Dead Horses

by David Knop

  The mystery cheese didn’t agree with my stomach, so I got a glass of water to put out the fire. I walked to my office and punched in the number of Santa Fe County Security Consulting; the firm hired to get the bottom of the horse killings. It was late, but I would leave a message.

  “Palafox.”

  Surprised to hear his voice, I said, “Sorry for the late call but is that offer to investigate your missing horses still open?” I stifled a burp.

  Palafox paused. I could hear muffled talking off-phone at Palafox’s end. “When can we talk?”

  “I’ll be there at noon tomorrow.” I hung up and ran to the bathroom. My stomach had lost its battle with the mystery cheese.

  Next morning, I smooth-talked a neighbor into a loaner and drove to Santa Fe near the New Mexico School for the Deaf on Cerrillos. Palafox’s office was typical of the area; worn single story adobes undergoing gentrification. A secretary walked me to a private office. Some walls of the room, which looked like a former living area, were covered with old Indian weapons; part of an extensive bow and arrow collection. I couldn’t resist examining a bow and imagine ancient hands the color of mine grasping it, prepared for battle. Other walls held professional certificates and pictures of Palafox shaking hands with Clintons and Bushes.

  The man walked in, paid no mind to pleasantries, and started our conversation in the middle by saying, “I got questions, Romero. First, is motive. Strange to steal expensive horses then kill them. Makes no sense to me.”

  “Money’s not the motive. What’s the next?” I asked.

  “Opportunity. Can’t get a handle on how they do it. We got good cover on the ranch, but they still steal them, anyway. And Colorado, that’s the third question. With the exception of the horse you found, carcasses have ended up in southern Colorado.”

  “What about the theory that the thieves have it in for the owner of the ranch? I understand he’s a Saudi.”

  Palafox nodded. “We’re working that angle. Nothing yet.”

  “So, you think I find the answers better than your own people?”

  “Special Agent Jean Reel recommends you. I’ve known her for years. We worked together on White House detail. She’s solid. If she likes you, I like you.”

  “Why not go to the FBI, then? This is a multi-state crime.”

  He snorted. “Why don’t we bring in the New Mexico Fire and Police Pipes and Drums while we’re at it?”

  “But why all the secrecy? These are horses, not children.”

  “The owner is why. The owner of these horses is a discrete man-of-means and conducts his affairs out of the public limelight. He is adamant that his private business never makes the paper. Agent Reel says you’d understand the need for strict confidentiality.”

  “I got another case. Murder. I gotta work that, too.”

  “Okay, you do what you gotta do, but never forget you’re working for me. Here’s a retainer for expenses.” He stared at me deadpan, waiting for my response. I grabbed the check and casually glanced at it. I gulped at the numbers, my monthly salary times six.

  As I stared at the check, the dead bodies of Juan and Jason formed before me, their blank eyes imploring mine. Couldn’t say if it was guilt or integrity that made me mumble out a half-truth, “I’m obligated to the murder case.”

  Palafox continued to stare. Silent as Owl. When I was ready to cave, he said, “Okay, Romero, do what you gotta do on the side, but I want results. Fast.”

  I said, “Yeah. I need a car. Jeep’s out of commission.” Not entirely a lie, but I wasn’t about to admit my car was stolen.

  “I look like Avis to you?” he asked. More silence. I waited for a fuck you. “I’ll have a truck at your place tomorrow.”

  I left wondering how far I’d pissed him off and how hard it would come back to bite me.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, a new silver Chevy Silverado HD 3500 6.6L Duramax Turbo-Diesel V8 sat out front. A note from Palafox gave his number and invited a call if I wanted anything else. What else was there?

  It took thirty minutes to figure out all the buttons in the truck’s cab. I hurried into the house when the police line rang. I picked up and a voice droned, “If you are Peter Ro—” I hung up.

  I grabbed my overnight bag from the bedroom, a .357 Magnum S&W Model 686 revolver with a 4-inch barrel and a couple of speed loaders from the safe and locked the house. I hopped into the truck, adjusted the seat and mirrors, then headed off to Colorado.

