Hunter Moon

by Jenna Kernan

  “Gabe should hear this,” said Clay.

  “He has,” Luke said. “What you can’t see is someone riding up on them from the lower pasture.”

  “Like you and Izzie did,” said Clyne.

  “Also, since that spot is secluded and close to the main highway, it would be easy to move product. Good place to store product, too, except for the problem of the rancher and her cattle. So they need to get Izzie off that land.”

  “Who?” asked Clay.

  “That’s what we aim to find out,” said Luke.

  “Are you going to the council?” Clay asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I thought you needed permission to bring in the FBI or any outside agency on to the Rez,” said Clay.

  “That’s so,” said Clyne.

  “But I can come back home visiting anytime I want,” said Luke, “because I’m still a member of this tribe.”

  “This is an unofficial visit. That way there is no paperwork.”

  Clay turned to his brother. “But word will get out that Luke is here, and everybody knows he’s with the FBI.”

  “We don’t need much of a head start,” said Clyne.

  Clay put it together. “You think someone on the council is involved.”

  Clyne shrugged. “Gabe says the bad guys always know when the Feds are around.”

  “And where they will be,” added Luke. “So while I’m here, I might ride along with Gabe or come chat with Clyne. Unofficially. I was hoping you might bring me over to Izzie’s for a visit.”

  “I could do that.”

  “Great.”

  “What about your partner?”

  “She’s close. In case I need her.”

  “She ever been on the reservation?”

  “Not this one. She worked up in South Dakota. Covered the same territory where Kino is now.”

  “She Indian?” asked Clay.

  Luke laughed, and he and Clyne exchanged a look of confusion.

  “She’s white. Very, very white. And serious.” He whistled. “She has a daughter, so that proves she’s human, but other than that...well, all business. She’s a widow and a mom, so...” He shrugged.

  “That’s tough,” said Clyne.

  “What happened to him?” asked Clay.

  “She never said. Doesn’t talk about it. Anyway, she worked in South Dakota and then in California and now down here with me.”

  Clyne jumped in. “Gabe met her. Said she’s so white she’s really pink. Got blond hair the color of corn pollen and blue eyes. He said she looks like she’s from Sweden or something.”

  Clay knew that Clyne, with his traditional values and aesthetics, had never even dated a white woman. Though he had many white friends. Political friends, activist friends. Clyne never seemed to be off duty.

  “Norway. Her ancestors, I guess. Anyway, they didn’t hire her for her looks,” said Luke. “She’s tough as rawhide. Officially, she’s trout fishing. I also suggested she visit Pinyon Fort and the museum for a little culture.”

  “You should bring her and her daughter over for supper,” said Clyne. “Grandma will want to meet them.”

  “Her girl is staying with her mom, I think. And I don’t want Cassidy connected to me. Not yet. Far as anyone knows, she’s a tourist.”

  Before Clyne could respond, his phone rang and he excused himself. Luke and Clay settled at his grandmother’s table and Luke helped himself to another generous slice of pie.

  “She know you ate that pie?” asked Clay.

  “Not yet, but I plan to be gone before she finds out.” Luke grinned.

  Clay debated waiting for the roast, but opted for the last slice of pie, destroying the evidence.

  “So, how are you doing with Donner?” asked Luke.

  “It’s a good job, and I’m grateful to you for getting it for me.”

  Luke waved away the thanks. “I just got him to give you a shot. You’re the one who’s kept it. I admire you, Clay.”

  Clay lowered his fork. “Me?” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. His uncle was a shining example of what a man could make of himself. And he’d done it all on his own.

  “Yes. You. You stayed. You faced your past, and you are making a name for yourself. Folks speak highly of your honesty and work ethic.”

  That was just nonsense. When folks spoke of him, it wasn’t to mention his work ethic.

  Clay pushed away the remains of the pie and studied his uncle. He looked like his father in many ways. Same shape to his face. Same easy smile. Same peaked hairline. Only Luke’s hair was bristling short, and his father had always worn double braids.

