Carmen looked at me intently. “Even with the covers off that thing’s still working.”
“I want the guy who planted this to think it is still working. Sending him our true location and direction.”
We pulled back on the road. Ten minutes later, I turned into a rest stop and parked in front of two small cabins that served as restrooms.
“Pit stop,” I said.
No one in sight. We got out and walked into the separate buildings. I emerged first and took a minute to look around.
Back at the Land Cruiser, I took my Swiss Army knife and a “Travel-Sized” roll of duct tape out of the console between our seats. I cut off a ten-inch strip of tape to attach the device to a metal guardrail that protected the curb from reckless parkers.
But as a steel-gray Dodge Ram 4x4 pulled up on Carmen’s side of the Cruiser, an even better idea came to mind. A heavy-set bearded man in jeans and a plaid Pendleton shirt lurched out of the truck and lumbered into the men’s restroom.
I walked around the back of the Cruiser and sidled up to the cargo area of the transport. Reaching over the side panel with my right arm, I fastened the tracker to the floor of the cargo bed with the strip of duct tape just as Carmen came back. Our invisible enemies could have all the data they wanted now.
After a few minutes, the bearded guy left the restroom, checked a highway map posted near its door, and then ambled back to his truck.
Carmen wagged a finger at me as I climbed back in the Cruiser. “Clever. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Not yet. We need our friend to leave first.”
The man started his engine. Pulling out of the rest stop, he headed south on 117.
I waited until the Ram vanished in the distance, and then continued south for less than a minute before I turned off onto a narrow, two-lane blacktop. A couple of miles along County Road 41, we approached a grove of scrub oak at the base of a sandstone ledge. I pulled the Cruiser in as close as I could get to the rock face and parked, facing outward, toward the road. We were screened on one side by the outcropping and on the other side by the oak trees.
I cut the engine and took a deep breath. Then I reached into the glove compartment and took out my Colt, slipping it into the pocket of my jacket.
Carmen watched me all the way. “Why?”
“In case my little switcheroo didn’t work.”
During ten silent minutes, not a single car passed in either direction. I restarted the engine.
Carmen placed her left hand on my right leg. “I underestimated you. You’ve got the makings of a true detective.” She added with a wink, “Or a very cunning criminal.”
I pulled out onto County Road 41.
Early afternoon gusts of wind picked up Catron County sand and flung it across our path. Our view of the road became intermittent as the Cruiser’s wipers struggled to shed accumulating sand. I would have missed the turn-off for Forest Service road 6/6A without the vocal guidance of our satellite GPS.
My throat felt parched. “You have any more coffee?”
“Nope.”
After-effects from the gazebo explosion added to my shortage of sleep, hit me like an iron fist. My arms felt like anchors. I rolled my window down, covered my mouth against the blowing sand, and took some slow, deep, even breaths.
“Does anyone know we’re coming?” Carmen said.
“I doubt it. There’s no phone at the cabin, so I couldn’t call ahead. Rebecca Turner from the lawyer’s office swears the caretaker was notified by registered letter when Aunt Nellie died.”
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe…or who to trust, for that matter.” I rolled my window back up.
“I hope you don’t feel that way about me.”
“Any reason I should doubt you?”
“No. And there never will be.”
I looked over at her, and she smiled. Then she pointed to my left hand gripping the steering wheel. “Where’s your wedding ring, Gabe?”
“Guess I left it at home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
We drove through another twenty miles of grassland, junipers and piñon pine. Eight-to-ten acre country estates carved out of former ranch land dotted both sides of the road. Many of them looked vacant; driveways empty, shades drawn, gates closed.
I turned east at Tres Lagunas. Ten minutes later, the entrance to the McPhaul Ranch came into view. A sign at their roadside fence announced that one division of the ranch, some 23,500 acres, was for sale at a reduced price of just under $13,000,000. My 4,800 acres were more valuable than I might have guessed, regardless of the condition of the cabin.
