Under Desert Sand

by R Lawson Gamble

  Tav shifted in his seat to face Zack. "Those boys were greenhorns. Both had .44 caliber Colt M1873 Old West Peacemaker revolvers. Those guns have a kick. The boys were a hundred feet from each other, yet we're supposed to believe they shot each other right in the middle of the forehead at exactly the same time." Tav shrugged. "You tell me."

  Susan sent Zack a triumphant look.

  "Who was first at the scene?" Zack asked.

  "Some old guy on a Honda quad. He was with a group traveling the Mojave Road. The old man had come over to see about water." Tav paused, looked at them. "Either of you know anything about this region?"

  Susan shook her head.

  "Not much," Zack said.

  Tav stood, went inside, came back with a park information pamphlet, opened it to a map and passed it to Zack. "If you wanted to travel west through this desert from the Colorado River in the old days, you could head for Soda Lake and the Mojave River which flows southwest toward Los Angeles. To get to it, you'd travel through a natural corridor of valleys and passes, the Mojave Road. Trouble is, you're lookin' at seventy, eighty miles of dry desert. There were seeps, springs, just enough to get you through, but you had to know where to find them. When the Spanish traveled from Santa Fe to California the Mojave tribesmen guided them across. Later the Americans used the road, built forts to guard the water holes. After that the railroad came through a different valley, other migration routes became more popular, the Mojave Road was abandoned, and the forts deserted."

  Tav walked to the cooler, poured a cup of water. He brought it back to his bench. He sat on the edge of it, leaned toward Zack. "The thing about these water holes was, they were very reliable. Americans lookin' to claim land and raise crops and graze stock came out here knowin' they were there, countin' on them. One of the most reliable springs is called Hidden Springs; been water there as far as anyone can remember. That water is critical. People have fought over that well for centuries. That's where the bodies were found."

  Zack scanned the map. "Where's Hidden Springs?"

  Tav leaned over, put a large finger down. "It's about 15 miles from here. Even today, its not marked. You still have to know where you're going."

  "Okay, I see it."

  Susan peered over Zack's shoulder. "Shouldn't we go up there?"

  Tav nodded. "We will. No hurry, though. There's nothin' up there now but sand and yellow tape."

  "How long since the bodies were found?" Zack asked.

  "It's been about 48 hours. From the condition of the bodies we guessed they'd been lying there anywhere from 10 to 18 hours."

  "Nobody could've stumbled on them before that?"

  "Just isn't likely. Could only be people traveling the Mojave Road, like that old guy."

  "What's happening now?" Zack asked, backhanding a bee away from his water.

  "The coroner has the bodies, he's looking 'em over. Trick is, neither boy had any ID on him. We still don't know who they are and what they were doing at the spring, rigged out like a couple of gun slingers."

  "Who's working the case?"

  "Besides me? Two BLM agents, several guys from the county sheriff's office, a private detective."

  Zack straightened at that. "A private cop? Why?"

  Tav gave a humorless smile. "Told you it's a bit complicated. Thing is, there've always been mineral and ranch interests in the area. The private cop represents the cattlemen's interests." Tav caught Susan's look of surprise. "Yeah, I know, doesn't seem like a great ranching area, but in fact homesteaders and large ranching outfits have fought over the area all along. Like I said, there are fairly reliable water sources here and there's lots of room for cattle to graze, long as they can graze wide and free. Fact is, this whole area was once involved in a range war––you know, a large cattle company up against homesteaders, the kind of thing like you see in the old western movies."

  Tav saw he had their interest, went ahead. "It's the story I wanted you to know before we go up to Hidden Springs. Back in 1905 there was a shootout between two gunslingers in that very same spot. Both men were killed, just like now. In fact, my first thought was these two young guys had gone up there to re-enact that gunfight and ended up killing each other by accident."

  Susan leaned toward Tav, a glint in her eye. "What did those men fight about?"