  “My work ethic?” He snorted. “I wouldn’t have had a chance at that position if not for you. That job means everything to me, and I know how lucky I am to have it.”

  Luke’s smile dropped, and he sat back in his chair. “Everyone needs help sometimes. Like the help you’ve been giving your girl.”

  “She’s not my girl.” Though he was thinking that was what he really wanted her to be.

  “My mistake,” said Luke.

  Clay held back his frustration but made a poor job of it, judging from his uncle’s curious expression.

  “What?”

  “You’ve never made a mistake,” said Clay.

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Clay cast him an impatient look and then dropped his gaze. Luke was his elder. Even if he were not, he was also family and due respect.

  Luke patted his arm, and Clay met his gaze. Something had changed, but he didn’t know exactly what.

  “Okay,” said Luke, “I think it’s time I came clean about a few things. You’re family, and so I think you have a right to know just what kind of help I had.”

  Clay placed his fork on the empty plate and directed his attention to his uncle. What had he done? Stolen loose change off their father’s dresser?

  “You know I wanted to join the US Marines. You might even know how much I wanted it. But when I was seventeen, I got drunk at the quarry, and your dad didn’t want me to drive. He was drunk, too. Not as bad as me, but pretty drunk. I wouldn’t give him the keys to the truck. My truck. So I drove.” Luke’s hand settled on his own neck. “I drove right into an embankment. Six months from graduation and enlistment papers all signed and I crashed my truck. Your dad was nineteen. He’d already been expelled from school. You know what he did that night?”

  Clay leaned in, waiting, hoping this wasn’t another story of his father’s failings. It was a long list. But this was before Clay was born. Before Clyne was even born. Before his mom and dad were married, before the drug charges.

  “He switched places with me. Told me he was driving. Told me not to say otherwise. And you know what? I did. That sound like a hero move to you?”

  Clay sat back as understanding came and, with it, all the implications.

  “Your dad was a dropout and a troublemaker, but he was still my big brother. It wasn’t the first time he hauled me out of a jam. Like Clyne does in your family. I wasn’t perfect, despite appearances. My brother, your father, told me to shut up when the police came. I did that, too. Your dad was arrested for DWI, and I joined the US Marines and shipped out. You know the rest. Except, if he didn’t have that prior, then two years later, when he was on his honeymoon with your mom, his DWI would have been a first offense. He wouldn’t have gone to prison. He wouldn’t have met the gang members and begun driving for the cartel. You see? All that might not have happened. And yet, he never said a word about it after. Never told a soul. When I tried to thank him, he told me I could thank him by taking care of his sons. So I’ve tried. I didn’t just plead your case because it was the right thing. I did it because I know that a nineteen-year-old makes stupid mistakes and that teenagers shouldn’
t be treated like adults. You deserved a second chance, Clay. And you’ve earned it many times over. I only wish...” He let go of his own neck and clutched his coffee mug. “I wish your dad had been given a second chance, too.”

  Luke sipped his coffee. Clay sat in silence as he realized that the uncle he’d always idolized was human. Flawed. Did that mean they all were? Mistakes. Punishment. Redemption.

  When was it enough? He glanced at Clyne, standing in the hall, speaking on the phone. What mistakes had he made in Iraq or on the road with the rodeo circuit? Was the difference between him and his perfect older brother only the difference of getting caught?

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Clay said formally. “For telling me this.”

  Luke gave his nephew’s cheek a pat, as if Clay were still just a boy.

  “So who do you think is setting Nosie up?” said Luke.

  Clay brought his attention back to Izzie’s problems. “Arnold Tessay, one of the tribal council members, pushed for the vote that revoked Izzie’s grazing permits. Victor Bustros is Tessay’s man, and he is the one who first noticed the rebranding. Eli Beach is a part-time ranch hand who stole Izzie’s brand. My boss oversees impounding cattle and sits on the general livestock council with Boone Pizarro. Pizarro also ordered the renourishment. I think her neighbor only wanted her permits, but who knows?”

