Rode Hard, Put Away Dead

by Sinclair Browning

  I don't know what kind of epiphany I was looking for, but none came. After sitting there for ten minutes or so, I was done. The only thing I had determined was that it was indeed quiet out here.

  I was closing the tailgate of the truck when I had another idea. Dropping it once again, I stepped up on the bumper and then stood in the bed of the Dodge. From up here, my view was better and as I looked off in the direction of the stock tank, I saw the bright twinkle of a campfire.

  It had been unusual enough for J.B. to pick this spot in June for a camp out, but who in the hell else was that crazy? Most of the people I knew with camping in mind were up in the White Mountains or somewhere up in Colorado. While this was not an unknown route for people coming into the country illegally, coyotes—those who charged to bring them in—didn't usually build campfires that would announce their presence.

  I whispered—ridiculous really, since the campfire was a good distance away—for Quinta to get my binoculars out of the console. She handed them up to me and I scoped the darkness with the glasses, concentrating on the flickering light to the north. While they brought the fire in a little closer, I couldn't make out any activity there. Either it had been left unattended—a dangerous possibility given the dry drought conditions—or the fire builders had already gone to bed. Of course then there was the worst-case scenario—they had seen our headlights when we'd driven in and were coming for us. At the thought, I dropped one hand from the binoculars and unsnapped my holster so I could get my gun out quickly if I needed to.

  “Are we going there next?” Quinta whispered excitedly in my ear, unaware of my fear.

  “No,” I answered, taking the binoculars from my face. “Not tonight.”

  Adventure was one thing, but going into a stranger's camp well past midnight was something entirely different. I was praying that whoever was camped across the desert from us felt the same way.

  This one would have to wait until first light.

  32

  “THIS IS IT, HUH?” QUINTA SAID WITH CHARACTERISTIC GOOD humor.

  “I'm afraid so.”

  The guys at La Gitana had probably spooked me more than I was willing to admit for I found myself preoccupied with thinking about our neighbors coming over in the dark to check us out. While I have nothing against camping out—like it in fact—maybe doing so here, in the same spot where Abigal Van Thiessen had met her death, wasn't such a hot idea.

  I entertained the thought of going home and coming back in the morning to investigate the campfire people, but it really didn't make a whole lot of sense. We were at least fifty miles from the Vaca Grande, it was now close to one in the morning, and I figured if we could just make it through the next few hours, daylight would come and the camper mystery would be solved.

  Besides, realistically, there was probably no connection between the people camped to the northwest and Abby's death, or to the patrons of La Gitana for that matter.

  I fished around in the toolbox and finally found an old, faded serape that I keep handy for spur-of-the-moment picnics. It was one of the thick cotton ones and as I spread it over the bed of the pickup, it gave some cushion against the hard ridges of the bed liner. I found a couple of old red Dodge windbreakers that the dealer had given me years ago when I'd bought the truck, and we wadded these up and used them as pillows.

  Although the desert cools at night, this was June so we weren't going to freeze without blankets. Still, we kept all of our clothes and our boots on. I put my holstered .38 up near the wheel well and settled in for what was left of the night.

  There are few things as humbling as sleeping out under an open sky. Staring up at the constellations I was struck by how much clearer and more defined they were than in Tucson, or even at the Vaca Grande. There were so few lights here—no Kmart parking lots or Cineplex Odeon theaters or Diamondback stadiums to pollute the sky. No wonder Kitt Peak Observatory had been built high up in the Baboquivaris.

  The coyotes had also settled down, leaving the night quiet and still. I counted stars until I finally drifted off to sleep.

  I didn't sleep very well. The bed of the truck wasn't that comfortable and I kept waking up, expecting to have undesirable company, either the people camped across the way, or our new friends from La Gitana. While I probably wouldn't have slept any better had I been in a Ramada Inn somewhere the other factors made sleep very elusive.

  It was well before first light when I finally rolled over and checked my watch—4:17. I was very still, not wanting to disturb Quinta. Probably not a problem since she was snoring heartily next to me, her mouth open.

