Under Desert Sand

by R Lawson Gamble

  "The Green Card?" Col reminded him.

  'Yeah, I know. That's the one piece of solid evidence that says Juan didn't just up and leave."

  Col watched a lamb limping among the ewes. "That little guy's leg seems better. I think he'll recover."

  "I don't see we have any choice."

  Col glanced at Julio. "About what?"

  "About checking out the map, seeing if we're right about Juan. I know it'll keep bothering me."

  Col sighed. "I know. Okay, then, let's do it, get it over with. Let's do it tonight." He started back up the hill.

  Julio followed. "Who will we get to watch our backs?"

  Col felt a rise of impatience. All he wanted now was to get this over and done. If they finished with it tonight, he could call Kella tomorrow and make plans to see her again. He cared more about that. "I think we can both agree Tav didn't show up here today by coincidence. The only one who could possibly have seen us leave our camp is Bronc, there's just nobody else around."

  "So?"

  "So I think it had to be Bronc who complained to Tav. He'll know Tav was up here to warn us off, give us a scare. The last thing he'll expect is we go down there tonight, right after the warning." Col grew more confident about his logic even as he tried to convince Julio.

  Julio shrugged. "I can't think of anyone around here to help us, anyway. If we locate Juan, we can get the authorities involved. If we locate the treasure––"

  Col looked at his friend, waited.

  Julio grinned. "Well, we'll figure that out when it happens."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  They gathered around the slab. Susan traced a finger along the etched lines.

  Eagle Feather scraped off some caked dirt.

  "We are not the first," he said. "You see how someone scraped away that layer of dirt as I am doing here. It is caked on, it did not just drop off."

  "The shepherd boys must have discovered this," Susan said.

  "How would they know to look for it?" Zack asked. "It had been resting face down, you can tell by that depression."

  No one had an answer to that.

  "The better question might be who carved this in the first place, and why?" Eagle Feather said.

  "Maybe the one who buried something to begin with?" Zack suggested.

  Susan shook her head. "If someone found gold ore on Flat Top Mountain, as my research suggests, and used Hidden Springs as part of their production and then buried the gold until they could move it, why come all the way over here, completely in the opposite direction and carve a map on a rock?"

  Zack was confused. "Whoa, what's all that about?"

  Susan gave an apologetic smile. "I haven't had a chance to tell you what I learned in the library. There is good reason to suspect the gunfight in 1905 was about gold, not water rights. I'm theorizing the publicity surrounding that event prevented the gold from being recovered. I suspect there was a third person involved, and maybe that person's relations are still trying to find it."

  Zack tried to assimilate all that. "I guess we do have a lot to talk about. So who do you think did this?"

  "I think it had to be a shepherd or cowboy, someone who had plenty of time to do the carving without being observed." Susan shook her head. "What I can't figure out is why anyone would go to all this trouble."

  Eagle Feather grunted. "I think he did it to preserve his memory. Memory is uncertain; symbols carved on rock can revive them, as my people know. This person wanted to remember every detail. I see two reasons he might do this: one, if he wrote it down on paper the map might get lost or stolen; two, if other people found him with the map they would know he knew too much. I think he had seen the map somewhere, scratched it here before he could forget it, so no one would know he had it."

  "But where is the original map? Where could he have seen it to memorize it? Who did he think might steal it from him? "

  Eagle Feather shrugged.

  "He saw it somewhere he wasn't supposed to see it," Zack said. "He remembered it and etched it on this stone, his own perfectly hidden map. It would be here when he needed it."

  "I still don't get it. Why not just write it down on a piece of paper later on at home where no one would know?"

  "Maybe too risky," Eagle Feather said.

  "Right." Zack spoke as he thought. "This person must have known possessing the map would put him in danger. He must have figured if he etched it out here, no one could tie him to it. A tent is not a very secure place."

  "Okay, let's be straight forward," Susan said. "We're talking about Juan, the old shepherd. His disappearance caused the boys to come here in the first place. The private investigator told you Jim Hatchett found the map in his attic. He actually showed it to Old Juan, hoping to get help locating the place it represents. Juan pretended he didn't know, but memorized it. One day he saw this slab and decided to carve it."