  Tav cleared his throat. "Legally, everyone in the valley had rights to water. Each of several court cases over the years ended the same way: every rancher, regardless of size, was entitled to access to the water holes. The big player in this drama was the Winslow Cattle Company, with thousands of head of cattle. It was all open range in the beginning; the small guys ran their small herds right alongside the Winslow cattle. Not surprisingly, there were mix-ups. Winslow would claim their cattle ended up with small outfit brands on 'em, the small outfits would claim the other way around. When the Winslow cattle wandered onto small farms and ate their wheat and trampled their gardens, well, that caused another stir. That's when fences started to go up.

  "Sounds the same as Montana or Wyoming or anywhere else in the west at that time," Zack said.

  Tav nodded. "That's about right, although it was all over and done with everywhere else by the time it happened here. No difference, though, other than water access was more critical here, maybe."

  Susan raised her eyebrows. "In western movies people started hanging each at this point."

  Tav shook his head. "We know what Hollywood does to reality. But things grew tense here, for sure. When the Winslow Cattle Company brought in a known outlaw and gunfighter to be their foreman, name of Jake Skowler, you could 'a cut the tension with a knife. The man wasn't no Sunday School teacher. He was a gunfighter and a quick-draw artist. He made no bones about his past, which included a fatal shooting. After a while, though, Skowler quit the Rock Springs outfit and started up a small ranch of his own right there in Fairfield Valley––joined the other side, as it were. Word was he had a row with a Winslow Cattle Company cowboy named Johnson, who had his own reputation as a gunslinger."

  "What did the little ranchers do?" Susan asked.

  "Nothin'. They had accidently acquired their own gunfighter, Skowler, to defend their interests." Tav leaned forward. "So the big cattle outfit places Johnson in a cabin at Hidden Springs, the most critical water hole in the area, and fences it off." Tav lifted his palms. "Now here's Johnson sitting at the water hole an' the whole valley buzzing with talk about who's got the fastest gun. There's real tension for you."

  "So what happened?" Susan blurted.

  Tav glanced at her, almost smiled. "In fact, nothing," he said. "At least, not for a long while. The two men ignored each other and went about their business. But the tension kept growin'."

  Tav stared up at the rafter, as if to get his facts in order. "It was November 8, 1905 that Skowler shows up at Hidden Springs with his hired hand driving a small bunch of cattle. Story is Jake calls out to Johnson, who's in the cabin, can he have water for the steers and Johnson yells back to go ahead. Skowler and his hand, name of Vanderhoff, open the gate and let the steers go to the water. Right then, according to Vanderhoff, Johnson calls to Skowler to come on in to the cabin. It all sounded amiable enough to Vanderhoff, until minutes after Skowler stepped through the door when all hell broke loose; two Frontier Colt .44s banged away in that tiny cabin."

  "And then?" Susan asked.

  "Well, according to Vanderhoff, after things went quiet, he went to take a look. He found Skowler lyin' just inside the door, dead. He'd been shot through the forehead. Robinson lay beside his bunk eight feet away, also shot in the forehead. Two shots, two guns, two bullets."

  Zack locked eyes with Tav. "What you're saying is these men died from bullets fired from Colt Frontier six-shooters over 100 years ago, and now these two boys died in almost the exact same way just a few days ago."

  Tav's mouth creased into a thin smile. "I reckon that's why Butch Short wanted you in on this."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The road north of Hole-In
-The-Wall was old asphalt, pitted and worn with tractor tread imprints that sent vibrations up their spines every time the Jeep tires rode over them. Windblown sand piled across the road in the bottom of the deeper arroyos, a smoother but more treacherous surface. When the road ended at the Mojave Road they followed Tav's white SUV to the right. Any suggestion of pavement ended here, but the sand surface was firm and the roadway wide. Off to the north tan cliffs guarded the base of Pinto Mountain, with its rounded barren summit suggesting the top of a monk's head.

  Ahead, Tav picked up speed, rolling up a cloud of fine dust the color of muddy coffee. It settled in their hair and layered on their clothing. Zack dropped back; it didn't help. The road deteriorated quickly, forming deep ruts. After a couple of miles it swung abruptly south over a rise, turned east again, and became hub deep sand. The jeep skated side to side; the tires slithering through it like water. Zack fought the wheel; tried to see through the dust, so thick he almost ran into Tav's vehicle, stopped in the roadway.