  Finally nature called. I stood slowly and grabbed my binoculars off the top of the truck box. Scanning the northwest, I saw what I thought might be the dying embers of the fire I'd spotted last night. While it still seemed unlikely that the people camped there had anything to do with Abby's death, I was looking at caution over valor. After all, no one knew where Quinta and I were, so we could be missing for quite a while before anyone would find us.

  Carefully I slid over the side of the truck, not wanting to risk awakening Sleeping Beauty with the sound of a dropping tailgate.

  A few minutes later I was scrounging for water in the cab of the truck. Even if I'd had something to heat it in, I didn't want to risk a fire. It was too dangerous with all the dried grass. I also didn't want to be seen by the Campfire People before I had the chance to visit them.

  I retrieved my revolver as Quinta rolled on her side and stared at me.

  “Are we going?”

  I'd just learned something else about her. She was one of those wide-awake-first-thing-in-the-morning kind of people. Just like her father. And just like me.

  “In a few minutes,” I said. “I want to get there before the sun comes up.”

  I was mentally wrestling with our approach. Priscilla was white and I knew that once the sun started making its ascent that if the people at the fire looked our way, they could probably spot the top of the cab.

  As the sky began turning gray, I jumped back up in the pickup's bed, grabbed my binoculars and trained them on the spot where I'd first seen the campfire. In the dim light, I could barely make out what looked like a small blue truck. So far there weren't any people moving around.

  “Damn.”

  “What's wrong?” Quinta asked.

  “I can't figure out if we should hike over there and risk their leaving before we get there, or if we should try to find the road they drove in on. That way if they drive out, we'll be able to talk to them.” Why I was talking in terms of “them” I didn't know, since I had no idea how many people were over there, except it didn't seem logical that someone would be camping alone. After all it wasn't deer or javelina season.

  Quinta helped herself to a drink of water and rubbed her eyes. “That's easy. You hike over and I'll drive and try to find the turnoff.”

  “I hike?” I teased.

  “Hey, you're the one with the pistola.” She grinned. “Or you give me the .38 and I'll hike.”

  I opted for the former plan and that's the way we settled it. We agreed that we'd meet back up on the highway if she couldn't find the road into the mystery campers' site. If after an hour and a half we hadn't reconnected, I told her to drive for help. Even as I said it, my speech crackled with my dry mouth. Joining Abby in the stock tank was definitely not something on my Things to Do Today list.

  I clipped my holster onto my belt and pulled my shirt out over it, threw the binoculars around my neck and grabbed a bottle of water before starting out on the trek to the stock tank.

  The desert is always alive in the early morning hours of summer. The animals take advantage of the early light and coolness to hunt. I hadn't gone very far when I'd flushed out several coveys of quail and startled a red racer who slithered up a mesquite tree in his flight.

  As I walked along I heard the “who-cooks-forYOU?” call of the white-winged doves, in concert with the “cha-cha-cha” of the cactus wrens. Everyone was chatty this morning. Exc
ept me. I was just plain worried.

  A lot of the desert plants that had bloomed last month were heavy with seed pods—the acacia, yucca and mesquite, although most of the lower mesquite beans had been picked off by the hungry cattle.

  The sun was making its ascent now and the birds began to sing it up along with the whirring buzz of the romantic male cicadas.

  I passed groups of thin cows who were picking the leaves they could reach from the trees. Although a few of them had passed through cholla patches, they didn't seem to mind the spiny cactus stuck to their faces and lips.

  Since I wasn't following tracks this time, I took a more direct route to the stock tank. As I did so, the thought occurred to me that whoever had carried Abby off from her camp site hadn't really known exactly where the tank was. If he had, he would have gone as the crow flies as I was doing, not on the circuitous path that Sanders and I had followed over a week ago. While this wasn't particularly helpful since I didn't think that a Baboquivari local had killed Abby, it had to mean something, but what?

