“Which Bonners?” Andy murmured.
No one answered.
Andy walked home by himself the next day, since J.J. had left school early for an appointment with his orthodontist.
Andy saw that their street-side mailbox was stuffed with the fall and early Christmas catalogs. He swept up the armful, carried it inside, and dumped it onto the kitchen table.
To his surprise, one of the envelopes had his own name and address printed on it, but there was no return address. As he stared at the thick block letters on the envelope, he felt that there was something ominous inside the envelope.
He didn’t want to open it, but his curiosity won out. Andy reached into the nearest drawer, pulled out the letter opener, and slit the top of the envelope.
The block printing on the sheet of paper was the same as the address. The message was short:
HUNTER: THIS IS YOUR SECOND WARNING. BACK OFF OR YOU WON’T LIKE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU.
Andy heard his mother’s car in the driveway, stuffed the frightening threat back into the envelope, and shoved the envelope inside the waistband of his jeans, under his T-shirt. There was no way he was going to show the letter to his mom.
How could he explain this letter? He needed to talk to J.J. Andy glanced at the kitchen clock. J.J. should be home from the orthodontist by this time.
As Mrs. Thomas entered the kitchen, Andy dashed out. “Hi, Mom. Bye, Mom. Going to J.J.’s. Back before dinner!” he yelled.
Andy ran the entire way. J.J., who answered the doorbell, didn’t even have a chance to say hello as Andy pushed him into the den.
“What’s with you?” J.J. asked.
“I got this letter today. You have to read it.” Andy pulled the letter from his shirt and shoved it into J.J.’s hands.
J.J. opened the letter while Andy collapsed on the sofa.
As he read the letter, J.J.’s eyes grew wide. “Who’s this from?” he asked.
“I don’t know. No return address.”
J.J. plopped down beside Andy and stared at the letter again. “I think it’s a joke—just like that warning you got over the telephone.”
“Joke?” Andy sat upright, snatched the letter, and stuffed it back under his T-shirt. “Some joke!” He lowered his voice. “The letter writer called me Hunter. Only a few people know that name is mine.”
“A few people, like everybody in class.” J.J. grimaced. “You told everybody about using the name Hunter when you told them about getting the copies of Coley Joe’s letters.”
Andy stared at the letter. “I can’t believe this is a joke.”
“Okay, so who else did you tell?”
Andy frowned as he thought. “Mom and Dad, of course. And Grandpa and Grandma … and you.”
“Maybe the letter came from your grandpa. He likes to tease.”
“Threats aren’t funny.”
“Some of his jokes aren’t, either, but he thinks they are.
A stray thought zapped Andy like the painful sting of a mosquito. He looked away from J.J. and climbed to his feet. “Thanks for reading the letter. I’ve gotta go.”
“You just got here,” J.J. said. “Why don’t you stick around? We’ll get something to eat.”
“I’m supposed to rake leaves for my grandpa.”
Andy headed toward the front door, J.J. following. “Hey, are you okay?” J.J. asked.
“Sure,” Andy said. “I just forgot about the leaves, that’s all.”
He hurried out to the sidewalk and plodded for home, without a single backward glance.
“See you tomorrow,” J.J. called.
“Sure. Tomorrow,” Andy yelled, and waved a hand in J.J.’s direction.
He and J.J. had been best friends for years. Andy knew he’d told a number of people about using the name Hunter. That was no big deal. But the letter had spoken about a second warning, and—besides himself—nobody but J.J. knew about that first warning.
It hit Andy hard, but as far as he could figure out, only J.J., his best friend, could have written the letter.
CHAPTER TEN
Andy raked not only Grandpa Zeke’s lawn, but his own, amazing and delighting his parents and grandparents. As he came into the kitchen, he overheard his mother on the telephone saying to his grandmother, “You never know what to expect at this age. Sometimes they show such bursts of maturity.”
Maturity? When all he wanted to do was rake leaves?
