During the next four days, Kerney went daily to the pueblo. Maria and Terry stayed together at her house, sleeping in blankets on the floor of the empty living room. She could not be alone in the house until Sammy’s spirit was gone. On the last night the elder returned and purged the house of Sammy’s spirit so he would have no reason to return.
Kerney waited outside with people he now knew by name. When Maria and Terry finally emerged, both looked tired but less troubled. He hugged each of them. Maria kissed him gently on the cheek and patted him with affection.
“You must come back to visit,” she said. “Often.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Terry’s hug was bearlike. “I need to talk to you,” Terry said in his ear.
“If it’s about the money, forget it,” Kerney replied.
“It is. I want you to take it back.”
He shook his head firmly. “I’ve been paid. I’ll explain later.”
Terry released him, and they shook hands.
The leaves in the tall cottonwood trees rustled in the night air. Terry and Maria were saying goodbye to the last of their guests. From the edge of the plaza, Kerney turned back to look and saw Terry hug Maria and walk off into the darkness of the night, Maria left alone under the porch light. It gave him a sad feeling.
Back home, Kerney sat on the corral rail and studied the night sky. The stars were pinpoints of soft, quivering light. Quinn, his landlord, had decided to sell the ranch. It wouldn’t take long for it to be gobbled up, probably to be subdivided into ranchettes by a developer.
Except for two pieces of mail, there had been no contact with anybody involved in the investigation. Andy sent him a check for a month’s pay and a note that said he liked the idea of using him on special cases and wanted to talk about it. The second envelope was from the Department of the Army. It contained a government warrant for twenty thousand dollars. The accompanying letter explained that it was for professional services provided to the provost marshal at White Sands Missile Range. Kerney put the money in the bank.
Soldier nudged Kerney’s hand, looking for another treat. He scratched the horse’s muzzle and looked across the volcanic rift at the clouds parked over Santa Fe. City lights created a rosy glow in the underbelly of the fluffy cumulus clouds.
Since returning home, Kerney had taught Soldier how to turn and guide with the touch of a rein against his neck. Now he responded easily to a one-handed cue. Soldier’s gait had smoothed out and he wasn’t skittish anymore. It was time to take him to his new home.
“SO WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?” Dale Jennings asked, watching as Kerney opened the door to the horse trailer.
“Hell if I know,” Kerney replied. He walked Soldier out of the trailer and put him in the corral. Soldier trotted over to the bay.
“Move down here,” Dale suggested. “I still need a partner. You can have the foreman’s cottage.”
Kerney gave Dale a sidelong glance.
“I guess not,” Dale noted. “So what do you want to do?”
“Right now? How about a trail ride? Are you up for it?”
Dale rolled his tongue over his teeth. “Anyplace particular in mind?”
Kerney tilted his chin toward the mountains on the missile range.
“You’re kidding.”
“Why not?”
Dale put both arms on the top railing of the corral and studied the two horses. After a long pause he swung around, leaned against the corral, and grinned at Kerney. “The bay could stand to shed a few pounds.”
Using an old horse trail, Dale and Kerney reached the 7-Bar-K in short order, even with Dale’s frequent stops to reminisce. Kerney had to break him away from the sight of the space harbor and the test facilities dotting the basin; Dale was shaking his head in incredulity as he remounted.
“Looks smaller than I remember,” Dale said, as his eyes moved over the ranch house. He looked at the alkali flats to the north. “Hard country,” he commented. He glanced at Big Mesa. “And to think your folks had a fortune hidden up there, just waiting to be found.”
“Luck of the Irish,” Kerney said.
“Why did you want to come back?”
“I forgot something.” He left Dale holding the reins to the horses and went inside. When he came out he was holding the horseshoe from his first pony that he had nailed over his bedroom door when he was eight years old.
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING, SERGEANT?” Sara Brannon asked. She was in Eddie Tapia’s new quarters on the base. His promotion, along with some string-pulling on Sara’s part, qualified the Tapia family for a single-family dwelling.