  There were a few saguaros here and I noticed that in spite of the drought a few of them had converted last month's waxy white flowers into ripe red fruit. Greedy doves were perched on their crowns, picking at the edible pulpy mass. Eventually what was left would fall to the desert floor and provide fodder for the animals down below—ants, mice, even coyotes loved the succulent fruit.

  The terrain was rolling and while I tried to keep my eyes on the blue truck, I lost it every time I dropped down into a small arroyo. I found myself spinning around a lot, sure that I was being followed by someone. Yet every time I spun, of course no one was there.

  I kept to the trees as much as I could, not eager to be discovered any sooner than necessary. To the east the sky glowed, and I knew it wouldn't be long before the sun crept above the horizon.

  Finally I came up on the south side of the tank, the side where the dirt embankment corraled the water. I used it as cover as I sat down in the dirt and took a good drink of water and then stashed the bottle in the waist-band of my jeans.

  On hands and knees I crawled to the top of the earthen dam and peeked over. Now that I was this close, I could see that the blue truck was parked some distance from the stock tank. That told me that the campers knew what they were doing—these were no neophytes who would park close to the animals' source of water.

  I scrambled to the far side of the embankment where I hovered behind a hackberry bush for cover. The sun was to my back, which was good. Hopefully it wouldn't hit the binocular lenses and give me away. I focused the glasses on the camp site and saw a woman sipping something as she tended a large pot on the fire. For some reason that made me feel better. A woman cooking breakfast couldn't be all that bad, could she?

  Just beyond her under a mesquite tree were what looked like a couple of cots. One was clearly empty, but the other had a huge lump in it. Could that be another person? Judging from the size of the lump, I suspected it was a large man.

  I glassed the scene for a while longer, but the lump didn't move and the woman kept to the fire.

  The sky was light now.

  I hit a dirt road that ran alongside the tank and then headed northwest. I could see the tire tracks in the dust and there was a lot of night sign over them—the skitterings of night beetles, ants and a light dusting of tiny mesquite leaves—so I was pretty sure that the blue truck had not had company yet this morning.

  I walked up the road for a short distance, and then dropped into a small arroyo to the north. This would give me cover until I got to the camp. Now that I was getting closer this seemed like a really crappy idea. What was I doing playing Girl Spy out here in the desert? I should just give it up. Those people, whoever they were, probably didn't have a thing to do with J.B. or Abby.

  I tried to corral my imagination but it started annoying me again. Maybe the campers were involved in some really big dope deal and the desert was about to come alive with nasty drug smugglers. Interrupting those transactions is never good, unless of course you're a cop. The Tucson papers are full of bodies found buried in shallow arroyos.

  Still, I'd been hired by J.B. to do a job. In spite of my misgivings, I felt that I had to check out the people in the blue truck.

  Reaching under my shirt, I unsnapped the holster and practiced pulling the .38 out quickly. This, like dry shooting people on TV, is one of the things I suppose I should practice more often, but never think to do. Real-life PI work, for the most part, is pretty boring. It's only on occasions like this morning that even thinking about having to use my gun ever crosses my mind.

  I told myself that I was overreacting, that the campers were harmless, and rationally, I knew that was probably true. I was light on the rational side, however, since I was alone out here, with no quick escape until Quinta arrived.

  I trudged through the thick sand of the wash until I heard a woman's voice speaking what sounded like the Tohono O'odham language. I froze. Who in the hell was she talking to? I waited, listening for the voice of her companion, but nothing came. Was the lump still in bed? Or was he out here, stalking me? My head swiveled around, looking for him, but there was no sign of him.

  Figuring I was just below where the truck was parked, I took a deep breath and began climbing the small hillock. Right before the top I dropped to my knees and peered over, not eager to show myself any sooner than I had to. I wanted to get the lay of the land before I was spotted.

  I had a clear view of the truck. It was an older Nissan, its paint faded and chipped, its windshield cracked, and it was missing its grille. A front bumper sticker read TOO MANY SNOWBIRDS, TOO LITTLE FREEZER SPACE.