  Tav climbed out, walked back to the Jeep as they pulled up. "You'll want to drop into 4-wheel drive," he said. "We'll turn off the main road here. This next road isn't traveled so much."

  As he walked away Susan looked at Zack. "Worse than this?"

  "I think that's what he's saying." Zack shifted all the way to low 4-wheel drive.

  Susan felt a new respect for Tav's tendency toward understatement. They were glad they engaged the lower gears––the ruts were deep enough to bottom out the Jeep. They plunged down an embankment into a dry streambed, lurched and spun up the bank on the other side.

  "At least there's not as much dust," Susan said, trying to look on the bright side. They were moving too slowly to raise any. The two vehicles lurched and slipped their way up a low ridge, leveled off into another set of ruts coming from the east and followed the combined roads south along the ridge spine. Occasional Joshua trees stood in scattered groups like guests at a party, blackbush lined the road. The sand glimmered white, the Joshua tree needles were a dark green, the sky deep blue.

  Susan took it all in. "Who said the desert is drab."

  They couldn't guess their destination; there was nothing out there. A few lonesome pinyon pine dotted the flats, and low bushes of black and grey scrub and white alkali playa lay as far as the eye could see. Susan saw no indication of human habitation. The road turned, dropped into a hollow, rose again and there was a fence, a gate, beyond it a circular concrete container four feet tall. They had arrived at Hidden Springs.

  Ahead, Tav stopped, climbed out and walked back to the Jeep.

  "I was expecting to see a cabin," Zack said.

  "The cabin disintegrated years ago. You can find foundation stones in the brush if you look hard enough, and the old windmill is still there." He pointed up to a tall cottonwood tree. Susan had to look twice to see the structure of the windmill buried behind the limbs of the tree.

  "People have dropped lots of junk here over the years." Tav kicked a rusted coffee can. "You see by the yellow tape over there it's still a crime scene. Follow me; I'll show you where the boys were found."

  Susan and Zack climbed out of the Jeep, stretched, and followed Tav through the gate. The yellow tape ran around the well, up a rise, around a hillside of blackbush and back to the well from the other side. Between the well and the tree the sand was level for a couple hundred feet.

  "That's where it happened." Tav pointed to the level area. "The boys were lying at opposite sides of this flat space"––he pointed––"there and there."

  Susan studied the two spots, patches of dry sand now imbued with horrible significance. The soft ground was impressed with the shape of the bodies where they had fallen, colored by small rust-like spots where blood had seeped into the sand. There were footprints scattered in between. Susan felt a shiver; something about the place brought a sense of dread to her, something beyond the recent deaths.

  "They couldn't have gotten much further apart," Zack said, glancing from one end of the level space to the other. "There's nowhere to go."

  Tav nodded. "I got the feeling neither was real aggressive. It was like they reluctantly played out their parts."

  "With incredible accuracy," Susan added, her tone sardonic.

  Zack began a long walk around the periphery of the yellow tape. His moves were meticulous and glacially slow. He studied the ground, examined creosote twigs, holly leaves, dug under brush, even studied the sky once or twice.

  "What's he doin'?"

  "He's looking for anything the others might have missed." She saw Tav's reaction, realized he was offended. "Don't feel bad if he finds something. There's just one better tracker in the entire country––Zack's friend Eagle Feather, the one who taught him." She gave Tav a cheerful smile.

  Tav didn't reply. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes on Zack as he worked. The FBI agent didn't appear to notice their stares; he was totally immersed in his inspection. By the time he completed his circumnavigation of the yellow tape, a half hour had elapsed. He came over to them, looked at his watch; an apologetic look came to his face. "Sorry. I got caught up, lost track of time."

  "What did you learn you didn't know before?" Tav demanded.

  "Not much," Zack said.

  Tav's face showed grim satisfaction.

  "There's been so much traffic in and out of this place most of the original footprints are pretty much obliterated." Zack glanced at Tav. "There was the old guy on the ORV, you said? He apparently went back to get his buddies before he called it in. They parked their machines over there, walked to within fifteen feet or so of the bodies over on that side." Zack pointed beyond the windmill tree. "Three machines, one carrying two riders, judging from tread depth."

