wouldn’t that make you anxious?”