“There’s nothing to eat in the refrig,” Andy complained. He shut the door so hard two magnets and a note about a parent-teacher conference flopped to the floor. “How come there’s never anything good to eat around here?” He bent over and wiped his dripping forehead with the edge of his sweat-stained shirt.
“Take a shower before dinner,” his mother called.
“I was going to, Mom. You didn’t have to tell me.”
As Andy clomped out of the room, he heard his mother sigh and ask, “Does anyone understand boys at this age?”
At the moment Andy didn’t care if anyone understood him or not. All he could think about was that something odd was going on with his best friend.
Had J.J. written the warning letter? And if he had, why? J.J. had talked about a joke. Was this his idea of a joke? Andy shook his head. A warning letter wasn’t the kind of joke best friends played on each other.
Andy dawdled in the shower as long as he could, until his dad pounded on the door and said, “Your mother says come down to supper.”
Within fifteen minutes Andy—hair still damp—slid into his chair at the kitchen table, where his parents were seated. Andy saw that his dad had almost finished eating, but his mother had been taking little bites, waiting for him to show up.
“Sorry I’m late,” Andy said.
“It’s okay,” his dad said. “Thanks for raking the lawn.”
“And Grandpa’s lawn, too,” his mother said cheerfully. She smiled at Andy’s dad. “Bill,” she said, “nobody even asked Andy to do the job. He chose to rake the leaves, all on his own. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“We’re proud of you, son,” his father said.
They’ve been reading that psychology book about how to understand your teenager, Andy thought. His parents didn’t know it, but he’d read it too, wanting to know what he was in for. Praise the things that can be praised. Overlook the little problems. Andy remembered that chapter. He grabbed his fork and lit into the meat loaf on his plate.
Mr. Thomas shoved a sheet of paper at Andy. “More e-mail for Hunter,” he said.
Andy sat upright. “More of Coley Joe’s letters?”
“Nope. You’ve got another correspondent. A DrPR. I guess, from the way he’s chosen his ID, that he’s a doctor.”
“A doctor? What kind of a doctor?”
“Read and find out.”
Andy read aloud, “ ‘Hunter: If you are a student of Texas history, you should know about the last battle of the Salt Wars that took place a few days after a public execution on December 17, 1877, in San Elizario. If you aren’t familiar with the Salt Wars, go to your library. In the social sciences department, you’ll find The Handbook of Texas, 976.4. In volume three read what C. L. Sonnichsen has written about the Salt Wars. Also, The History of Texas, by Bretze and Lehmberg, Noble and Noble, 1954, gives a brief account of the Salt Wars.’ ”
Andy put down the sheet of paper. “Dr. PR writes like a teacher. What’s all that stuff about Salt Wars? What does that have to do with Coley Joe?”
“There’s one way to find out,” Mr. Thomas said. “Do what Dr. PR suggests. Go to the library.”
Andy poked at his meat loaf as he tried to think. “Coley Joe wasn’t a soldier, Dad. He wouldn’t have gone off to fight in a war.”
Mr. Thomas shrugged. “You asked a question, and somebody out there sent you an answer. Check it out. What have you got to lose?”
Glancing at the kitchen clock, Andy said, “I’ll ride over to the library right after dinner.”
“Bill,” Mrs. Thomas said,
“it’s getting late. Why don’t you drive him?”
“Aw, Mom,” Andy said, “it won’t be dark for a couple of hours. I’ll be home long before then.”
His mother and father gave each other a look. “I don’t see anything wrong with that,” his father said.
Mrs. Thomas sighed. “If you say so,” she murmured, then turned to Andy. “Would you like dessert now or after your trip to the library?”
“After,” Andy said.
As his mother began talking about what she’d wear to Saturday’s opening night of Hermosa’s Community Theatre, Andy wolfed down the rest of his dinner and pushed back his chair. “May I be excused … uh … please?” he asked.
“Of course,” Mrs. Thomas said. “Watch the traffic. Be careful.…”
There was probably more, but Andy, who had grabbed his pen and notebook, leaped out the door and onto his bike. He fastened the chin strap on his helmet, raced down the driveway, and arrived at the James Jonathan Gasper Memorial Library within ten minutes.
