“I did, a long time ago.”
“Well, I played the boy sitting on the fence who got bushwhacked. My fifteen seconds of fame.”
“No kidding?”
Vogt nodded. “This will be my second time being in a movie. Ain’t that a hoot?” He flicked a rein gently against his horse’s neck. The animal turned smoothly and trotted away in the direction of Buster Martinez.
Grim and reticent, Martinez was the complete opposite of Vogt. Although Kerney didn’t recognize him, the MVD report had listed Martinez as the owner of the pickup truck that had arrived behind Shaw’s panel van at the barn. Kerney had watched Shaw and Martinez drive south toward the Sentinel Butte Ranch where he later found the landing strip and signs of a recent cargo drop.
Kerney’s attempts to draw Buster out had gone nowhere. Pushing fifty, Martinez had an oval face with small, narrow eyes that made him look like he was always squinting. He had a beautiful saddle, obviously custom made, with silver conchos on the cantle, a horn embellished with a sterling silver cap that bore his initials, and fenders tooled in a basket weave pattern. It had to have cost at least three or four thousand dollars new. Kerney wondered how a working cowboy could afford such a luxury.
During the next break he sought Martinez out at the new corral, where he was feeding his horse some crushed oats.
“That’s a fine-looking saddle,” Kerney said as he dismounted.
Martinez, who was inside the corral, grunted and nodded in reply.
Kerney climbed over the top railing, stepped up to the horse, and ran his hand over the padded seat. The craftsmanship was high quality. “Handmade, I bet.”
“Yeah, it is.” Martinez took his horse by the reins.
On the seat by the horn was the saddlemaker’s name, Matt Thornton.
“Does it have a wood tree?”
Martinez nodded.
Where did you get it?” Kerney asked.
“Up in Nevada.”
Kerney shook his head and smiled at Martinez. “It’s sweet.”
Martinez swung into saddle and pointed at the corral gate. “Get that for me, will you.”
Kerney opened the gate and Martinez trotted his horse out of the corral toward Walter Shaw, who was about a hundred yards away on a nice-looking sorrel gelding, harrying a cow back into the herd. Martinez reached Shaw just as the cow scampered into the fold, and the two men paused to chat.
Although he couldn’t be certain, Kerney had the strong impression that he’d agitated Martinez. Why would admiring the man’s saddle get him riled? Most working cowboys were pleased to show off their prized tack. Martinez’s behavior made Kerney all the more curious about him. He dialed his office and asked to be put through to the investigation unit.
Detective Matt Chacon took the call. Kerney described the saddle and asked him to track down the maker in Nevada.
“Sure thing, Chief,” replied Chacon, who had never been on a horse in his life. “I know what a saddle horn is, but what’s a cantle, fender, and tree?”
“The cantle is the back of the saddle seat,” Kerney replied, “fenders are wide pieces of leather along the stirrup leathers, and the tree is the frame of the saddle. Have you got all that?”
“I wrote it down, Chief,” Chacon said.
“Good. I want as many facts as you can get. Who the buyer was, when it was bought, how much was paid, and the type of transaction. Leave me a message after you run it down.”
“Ten-four.”
Over a bullhorn one of Susan Berman’s production assistants ordered the cast and extras to report for a wardrobe and makeup check. Kerney mounted and rode to a tent to be looked over to make sure he was appropriately scruffy for the cameras. Far in the distance he could see Malcolm Usher and a camera crew on the cliff overlooking Granite Pass. Two other cameras were in place at the mouth of the pass, one on tracks with a boom and the other on a crane. A fourth camera, mounted on a truck, would parallel the cattle as they were driven toward the pass.
Up the valley a ways and out of sight, helicopters, squad cars, and stunt men were standing by, ready to roll into action for the exciting chase scene into the pass. High above Granite Pass a small plane with an onboard camera circled. It would capture the arrival of the squad cars and whirlybirds.
After getting his face smudged Kerney helped separate the herd into two groups. Usher wanted some of the cattle stampeded by the approaching police helicopters and cruisers as they entered the pass. According to a crew member Kerney talked to, all the cameras would be rolling simultaneously, and if everything went okay, there would be enough raw footage in the can to edit the sequence to a final cut. But the chances were good, the man added, that Usher would want to shoot the sequence twice.
