Under Desert Sand

by R Lawson Gamble

  "No kidding," Zack said, and cracked a grin.

  Jones flashed him an annoyed look. "If I had a nickel––. Never mind. Can we talk now?"

  "The offer of a cup of coffee stands. My treat." Zack walked toward the McDonalds, Jones shuffled along behind. Inside, the P.I. went to select a table while Zack ordered two coffees at the counter. He brought the cups, napkins, sugars, milks and stirrers to the table.

  "Just black for me, thanks," Jones said.

  Zack dumped the sugars and milks on the table, sat down. "You're the P.I. Jim Hatchett hired."

  Jones nodded.

  "Why?"

  The fat man's lips twitched. "Why am I a P.I., or why did Mr. Hatchett hire me?"

  Zack stared, not amused.

  "Okay, here's the story. Jim Hatchett's a long time rancher in the valley, third generation. His grandpa came there to work for the Winslow Cattle Company, gradually put aside enough money and bought cattle to start his own little spread. Out in the high desert in those days everything had thorns––bushes, critters, the weather, and men. It was pretty much survival of the fittest. Water was king; if you had it, you made it. If you didn't, you moved on." Jones grinned. "It's still pretty much that way, it seems."

  He took a sip of coffee, wiped his lip, and continued.

  "Anyway, there were some bad hombres living in the valley alongside Jim's grandpappy, men who'd as soon shoot you as look at you, men who came there to get away from somewhere else. They were bank robbers, highwaymen, back-shooters; you name it. Grandpappy Hatchett worked alongside these guys at the Cattle Company, lived as neighbor to them once he got his ranch. He somehow managed to walk that fine line, keeping friendly enough with the lawless element not to get shot, but never crossing over to become one of 'em. There were some honest settlers living there, sheep men and miners, but they kept mostly to themselves. It was a lonely existence for grandpappy Hatchett, at least until he found a woman willing to live out in that desolate place and raise a family with him.

  "To make a long story short, which I'm not, the Hatchett family survived the range wars and droughts and every other devilish thing the high desert threw at them. Eventually the bad men drifted away, were shot, or were hung. A little town developed, name of Fairfield, even had a church and a schoolhouse, but it didn't last. Once the mines petered out, all you had left were holdouts raising a few cows or sheep, or hermits living off government checks. Grandpappy Hatchett died, passed his holdings on to his son. Things never got any easier for the family. Although Jim inherited the family holdings and the house, it was a creaky old thing. Jim set about upgrading it. He tore off one side to add a new wing, and found stuff in an attic crawlspace nobody knew about, stuff his grandpappy had left."

  Jones gave Zack a dry smile. "It was just the kind of thing everyone secretly hopes they'll find in their attic, an old trunk with a treasure map in it. Hatchett guessed the map indicated a place where one of the robbers hid his ill-gotten gains. The map was crude, on the backside of a page ripped from a book, looked like it had been sketched in a hurry. The landmarks shown were things like trees and posts and stuff that were no longer there, but the terrain contours, hills and such, gave clues. Well, Jim looked it over, made a few half hearted attempts to locate the place, but no luck."

  "Are we going somewhere with this?"

  Jones put up a chubby palm. "Hold your horses, FBI man. There's a point to all this. You see there was an old shepherd up on Hackberry Mountain. Hatchett met up with him while searching for stock one day. The old guy was pretty lonely and they got to talking. Somehow the subject came around to the treasure. Jim always carried the old map with him in case he came across some features to match it. He pulled it out, showed it to the old man, thinking a shepherd spends his whole life out there and might recognize the place. But he didn't. Least, he said he didn't."

  "But now Hatchett thinks he did?"

  Jones nodded. "That's right. But he didn't figure that out for a long time."

  "How did he figure it out?"