  He turned to Tav. "Who came next? Was it you, Tav? I found Vibram tread like yours in several places around the bodies, and up where the old guy had been."

  Tav nodded. "I was first. Emmerson, the old guy, called me on his cell, waited for me over there. His friends stayed back beyond the hill. They were good about that. When I arrived there were no other prints near the victims."

  "None, eh?" Zack eyed Tav. "Just the victims' own prints?"

  Tav nodded.

  Zack stared at the sand. "After you there was a whole flock of people, probably all investigators."

  "That's right."

  Zack raised an eyebrow. "You must not get a lot of crime out here."

  "Not at this level."

  Zack nodded. "I tried to find footprints put there before the crowd came along. The investigators' prints, being more recent, have sharper edges, better defined. The older prints are a bit more windblown, blurred. I didn't find any of the older prints around the victims. I did find older prints up on the far slope there."

  "Are they the victims' prints?" Susan asked.

  "Maybe. Probably. There were sneakers and flat-soled cowboy boots in different sizes. There are hoof prints by the fence. Seemed the boys rode up from the south." Zack pointed. "The victims made a couple of trips here over time, tied their horses to that fence, and walked together over to the tree. After that they walked one after the other across that slope, then came down to the flat sand. On the first visit, they both walked over there." He pointed to where the victim closest to the tree had lain.

  "Anything else?"

  "There were some older prints made by two different cowboy boots back up on the slope, narrower, longer heels. One heavier guy, made a deeper impression, one a bit lighter, with a smaller foot."

  "But only the victims came down to this flat area?" Susan asked.

  "That's right." Zack put up a hand to shade his eyes, gazed out over the landscape. "Looks like we have company."

  Susan and Tav swung their heads to look. Beyond where the occasional Joshua tree and acacia protruded above the blackbush and sage like a pull in an old sweater, out on the flatland, Susan saw a dust cloud. They watched it grow.

  "The Kellogg Ranch is out that way a few miles. I'd guess that's Jim Hatchett'
s truck," Tav said. He glanced at his two companions. "Jim's the ranch owner."

  "Has anybody identified the two victims, or know where they came from?" Zack asked.

  Tav scratched his head. "Not for sure yet. None of the ranchers around here seemed to know’ em. There are some sheep camps, though. The herders come from all over the place; run-a-ways, illegals––the owners hire whoever they can get, no questions asked, then send them out in the high country with the sheep and nobody sees 'em again for months at a time. Likely those boys worked for one of those outfits."

  Fifteen minutes later a battered pickup skidded to a stop on the rise beyond the cottonwood. Two men climbed out, came and stood in front of the truck, one slightly behind the other. The second one had a rifle in the crook of his arm. They stood, looked down the slope at them.

  "C'mon, I'll introduce you," Tav said. He led the way around the tape and up the slope. The newcomers watched their approach. Both were built like whipcord: skinny and long, their features burned almost black by the sun. The man in front had intensely blue eyes, startling in contrast to his darkened skin. He stood erect, the posture of a man accustomed to power. The face of the man with the rifle was weasel thin, his hair black, eyes coffee, lips a thin line slashed above a sharp chin. No laugh lines there.

  "Hello, Mr. Hatchett," Tav said.

  "Hey yourself, Davidson. Who you got with you there?" Hatchett studied Zack.

  "This here is Zack Tolliver. He's with the FBI. That's Dr. Apgar, his friend."

  Hatchett didn't offer to shake hands. "I'm Jim Hatchett. This here is Bronc, my foreman. I run a cattle ranch south of here. Why's the FBI interested in a couple of guys who decided to shoot each other way out here?"

  "We're not," Zack said. He nodded toward Tav. "He is."

  Hatchett turned to Tav. "Thought you had this all wrapped up with a ribbon around it."

  "Not my doing. Butch brought Agent Tolliver in. He was thinking a few things didn't add up."

  "Like what?"

  Tav's eyes looked off across the valley. "You'll have to ask him, I guess. He asked me to bring Agent Tolliver up here to see the crime scene."