  The big truck gobbled up I-25, then US-285. When I passed Española, I felt a pang for my stolen Jeep. The ’53 was more pet than truck. I missed it like a trusted companion and rage swelled as I thought of it being in the hands of some punk.

  I punched the gas thinking of Wookie’s demand I find his fostered-out child. I took US-84 and 64 to Navajo City, then north across the Colorado state line toward Ignacio, the home of the Southern Ute Tribe.

  In Colorado, natural gas piping and holding tanks grew like oversized cactus. The green structures failed to blend with the rolling woodlands that defined flowered meadows. A crew of two attended one of the well pumps. Their white pickup sported a circle-shaped, two-feathers logo on the door.

  To the north, snow-painted peaks of the San Juan Range sparkled like diamonds. I squinted in the bright sun. Piñon and juniper occupied most rocky ridges. In the flat areas, knee-high blue grama and wheatgrass covered the rocky soil. In this high country, I could see fifty breathtaking miles to the south and west. The ancestors were right: when Old Spider Woman created all things, she started here.

  In Ignacio, a town so small it made Santa Fe look like New York, I found and parked at the Southern Ute headquarters; a modern red brick one-story named after a man named Burch. I stood in the parking area to stretch and enjoy the view of the San Juan Range. A glass entry sported a fancy logo of two feathers surrounding the name of the occupants, Red Pine Production Company. In the lobby, Pokoh leaned on a counter shooting the shit with a cute receptionist, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Bout time you got here,” he said.

  “You knew I was comin’?”

  He didn’t answer as he led me past a sign that announced the Southern Ute Department of Justice and Regulatory. Pokoh motioned me into a good size office with a wooden desk, two chairs and a nice picture window view of an outbuilding. They say you can tell a person’s influence from the size of their workspace. Pokoh had juice.

  An assortment of baskets, pouches, stones, twigs, animal skins, bird wings, bones, pipes, and masks cluttered the place. Pokoh’s office was reminiscent of the cluttered homes of some of my own tribe’s elders, people still possessing powers of the old ways. Growing up we knew better, dismissed them when our grandmothers would bring them into our homes when we were sick. These ancient ones spoke to gods we hadn’t witnessed.

  They tried to teach us, the old ones. As we grew older, some of us reached back to embrace the old ways and the connections to the earth, life, and community. Some of us learned to just accept there was magic where we couldn’t see it. Some of us never learned a thing. I wondered if the Ute children were the same. I also wondered if this was how Pokoh knew I was coming.

  Pokoh sat behind his desk.

  I sat in the only chair without something on it. I asked, “You a…what, a healer?” He couldn’t be anything else with this assortment of ancient remedies, “or law enforcement?”

  Pokoh took a seat behind his desk. “I deal with matters of the spirit. I’m a spiritual guide. It’s in the family. Like a calling, you know. Law enforcement puts bread on the table.”

  “So, healing’s like a side-job?” Ancient medicine is serious business and I regretted saying it as soon as it left my lips.

  He inclined his head like Wolf sizing up an intruder. “This is no side job.” There was bite behind the words. “Some people call me a shaman, but that don’t mean much today. What people don’t get, even many in my tribe I’m sorry to say, is th
e real meaning of the word. People can’t see beyond the name Shaman to the sacred energy drawn from many aspects of the physical world, the mind, and the soul. A quality that emerges from all sorts of places to envelope us. No, people today just don’t get it. You, neither.”

  I couldn’t disagree with him. Not completely, but I have felt that sacred energy more than once.

  Pokoh stood up, like he was going to salute. “We Utes are the oldest residents of Colorado and have lived here since the beginning of time. Our language is Shoshonean. We are ancestors of the Paiute, Goshute, Shoshone, Comanche, and Chemehuevi. Our power once extended throughout the great basin and our territories ran from Oregon to New Mexico.

  “We and our cousins possessed a strong set of central values in a highly-developed society. But now, things are changing. And not for good.” His smile had dropped as he spoke. “What makes it worse, we’re sittin’ on an ocean of natural gas. We’re pulling seventy billion cubic feet of out of the ground every year. That doesn’t include our leases in the Gulf of Mexico or Texas.