  Clay wondered if he was not also under suspicion.

  “That all?”

  “All I know.”

  “Long list,” said his uncle. “You in touch with your old friend Rubin Fox?”

  “I went to see him when I suspected meth cooks.”

  “What did he say?”

  “To stay the hell away from him and also to stay away from Izzie.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “At the time, I thought he was implying that she was involved, but now I think he might have meant that she was in the middle of some big trouble.”

  “So he cares enough about you or about Izzie to give you a warning. Surprising.”

  “Yeah. He’s involved with the drug trade. Just like his dad. He’s hooked into...”

  “Distribution. Yeah. We know him. His dad was a minor player with a small box truck. Ran drugs from the border with Frasco Dosela. Worked with your dad, too, actually.”

  Clay had not known that. But he knew Frasco because he was the father of the woman Gabe planned to marry. Now Frasco was in federal prison and Gabe was still single.

  “Someone else is moving product now. Not sure who. Rubin is protected by his Native status and by the fact that he never leaves the Rez. I’m sure Rubin has got prospects and probably information. Will he talk to you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, try, anyway. See if he’ll meet you somewhere, somewhere public. I’ll speak with my friend Donner. I already put Cassidy on Tessay.”

  “Cassidy?”

  “My partner.”

  “Your partner’s name is Cassidy, like Butch Cassidy?”

  “That’s her first name. Last name is Walker.”

  “Cassidy Walker? Sounds like the name of a Texas Ranger.”

  Luke gave a chuckle. “Yeah, well, I told you that she’s here trout fishing? Guess who I got for her guide?”

  Clay shrugged, giving up without a try.

  Luke smiled. “Tessay’s son, Matt. And she’s very persuasive, charming when she’s not being a bad-ass.”

  Gabe arrived, in uniform and in a rush, as usual. He motioned to Luke, and the two stepped out into the backyard and closed the door behind them.

  His grandmother came in, and Clay helped her set the table, then kept her company as she removed the roast from the oven to cool down. Clyne returned from his phone call and glanced out the back window at Luke and Gabe but gave them their privacy. When the food was ready, his grandmother broke up the meeting, calling Gabe and Luke to the table. It was nice to share a meal with his family. His uncle took Kino’s usual place, and the table was filled again. After supper, Clay bid the group farewell and kissed his grandmother good-night. Then he returned to the dark, empty house.

  He thought of Izzie, wished he could call her and take her out. But though she had shared his bed, she was not willing to share a cup of coffee with him, at least not in public.

  Clay understood. Funny that he’d never appreciated how important a man’s reputation was until it was lost.

  On Saturday morning, Clay called Rubin and got his voice mail. He left a message and then continued packing for his move back into his grandmother’s home. When he stripped the bed, he lifted his sheets to his nose. Izzie’s scent hung faintly to the linens. By the time he had the laundry packed, his phone rang. He fumbled in his pocket for it, hoping it was Izzie. He stared at the caller’s name.

  Rubin Fox.

  He answered.

  “Rubin?”

  “You call?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  There was a momentary pause. “Come on, then.”

  “Where?”

  “You know where.”

  Clay’s heart sank. He had let Rubin set the location, and his uncle had told him to meet his former friend only in a public place.

  “Well? You coming?”

  “Yes,” said Clay.

  “See you in twenty, coz.”

  The phone went dead. Only now did he think to wonder why Rubin had agreed to meet.

  The Wolf Den. The hangout of the Wolf Posse and the last place in the Rez Clay should go. He grabbed his keys.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clay headed to Rubin’s place of business, a house on the eastern side of the Rez community called Fort Pinyon, after the stronghold of the same name. Past the museum and the fort lay an area closed to all but Apache tribal members. Inside that area was an unofficial community that folks called Wolf Canyon, but the only wolves there were members of the Apache gang, the Wolf Posse. They operated here, far from the tribal headquarters and close to the most sacred ground outside of Black Mountain itself.