The house, a typical military box arrangement, had been transformed by Eddie’s wife, Isabel, into a warm, comfortable home. Handmade curtains covered the windows and houseplants filled the living room with splashes of color.
“I don’t know how to thank you for all this,” Eddie replied with a grin.
“The plants are lovely,” Sara commented. “It looks very nice.”
“Isabel keeps bringing stuff home from the nursery. She wants me to dig flower beds for her in the backyard as soon as I can use my hands again.”
Sara nodded. The fingers on Eddie’s hands were braced with splints, held in place by rubber bands attached to metal braces around his wrists. Pins were inserted in each broken knuckle to immobilize the joints. The appliances looked like weird pincers. “Don’t rush it,” Sara cautioned.
Eddie grimaced. “I don’t have any choice.”
“Isabel tells me you’re getting cranky.”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am. Sitting around the house is getting old. I asked for a desk job—anything—but the doctor won’t even talk to me about light duty.”
“I’ve got a detail for you. We’ve been ordered to appear before the commanding general at fourteen hundred hours, in uniform.”
Eddie immediately became worried. “What’s up, Captain?”
Sara shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Eddie looked chagrined. “I can’t dress myself, ma’am, and Isabel went to town with the baby. She won’t be back in time to help me.”
“I have an MP standing by to assist you,” Sara said, looking at her wristwatch.
“Ma’am?” Eddie ventured.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Have you heard from Lieutenant Kerney?”
“No, I haven’t,” Sara said flatly. “Let’s get you ready to see the general. We don’t have much time.”
Sara left Eddie with the MP and drove to the headquarters building. Tom Curry was waiting with Isabel and the baby. Both mother and child were dressed in new outfits. Excitement danced in Isabel’s eyes. The general’s aide, the public information officer, and the post photographer were assembled in the reception room. A few minutes before fourteen hundred hours, Major General William Cunningham Tyson entered the room, greeted his guests, and looked at the two presentation cases arranged precisely in the center of a long conference table. At exactly two o’clock, Sergeant Eduardo Jesus Tapia was ushered into the room, escorted by a spit-and-polish military policeman. The distress on his face vanished when he saw Isabel standing, with tear-filled eyes and a proud smile, next to the commanding general.
“Sergeant Tapia,” General Tyson said, “on behalf of the Secretary of the Army, it gives me great pleasure to award you the following decorations for exceptional service and meritorious achievement.”
The aide read each citation, and Tyson pinned the medals on Eddie’s chest. Eddie stood rigidly at attention, in a state of total disbelief. Captain Brannon smiled. Major Curry smiled. The general smiled. Isabel dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” Eddie said huskily, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’d shake your hand, Sergeant,” Tyson replied, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea. If I had my way, you’d be wearing a Purple Heart along with those decorations.”
“I
didn’t expect this, sir,” Eddie replied.
“There’s more, son,” Tyson said. “If you can stand it, the provost marshal has arranged a small party for you tonight. Several dozen of your closest friends will be at the NCO club.”
Tyson motioned to the photographer. “Let’s get a few more pictures over here, Specialist. And make sure you give prints to Mrs. Tapia.”
THE DAY AFTER Eddie Tapia’s party, Sara met for a briefing with a bird colonel from West Point, a military historian who had been sent to research the Big Mesa treasure. A portly, energetic man in his early fifties, the colonel had commandeered a warehouse inside a secure compound and was working out of a small office in the building. Military police were on twenty-four-hour guard duty to protect the treasure that was being sorted, catalogued, and examined by the colonel’s team.
Colonel Alverson sorted through some notes at his desk. “It’s really an accumulation of three distinct Apache raids. The documents and the coins, as you know, are from the O. O. Howard expedition to treat with Cochise in the Dragoon Mountains of Arizona in 1872. It was Howard’s greatest achievement. He was so eager to return east and publish his story, he left for Washington with a small party, leaving the main detachment to follow. A band of Apaches camped at Canada Alamosa, led by a warrior named Loco, skirmished with the detachment near Orogrande and ran off wagons carrying mail, Howard’s war chest, and his personal papers.”