We skirted a dry creek bed for about five miles, and then headed north along Forest Service Road 6A. The Land Cruiser kicked up loose stones that hammered against the wheel wells. Several times we briefly lost traction in the gravel.
I stopped at the end of the road and both of us stepped out, and I scanned the eastern landscape with binoculars.
“There it is.” I pointed toward a cabin and a pen full of sheep situated atop a small mesa a half-mile east. A large, quaking aspen tree shaded the simple structure that my great-uncle and Jose Ramos built in 1921. A swath of rugged terrain and a two hundred foot climb separated us from our destination.
Carmen took the binoculars. “Can we make it up there?”
“We’re gonna try.”
We returned to the Cruiser and I eased it down into the dry creek bed. The ground was firm enough all the way to the base of the mesa. I stopped there and engaged the Crawl Assist Control. We began a slow, steady ascent using a natural, rock-strewn ramp along the side of the mesa.
Halfway up we hit a patch of soft sand and gravel and slid sideways. The Cruiser pitched to the right. Carmen screamed as I yanked the steering wheel to the left to maintain our balance and pressed down on the gas to regain traction. When we arrived safely at the top of the mesa, I patted the SUV’s dashboard.
Carmen patted my leg. “Well done.”
The old cabin now stood in front of us, just beyond several animal pens. A pair of burros grazed on loose forage in the nearest enclosure, while a single horse drank from a windmill-fed stock tub in front of a three-sided shed. Red and brown four-horned Churro sheep bleated and scuttled around a third, smaller pen, apparently alarmed by our sudden appearance. I looked around. I saw no one.
Carmen ignored the animals and used my binoculars to scan the nearby countryside. “Nothing,” she said.
The cabin had seen more than ninety New Mexican summers and it showed. The rough-hewn lumber on its sides was warped and bleached by decades of direct sun. The top of the chimney was jagged and in desperate need of a rebuild. A handcrafted bench sat on the porch to the right of the door. Next to it, a red and gray Navajo-style rug covered an over-sized rocking chair. A small vegetable garden on the cabin’s western side had been rough-tilled, but I didn’t see any plants.
A strong gust of wind raised a funnel of dirt in front of the cabin and fine sand stung my eyes. Aside from the low hiss of the blowing sand, the only other sound came from inside the cabin—the frenzied barking of a dog.
“Keep an eye on the path we came in on,” I told Carmen. “Holler if you see anything.”
I tossed her my keys and pulled my gun from the Land Cruiser’s glove compartment. I approached the cabin, jumped the three porch steps, and knocked on a hand-carved weathered door.
“Anybody home?”
The barking intensified. Someone coughed, called out a command in Spanish, and the dog fell silent. The latch lifted, and as I tightened my grip on my Colt, the door cracked open a couple of inches.
“Quién eres?” The voice sounded tired and weak.
“My name is McKenna, Gabriel McKenna. Is your last name Ramos?”
“Si, Ramos.”
“Chato?”
“Si.” The door opened. A bent-over, wizened old man stepped onto the porch. His dark, unfocused eyes looked right through me. Uncombed gray hair spilled
over his shoulders. He leaned against a walking stick. His wisp of a beard fluttered a bit in the breeze. An old pistola jutted from his belt.
This was the young man named in James A. McKenna’s Last Will and Testament.
A large, mixed-breed, reddish-brown dog slouched next to him and growled at me.
“Señor Ramos, I have bad news for you. Nellie McKenna has passed away.”
“I know.” He sighed and bowed his head. “My son read the letter to me. A very sad thing. Would you come inside? The sun is very hot today.” He felt for the side of the door and shuffled into the cabin.
I glanced back at Carmen. She’d already begun to assemble our tent. I turned and followed Chato inside to a dim interior. An old stove dominated the center of the cabin. A cord of cut wood had been piled within arm’s reach of the stove.
