Coyote's Regret

by Rich Curtin

  “He will not speak with you.”

  Rivera took a deep breath, let it out. All he wanted was a simple answer to a simple question. “Did you talk to him when he returned Tuesday from grazing his sheep up north?”

  “Tuesday,” she repeated.

  “Yes, Tuesday. Did he say anything when he returned?””

  She thought for a long moment. Shook her head. “All he said was a coyote killed one of his Churros.”

  14

  FINDING HIS WAY back to civilization proved much easier than Rivera had expected. He simply followed the landmarks in reverse order and kept the hump of Sleeping Ute Mountain in view to judge his direction of travel. As he made his way out of the Navajo backcountry, he thought about how different the lives of the Nez family members were from those of most U.S. citizens. They spent most of their time at the margin of civilization, surviving on their wits, know-how, and grit, scratching out a living raising sheep and weaving rugs from the wool. The income they received from selling their wool products kept them alive. They seemed to him like a family-centric group, content with their life, and happy to be disconnected from the pressures and cacophony of the outside world.

  Although he’d received no useful information, the visit was another lesson about life for Rivera. The Nez family was poor by the white man’s standards, but proud and happy and productive in their little part of the world. He’d killed a morning and part of the afternoon finding the place to learn very little, only that a coyote had killed one of the Nez sheep. Seemed like a natural thing—that’s what coyotes do. The trip hadn’t produced much of a return on invested time, but somehow he felt spiritually enriched for having made the journey.

  His problem remained the same—finding someone who had seen or heard something useful to his investigation. Any tidbit of information that would suggest why the Masons were killed. So far, he had very little to go on. Perhaps he would learn something when Bill Converse and Sam Dryden finished questioning their employees and called him back. The only other person left to talk to was Herman’s girlfriend Abby. Without any other options, Rivera would now have to insist that Herman reveal her location. He wondered what Nick Lathrop would have to say when he learned about that.

  Rivera checked his Utah map atlas and was unable to find a road that went directly from his present location to Route 347. He decided to drive southwest to the Hatch Trading Post, follow the gravel road north up through Montezuma Canyon, and turn east on Route 347.

  An hour later, he pulled to a stop in front of Herman’s dwelling. The dogs came bounding up to the car, greeting Rivera with friendly barks and licking his hands as he stepped out of his vehicle. Herman emerged from his homemade dwelling with a look of trepidation on his face.

  “You’re back to ask me about Abby again, aren’t you?”

  Rivera remembered to raise his voice. “Listen, Herman, I’m afraid I’m not making much progress with my investigation. I really need to talk to her.”

  Now Herman’s expression became one of fear. He raised his hands, palms out, and began shaking his head. “No, no, no. I won’t help you there. I told you why.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “If I tell you how to find her, she’ll probably never speak to me again. She might even leave the area. I won’t risk that.”

  Noting Herman’s display of excessive fear and recalling Emmett Mitchell’s notation about Herman’s possible PTSD, Rivera decided he’d better back off. Herman was adamant about Abby’s privacy. If Rivera threatened him with arrest, Herman would simply let the deputy take him to jail. And what good would that do? Maybe there was another way.

  “How about I tell you my questions and the next time you see her, you pass them on to her? She can give you her answers and you can pass the information back to me. That way, I can get the information I need without you getting into trouble with Abby.”

  Herman thought about that for a long moment. A trace of a smile appeared on his face. “What are the questions?”

  “Just like the ones I asked you. Did she see anything unusual Tuesday morning or the previous day? Did she hear anything unusual Tuesday morning or the previous day?”

  Herman repeated the questions and Rivera nodded.

  “I’ll ask her when I see her tonight. There’s no guarantee she’ll answer them, but I’ll sure ask.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  Rivera was beginning to feel on-edge and frustrated—too little information, too much driving on bad roads, and too few results. He was making little progress and now it was becoming obvious that his personal plans had been scuttled indefinitely. He needed to relax for a moment and forget the stress of his failing investigation. Maybe just sit down and escape the pressures of the job for a while. Talk to another human being about something other than murder. He gestured toward Herman’s dwelling. “Tell me, Herman, what’s it like living in a place like this?”

  “It works great for me. It’s mainly for eating, sleeping, and staying dry when it rains. Want to come inside and take a look?”

  “Sure.” Rivera was glad for the invitation. He’d been curious to see the interior ever since he first saw the place. Herman had lived in this modest shelter for decades and Rivera wondered just how a man could do that. No electricity, no running water, no telephone, no internet. He followed Herman through the open door. A fire in a wood stove made the dwelling’s interior toasty warm.

  “Like I told you on your first visit, I built it myself,” said Herman. “The inside dimensions are about fifteen feet in width and eight feet in depth. A hundred and twenty square feet. That’s really all a man needs to live. I made the rock walls in the front and on the sides about two feet thick so the place would be well insulated. I made the door from discarded planks of wood I found at the county dump. I think the roof is a work of art. It never leaks. The bottom layer is made from large juniper logs mortared with mud. On top of that are several crisscrossed layers of smaller junipers, each layer mortared with mud. On the very top is a layer of grass. Ten feet above that is the sandstone overhang giving further protection. I like to think this place will still be here a thousand years from now. Maybe it’ll survive just like the Anasazi kivas and cliff dwellings did.”

