Holes in the Sky (Zeb Hanks: Small Town Sheriff Big Time Trouble Book 2)

by Mark Reps

  Ex-sheriff Jake Dablo looked over at his one-time understudy. Somewhere deep inside his gut an alarm bell was ringing. Jake knew the inevitable downfall of every lawman was a cocksure attitude. He was beginning to sense that in Zeb. Jake also had lived long enough to know there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to save another man from his personal destiny.

  “Once it’s in your blood, it’s got nowhere else to go but through your veins,” said Jake, turning away and spitting on the ground.

  Jake’s body language told Zeb he’d offended his ex-boss.

  “Did I say something to piss you off?”

  “Nope.”

  “What then?”

  “I’d hate to see something happen to you or one of your people because you quit paying attention.”

  “You talking about something in particular?” asked the sheriff.

  “Nope. Let’s just say my gut is talking to me.”

  Jake Dablo ambled over to his old pickup truck and stuck the key in the ignition. It grumbled, spit a bit and backfired twice before lunging into forward gear.

  Sheriff Hanks watched the aging man in his old rust bucket of a truck head down the road.

  Was Jake right? Was there something he wasn’t paying attention to?

  Chapter Nine

  “What’s going on around here? Did the whole town lose its appetite at once?”

  Kate Steele approached the back counter of the Town Talk Diner where Doreen Nightingale was hunched over a disorganized stack of invoices.

  “Too late for breakfast, too early for coffee break,” replied Doreen. “Can I get you something?”

  “Stay seated. Finish your book work. I can serve myself. I wasn’t always a Deputy Sheriff, you know. I worked my way through college as a waitress.”

  “I declare, from the first time I met you I knew you had somethin’ special about ya. But I never did figure you for bein’ the waitress type.”

  “I like to say my undergraduate degree is in waitressology.”

  “Oooh, wee, I like the sounds of that,” said Doreen. “Kind of elevates the profession a notch or two, if you know what I mean.”

  “Things have been so slow at the sheriff’s office this week that I might just ask for a part-time job around here,” said Kate. “I’ve got to do something to keep me from going stir crazy.”

  “Zeb said things were real slow in the police business. Crooks and thieves take a holiday is what he called it. He claims it’s got to do with Father McNamara’s death.”

  “You mean his theory that riffraff and men of the cloth are just flip sides of the same coin? And that criminals feel low when a religious man dies so they take a little time off?” asked Kate.

  “Zeb believes priests and ministers treat crooks like regular folks. I guess it only goes to figure that when a religious man dies, the bad guys lay low out of respect,” said Doreen, a tear welling in her eye. “Father McNamara, he understood people and problems like no one else.”

  “Father McNamara had the common touch and Zeb’s a good lawman. Top cops like him spend a whole lot of time figuring out criminal behavioral patterns. It’s like putting pieces of a puzzle together,” explained Kate. “What you working on?”

  “A jigsaw puzzle of my own, the never ending process of juggling the books. Today for example, just when I figure I got the income and the outgo all evened up, I realize the egg man has been muckin’ up the works.”

  “How can that be?” asked Kate. “Everyone says Chicken Jimmy is the most honest man in Safford.”

  “He is, sort of. But he’s got his own way of monkey wrenchin’. Every time I order a dozen dozen eggs he throws in a thirteenth dozen for nothing. Problem is he never bothered to tell lil’ ol’ me what he was up to. Long story short, my inventory is all screwed up. When I asked the old buzzard what he was up to, he acted like he didn’t know what I was talkin’ about. He looked at me like I was a little bit off my nut.”

  “The old guy probably has a little crush on you, Doreen. It’s hardly a crime when someone cheats you in your favor.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve done got it figured on how to get even with the old rascal.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m gonna trick him by underchargin’ him for his meals,” laughed Doreen. “Your coffee still good and fresh? I can brew you up a fresh batch if you want.”

  “It’s fine. I just wanted one quick cup before I head out to the San Carlos.”

  “What takes you out that way?” asked Doreen. “Not trouble I hope?”

  “No. I’ve got to locate an elderly woman by the name of Beulah Trees.”

  “Is old Beulah still alive? I woulda thought she died years ago. She must be a hundred years old by now.”

  “As a matter of fact she is exactly one hundred years old according to tribal records.”

  Sensing impending gossip, Doreen put down her pencil. She began fidgeting with her hair. The updo, a cross between a beehive and a bun, was adorned with a single string of leather ringed with multi-colored beads. A silver clip shaped like an American flag with a Day-Glo peace symbol topped it off.

  “Whatcha’ gotta find Beulah for?”

  “I’m delivering a court ordered foreclosure notice.”

  “Out on the Rez? Now that don’t figure to add up. What’s the skinny?”

  “Beulah’s mother got some land years ago when the federal government confiscated her land for mineral rights. They leased out the rights to a mining company.”

  “You mean the government could come right in and kick an Indian off reservation land?” asked Doreen.

  “Pretty much.”

  “How in the name of kingdom come could they get away with such a thing? I thought the Rez belonged to the Indians.”

