The City of Rocks

by Don Travis

  “I’m not certain I should be hearing this,” I said. “But the damage is done, so let’s go on. Look, you ought to be able to get this fellow Hammond to call off the bet. Just let him know you’re onto his game.”

  “Uh-uh. All he has to do is show up and I’ve lost. I don’t care how lame his duck is, if she can make it to the finish line, my goose is cooked—and that’s not a pun.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know she’s been stolen.”

  “The whole state of New Mexico knows it. He knows. You can count on that.”

  “Once again, what can I do?”

  “You can prove that shithead intended to cheat me.”

  “Intentions are impossible to prove. Actions are all that count.”

  “You give me reasonable intention and leave the rest to me.”

  I thought for a few minutes. They waited me out in silence. Finally I sighed. “Before I agree or decline, you said something about Hector Acosta offering to buy you out.”

  “Yep, and unless you can save my bacon, I may be forced to sell. The Lazy M is a pretty solid outfit. Like most mother cow operations, we borrow feed money and some of our operating capital, but we raise our own animals to replenish the herd, so we don’t have to go out and buy livestock. I owe a hellish amount on a bull we bought last year, but even if this year turns out to be as bad as I think it will, we’d have survived without too much heartburn. But that two hundred fifty thousand dollars represents all of our reserves. I can liquidate some investments to buy us more time, borrow on life insurance policies and maybe squeak through. But I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

  “How about borrowing on the ranch?”

  “In this economy? Maybe, but this land’s never had a mortgage on it. My people added to it as they could afford it. I’m not sure I’m willing to go that route. If it ever went into foreclosure, I might end up with less than Heck is willing to pay.”

  “Is he offering a fair price?”

  The tightness around her lips appeared again. “Fifty cents on the dollar.”

  “Tell him to go to hell. Whoever sent you that ransom note and shot Bert did you a favor. Before that, I’m certain the insurance company would have denied your claim, but in light of those two events, they have to consider it seriously.”

  “But they’ll drag it out as long as they can.”

  “I still don’t see what the big deal is. Simply refuse to pay the bet. There’s not a court in the land that will enforce that wager.”

  Bert grunted at that, but Millicent made a sour face.

  “My Grandpa Muldren gave up his first ranch to pay a debt of honor. My pa never broke his bond once it was given, and I’ve honored my debts for almost fifty years. I’m not about to welsh now. If my word’s no good, I’m finished—as a practical matter, as well as an ethical one.”

  “I have no contacts in Florida. I don’t think I can do anything for you. Find a good investigator who knows the territory.”

  “You find him,” she came back at me. “And then ride herd on him for me. Make sure he does his job.”

  We talked for another half hour, and in the end I agreed to make some calls on Monday to see what I could learn. But I made it clear to both of them I wasn’t about to head out to Florida any time soon.

  Paul sauntered into my room around midnight with a loopy grin and unfocused eyes.

  “Did those slicks get you drunk and take you to the cleaners?”

  The grin grew wider. He held up a roll of green. “Paid for our trip.”

  “I’m surprised. Those guys seem pretty sharp to me.”

  “Yeah, they are. But I put myself through my freshman year at the poker table. Range poker is not the same as South Valley poker.”

  Chapter 17

  SUNDAY MORNING we rose with the rest of the household. Paul wanted to get in a horseback ride before we headed back to Albuquerque that afternoon. After breakfast—a duck-egg omelet with bits of ham, onion, and red chili peppers—Luis saddled an old mare named Lucy for me and a feisty palomino gelding dubbed Streak for Paul. I took it as payback for Paul winning at the bunkhouse last night. Maybe not. Streak seemed reasonably well behaved, although Bert warned not to let him “get his head.” I don’t know about Paul, but that warning prompted me to keep a tight rein on Lucy, and she was a plodding old gal well past her prime.