  Rivera scanned the dwelling. The floor was hard-packed earth and the wood stove sat in the center, its stovepipe chimney disappearing through the ceiling. Next to the stove was a well-worn cushioned chair. To Rivera’s left was a kitchen area containing a propane stove like the ones campers use, shelves filled with canned goods and porcelain dishes, an inverted five gallon jug of water with a spigot, a couple of Styrofoam coolers, and a porcelain bowl for washing the dishes. The right side of the room was the sleeping area. A bed with a mattress, sheets, pillows, and a comforter made from rabbit skins sewn together. Bookshelves constructed of planks were arranged across the back wall. Rivera glanced at the book titles—they were mostly works of fiction. On the floor in front of the bookshelves were three cardboard boxes, each one lined with a blanket—a bed for each dog. Leaning against the wall in the corner of the room were two rifles, a .30-06 hunting rifle and a .22 caliber bolt action.

  “Impressive,” said Rivera. “It’s got everything you need.” Rivera couldn’t imagine living here for as long as Herman had. Despite his love of the backcountry, he might be able to do it for a week, maybe two, but then he was sure he would want his old life back. Herman must have found a peace here that few others find in life.

  They went outside.

  Rivera leaned back, stretched his back from side to side. “Mind if I sit awhile?”

  “Glad to have the company. Let’s go up to my balcony.”

  “Your balcony?” Rivera followed Herman as he walked along a pathway that led up a bluff to a higher vantage point on flat ground. The dogs tagged along behind them.

  Herman pointed toward a couple of aluminum chairs with portions of the webbing missing. “These furnishings have been provided free of charge, courtesy of the county du
mp.”

  They sat down. Between two hills, Rivera could see the snow-capped peaks of the Abajo Mountains in the distance.

  “Great view,” said Rivera. And it costs nothing, he thought to himself.

  “Yeah. You can’t beat the high desert for gorgeous views. And the pace is nice and slow. I like that. I don’t fit into the town life anymore. Too much unnecessary noise and stress. Out here, it’s beautiful and quiet and relaxing. There’s no pressure. I love these rolling hills. On cold nights like we’re having now, me and Abby wrap ourselves up in a thick blanket and look at the sky. We point out the constellations to each other. We see shooting stars nearly every night. Abby kids me because I always make a wish when I see one. And I always make the same wish.”

  “What wish is that?’

  “Abby asks me that all the time. I can’t tell or the wish won’t come true.”

  “I withdraw the question. Abby sounds like a nice lady.”

  “She’s the best. Most of the time, we just hold hands and talk. She’s the only person I need in my life.”

  “Doesn’t she get lonely out there on Tin Cup Mesa? That’s even more remote than your place.”

  “Nah. She don’t get lonely.” He grinned. “She’s got me.”

  They stared at the mountains for a long time. Rivera found himself relaxing and unwinding for the first time in days. “There’s something about this backcountry that forces you to slow down and forget the demands of life.”

  “Reminds me of what some oriental wise man said a long time ago. Not sure I understand it but I like it.”

  “What did he say?”

  Herman turned and looked at Rivera. He slowly and precisely articulated each word. “The ox is slow, but the earth is patient.” He laughed. “Can you imagine someone coming up with a line like that? He didn’t have to do anything else in his life but invent that one saying. Made him famous forever.”

  Rivera grinned. “What was his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not so famous, then.”

  Herman laughed. “I guess not.”

  A flock of cowbirds flew across the hills in front of them. Rivera could hear the hum of their collective wing beats as they passed by. He thought about the saying.

  “What do you suppose that saying means?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess it’s some kind of metaphor about life. I just like the way it sounds.”

  “Maybe the ox is someone passing through life and it doesn’t matter to the earth how slow he goes. The earth doesn’t judge him.”

  “Maybe that’s why I like it. No one goes through life slower than me. I like tranquility. I like the view of the mountains during the day, and I like being with Abby and seeing the stars at night. To me, this is heaven.”

  “Do you believe in an afterlife?” asked Rivera, curious about Herman’s take on the question of mortality.

  “I don’t give it much thought. I’m thankful for what I have, here and now. For me, searching for the meaning of life and all that stuff is just a road to discontent. So I avoid it. I just enjoy each day while it lasts.”

  “Not a bad philosophy.”

  “So you’re not making much progress with your investigation.” It was an abrupt change of topic. Herman said it matter-of-factly, as though he sensed Rivera was at a loss and might want to talk about it.

  Rivera produced a wry expression. “Not so far. This morning, I found the Navajo sheepherder you told me about. His name is Nez.”

  “Did you talk with him?”

  “Indirectly. His daughter translated.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said he won’t talk to policemen anymore.” Rivera explained about the complaint Bill Converse had made and Emmett Mitchell’s subsequent conversation with Nez.

  “Can’t say I blame him for feeling that way. Converse is filthy rich, and that Navajo doesn’t look like he has much.”