  Most of the tribe avoided Wolf Canyon except when looking for trouble or a score. There was always plenty of traffic. The homes were boxy, colorless and old like everywhere on the Rez. He glanced at the peeling paint on stucco walls, dry rotting wood, sagging gutters and windows repaired with packing tape. Everything looked like a postcard sent to those philanthropists back East asking for money for the Indian College fund.

  He pulled up before the wolf den, a washed-out beige stucco ranch, notable because of its position at the end of the road and because the windows were secured with metal bars. For a moment Clay thought of the irony of Rubin leaving prison and then creating one here. He noticed Rubin’s black pickup. His vehicle was dusty but too new for a man who supposedly existed on government subsidies. Beside it was a beige four-door sedan with a tribal license plate. That made Clay frown. Who was the tribal official visiting the wolf den?

  Clay left his truck, looking past the two vehicles to posse headquarters. The door, designed to keep unwanted visitors out, stood wide-open. The small hairs lifted on Clay’s neck, and he reached for his phone to call Gabe. Then he remembered what his brother would say, what he always said. You’re not an investigator. Wait for the police.

  But Rubin wouldn’t leave that door open. Never. That meant Rubin was in trouble. Clay shouldn’t care but found he still did. Once Rubin had been a friend. Clay had thought that their friendship had died long ago of neglect. Did he owe Rubin anything? He didn’t know, but he did know he wasn’t waiting for the police.

  Clay stepped out of his truck and onto the tufted mounds of yellow grass that no one bothered to mow. The silence was chilling. Where was his posse, the gang of men whom Rubin always said had his back?

  Clay wished he carried a gun and then remembered Gabe s
aying the best way to get shot was to carry a gun. He thought walking into the wolf den unannounced and unescorted was also an excellent way to get shot.

  Clay brought up Gabe’s number on his phone and let his thumb hover near the green call button. Then he entered the house. The light was muted because of the brown packing paper someone had secured with gray duct tape over every window. What happened in this house was private, from the sale of drugs to the plans to move shipments around the reservation. As far as Clay knew, Rubin had never moved up to trafficking off the reservation, and his uncle said the same. Had Rubin learned his lesson from his father’s mistakes? Staying on the reservation reduced his chances of facing federal prosecution. After all, he was Apache and so not subject to the laws of the US government, as long as he stayed here, with his people, and as long as his people didn’t turn him over to the Feds—again.

  Clay called a hello and was met with silence. There was a rifle propped against the wall between the entrance and living room.

  Clay hugged the wall, the dread making his stomach drop. He glanced at the firearm but left it where it was.

  “Rubin?” Clay said and was met with no reply. “It’s Clay.”

  He peered through the entrance toward the living room. His gaze swept the room before snapping to the body that lay between the living room and the adjoining room beyond. Two legs poking out and arms spread wide as if the man was falling backward into cool water. The legs were clad in jeans and the two feet sheathed in the expensive unlaced sneakers Rubin favored.

  Clay stepped through the door, already smelling the blood. Rubin laid face up, eyes open, mouth open and hat still on his head. But his head seemed to have settled too far onto the floor. And behind him on the carpet was a large crimson stain that Clay knew must be blood. Lots of blood. Clay stared as his skin rose into gooseflesh. He didn’t remember backing out of the room but found himself standing in the room’s entrance, one foot in the hallway as if the sensible part of him was preparing to run.

  Apaches did not associate with the dead. It was the worst kind of bad luck. Rubin’s ghost might follow him. But Clay was also a Christian, and a Christian did not leave a friend’s body unattended. Still, Clay wished he could be like his ancestors and burn the entire place to the ground before striking camp and moving away forever.