  Before Millicent boarded the chopper with her son to check some distant pasture, she asked if I was carrying and offered one of the ranch’s rifles. I declined, but after they lifted off, I went to the Impala and got my 9 millimeter from the trunk.

  Thin threads of dirty-white cumulous clouds smudged the blue sky as we moved out under a light, cooling breeze. Wearing a borrowed Stetson, Paul looked to be a genuine cowboy on Streak’s broad back. I probably appeared more like the tenderfoot I was. I learned to ride at a North Valley stable.

  We set off in a southeastern direction, which I figured would take us somewhere in the vicinity of the City of Rocks. In light of yesterday’s cut fences, my curiosity demanded to see if there was any sign it had been used to shelter anyone recently.

  Paul surprised me by opening and closing gates from horseback as we went from one pasture to another. Of course, ranch-savvy Streak helped a great deal, but despite his claim to be a city boy, Paul admitted he’d spent a summer working on a spread in the far South Valley—a once small ranch now a housing development.

  To many, the word desert called up images of barren sand dunes or the shifting gypsum mounds of White Sands National Monument farther to the east. But we were surrounded by an astonishing array of plants. The ubiquitous creosote bushes, locoweed, and mesquite were everywhere, of course, but between the two of us, we managed to identify some of the other plants.

  I pointed to a handsome, long-spurred plant with canary-yellow flowers. “There’s a golden columbine. You usually find them at higher altitudes.”

  “What are we here?”

  “Something over four thousand feet.”

  “There’s a plant even I know.” Paul nodded at a low, greenish-white bush. “That’s plain old poison ivy. I got into some when I was a kid. About itched me to death.”

  “Did you know a lot of birds and animals eat it?”

  “Then they must have internal calamine glands.”

  We identified sage, rabbit bush, scarlet beardtongue, and buckbrush. I saw what appeared to be chokecherry, but it was out of bloom, so I couldn’t be sure.

  The horses set an easy pace. Paul kept a snug rein on Streak, who broke into a gallop at every opportunity. On the other hand, the farther Lucy got from the stable, the slower her gait became. After another hour, Paul pointed ahead of us.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yep. The Lazy M’s own City of Rocks.”

  “Man, that looks weird out there all by itself. Even weirder than the big one up at the state park.”

  “New Mexico’s full of weird. You think you’re standing on the moon at the Bisti Badlands. And then there’s Carlsbad Caverns, Tent Rocks, White Sands, and those eerie lava beds in the Malpais.”

  “I gotta get out of Bernalillo County more often,” he said.

  We went silent, falling increasingly under the spell of ghostly monoliths as we approached the City. The horses plodded between the first two hunks of mute rock on the north-northwest side. The “street” that opened up before us was a broad avenue strangely devoid of plant growth. I saw no human footprints, but wind whistling through the alleyways raised weak, wispy dust devils. Footprints in the sand would not last long out here. Our mounts’ hooves no longer clopped; now they made a huffing sound. We could have passed through a portal separating two worlds.

  “That big boulder in front of us looks like a hotel. An old western hotel.”

  I stared at the hulking mass. “Why? It’s just a big rock.”

  “Come on, where’s your imagination? It’s a couple of stories high. It’s kinda square. It looks like those pictures of a frontier hotel minus the balcony that runs a
round the second story. And that’s Muldren City’s saloon over there.” He pointed to the right.

  I fell into the spirit of the thing. “Okay, then that’s the bank. And the telegraph office.”

  He laughed, obviously delighted I played along. “Let’s go see if we can find the freight office. Then the town’s complete.”

  “Oh no. Not without the jail, it isn’t.”

  “Right. I forgot the sheriff’s office and the jailhouse.” He twisted in the saddle and pointed. “There it is, right across the square from the hotel.” Paul dismounted and looked for a place to tether Streak. “They forgot the hitching rail. No western town’s complete without a hitching post.”

  He tied his reins to the only bit of green in sight, a small mesquite bush. “Hope that holds. I’d hate to walk back to the ranch house.”