It wasn’t hard to find volume three of The Handbook of Texas, with the information about the Salt Wars. The library even had one old, slightly battered copy of The History of Texas. The information about the Salt Wars took up only a few paragraphs in each book. No long, dry stuff to get through, Andy thought, so he happily settled down to read and take notes.
Andy read carefully. Before settlers came to the El Paso area, there were shallow lakes, or “flats,” at the foot of Guadalupe Peak, east of El Paso. These flats held great quantities of salt.
For years Native American tribes gathered the salt they needed, sharing without problems, until the white settlers arrived. At first, the settlers shared, too. But in 1869 two men—W. W. Mills and Albert J. Fountain—tried to acquire title to the salt deposits. They were opposed by a Louis Cardis, who controlled the local Mexican populace, and a Catholic priest—Father Antonio Borrajo of the nearby settlement of San Elizario.
In 1870 fighting broke out over the salt rights, and a Judge Gaylord Judd Clark was killed. Fountain moved to New Mexico, and for a few years there were no problems.
Then in 1874, Charles Howard, a former Confederate officer, became district judge. He filed on the Salt Lakes in the name of his father-in-law, Major George B. Zimpleman. This act outraged the citizens from Mexico, who felt they had a right to continue taking salt from the lakes.
In September 1877, when Howard arrested two men who had threatened to go for salt, a riot took place. Howard was held prisoner in San Elizario and was released only when he promised to give up his claim to the salt and leave the area.
He not only didn’t keep his promise, but on October 10, Howard shot and killed Louis Cardis.
In the first days of December, sixteen wagons left for the Salt Lakes, but Howard brought suit against their owners and went to San Elizario to press charges.
At Howard’s request he was protected from an angry mob by the Texas Rangers, but a battle began. Howard surrendered, believing he’d be freed, as did the Texas Rangers, who also surrendered. However, Howard and his two aides were shot by a firing squad, and San Elizario was looted by a mob.
Detachments of U.S. Army troops arrived in San Elizario, along with a posse of American citizens. Four men were killed, and a number were wounded.
The leaders and many members of the mob fled into Mexico. Indictments were made out against some of them, but no one was ever arrested or brought to trial. The only action that was taken was by the U.S. Army in reestablishing Fort Bliss, which had been abandoned.
Andy leaned back in his chair, put down his pen, and rubbed his hand. Okay. There was a war over salt. Howard and two aides were executed, but what did that have to do with Coley Joe?
He read his notes over again, and as he reached the next to the last paragraph, he shuddered, a chill crawling up his spine. Four men were killed, and a number were wounded.
Coley Joe had written to Felicity that he was going to San Elizario with a friend. Coley Joe was new to the area, but the friend should have known about the bad situation in San Elizario. Is it possible that Coley Joe was one of the men killed in that final battle? Andy sat and wondered. And if he was, what happened to his family’s money?
So many questions. He’d never find the answers. Andy slumped down in his chair, groaned, and clapped his hands over his eyes.
He jumped as someone touched his shoulder. Peering through his fingers, Andy saw the head librarian looking down at him. Mrs. Alonzo was a friendly middle-aged woman with soft eyes as dark as her hair. At this moment her eyes were filled with concern.
“Andy, are you all right?” she asked.
Andy nodded. “It’s tough being a detective,” he said.
Mrs. Alonzo sighed. “Right. It’s tough being a librarian, too.”
As she turned and walked away, Andy sat upright and closed the reference books. He had a lot of thinking to do and wasn’t sure what was going to come next.
What would a real detective do? he wondered. He had seen enough private-eye movies to know that PIs wrote down the facts they came up with and added them all together. He could do that. Andy flipped to the next page in the notebook and began to write:
Coley Joe went to San Elizario just before the last battle in the Salt Wars.
He went to buy cattle. Did he?
He went with a friend.