  "Jim Hatchett believed he had the only copy of the map. A month or so later he was in the hardware store in Needles buying supplies. The storeowner told him the old shepherd had come in, talked about a map, said it showed where robber's loot was buried, and could he have a pick and shovel on credit? The storekeeper turned the old man down of course, but now Hatchett realized the old guy must have recognized the features on the map after all and copied them down from memory after Hatchett was gone." Jones squinted across the table at Zack. "Say, I could eat a cheeseburger or something. You want anything?"

  "Finish up your story. I'll get you one."

  "Thanks, partner." The fat man wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "So, anyway, Hatchett is right pissed, as you can imagine, so he rides right up to the old shepherd's camp, but he's too late."

  "Too late?"

  "Yeah, the old guy was gone; lock, stock, and barrel. Jim searched around the campsite, but all he found was a few empty tin cans and food wrappers. The shepherd, his mule, tent, clothing––the whole ball of wax––gone."

  "So what'd he do?"

  "Nothin' to do. Either the old guy found the money and took off to Las Vegas or somewhere, or he simply got tired of hanging around sheep." The fat man shrugged. "Who knows?"

  Zack eyed the private detective, chewing on what the man had just told him.

  "That can't be all of it."

  "It is, mostly," the P.I. said. "There were reports people saw the old man here and there before he disappeared, mostly down near Rock Creek and Hidden Springs. That would be natural, though, being the best sources of water. Mr. Hatchett sent his man Bronc down there to check around both places, look for any recent sign of digging or the like, but no dice."

  Zack stared at Jones. "So why'd he hire you?"

  The P.I. opened his squinty eyes wide. "Why, the dead shepherd boys, of course. He asked me to check into their back story."

  "Why?"

  "Couple of reasons. First, he didn't believe they shot each other any more than anyone else did. He guessed the next thing to happen would be people figuring the boys died because they were sheep men; you know, the old range controversy raising its ugly head again. Hatchet wanted to stop that before it got started. Second, he wanted to know if there was any connection between the boys and the old shepherd, Juan."

  "Meaning had the boys learned about the treasure from Juan."

  "Yeah, that kind of thing. And last, Hatchett wanted me to learn what really happened to the boys, so suspicion wouldn't fall on him and Bronc, as he figured it likely would."

  "Why would he figure that?"

  "The Kellogg Ranch cowboys have always had a somewhat proprietary attitude toward Hidden Springs. It's the only viable water source for their cattle, and maybe they over reacted from time to time when someone seemed ready to jump in there. The old shepherd was seen there before he disappeared. So naturally, people might––"

  "Was he seen there more than once?"

  Jones nodded, stared back at Zack. "Fair exchange, FBI man. I've given you everything I got, how about you answer a few questions."

  Zack shrugged. "Okay."

  "Why are you here?"

  Zack smiled. "If you've done any back checking, and I'm sure you have, you've discovered my speciality tends to be cases that are, shall we say, somewhat unusual. Butch Short decided this case was unusual, and asked me to act as consultant for the investigators."

  The fat man's eyes narrowed. "Consult, not actively investigate?"

  "That's right."

  "Do you believe there was a third party involved?"

  "I do."

  "Who do you think it was?"

  Zack smiled, put palms up. "We're very far from an answer to that question. At this point, virtually everyone is a candidate."

  "What's the motive?"

  "Again, if we knew that, we'd be able to narrow down some suspects."

  "Are Hatchett and Bronc on your list?"

  Zack nodded. "A
long with everyone else in the area."

  "How'd they do it? I mean, there were no prints near the bodies, each holding pistols with factory loads, but one of 'em killed by a homemade .44 caliber bullet."

  Zack's eyes narrowed. "How do you know all this?"

  "I'm a private investigator, it's what I do."

  "Answer to your question is, I don't know." Zack put his palms on the table. "Look, I got to go. I've got people waiting to meet me for dinner."

  "What about my cheeseburger?"

  Zack pulled a few bills from his wallet. "Here you go. Enjoy yourself."

  The fat man took the bills. His eyes narrowed as he watched Zack turn to go. "I'll be in touch."

  Zack waved a hand as he walked away. When he entered his motel room, the amber message button on the room phone was blinking. He listened to the message.