  “So, nobody really gives a shit about the past. Nobody. The modern world pollutes our culture with its artificial values. Outsiders remake our pride and traditions, then claim them as their own. False shamans springing up everywhere with never-ending lies. To those of us who care, our traditions are no longer recognizable. The old ways gonna be gone soon, somebody don’t do something.”

  “All our people have sad stories to tell, but I’m here to talk about horses.” Me and my mouth. It’s not a good idea to insult a source of information. I held my palms up in surrender.

  “Yeah, you don’t know shit,” said Pokoh, still pissed.

  “Look, I’m sorry I punched you in front of my house and I’m sorry if I insulted your calling,” I said. Apologizing was something I didn’t do often, but I needed Pokoh’s help. “Come on, man. I drove up here ‘cause you’re on the case.”

  “Rumor has you’re working private. I don’t give a shit about private.”

  “On rez authority, too,” I lied. “A murder.”

  “Whose?”

  “Two men, father and son at the pueblo, had their throats slit in their beds.”

  “That’s cold. Any leads.”

  “Working the idea the perps come from this area.”

  Pokoh stared at me, for minutes it seemed. “We had a similar murder two weeks ago. Similar M.O. A Mexican man. No leads, though.” He turned his chair and looked out the window. “So, why you want to see where the horses were killed?”

  I explained my arrangement with Palafox.

  Pokoh stood. “Let’s go.”

  We hopped into his truck, the same beat up ’72 Chevy C10 I’d seen before and headed south along CO-172. The alpine air was clear and cool.

  Pokoh said, “Altogether, we found three dead Arabians up here. All shot in the head at night. Weird thing is, there was no attempt to hide the carcasses. All three was dumped alongside the 172 in full view of traffic. First I figured they were a bunch of dumb shits just being dicks.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, I combed the area and they was very careful about covering their tracks. No footprints, no tire tracks, no expended shells. Clean crime scene. No cans, bottles, or cigarette butts, so no DNA. Each dump site was at a road curve or cut that blocked view from most angles. Asked around the area. No strange trucks or trailers. No unusual noises.”

  “Locals?” I asked.

  “Well, they seem to know the layout of the highways and traffic patterns to make sure they won’t be interrupted or seen from a distance.”

  Pokoh said, “ ‘S’what I think. All three horses were found next to the road or partly on it, so no tire tracks or footprints.”

  We passed a hand-painted sign next to the road that said This Land Was Your Land.

  “What’s that about?”

  Pokoh chuffed. “Sagebrush Rebellion, they call it. Utah, Nevada, here, Idaho, Wyoming, wherever you see big plots of BLM land. Assholes say they’re riding a wave of citizen anger and claim to be locals. But the lying bastards are fronting flatlanders wantin’ money-makers like grazing, oil, gas, mining. People with political connections are demanding return of federal land to state control. Return to the state, can you believe that shit? How ‘bout returning it to the people that lived here in the first fuckin’ place?”

  “You need to quit holdin’ it in, you know. Let it all out. Express yourself.”

  Pokoh laughed.

  As we travelled, we passed several eighteen-wheeled tankers, each with the white two-feather logo I’d noticed before. “I’m seein’ a lot of that two-feather insignia.”

  “Right, that’s the emblem of Red Pine Production. Owned by Southern Utes, like everything else.”

  “Oh?”

  “Big time. One of the most productive natural gas fields in the country right here. Plus, we Utes got gas leases in Texas, Wyoming, and the Gulf of Mexico. Got real estate near San Diego.” Pokoh slapped the steering wheel. “Fuckin’ traffic, too,” he said while passing a slow-moving tanker.

  “What’s that written between the feathers?” I asked.

  “Where?”

  “Between the two feathers on the truck’s door. A word in, what, Ute? Queogand. What’s it mean?”

  “Queogand? Bear. It means bear. Each truck has a name that symbolizes our past. Bear’s a big deal in Ute legends. Better believe it.”

  When we passed another tanker, I asked the same question. “What’s Teahshooggoosh?”

  Pokoh said, “Deer. Deer is a survivor. Like us Indians, right?”