  Zack stood, stretched. "I think we can guess Bronc was skulking around, saw Hatchett talking to Juan, maybe even watched Juan carving out the map. I'll bet Juan disappeared not too long after that."

  Susan studied the etched slab, frowned. "From the caked dirt and disturbed ground, it appears this slab had been left face down, as you said. So how did Juan flip this thing over all by himself after he scratched the map on it?"

  "Horsepower," Eagle Feather said.

  "Oh."

  Zack glanced at Susan. "We've still got a few blanks to fill in."

  "Here is one," Eagle Feather said. "The two boys were at Hidden Springs to look for something under the sand when they died. Susan and I found wands they cut from branches to probe with."

  Susan nodded. "Maybe the boys had learned about the treasure. They had to have a map to know where to look. Maybe they found this stone."

  Eagle Feather rose from a squat and stood next to Zack. "Too many questions. What is next, White Man?"

  "First I'll make a copy of this map. Then we'll find some excuse to visit Bronc and see if he's got a fresh wound." Zack stood at the end of the slab and snapped a picture with his phone. He studied it, nodded. "That's got it."

  They headed back to the wash and their vehicles. Zack's memory was triggered. "I hope we don't find our tires flat again."

  "That's another blank to fill in," Susan said. "Where does a woman sniper fit into the picture? We've been focused on Bronc. Do you think he has a female partner?"

  "He doesn't strike me as the type to partner with a woman," Zack said.

  "How do you plan to visit Bronc, White Man?"

  "I think we'll just drive right up to the ranch and knock on the door," Zack said, grinning. He presented his plan to Eagle Feather. "From the little I've seen of Bronc, he has a prejudice against most things, but particularly against Native Americans. Susan and I will go to the Kellogg Ranch. Eagle Feather, you can take the Subaru and take Blue back to the motel. No sense in stirring up feelings needlessly."

  Eagle Feather's eyes twinkled. "You are most considerate for I do not want my feelings stirred up."

  Zack turned his eyes to Susan. "I don't expect us to be in any danger. From what Jones said, Hatchett is just as eager to get to the bottom of the killings as we are. I've been meaning to have a chat with Hatchett, anyway." He glanced at Eagle Feather. "My guess is Bronc will not show up there."

  Eagle Feather took the Subaru keys from Susan. He let Blue out for a stretch, poured him some water. Blue sloshed up the liquid.

  Zack spread a map across the hood of the Jeep, studied it. "The shortest way to get there is from Hidden Springs. From there, we can take this dirt track and save a lot of mileage." Zack folded the map. "That must be how Bronc and Hatchett got to the spring the first day we saw them."

  Eagle Feather tooted his horn and drove off.

  The ride to Hidden Springs was by now very familiar. At the well, Zack climbed out and swung the gate open.

  "I thought Bronc had a lock on that gate," Susan said, when he climbed back in the Jeep.

  "He had no right. I had Butch Short r
emove it."

  "Bronc isn't going to like that," Susan said.

  Zack shrugged. "I can't spend time worrying about what Bronc likes."

  The track wound around the windmill and continued on south. The road was primitive, but well packed. They were headed into the heart of Round Valley, an area of sparse pinyon and juniper with an occasional solitary Joshua tree. The going was slow; they had to watch for occasional deep sand. They came to a fence line, passed over a cattle guard. Beyond it were outbuildings. A large sign warned that trespassers would be prosecuted.

  "Shot, more likely," Susan said, under her breath.

  Zack grinned. "Let's not approach this with attitude. I suspect Mr. Hatchett will supply plenty for all of us."

  Susan smiled back. "I see there's no attitude on your part, either."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Hatchett ranch house was a single floor home built in typical California style, with large windows and a sense of openness. A wide porch swept all the way around the building. The place had an air of bachelorhood about it, the chairs held stacks of leather harness, old lariats lay on the porch floor, toward the rear of the house beer bottles lined the rail like soldiers. Zack's boots clumped on the porch floor. He dropped the heavy brass knocker several times, heard it boom inside.