The colonel set the note aside. “The Apache had no interest in the white man’s money or his writings, and were probably after horses and weapons.”
“Then why was everything saved?” Sara asked.
“No reason other than expediency, I would imagine. Apache warriors traveled light and fast. They would raid and store caches of what they didn’t need or couldn’t carry for future use.”
“What about the weapons?” Sara inquired. “Surely they would arm themselves immediately.”
“Good point,” the colonel replied, picking up another note. “I’ll get to that shortly. All the uniforms, saddles, and equipment in the cave were part of a resupply shipment to the forts south of Santa Fe. It left Fort Marcy and traveled down the Camino Real to Fort McRae, where one contingent went south and another went east, heading for Fort Stanton. The convoy heading to Fort Stanton was ambushed by an Apache leader named Victorio in a pitched battle that lasted all day. Victorio mauled the troopers badly and escaped with six wagons. The lading records show that one wagon carried weapons. Victorio obviously put the guns to use—none of the makes or models from that shipment match the weapons found in the cave.
“Now, as for the weapons that were in the cave,” Alverson continued, “in the 1870s, the Army convened a board of officers to study and make recommendations for new armaments to replace the Civil War weapons still in use in the field. Like any good bureaucrats, the board tried to save money by having manufacturers modify existing weapons. They ordered changes in the caliber, rifling, hammer design, cartridge specifications, and the like.
“The pistols and rifles in the cave were sent west for field trials as part of a testing program. One of Victorio’s lieutenants in the Warm Springs tribe was a warrior named Nana. In fact, Loco, Victorio, and Nana were all part of the same band. Nana had an uncanny ability to find ammunition trains. The Apaches believed that the ammunition spoke to him. Nana intercepted the experimental weapons, but didn’t get the ammunition. Without the bullets the guns were useless. I can only assume that Victorio stored the weapons with the hope Nana would supply the bullets at a later date. It never happened, and when Victorio and his band were wiped out in Mexico in 1880, the cache passed from living memory.”
Colonel Alverson looked out the open door of the office at the racks and tables in the warehouse that were filled with so many wonderful treasures. “It’s almost priceless,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “And you, Captain, deserve more than praise for your efforts.”
After leaving the colonel, Sara rode in a small caravan to Juárez accompanied by a State Department official and a Mexican consul general. Two MPs and Carlos followed behind, with Carlos sporting new false teeth and a rebuilt nose, courtesy of the Medical Services Corps. He would be part of an exchange with DeLeon. The Army would get back the 9th Cavalry letters that had been given to DeLeon to authenticate the cache, and DeLeon would get Carlos, two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds, and a valuable cavalry officer’s sword and scabbard that Colonel Alverson had been reluctant to give up. A Fort Knox officer with an MP escort carried the ransom in a third vehicle.
On the drive, Sara listened briefly to the tedious conversation of the two bureaucrats as they talked about the delicate negotiations leading up to the exchange. It made DeLeon sound like an upstanding citizen and not the scumbag he really was. Sara tuned them out.
In Juárez, the convoy was joined by a motorized contingent of Juárez police, who cleared traffic along busy streets and hurried them into the empty Juárez bullring. Sara got her first look at Enrique DeLeon. He stood between two high-ranking Mexican army officers next to a black limousine. He was chatting casually to the men, with an animated, pleased expression on his face.
Sara got out of the car with the diplomats and watched the exchange. DeLeon seemed uninterested when Carlos walked toward him with the Fort Knox officer. He accepted the package of diamonds from the officer, passed them wordlessly to Carlos, and jerked his head in the direction of the limousine. Carlos scrambled inside. Then DeLeon took the sword and scabbard from the officer, unsheathed the blade, inspected it, and smiled at Sara before passing it to one of the Mexican officers.