The few furnishings were rustic and of Spanish colonial design. A small rectangular table with two plain carved chairs abutted the left-hand wall. Could this be the table at which James McKenna and Jose Ramos sat in 1921, when they pledged to keep secret the treasure in gold they’d found only months before?
Open wooden shelves against the opposite wall held a crowd of canisters, tools and kitchen gadgets.
A double bed with metal inlay on its headboard sat flush against the rear wall of the cabin, and a rickety armoire stood open, its mirror-door askew because of a missing hinge.
A thin layer of sand covered the floor, doubtless blown in by the wind. The cabin smelled of sweat and dog and old ashes.
Chato paused in front of the stove and turned to face me. “Why are you here?”
“I’m Nellie McKenna’s heir, her great-nephew. I just arrived in Albuquerque and came out to see what this place was like.”
“I have lived in this cabin all my life. Must I leave now?”
“No. Don’t worry, Chato. You can stay.”
“I told my son, Ricardo, to deliver a message to the man Nellie gave this property to. I have not heard from my son in two weeks. Did he speak to you?” Chato reached out and felt around until his hand gripped my sleeve. “Ricardo is dead, isn’t he?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Señor Ramos. He sent me a note and asked me to meet with him. I drove to his house and found his body. The police are looking for his killer.”
Chato moaned and hobbled over to the bed. He collapsed on the edge of its thin mattress and rocked back and forth. The dog followed, sat at his feet, and whimpered.
“My Ricardo. They did it.” Chato buried his head in his hands and sobbed. His entire body shook, and he made the Sign of the Cross with his right hand.
It felt cruel to trouble him now, but I needed information quickly. “You said ‘They did it.’ Who were these people?”
Chato continued to rock on the bed. I crouched to see his face. “Tell me all you can about the people who came to see you.”
“Mr. McKenna, I am an old man. What can I do? I cannot even tell you what they look like. I am blind. All I see are shadows.”
“When did they come here?”
“About a week ago.”
Around the time the maps were stolen from my house. I rested my hand on Chato’s shoulder. “How many?”
“Two different men spoke. But there was one other.”
“Were any names mentioned? Anything unusual about their voices?”
“One man did most of the talking. He gave the orders. Spoke very fast. In a loud voice, very strong.” Chato cocked his head as if to hear the man’s voice again.
“And the other one?”
“Two,” he said. “One of them stayed silent. That one walked around behind me and walked to the sink. Worked the water pump. Then walked back to the others. Light footsteps. A woman…or a small man.”
The dog barked again. Chato silenced him with a wave. Then the light in the cabin dimmed further. I looked back at the door. Carmen stood in the doorway and peered inside.
“Come on in,” I said.
Chato leaned toward me and whispered. “Who is with you?”
“This is Carmen Flores. She’s a policewoman from Albuquerque.”
“Please come in,” the old man said.
Carmen entered and approached us.
I leaned closer to Chato and spoke in a quiet tone. “This man who did most of the talking—the one with the loud voice—what did he say?”
“He wanted to know about the gold,” Chato said.
“The gold?”
“The Lost Adams gold. The gold that James McKenna and my father found.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“The first man said he knew we had the gold somewhere. He said if I wanted to live—if I wanted my son to live—I had to tell him where it was.”
“Did you tell him about the gold?”
“I said nothing. Then the other one slapped me hard on my face. Still, I said nothing. Then the first man told the other, ‘This old one is just as stubborn as his son.’ That is when I knew they had already tried to get the secret from Ricardo. I was afraid for him.”
“Is that all?”
“No. The second man said to the first, he said, ‘Boss’—he called the man boss—‘it must be back at the house.’ I don’t know what house he meant—”
“He meant Aunt Nellie’s house. My house.”
“Then the first man hit me on the side of my head again and I fell to the floor.”
“What did Roja do?”
“Later, I woke up and found Roja asleep on the porch. These men must have drugged him. He slept until later that night and ate nothing until the next day. Mr. McKenna, you must know this—I did not betray the secret. I would never tell them. I would die rather than betray my father’s promise.” Tears welled in Chato’s eyes. “They did not get the truth from Ricardo and they could not get it from me.”