  The door opened a minute later. Jim Hatchett, hair tousled, a look of surprise on his face, regarded them. He had old jeans on, a T-shirt, and bare feet. "Not too many people come knocking at this door," he said, almost as an apology. "Tolliver, right? And Dr. Apgar? C'mon in."

  He led the way through a spacious entrance hall to a vast living room with a few leather chairs scattered about like so many cattle, without rhyme or reason. The portraits of stern old people on the walls, the red velvet border trim, the lace sheers at the windows presented a decayed Victorian look. The room seemed the antithesis of the house exterior.

  "Sit," Hatchett said, and pointed to the nearest chairs. "Can I get you a drink?"

  "Just water for me, if you don't mind," Susan said.

  "I'm fine," Zack said. He lowered himself into a chair, admired the smell of the leather and the feel of the soft cushion. He noted the lace curtains were yellowed, the Oriental rug faded and torn by spurs. He figured the place hadn't felt a woman's touch in a long time.

  Hatchett walked to a sideboard, reached into a small fridge and removed two water bottles, poured the water into whiskey glasses, brought them over. He looked at his watch. "By my reckoning, it's almost cocktail hour. Sure I can't find you something stronger?"

  Zack smiled. "No thanks, I'm still on company time. But don't let us stop you."

  "I doubt you could." He smiled, poured an ounce of Bowen's Whiskey into a glass. He carefully replaced the bottle before he spoke again. "This is when I'd ask you what brings you to this poor old rancher's home, way out in the middle of nowhere, but I got a fair idea." He turned to face them, lifted his glass. "Cheers."

  Zack and Susan raised their glasses, sipped the water.

  Hatchett turned another chair to face them, sat down. "I'm guessing either I'm a suspect in the shooting of those two boys, or you think I can tell you who is."

  "We do have a few questions," Zack said.

  Hatchett took a long swallow, set his glass down on an end table and twisted to look at Zack. "I need to get a few things squared in my mind before we go much further. First, just exactly what is your capacity in this investigation? What is your official standing? Should I give a holler out for my lawyer?"

  Zack looked down at his glass, back at Hatchett. "Fair question. As of this moment, I am no more or less than a consultant to the investigative arm of BLM. My responsibility is to Butch Short. This conversation is not official, in that sense, but of course I could be required to repeat it under oath at some future time. Just as Mr. Jones could be, for instance."

  "So you know about Mr. Jones."

  "We have met, in fact." Zack glanced at Susan, then at Hatchett. "I should say, given that we've established there's been murder committed on federal land, a likelihood exists I could be assigned officially to this case." He took a sip, peered over his glass. "It hasn't happened yet, though."

  "Well, I see no reason to hold back what little I know. I see myself on a parallel path with you, hoping to learn the truth. That's why I hired Jones." Hatchett grimaced. "There's a long history in this area of conflict between cattle ranchers and sheep owners. I don't want the deaths of those two boys laid at my door."

  Susan raised her eyebrows. "You think that could happen just because of the history of the region?"

  Hatchett pondered her for a moment. "I'm sure you've done your homework. You must know a duel over water rights occurred at that very same spring over a hundred years ago. You may even know of my family's connection to that event."

  Zack shook his head. "Not precisely."

  "My grandfather was a cowboy with the big cattle concern that used to graze their beef through all this area, called the Winslow Cattle Company. That's how he came to be out here in the first place. At the time he rode for them, the ramrod's name was Skowler, a mean guy with a reputation as a gunfighter. There was a bunch of those type fellas out here in those days. Skowler was a hard man, difficult to work with. My grandpa quit the company, tried his hand at homesteading; that's when he built this place." Hatchett waved his arm, sloshing his whiskey in the glass. "Wasn't like this then, of course. But he did well enough, raised some beef cattle, stayed on good terms with the big outfit, not an easy thing to do."