Trampled by thousands of hooves over three days, the rich grassland pasture Julia Jordan had bragged about now looked pale yellow and used up. The cattle Joe Jordan had rented out for the production were dust covered, thirsty, and cantankerous. In the strong afternoon sun heat waves quivered up from the ground, made more visible by the dust that swirled in the air. The mouth of Granite Pass revealed a narrow rocky trail that wedged and wound along the cliff face toward the Playas Valley.
Johnny joined up with Kerney as he trailed behind the cattle moving toward the pass. “Are you ready?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear.
“Have you ridden through the pass?” Kerney asked.
“Twice.”
“There’s bad footing in there,” Kerney said, “and mesquite and cactus on either side just waiting to jab man and beast. These cows are going to go every which way on that trail.”
“Don’t get throwed off that horse,” Johnny said.
“Isn’t that what you used to do for a living?”
Johnny threw back his head and laughed. “More often than not.”
The man with the bullhorn began a countdown. Johnny spurred his horse and veered away to flank the herd on the side where the dolly camera had been positioned. Suddenly, the sound of helicopter rotors and police sirens filled the air and spooked the lead cows into a slant away from the pass. From that point on every working hand forgot about the movie as they ate dust and tried to keep the cattle from scattering.
Kerney entered the pass at the rear of the herd. Pressed tightly together, the cows were clambering over the rocks, crashing through the brush, stumbling against the canyon walls. Some stragglers turned for the valley. Kerney hit them on their snout with his lasso, but only one animal retreated toward the herd. The rest thundered past him to safety.
He pushed Lucky forward, reached out, and slapped a cow on the rump with his coiled lasso. The cow broke right and Lucky cut him off, pivoting and digging with his rear legs, sticking to the animal like a burr in its tail.
Kerney worked the stragglers until the sound of the helicopters and police sirens faded away. He glanced skyward. The choppers were leaving the valley. Behind him the police units were at a full stop.
Johnny’s horse threw dirt as he reined in next to him. “That’s it,” he said. He pointed at the cliff above the pass, where one of the crew stood waving everyone off. “We’re done.”
Kerney looked up the trail through the pass. A bottleneck of frightened cows bawled and kicked in frustration. “Not yet. We need to turn those cattle around, get them out of there and watered.”
“Let the working hands do it,” Johnny said.
Kerney gave him a long, hard look, remembering the day years ago when Johnny had left him out on the Jornada in the fierce afternoon heat, fixing fence ten miles from nowhere, and never returned.
“What?” Johnny asked.
“Do you always leave a job unfinished?” Kerney didn’t wait for a reply. He spurred Lucky forward and spent the next hour helping the hands untangle the cattle and move them back into the valley. Johnny was long gone when the work was done.
By sunset the temperature had cooled down nicely and a refreshing breeze washed across the Bootheel. At the Playas apartment Kerney turned off the air cond
itioning and opened all the doors and windows. Weary from three days in the saddle, he pulled off his boots and sprawled on the couch. On the living room carpet Patrick was busy building an airplane out of a Lego set borrowed from the nanny’s treasure trove of toys.
Realizing that he’d forgotten to check for messages, Kerney speed-dialed his cell-phone voice mail. Matt Chacon had called, but instead of leaving any information, he’d asked for a call back. Kerney got Chacon on the phone.
“There was no saddlemaker named Matt Thornton in Nevada, Chief,” Chacon said, “so I did an Internet search and found him in Arizona. That saddle was stolen out of his shop a year ago. It has a retail value of forty-five hundred dollars. Whoever took it must have added the sterling-silver cap with his initials to the saddle horn. Do you have a suspect?”
“Possibly,” Kerney said. “Did you confirm the theft?”
“Yes, sir. It was entered into the NCIC computer system the day after it was stolen. The thief got into the workshop by breaking a rear window. He took only the saddle, and it wasn’t even the most expensive one there.”
“Where is Thornton located?”