  “It does, but the federal government can do pretty much whatever it pleases.”

  “So if they kick Indians off their reservation land, what do the Indians get in return?”

  Kate explained the process briefly.

  “There have been times when the Native American refused the government’s money. In those cases the government deeded them land of equal value.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “Usually the land was out in the middle of nowhere with no roads going to it and no water on it.”

  “Sounds as crooked as a bent walkin’ stick.”

  “It was all done legally. Ethically, that’s a horse of a different color. In the end, after the mines played out, all that was left was a big hole in the ground.”

  “Hard to believe, ain’t it,” said Doreen. “I mean that the federal government could do such a thing legally. So what’s this got to do with Beulah again?”

  “Way back when, her mother was given land on the upper elevations of Mount Graham in return for the reservation land they took for the mineral rights. Of the sixty or seventy tracts of land up on Mount Graham involved in the land and mineral rights deal, most of them ended up like hers, foreclosed upon.”

  “Foreclosed on? Why?”

  “It was one of those confusing and poorly thought out federal government programs. Tribal members don’t pay property taxes on reservation property. When the government gave them land off the reservation, the agreement allowed the first generation of Native Americans living on the ‘off reservation’ land to be exempt from property taxes.”

  “Sounds fair enough.”

  “Here’s the problem. Only the first generation was exempt from the taxes. Their children and heirs weren’t.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The ‘no property tax deal’ wasn’t explained all that well to the Native Americans.”

  “Ain’t that a shock,” said Doreen facetiously.

  “A lot of people didn’t have any idea they owed taxes on their land. Almost all of the descendants of the first generation just assumed the land was treated like reservation land. They figured no taxes were owed on it.”

  “And if you don’t pay your taxes, you lose your land,
right?”

  “Exactly right,” replied Kate.

  “Lord, but that don’t seem right considerin’ the circumstances.”

  “Eskadi says it’s all part of an ongoing conspiracy by the federal government against all Native American people. I don’t always stand on his side of the fence, but when you think about it in this case, he might be right.”

  Kate further explained that county officials would wait five or ten years before they tried to collect any taxes. By then, with penalties tacked on, the amount owed usually was more than the property was worth. The county would file a tax lien against the property. If the owner didn’t pay it, the land would go on the auction block.

  “What happened to the people living on the property?”

  “Most of the property was never lived on. Almost all of the people who got kicked off their land when the mining companies came in moved in with relatives somewhere else on the San Carlos Reservation. Besides, most Apaches would never live on Mount Graham.”

  “Why not? The land was given to them fair and square.”

  “Apaches believe that Mount Graham is a fundamental sacred site, a sacred home of the Gods. Being that it’s a holy place, people aren’t supposed to live up there.”

  “Any Apaches besides Beulah still own land up there?”

  “I think only three pieces of privately owned Apache property are left. Surprisingly two of them are homesteaded. Beulah owns the third, but, according to the records, she has never lived on it. I’m not so sure she even knows about it.”

  “You said two plots of land are still owned by Indians?”

  “Yes. Both of the owners have close ties to the San Carlos.”

  “You know quite a lot about this, don’t ya, Katie?”

  “I’ve been learning. The two parcels of land are near each other. One of them is right up by Riggs Lake. It’s near the top of the mountain.”

  “Ya’ don’t say. I know that lake. Zeb took me up there. It is a beautiful place.”

  “The other one is not far from there. It’s near Ladybug Saddle.”

  “Heck, I know about that spot too. Zeb told me last summer during ladybug season some of the trees’ trunks up there were turned orange from all the ladybugs. Zeb said some old hermit lives up there somewhere.”

  “That’s right. His name is Ramon Hickman. He’s one of the two Apaches who owns land and lives up there. I hear he only comes to town maybe once a year. The Apaches consider him almost sacred in a sense because of his way.”

  “His way?” asked Doreen. “What way is that?”

  “The tribal elders call it the ‘quiet way’ because he hardly ever talks.”

  “How come the cat got his tongue?”

  “It’s quite a story. He’s a Christian Apache, but he follows all the old ways too. He got religion during the war. Nobody knows for sure. Some say he took a vow to only talk if had to because of an experience during the war.”

  “What the heck happened?”

  “According to local legend, he was captured. When he wouldn’t talk, he was tortured. They threatened to cut out his tongue.”

  “Cut out his tongue! Who captured him?”

  “The Nazis.”

  “What a terrible thing. What else do you know about it?”

  “The Apache people don’t like to talk about it. They believe it’s bad luck to retell a hard luck story. As I understand it, they think if you repeat a story about someone’s misfortune, it can bounce back and cause the same thing to happen to you.”

  “I suppose it could be true. Ya’ never know how them things work. What do you know about Hickman’s story?”

  “What I’ve heard was that Hickman was a military courier. His job was to carry information between battlefield commanders. It’s said he could run all day and all night without ever tiring.”

  “Well, I’ll be dipped. That’s quite a talent.”