  "Why was that?" Susan leaned forward in her chair.

  "Well, the Winslow outfit was losing calves pretty often. This was all open grazing, like it used to be in the Old Spanish days. No fences. You branded your calves soon as you could at rodeos, but they happened only once or twice a year. A lot of calves were born, stayed unbranded until you could get to it. So calves went missing, and at the same time some of the small sheep and cattle outfits would show up with a lot of calves, kind of an amazingly high birth rate. The Winslow cowboys naturally assumed those extra calves came from Winslow stock. Things got touchy.

  "The settlers were afraid of Skowler. He was a bully, he'd drive cattle right through someone's newly planted field, claim it was Winslow land, dare them to do something about it. About the only guy in the valley not afraid of Skowler was Bob Simmons.

  "Simmons came to the area long ago, well before my grandpa. He was no stranger to the outlaw trail, had a reputation with his gun as well. He worked a few cattle, but his heart wasn't really in it. He spent more time scouring the hills looking for precious minerals."

  "What was Simmons like?" Susan asked.

  "I never met him, of course, but my grandpa used to call him "a bit tetchy". He had lived by his gun for a long time, held his own with some pretty bad hombres. My grandpa, he wasn't a gunman, he was a farmer, but he did have an adventurous spirit." Hatchett sipped his whiskey, looked up, grinned. "Had to be, to come out here to make a living." He stared at the floor, remembering. "Anyways, the settlers sort of banded up behind Simmons. That's how my grandpa got thrown in with him."

  "How'd they get along?" Zack asked.

  "Surprisingly well. Simmons was a cowboy, knew about cattle, but not much about raising goats or pigs, not much about growing hay and vegetables. He'd come by, get advice from grandpa. They'd help each other with chores that needed two people to do. Grandpa was an easygoing guy, most folks got along with him. He knew something about geology and that got Simmons all excited. Pretty soon he got my grandpa to go along on his mineral hunts from time to time." Hatchett paused, shifted his weight in his chair. "Then, to everyone's surprise, Skowler quit Winslow Cattle Company. Some say he got in a feud with the owners, but I don't buy that. I think Skowler just figured he could just help himself to Winslow cattle and there'd be no one to stop him. So he found himself a spot, homesteaded it, and his cattle herd grew faster than weeds after a rainstorm.

  "Well, the Winslow Cattle Company couldn't stand for that
, so they brought in yet another gunfighter to lead their outfit, name of Curt Johnson. He was rumored to be real fast and had more than a couple of killings to his name. That's when it became a war zone around here, with rifle sniping and bullet holes through windows; it was dangerous for folks just to work their farms." Hatchett lifted his palms. "It went both ways, mind. Johnson had settled into a cabin at Hidden Springs, to set guard over it. More than a few times he'd return to find bullet holes in his walls. Pretty soon most settlers and sheep herders were packing up and moving off to safer places."

  "What did your grandpa do?" Susan asked.

  Hatchett waved an arm to take in the entire ranch. "Obviously, he didn't leave. Funny thing was, he apparently ignored the whole thing. He spent more and more time up in the hills, sometimes with Simmons, sometimes alone. This was the time before grandpa met my grandma. He could disappear for days at a time if he wanted. I was told he was off some place when that gunfight broke out between Skowler and Johnson, didn't even know about it until he got back. "

  "Jones told me about a map," Zack said. He saw a look of surprise pass over Hatchett's face. "That got anything to do with your grandpa and Simmons bein' up in the hills?"

  "He told you about the map, did he?" Hatchett's eyes flickered from Zack to Susan. "Guess he might as well have taken out an ad in the local newspaper." He sighed. "It doesn't really matter. I don't think that old map is more than a curiosity. Just don't want to see a bunch of treasure hunters running all over these hills tearing up the place."

  "Why don't you think it's authentic?" Susan asked.

  Hatchett shrugged. "First I heard of any map was when I came across it going through the old attic. Something like that, I'd expect it to be talked about in the family, if it was worth anything. God knows, the family sure could ‘a used some treasure back then."