“In Duncan, Arizona. He does custom saddles for clients all over the country. You want his address and phone number?”
“I do.”
Kerney scribbled down the information, thanked Chacon, disconnected, and watched Patrick circle the living room, airplane in hand, making a buzzing engine sound with his lips.
Duncan was only a few miles away from Virden, where Shaw had his farm. Martinez had helped Shaw unload cargo from a plane at the Sentinel Butte landing strip. Were they trucking it to Virden? Did Martinez spot the saddle at Thornton’s workshop during one of their runs and go back to steal it? Or had Martinez bought the saddle from a fence or at a pawnshop in Nevada?
At the very least Kerney was fairly sure Martinez knew the saddle was stolen property. But he would need to tie Martinez to the theft in order to gain enough leverage to tease out an answer to the bigger question: What in the hell had been off-loaded from that plane?
Patrick crashed into the couch cushion next to Kerney and put the airplane on the armrest. “I want to read Pablito the Pony.”
Kerney rubbed his son’s head. “Go get it.”
Patrick scooted to his bedroom, came back with his book, and settled on the couch. When Kerney reached for the book, Patrick shook his head. “I want to read it to you,” he said.
“Okay.”
Patrick opened the book to the first page. “This is the story of Pablito the Pony,” he said, “who lived on a ranch.”
“Very good,” Kerney said.
Patrick smiled and turned the page. “Pablito was a pretty pony.”
“Don’t you mean pinto?” Kerney asked.
Patrick corrected himself and continued to pretend to read as he looked at the pictures and told Kerney the story. When he finished, he closed the book, gave Kerney a pleased look, and said, “The end.”
“What a good story,” Kerney said, “and you read it very well.”
“I know.”
Kerney sent Patrick off to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas. Through the open door he heard Johnny Jordan talking to someone.
“Come on,” Johnny said, his words slightly slurred, “have a drink with me.”
“No, thank you,” Susan Berman replied.
Kerney stepped outside. Johnny stood halfway down the walkway with a whiskey bottle in his hand, blocking Susan Berman’s passage.
“I like a woman with spunk,” Johnny said. “One little drink.”
“Let me pass, Mr. Jordan,” Susan said sharply.
“It doesn’t sound like the lady is interested,” Kerney said as he walked toward Johnny.
Johnny turned and squinted. “There’s my old amigo.” He waved the bottle. “How about you and me and Susan here having a little drink together?”
“You’re drunk, Johnny. Leave Ms. Berman alone and go to bed.”
Johnny laughed. “Are you giving me a lawful order?”
“You could say that.”
Johnny shot Kerney a dirty look, took a swig from the bottle, and stepped out of Berman’s way. As she passed by, she smiled and mouthed a silent thank-you in Kerney’s direction.
“I thought you were a pal,” Johnny said.
“Drunks don’t have friends.”
Johnny gave him a surly look. “Seems you and me just don’t get along anymore.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Johnny.”
Kerney turned and went back to the apartment. Patrick, dressed in his pajamas and about to burst into tears, sat frozen on the couch.
“Where were you, Daddy?” he asked.
“Just outside for a minute, champ.”
“I thought you went away just like Mommy.”
“Never.” He pulled Patrick off the couch, nuzzled him, and carried him to the bedroom. “Mommy and I will always be with you until you’re grown up.”
The call sheet for the next day didn’t have Kerney’s name on it. The scene at the copper smelter had been pushed back to rest the stock. In the morning he spent an hour after breakfast with Patrick before heading off to Lordsburg to seek out Leo Valencia. He sat in Leo’s office at the Sheriff’s Department and told him about Buster Martinez and the stolen saddle.
Leo rubbed his walrus mustache with his fingers and said, “Interesting.” He picked up the telephone and asked for a records check on Martinez. “Either Martinez is a real dumb thief, or he bought the saddle not knowing it was stolen.”
“I’m hoping he’s dumb,” Kerney said. He handed Leo the background information on Walter Shaw. “Several weeks ago I saw Walter Shaw and Martinez drive toward a landing strip on the Sentinel Butte Ranch. Soon after, a plane traveling from that direction passed overhead. I inspected the landing strip and it showed evidence that cargo had been unloaded.”