  We passed two others, Coyote, Yeodze, and Wolf, Shinab, before we pulled over at a curve in the road where eight-foot berms hid the road from outside view. Pokoh handed me a pair of disposable shoe covers to wear. I put them on over my boots.

  I stepped out of the truck and walked over to a stain on the edge of the highway. I pointed to the spot. “Blood?”

  “Yup. The mare, Rababa. Pregnant, you know. Damn shame. Found two others down the road about a half mile. Same kind of place like this, but different days. I’ll show you when we’re done here.”

  The site was a perfect dump. The road curved through low hills and blocked all but the closest eyes. The nearest farmhouse, about a half mile away, was out of view. I walked south about three hundred yards but found nothing of interest. Ignacio Sheriff’s CSI unit had picked over the place and footprints were everywhere. Pokoh leaned up against his pickup, arms folded, like he’d found all the evidence and I was wasting his time.

  Since this crime scene had no human victim, the possibility that detective work may have been sloppy was strong. After returning and heading north past the blood stains, I spotted blue in the grass. “Look at this.”

  Pokoh trotted over. He picked up the blue cloth with a pair of tweezers and held it up to the bright sun. He seemed a little embarrassed when he said, “Good eye. Yeah, part of a hospital bootie, looks like. No marks or tags so we’re down to about what, five million suspects?”

  I said, “Also explains why there are no unique footprints.”

  “Only thing it proves is these perps is pros.” Pokoh shook his head.

  I stepped close to the scrap to study it. “There’s a stain on it. Mud, maybe. Might be enough for analysis.”

  “I’ll send it in,” he said. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and stuffed the bootie scrap in, sealed and marked the envelope. “Let’s go, I got two more places to show you.”

  We headed to the truck. Pokoh hopped in behind the wheel and locked his seat belt when I did.

  He turned to me. “I got this theory of what’s going on.”

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “Well, I been asking around. Knocking on doors, hitting the bars, you know. Funny how people talk when you buy their beer.”

  I said, “Drunks can talk bullshit.” I was an expert on the subject. I’d played the part back in the day.

 
“So, I’m talking to this sheepherder, guy named Rafi Maestrejuan. He jabbers a load of bullshit for ten minutes, then he brags he’s got a secret. Don’t tell no one, he says, but before I agree, he just blurts it out,” Pokoh said.

  He leaned in to start the engine, pumped the accelerator twice, waited, then turned the key. “Got to do it just right, it’s touchy as hell,” he said, chuckling. The engine sputtered, then coughed to a standstill. “Now we got to wait some to restart the engine, besides, you and me gotta talk.”

  A loud snap and the windshield spidered around a small hole. Pokoh’s head jerked back, forward, then crashed into the steering wheel with a crack. Warm blood splattered over me and ran down the cab’s back wall.

  I threw open the door, dove to the ground and rolled. I scrambled behind the truck, tried to catch my breath and bearings. I caught enough air to feed my sprinting heart as I searched for the shooter. The shot had come from the front and at a distance, but the road-side berms hid the trigger man. The only way I could get a view was to crawl to the top of the mound. It wasn’t a good plan until I had some idea where he was. A rifleman that good required a healthy dose of respect and fear.

  Worse, I was unarmed, with my S&W sitting in my truck.

  Pokoh had a Glock. I crawled around to the driver’s side of the pickup and opened the door. If Pokoh had not been strapped in, he would have fallen on me, the poor bastard. I reached around his waist; the smell of copper strong enough to make my nose itch.

  Pokoh wore a holster on his right side and I fumble-fucked with its safety strap, slippery with blood. The dead man did not cooperate, leaning into my arm as I tried to pull out his weapon

  Stones clicked behind me. I pulled harder at the pistol, nearly dislodging the body from the front seat. A rock rolled down the embankment. I spun, dropped to the dirt on my ass. I pointed the Glock, adrenaline shakes destroying my aim.

  Deer stood at the top of the rise staring at me with his huge eyes, his ears following sound independently and waiting for me to say something. Unable to speak or move, I stared through the quivering gun sight at the reddish-brown creature. His rack branched four feet across and reached up two feet above his head. The dark V-shaped markings on his forehead pointed to his twitchy nose.