  "Hey, Zack, it's Butch. I just heard from Buzz Connolly, the sheriff. He says Roberto Castro, the guy who owns the sheep, is on his way here from Mexico. Turns out, his nephew is one of the dead boys. Sheriff says this Castro is a high roller with a lot of bucks and influence. Just wanted to give you a heads up."

  Just what we need, Zack thought to himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Col woke to sun streaming across his face through the open tent flap. The air was crispy cold, his nose felt like an ice cube. He let the sun play on his face to warm it while he remembered things.

  Frank and Kella had left after eight pm the previous night, Frank promising to return next day with their horses. Kella was home-schooled, had studies and couldn't come. Col remembered Kella's goodbye, a shake of the hand but her eyes seemed to say more. At least, that's how Col read it.

  He glanced at the still sleeping form of Julio as he quietly slipped on his pants inside the warm sleeping bag. He stepped out of the tent, his sandals in his hand, and stared off across the flatland below where the first rays of sun drew black shadows behind the Joshua trees. The land stretched for miles to the rim of the New York Mountains far off on the horizon. The impact was stunning, the vista with it's play of light and shadow incredibly beautiful. The dogs, curled together at the side of the tent, watched Col with just their eyes, not ready to move from their warm positions.

  I'm going to like it here, Col thought. He walked across dry crumpled earth to a cluster of tall bushes, the designated bathroom, almost stepped on a rattlesnake stretched full length across the sun-patched but still frosty ground. Col walked carefully around it. It didn't seem to notice, still sluggish until the sun could revive it. The encounter did not dwindle his enthusiasm. There was something about waking up outdoors at the cusp of the day that invigorated him.

  Col returned to the campsite, found the driest wood in the stack and built a pyramid over the ashes of last night's fire. He set in some fire-starter and soon had hungry flames lapping up the sides. Then, still barefoot, he walked out to a hillock and tried to count the sheep all gathered close together around a rock formation below him, guarded by the big ram. He tried several times, but always before he finished a lamb or ewe moved, scattered the others, and his count was lost. Col contented himself with an approximation.

  When he returned to camp, he found Julio at the fire, setting water to boil. His friend looked up as Col approached, and smiled.

  "We won't have good coals for a while, but we can get started with boiling the water. We need a rolling boil of at least four minutes to trust it." The water had come from Hackberry Spring; they kept it stored in a re-purposed oil drum.

  Col came to the fire, rubbed his palms together to warm them. The sun felt good on his back. The dogs had deserted their position by the tent for the warmth of the fire, and settled near their new masters. Junior licked Col's hand; Col smiled and looked at Julio. "Think you can handle this for a summer?"

  Julio grinned. 'Pretty darn nice, isn't it?"

  The smell of fried eggs and sausage filled the air. Col's appetite had always been large, but now it was all consuming. The boys went for second helpings despite knowing they should spread out their resources. They no longer had a grocery store just down the street.

  The morning was spent in organizing camp, structuring their daily tasks, generally preparing for life as shepherds. They found two sturdy trees near camp, far enough apart to set up a picket line for their horses when they arrived later. They made plans to build a shelter for the horses for protection from the sun and as a place to keep their tack.

  By late morning, they were ready to explore their surroundings. Col found himself puffing as he moved about; he'd have to adjust to life on a slope, always uphill or downhill. They made a wide, leisurely circuit around the sheep grazing range. The best grazing, they noticed, was in a bowl-like area defined by a perimeter of up-thrust rock ledge, almost like a shallow volcano crater on the side of the slope, a half-mile wide. It made a great natural fence; they could walk along it every so often and look for escapees. Beyond that, the dogs would take care of things.

  They found evidence of old Juan everywhere. The shepherd left monuments to his dedication with stone corrals, small shelters of stone and brush for injured sheep, a lean-to for shearing. They discovered strands of rope tied to trees near the camp where he likely picketed his horse.