Andy stopped writing and read the last sentence over again. Who was Coley Joe’s friend? How was he ever going to find that out? He began to write again:
Four men were killed at that last battle. Was Coley Joe one of them?
Was his friend killed, too?
If Coley Joe was killed, what happened to his family’s money?
There was nobody around who knew the answers to these questions, not even Elton, out at the cemetery. Andy read the paper over and groaned loudly. He folded his arms over his notebook, rested his head on his arms, and groaned again.
Once again Mrs. Alonzo’s soft voice spoke over him. “Andy, are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
Andy sat up. “I’ve got a lot of questions without answers,” he said.
Mrs. Alonzo smiled, pulled up a chair, and sat opposite him. “Well, I’ve got answers without any questions,” she said. “Why don’t we put our questions and answers together and see if any of them match?”
Andy thought a moment. Anything was worth a try. “Do you know about the Texas Salt Wars?” he asked.
“I can quickly find out. I see you’ve got one of the volumes in The Handbook of Texas. As I remember, it includes the Salt Wars.”
Andy turned back a page in his notebook and slid it in the librarian’s direction. “It does,” he said. “Here are my notes.”
She read the notes and looked up. “What’s your first question?”
“The article said four men were killed. I need to know who they were.”
“Okay,” she answered.
“Okay?” Andy asked. “Okay? Just like that?”
“The answer isn’t going to come flying through the window,” she said. “It might take some digging to find it.”
“I don’t know where to start the digging.”
She smiled. “I do. Look, both the U.S. Army and the Texas Rangers were involved in the Salt Wars. That means reports were filed.”
Andy’s mouth fell open. “All the way back in 1877?”
“Right.”
“Would somebody still have them?”
“Most likely. That’s the first thing we’re going to find out.”
“We?”
“Librarians don’t just check books in and out,” Mrs. Alonzo said. “We help our patrons.”
A strange, excited, tingly feeling spread from Andy’s back and up through his chest. He began to believe again that he really could find out what happened to Coley Joe.
“We’re into the weekend,” Mrs. Alonzo said, “so come by after school on Monday. I’m going to check with the Texas State Archives office in Austin and see what they
can tell me.”
“Cool,” Andy said. “Thanks.”
Mrs. Alonzo stood. “See you Monday,” she said.
As Andy pushed through the outer doors of the library, he stopped short, startled that while he’d been in the library the sun had gone down. Streetlamps, office lights, and traffic signals gleamed and winked through the darkness.
A car’s headlights picked up the red glow from the reflectors on Andy’s bike and helmet as Andy trotted down the steps to the bike rack. His mother wasn’t going to like his being out after dark, so he’d better get home as quickly as possible. Andy hopped on his bike, fastened his helmet, and carefully pulled into traffic.
Within a few minutes Andy turned left off Gasper Street, taking a shortcut through residential streets. He picked up speed as his mind raced through what he’d learned and hoped to learn. Coley Joe, with a great deal of money on him, might have ridden into a mob war. If he had been killed … Andy could picture the astonishment and happiness in Miss Winnie’s face when he told her, “Coley Joe wasn’t a thief. He was a good, honorable man. He went with a friend into the wrong place at the wrong time and …”
But who was the friend?
Andy sighed. That was the number one question. He wished he knew.
As he drew near his house, a shadow seemed to rise from the bushes around his mailbox and leap into the even darker shadows under the oak trees.
Andy braked so fast that his bicycle wobbled. He jumped the curb, wheeled the bike into the grass, and leaped toward the shadows. “Hey!” he yelled. “Come out of there!”
No one answered. No one moved. Andy waited for an answer, but there was only silence.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You aren’t going to get away from here!” Andy shouted into the darkness. “I’m not going to take my eyes off this spot, and I’m going to yell for the police. When they come …”
“Hey, Andy! Who are you talking to?” J.J. called from the driveway at the other side of Andy’s house.
Andy took a step back and whirled around. “J.J.? What are you doing there?”
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