Leo’s eyes widened. He read the report on Walter Shaw and grunted in disappointment. “There’s nothing here that tells me Shaw is a bad guy. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. What do you want to do?”
“Talk to the saddlemaker and show him Martinez’s photograph. Ask around in Virden to learn if Martinez has ever been seen up there. Try to discover if there is a pattern to Shaw’s visits to his farm. If the two of them are moving product, I’m guessing he’s using his property to warehouse it.”
Leo pulled himself out of his chair. “I’ll go with you to make it official. We’ll take my unit.”
They picked up Martinez’s records on the way out the door. He had a DWI conviction and one arrest for battery against a household member, which had been dropped when the victim refused to press charges.
Leo bypassed the cutoff to Virden and drove straight to Duncan through desert breaks that hid the Gila River from view. There wasn’t much to the town. The mountains beyond were uninviting shadows in the distance. Railroad tracks bordered the main highway, which ran through the river valley toward some low-lying westerly hills. Along the main strip were a smattering of local businesses and a much larger number of vacant buildings with fading signs and chipped stucco exteriors. An old Korean War-era air force jet mounted on a tall arched pedestal overlooked the town from the knob of a small hill. Below, house trailers, manufactured homes, and pitched-roof cottages sat on dusty, dirt-packed lots sheltered by occasional trees. Only a glimpse of the shallow valley could be seen as it spread toward humpback mountains.
From the main strip a hand-painted billboard planted on the side of the road directed them to Matt Thornton’s saddlemaking establishment. A quarter mile off the pavement on a gravel road, they arrived at a tree-shaded house and adjacent shop. Surrounded by a lawn, it was a cool, inviting oasis, but no one was there to greet them.
At a local eatery Kerney asked the proprietor, an older woman with dyed blond hair, if she knew where Thornton might be. She told him Thornton was the president of the Greenlee County Rodeo Association, and if he wasn’t in his shop, he’d most likely be
at the county fairgrounds and racetrack just outside of town.
The access road to the fairground was lined with trees and the entrance gate stood open. Matt Thornton was in the office behind the rodeo arena and covered bleachers. A shade under six feet tall, he had curly graying hair and a droopy mustache that almost matched Leo’s in size.
“What can I do for you, gents?” Thornton asked, eyeing the shield and sidearm clipped to Leo’s belt.
Leo made the introductions and after handshakes all around, he showed Thornton the driver’s license photo of Buster Martinez.
“Have you ever seen him in your shop?” he asked.
Thornton studied the picture. “Yep. He’s been in once or twice, but not for a while. Who is he?”
“Possibly the man who broke into your shop and took the saddle you reported stolen late last year,” Leo replied.
“I’ll be damned. Have you got my saddle back?”
“Not yet,” Kerney said. “When did you last see him?”
“Now that I think of it, before the break-in at the shop. In fact, I was finishing the saddle at the time.”
“Do you know Walt Shaw?” Kerney asked. “He grew up in Virden.”
“Can’t say that I do. I’ve only been here ten years. Came down from Wyoming to get away from the harsh winters.”
“I’ll let you know when we have your saddle,” Leo said. Outside the office he chuckled. “Don’t you just love dumb crooks?”
“I do,” Kerney replied.
They made their way to Virden, past deep green fields, pastures, and the lush river-bottom bosque that lounged against a spate of rocky hills. Kerney had Leo slow down as they passed Shaw’s farm.
“I didn’t get many votes in this part of the county,” Leo said. “Folks around here like their politicians conservative. Where do you want to start?”
Kerney pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “At Shaw’s neighbor behind us.”
Leo made a U-turn and stopped at the farmhouse where Kerney, on his earlier trip to Virden, had seen a woman hanging wash on a clothes-line. Before they could gain the porch steps a man and woman stepped out the front door. Both in their late middle-age, the man was lean and blue eyed with lips that sagged at the corners. The woman, round in the torso with a sharp face, directed her attention to Leo. “How can we oblige you, Sheriff?”
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