  "He picked a perfect place," Julio said, gauging the distance between the trees, "close enough to camp to keep an eye on the horses, yet a good place for them to graze while hobbled."

  "Don't you get the feeling the old shepherd felt something for this place? You know, all the careful construction, the thoughtful placement of things. It's like he created this home for himself. Why would he leave so abruptly?"

  Julio shrugged. "Who knows why anybody does anything?" He shaded his eyes, looked out over the flats. "Looks like our horses are coming."

  Col turned to look, saw the plume of dust along the arrow-straight road. "Let's go on down and meet Frank." He didn't share the hidden hope Kella might have changed her mind and come along after all.

  She hadn't, it turned out, but the day was filled with work and left no time for dreaming.

  Within a fortnight Col and Julio were completely comfortable in their surroundings. The two dogs, Shep and Junior, lavished the kind of love on their new masters that comes only from recently orphaned animals. Even the sheep responded to them, some trotted over to greet them when they arrived each morning. Col gave them names, a habit Julio tried to resist.

  "One day we'll have to leave them, or worse we'll have to send them off to their fate. Giving them names will just make it harder."

  Col was adamant: that was then, this was now. After a while, even Julio found himself thinking of the sheep by the names Col assigned them. It did make it easier to have discussions about individual animals.

  With the arrival of their horses, their world on Hackberry Mountain expanded. When the available water in the natural meadow all but disappeared, they rode to Hackberry Spring, lined with its namesake trees, and filled large waterproofed sacks with the fresh water, slung them over their horses, and brought them back to camp to fill the metal trough, left there by Old Juan. They enjoyed daily rides, but only after they checked on the sheep and finished the morning chores. The expanse surrounding Hackberry Mountain seemed endless, and exciting.

  Their camp grew in size and comfort. The boys enjoyed the challenge of creative improvement; a solar shower made from an extra water bag, hammocks they braided from rope and hung in the shade of pinyon pines, hot and cold running water for cooking and washing. They rarely used their tent for sleeping now, except in the windiest of times, when dust sifted into every crevice. They slept in their hammocks, snuggled in warm sleeping bags, washed by bright moonlight, an eye on the horses and their ears listening to the sheep.

  So it was the morning Bronc came to call; the tent empty, the boys gone. He was emerging from their tent when Col and Julio rode up after riding a circuit around the sheep. They reigned in their horses, stared in surprise.

  "Hello," Col said. "Who are you? Why
were you in our tent?"

  Bronc stood by the tent flap, said nothing, his sinewy form taut, his arms hanging at his sides. Col noticed the pistol in its holster worn low on the man's right hip. The stranger's face was expressionless.

  There was an aura of danger around the man. Col stared, unable to think of anything to say, afraid somehow that any movement, even dismounting from his horse might mean risking his life.

  It was Julio who spoke next. He seemed to know how to disarm the situation. "Had your coffee yet?" he asked. "Why don't you join us?"

  Bronc stared at Julio for a moment, as if taken by surprise, finally nodded.

  Julio dismounted and led his horse to the picket line. Col followed suit, the tension in the air now abated. They saw Bronc's mount tied to a branch in a pinyon grove farther away.

  Bronc waited by the fire. When the boys returned, he stuck out a hand, spoke for the first time. "Name's Bronc."

  Julio took the lead. "I'm Julio, this here's Col."

  He poured hot water from the big kettle through the coffee strainer and into a cup. "We're stretching the grounds a bit this morning, but it should still be strong."

  He handed the cup to Bronc, who nodded thanks. He handed a second cup to Col. They sat on the large logs around the fire, sipped in silence for a few moments.

  "You must be from the Kellogg Ranch." Julio's tone was pleasant.

  "I ramrod the outfit." Bronc looked from one boy to the other. "That's why I'm here wondering what you and your sheep are doing on Kellogg Ranch lands." His voice was soft, flat, his eyes slits.

  "Must be some mistake," Julio replied, his tone level. "We're on my uncle's lease. He's had this lease from the Preserve for years now."