  I joined him on the ground and dubiously tethered Lucy to the same puny plant. While he scrambled up the side of the “hotel,” I searched for evidence of human habitation.

  “Watch out for snakes,” he yelled, already out of sight atop the boulder.

  In a natural alleyway at the side of the jailhouse, I found impressions like miniature buffalo wallows. The small lane was sheltered from the worst of the wind. People had rested here, smoothing out the dust and dirt to make a bed, probably for an overnight stay. A pile of debris and tumbleweeds lay against the end of the small passage where the rock walls met again. I nudged the garbage with my boot… all food related: greasy sandwich or tortilla wraps and crumpled Styrofoam containers for coffee or posole.

  The human coyotes probably hid illegal immigrants here while they stocked up on water from the windmill in the distance. Then, before the morning light came, they would spirit their charges across the desert onto the highway where someone waited to pick them up. A natural—and obvious—spot. I was willing to bet the smugglers had not remained with their human cargo during that long, anxious wait. They probably camped somewhere in the near vicinity, realizing the Border Patrol would be aware of the City’s potential for hiding illegal aliens and other contraband.

  A muffled shout from Paul drew me out of the mental drama playing out in my head. I walked back to the plaza but found no sign of him.

  “Vince,” he said from above me. I looked up to find him squatting atop the hotel. “There are people out there.”

  “Where?”

  “Walking across the hardpan. I think they’re headed here.”

  “Keep out of sight. I’m coming up.”

  He guided me to a fold in the rock that provided easy toeholds. When I pulled myself to the top, he lay prone, holding his hat in front of him to shade his eyes. “There’s ten, fifteen dudes out there. All on foot.”

  I lay on my belly beside him and looked where he pointed. The distant figures walked one behind the other, Indian style. The column spread out like a military unit. I wished for my binoculars. The man in front carried something I thought to be an automatic rifle. As we watched, he turned south, heading directly for the City. Two of the men separated and made north toward the windmill. The group probably planned on remaining here overnight.

  I rolled onto my back and took out my cell phone. Dialing 911 reached the emergency operator, who put me in contact with the Border Patrol in Deming. Within a minute I was speaking to an agent named Ramirez. He heard my report and ordered me to get out of there—without being seen, if possible. As I turned to tell Paul to get back to the horses, he grunted.

  “Uh-oh. They got company.”

  Two mounted outriders came in from the east, passing on either side of the column and halting to speak with the point man. After a brief conversation, they galloped straight for the City.

  “They’re gonna scout it out. They’ll cut us off,” Paul said.

  The horsemen were coming fast. With no way to reach our mounts and get away, much less escape unseen, I decided on a bluff. As soon as they got close enough, I yelled a warning and planted a bullet in the sand twenty feet in front of the closest rider. They pulled up but didn’t seem particularly worried. No wonder—my pistol shot sounded rather insignificant.

  “This is the United States Border Patrol,” I bellowed at the top of my voice. “Drop your weapons, dismount, and lie down on the ground. Hands behind your heads.”

  The two men looked at one another for an instant before raising their rifles and cutting loose. I ducked down, pulling Paul with me as chips of stone showered us. Automatic rifles.

  When I risked a peek over the ledge, I discovered their mounts were not broken to gunfire. One man had been thrown; the other struggled to bring his horse under control. I aimed over his head and fired… an impossible shot as he was almost out of range of the pistol. But the bullet must have come close enough to divert his attention. He lost control of the animal, and the beast bolted.

  The other man had regained his feet and scrambled to find the rifle he dropped. I loosed two more shots, forcing him to decide whether to recover his weapon or hold on to his panicked pony. He opted for the horse and raced after his companion. The column of men had dropped to the ground except for the leader, who pumped his arms and screamed at his flank guards.