  The camp was a mess, littered with pots and jars and cooking utensils. I was right about the beds being cots and both had rumpled bedding. My eyes skimmed them quickly—both were now empty. There was nothing on either that would suggest a big lump. What had made that lump and where in the hell was it?

  I rolled around on the hill, checking my back, but there was nothing there.

  Finally I stood up and approached the camp.

  The woman's back was to me as she bent over the campfire, stirring the pot. Her long black ponytail was slipped through the back of a baseball cap.

  “Excuse me.”

  The Indian woman jumped and turned, dropping her wooden spoon into the dirt as she did so. Her eyes bore into me.

  She was wearing loose cotton pants, a white T-shirt splattered with red stains, unlaced dirty tennis shoes and a heavy silver bracelet on one arm. She looked like she was forty-five or so.

  “I'm sorry.” I held my hands open so she'd know I wasn't a threat. I hoped the same was true of her and her unseen companion. My heart was doing aerobics in my chest.

  The woman spoke loudly, rattling something off in Tohono O'odham.

  I walked slowly up to her. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  Now that I was close I could see that cement blocks on three sides cradled the campfire I'd seen. Nesting on a grate on top of them was a coffeepot and a huge aluminum pot with something red and bubbly in it. The two steaming tin mugs of coffee resting on the concrete blocks confirmed my conclusions about the lump. My eyes scanned the landscape. Where in the hell was he or she?

  The woman said something in Tohono O'odham. Again loudly. And then she snapped, “Of course I speak English. I teach English.” She reached for the wooden spoon in the dirt, wiped it with a stained dish towel and returned it to the bubbling pot as she stirred her brew.

  Leaning against the dented tailgate of the blue truck were a couple of poles, two saguaro ribs lashed together with baling wire and crossed at the top with a piece of ironwood. In the shade of a mesquite were three of five-gallon white plastic buckets, each partially filled with red saguaro fruit.

  I felt better knowing that I had stumbled into a saguaro camp and the woman and her invisible friend were harvesting and collecting the cactus fruit. In spite of the missing person, I probably wasn't in any real danger. Many times the To
hono O'odham worked in pairs while harvesting, one to knock the fruit off the saguaro; the other to catch it before it hit the ground. Allowed to free-fall, the fruit would burst when it hit the desert floor and would invariably pick up small stones, which are impossible to get out.

  “I was camping over there.” I waved my hand in the general direction from which I had come. “And saw your truck.”

  She gave me a suspicious look, which was warranted, considering I didn't have any equipment with me.

  “A friend is driving in,” I explained, nodding toward the road.

  She said nothing.

  I reached slowly into my shirt pocket and retrieved a card and handed it to her, knowing full well that she probably wouldn't keep it and was taking it just to be polite. “I'm Trade Ellis.”

  She studied the card and then slipped it into a pocket of her loose cotton pants. “Stella Ahil.”

  “A woman, a friend of mine, died at this stock tank a few weeks ago and I'm looking for anyone who may have seen anything.”

  Her hooded black eyes revealed nothing.

  “Have you camped here long?” I knew that the few Tohono O'odham who were still harvesting the saguaro fruit frequently camped out for weeks at a time in the same location.

  “Here?” She asked.

  I nodded.

  She shook her head. “Not exactly here. We've been moving around a lot. Many of the old places have no fruit this year.”

  “How about a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Not here.” She was volunteering nothing.

  Damn. I thought I might have stumbled on to something.

  I stared at the extra coffee mug. “You have a friend helping you gather?”

  She bent over the bubbling saguaro pulp and said nothing.

  I waited for a moment before continuing. “Are many people using this area for harvest?”

  “Hmm, not that I know of. My cousin Jimmy told me about these.” She pointed to the few saguaros around her camp, all of which were missing their fruited crowns. “With the drought we've had to go where we could to get them. This isn't where we usually come.”