DeLeon’s arrogance made Sara steaming mad. She thought of a perfect place to put DeLeon’s new sword. Failing that, she would lock him up and throw away the key.
As the chargé d’affaires and consul general started to reenter the limousine, Sara broke away and walked briskly to DeLeon. The man from the State Department tried to call her back. The two Mexican army officers closed ranks next to DeLeon.
“I’d like a word with you,” Sara said.
Enrique DeLeon smiled. It reminded Sara of Jim Meehan.
“Of course,” DeLeon replied.
“Alone,” Sara snapped.
DeLeon nodded and disengaged himself from the officers.
Sara led him a few yards away.
“What is it, Captain?” Enrique asked.
Sara looked him coldly in the eyes. “If any harm comes to Eddie Tapia or Kevin Kerney, I’ll see you dead.”
“Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” DeLeon suggested. His eyes were hard, estimating her.
“No, DeLeon, I’m not. I know how you operate. Interpol supplied me with a wealth of information about you.”
“Pure speculation,” DeLeon retorted, raising his hands in a gesture of repudiation. “Unfounded falsehoods.”
“You’ve been warned,” Sara said, cutting him off. “If anything happens to Kevin Kerney or Eddie Tapia, I will kill you myself.”
He laughed condescendingly, and she waited calmly, eyes locked on his, until the laugh died out. Then she turned on her heel and walked away.
On the ride back to the base, Sara thought about Kerney. He had been a fixture in her mind since the night at the hacienda. She had a premonition that he was thinking about her, in spite of the fact that he’d made no attempt to contact her. Maybe it was time to test the hypothesis and find out if what she felt about him was true, or only wishful thinking. She’d do it right after Tom Curry’s retirement party.
HAVING MONEY was convenient, if you wanted to get things done quickly. Quinn’s affluence proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. He was already moved out, lock, stock, and barrel. The household goods and furniture were in storage, and Quinn was in Heidelberg, Germany, preparing to start a two-year appointment as a professor of psychiatry at a medical school. House hunting and touring the German countryside on the weekends, he sent notes to Kerney with instructions on what needed doing at the ranch.
After leaving Da
le at the Rocking J, Kerney kept his promise to visit Erma Fergurson. It was time well spent, and he ended the visit feeling that some of the bad memories of his family’s hardships, losses, and tragedies had been smoothed out.
So much for the past, Kerney thought, wondering about the future. He still had no idea where he was going, and only Dale Jennings knew he was leaving Santa Fe.
For the last week, Kerney had played tour guide to cowboy-clad real estate salesmen, trailing rich Californians looking for the perfect Santa Fe hideaway. One salesman, who wore a Stetson and talked in a thick eastern accent, brought out a Hollywood couple five days in a row. They just loved the place. It was so rustic and western. An offer was in the hopper.
His arrangement with Quinn to stay on as caretaker expired that very afternoon. It was none too soon, according to Kerney’s way of thinking. He was packed and ready to go. His furniture would stay behind. None of it was worth hauling around. Except for some changes of clothes, everything else was boxed, in the truck and covered with a tarp.
He sat on the front step of the cabin and looked out over the Galisteo Basin. He would miss the valley. Wherever he landed, Kerney decided he would need to be in a place just as beautiful. Doing what, God only knew.
A trail of dust blew off the ranch road, signaling the arrival of the listing agent coming to get the keys. But it wasn’t the vehicle Kerney was expecting. He stood up and waited on the porch step until the Jeep Cherokee stopped and the driver got out.
“Hello, Captain Brannon,” he said, pleasure in his voice, as Sara walked toward him. She wore boots, jeans, and a tank top.
“It’s Major Brannon,” she corrected, smiling at him with her green eyes.
“Congratulations,” Kerney replied.
“Don’t be so quick with the applause,” Sara replied. “The promotion came with a two-year assignment in Korea.”
“You’ll do just fine,” Kerney predicted.
“If I don’t freeze my butt off when I get there,” Sara agreed, studying him for any evidence of a more personal reaction. “You look well,” she added.
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