  I heard, rather than saw, Paul move. He was halfway off the rock before I reacted. He ignored my warning, so I turned my attention back to the intruders. The leader, still on his feet, held something to his ear, probably a satellite phone or a walkie-talkie. A moment later, Paul appeared on the desert below me. I watched helplessly as the coyote dropped his phone and lifted his weapon. The man was out of range of my peashooter but well within the reach of a rifle.

  Paul snatched the abandoned AK-47 from the dirt and spun on his heels just as the coyote fired a volley. Sand geysers danced where Paul had been less than a moment before. He raced for the gate, weaving back and forth erratically. He slipped in a patch of sand and fell on his hip. Bullets tore out chunks of lava and ash from the stone over his head. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the rifle he’d lost, and ran.

  Enraged and terrified for my lover, I stood atop the stone monolith and screamed at the traficante, dropping as the man turned his weapon on me. Rock shards fell all around me as I cowered behind the parapet. The weapon fell silent. I gave a shaky gasp of relief when Paul slid up beside me a moment later. Busy checking him for injuries, I forgot to give him hell for his foolishness.

  Panting from his exertions, he handed over the rifle. “Give me the popgun. You take the AK. I’m not much of a shot.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not the sniper who almost nailed Bert out there. I’m sure as hell not in his league.” I checked the gun’s clip. Almost a full load.

  We risked a look. The men from the windmill had rejoined their leader. They dropped canvas water bags in a pile and milled around as he shouted orders. That gave me an idea.

  I set the rifle for single fire, took careful aim, and squeezed off a round. Even from this distance, I saw the water bags jump. I quickly fired three more shots to make certain they were shredded. The windmill provided available water, but now they had nothing to haul it in unless they traveled with spare containers. Not likely. They’d have filled every bag they had. Now they would be forced to decide whether to make a run for the highway or hightail it back over the border before reinforcements arrived.

  Or—I amended my conclusions—come at us for revenge. And it looked as if that’s what they intended. Except it was likely much less personal than revenge; they probably figured we had a vehicle, and that would be quicker than waiting to be picked up by their own transportation.

  “Oh shit, here they come!” I handed Paul two automatic reloaders for the revolver—all the ammo I’d brought—then scrambled to a spot thirty feet to the east, careful to keep out of sight.

  My words were punctuated by a salvo of automatic fire. These guys were seriously defacing the Lazy M’s City of Rocks. During a pause, I removed my hat and eased my gaze over the stone parapet. The leader walked in the middle of a skirmish line of four other armed men. They we
re much closer now. This was serious business. I aimed and fired.

  The traficante I figured to be the leader clutched his shoulder and dropped. A fusillade of bullets smacked the stone where I sheltered. These guys were quick. I whistled at Paul and tossed him the rifle. He stuck his head up and took a quick shot. He slipped back behind the stone berm and shook his head. He had missed.

  He threw the weapon back to me, and I shifted position again before sighting in on another target. He cried aloud as his leg crumbled beneath him. I took cover again.

  “They’re backing off!” Paul cried.

  Intent on taking advantage of the situation, I raised my head. Mistake. These guys were military. Two men backed away slowly to cover their retreat while the third helped his two wounded companions. The rear guard let go at me with a vengeance. I ducked and scrambled to the far end of the hotel before I fired again. I missed this time, but I made the smuggler dance.

  That ended the action for the moment, so I hit the 911 button on my phone and reported a firefight. Once out of easy range, the men huddled around their wounded leader, who sat on the ground and waved his good right arm furiously. Then, to my dismay, the three uninjured men separated from the group and formed a widely spaced skirmish line. What the hell was so important about facing us down? By all rights they should have scurried back over the border to safety and tried again later. Maybe it was a lack of water. Had destroying the canvas bags been a mistake?

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Get to the horses before they get any closer.”

  When we scrambled down off the boulder into the plaza, both horses were gone. They’d uprooted the mesquite bush where they’d been tethered and bolted for home.

  “What do we do now?” Paul asked. I was pleased to see he was calm.