I could see his son’s lifeless eyes again. Fear, frozen in amber.
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?”
“I do remember one thing.” He raised his right hand and extended the index finger into the air. “It was early evening when they came here. Before they left, the second man, the one who hardly spoke, asked if he should go back to Albuquerque or to Ambrosia.”
“Ambrosia? Anything else?”
“No. Mr. McKenna, I kept my promise to Señorita Nellie. You must know this. Ricardo and I, we kept our word. We told no one about the gold.”
Carmen moved closer to him as I stood. “Can you tell us where it is? After all, Mr. McKenna inherited Nellie’s estate.”
Chato’s head turned quickly toward her. He started to speak, then stopped and put a finger to his lips. “I have nothing more to tell you. James McKenna told Nellie where we hid the gold. If you really are the one who inherited her estate, you already possess the answer. Read my son’s letter. Do not ask me again. That is all I will say.” The old man sighed and wiped tears from his eyes with a red kerchief. “I have to rest.” The dog curled up on the floor.
“I’ll be in touch, Chato. I’m very sorry for your loss. We’ll leave you alone now. If you need anything, our tent is just outside.” I walked to the door and tugged Carmen’s arm as I passed her. She followed me outside.
The sun had begun its descent behind Veteado and Techado mountains to the west. The wind had died down. I felt a chill in the air.
I knelt in front of the small circle of stones Carmen had assembled for our fire pit. In the twilight I took a long look at the surrounding hillsides, dry washes, and even drier creek beds. “We’ll have to forget about a fire,” I told her. “This place is a tinderbox.”
Time to check the cooler. Sandwiches and cold drinks. Not much of a dinner on a cold night. We huddled together inside the Land Cruiser and ate in silence.
“I don’t think it’s here,” I said finally.
“The gold?”
“Chato may know where it is, or he may not. He’s mourning Ricardo tonight. Maybe I can talk with him again in the morning.”
�
�Look, he just stepped outside.” Carmen pointed toward the cabin.
Chato and his dog stood on the porch. They moved slowly toward the sheep pen. The Churros stirred. Chato found the gate, opened it, and entered the pen. It was feeding time.
I got out of the vehicle. “Chato,” I called out, “is there anything I can do to help?”
“Oh, no. I have tended animals my whole life.” He moved into the pen. “I am better with them than I am with people. My sheep know me. They know I take good care of them.”
He spread out hay and grain and reached into each of the stock tubs to apparently check the water levels. He patted the aged horse’s flanks gently and gave him a quick brushing. Once finished with his chores, he left the pen, careful to secure the gate before he headed back to the cabin with the old dog by his side. He and Roja were nothing but shadows now.
“Who will bring food and other provisions to you now that Ricardo is gone?” I asked.
“I take care of myself. What I do not have, I do not need. All my life this is how it has been.”
He couldn’t survive out here all by himself. “I will stop by every two weeks and bring you food and drinking water,” I promised.
The dog, barely a shadow at Chato’s feet, began to growl at something out in the darkness.
“Roja, what is it?” Chato said.
I heard nothing.
Carmen exited the Land Cruiser and looked off in the distance. “Somebody out there?” she called into the darkness.
“Most likely a coyote,” Chato spoke from the porch steps. “You will hear them all night outside your tent. Do not invite them in.” He slowly climbed the steps to the cabin’s porch, and then paused at the door. “Señor McKenna? Could you do me a favor when you get back to Albuquerque?
“Anything.”
“Can you bring Ricardo home? He must be buried here next to his mother and his grandparents.”
“You have my word.”
Chato and Roja disappeared into the cabin. The door closed. There was no sound at all now, except for the slow chirp of a cricket and the whisper of a breeze.
I bent down and lit the Coleman lantern that Carmen had placed outside the door to our tent. I carried the cooler with our food around to the back of the Cruiser and locked it inside.
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