  “They say one night he was captured. He hid the papers he was carrying, just like he was ordered to do. The Nazis threatened to cut out his tongue when he refused to tell them where he had stashed the documents. He still wouldn’t talk. Then his captors lined up some innocent children and threatened to gun them down unless he told them what they wanted to know.”

  “Did he sing?”

  “No, he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut for two reasons. One, he was under orders. Two, he could not even begin to believe they would do something like that to innocent children.”

  “Did they kill the kids?”

  “Yes, and they made him watch the whole thing.”

  “No way.”

  “That night he escaped. He just stood up and walked away. He didn’t even care if the enemy killed him. When he got back to his troops and told them what happened, his commanding officer decided he was loco. He was labeled a ‘Crazy Injun’ and was given a section eight discharge.”

  “Section eight?”

  “It’s a way the military gets rid of people they decide have mental problems.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “When he returned to the reservation, he went through a Purification Ceremony. The Medicine Man had a vision that Ramon should live on Mount Graham. Up there he could be nearer the Gods and safer. Eskadi told me Ramon doesn’t talk to anyone, not even the elders from the San Carlos who take him food and supplies and leave it near his cave.”

  “He lives in a cave? C’mon, Katie. This tale is getting’ a little tall, even for the likes of me.”

  “It may be tall but it’s true. The Elders of the tribe have no doubt the mountain spirits, the Ga’an, keep an eye on him.”

  “No kidding.”

  “They believe because of what happened to him he needs to be watched over. The Ga’an protect his path in this life because he suffers from having seen the horror of what happened to those children. It makes him strangely blessed in the Apache way of thinking.”

  “I suspect he’s earned the right to have those Gods lookin’ over his shoulder. What about the other one? You said two Apaches are living up on the Mount.”

  “The other is an ancient Medicine Man. His name is Geronimo Star in the Night. He’s a traditional healer. He has a sweat lodge in a place the Apaches have considered a sacred holy place for over four hundred years. They say he has the gift of seeing the future.”

  “How the sam hill do you know so much about the goin’s on up on the mountain?”

  Kate finished her coffee and went behind the counter to refill her cup. Doreen fiddled with her hair, puffing her bangs.

  “Want some?” asked Kate, holding up the coffeepot.

  “Sure, pour me up. Dang, it feels funny to get waited on in your own place. Muchos gracias.”

  “No problem, you deserve it. You’re a hard working woman.”

  “You know I sort of feel like I’m a kid again, sittin’ and talkin’ like this. My sister and I used to stay up late at night, listening to the radio, talking and telling stories, sharing secrets.”

  “You were blessed to have that.”

  “Yes, I was. I guess I forget that sometimes. Now back to what I was askin’ you about? How in the name of kingdom come do you know so much about the mountain?”

  “Eskadi has been mentoring me.”

  “Well, lo and behold and wonder of wonders. You can tickle my feet and paint me pink,” cried Doreen, clapping her hands together in great delight.

  “What?” laughed Kate. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” aped Doreen. “I’m talkin’ bout the first time you two ever done laid eyes on one another. I seen the sparks aflyin’. You’d have to be blind as a bat not to have.”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “It was right here at this counter.”

  “Yer dang tootin’,” said Doreen. “You were sittin’ right here with my man, the good sheriff of Graham County, during one of your frequent coffee breaks…”

  “…in walks this handsome Apache man with beautiful onyx colored eyes and jet black hair in a ponytail
hanging down to the middle of his back. I thought he was some businessman from Phoenix or a college professor or maybe some mysterious stranger,” added Kate.

  Kate giggled like a teenager, realizing she could trust Doreen with the secrets of her love life. Doreen’s eyes twinkled.

  “He’s a good lookin’ man.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Kate.

  “And it’s a damn good thing I don’t or you might have some competition. Since you’re travelin’ down memory lane, tell me just one more thing,” said Doreen.

  “Okay. I can do that,” said Kate.

  “Tell me exactly what you was wearin’.”

  Doreen’s mysterious question gave Kate pause.

  “I was on duty, so obviously I was in my uniform.”

  “That’s not what I’m talkin’ about. I swear to God, girl, there’s a part of you missin’ when it comes to usin’ yer noodle like a woman. I mean what scent were you wearin’?”

  Kate gave the worldly waitress a confused look and shook her head.

  “Scent? What scent? What are you talking about?”

  “You were wearin’... Come on girl. Use your head as something other than a spot to rest yer deputy sheriff’s hat.”

  “Let me see. What scent was I wearing? Sandalwood oil, that’s it. Of course you would remember. It was a gift from you.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “What do you mean ‘that’s what I think?’ You gave it to me. I remember when you handed it to me.”

  “And hon’, what exactly is it that you remember?” Doreen’s sassy tongue wagged like an impudent teenager.

  “I remember your gift of the sandalwood oil very clearly because you told me it was a magic potion. There you go.”

  “And what makes you think a little ol’ hash slingin’ hussy like me would know the very first doggone thing about how to whip up a magic potion?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The sandalwood oil was a magic potion made especially for you, but not by me. I was just the delivery gal.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, do ya’, hon’? I swear you were at the back of the line when the good Lord handed out female instincts.”