  “He has his family and the Churros. My impression is that makes him a happy man.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You said you usually saw him with his sheep at a natural spring. Is that spring nearby?”

  “Pretty close.” He pointed. “Coupla hundred yards down yonder where two hills come together. There’s a rock outcropping there and a stand of cottonwood trees, the only cottonwoods around here for miles. It’s like a little oasis. You can’t miss it.”

  Rivera stood up, figuring the cottonwood trees were the same ones he observed from the old cowboy camp on the knoll by the airstrip. “I think I’ll go take a look at it.”

  “I’d go with you, but I need to get to town and pick up some supplies. Without refrigeration, I have to pick up groceries every couple of days. But don’t worry, you won’t have any trouble finding it.”

  Rivera said goodbye to Herman and headed south on foot. He continued down the shallow canyon, descending the terrain toward the cottonwoods. The only sounds he heard were the crunching of his boots on the sandy bottom and the occasional chirping of unseen birds in the brush. A frightened jackrabbit darted out of a stand of junipers, ran to higher ground, and disappeared.

  As Rivera neared the cottonwoods, he spotted the rocky outcropping Herman had mentioned. It was at the base of a sheer bluff decorated with a dozen petroglyphs depicting deer and broad-shouldered shaman figures. A fine ribbon of water fell a foot through the air from the grayish-pink rock into a small pool below. Animal tracks surrounded the periphery of the pool. Rivera cupped his hand and caught a sample of the water. Tasted it. It was delicious. And a lot cheaper than that bottled stuff they sell in stores.

  Rivera surveyed the area around the spring and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He started walking up a nearby hill for a more expansive view. As his vantage point grew higher, he could now see in the distance the old shed at the end of the airstrip. When he reached the top of the hill, a dozen vultures burst into flight from a carcass on the other side of the hill. Rivera recognized the dead animal immediately because of the four horns protruding from its head at odd angles. It was the remains of a tan and gray Churro ram. Probably, he figured, the one killed by the coyote. Rivera studied the animal from a distance, his nose detecting the faint but unmistakable stench of rotting flesh. Several of the vultures landed on the branches of a dead juniper and watched from a safe distance, waiting for him to leave. The coyote had had its meal and the vultures had arrived to clean up what remained. The desert was very efficient at recycling.

  Rivera made the trek back to his vehicle. Herman and his pickup were gone. So were the dogs. Rivera knew he had wasted most of the day and had come up empty again. Sheriff Zilic needed answers and Rivera had nothing useful to report. He guessed Nick Lathrop would be delighted to hear about his failure.

  Rivera knew he had to acquire more facts before the Mason affair made any sense. A lot more pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were needed before anything resembling a big picture emerged. He wondered where in the world he was going to find the pieces.

  15

  RIVERA’S CELL PHONE buzzed as he turned left on Route 347 and headed back to the sheriff’s office in Monticello. The caller was Bill Converse.

  “I asked my foreman to talk to everyone on the ranch to find out if they’d seen anything unusual around here lately. It took Slim most of the day to connect with everyone, but he said no one saw anything that could be described as unusual.”

  “Thanks Mr. Converse. I appreciate the cooperation.” Rivera tried to hide the disappointment in his voice but knew he wasn’t doing a very good job.

  “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but we’ve asked everyone on the place to keep an eye out and let me know right away if they see anything or hear any gossip that might help. If any information comes my way, I’ll call you immediately.”

  Rivera thanked him again and clicked off. He shook his head. Clues in this case were hard to come by. Too little information, an unclear motive for murder, things not making sense. Trouble was, he had exhausted almost all
of his potential sources of information. He had yet to hear back from Sam Dryden. Maybe one of Dryden’s employees would have noticed something unusual. Or maybe Abby would come through after Herman talked with her. Right now, all he had were two dead civilians and no idea what his next step would be.

  As he crested a hill and drove past the airstrip, he thought he saw a flash of reflected sunlight in a stand of junipers atop a hill beyond the far end of the runway. He took note of the location and kept driving. A half mile later, he pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed his binoculars, and proceeded on foot to the source of the flash. He scanned the juniper trees atop the hill where he saw the flash, spotting a chrome rear bumper protruding from the foliage. It was attached to an extended-cab Ram pickup truck.

  He waited, watched, and listened for fifteen minutes, seeing no movement and hearing nothing but the sound of the breeze rustling the dead grass and the occasional bellowing of a distant cow. Why would someone be hidden in a place overlooking the airstrip? The question seemed to answer itself. Someone was waiting for a plane to arrive with a delivery. Which meant danger. If the vehicle belonged to dope smugglers and Rivera was spotted out in the open, he’d be an easy target for a rifle shot. If the Masons had been killed because they had stumbled onto a drug deal, he’d be killed too.

  He waited another thirty minutes. There was no sign of the pickup driver or an incoming aircraft. Rivera wondered how he was going to phrase this part of his investigation when he typed up his report. Why did he wait so long before ascending the hill on which the truck rested? Was it an extended surveillance? A strategic pause? A normal precaution? Or was he just afraid of getting shot?

  He took a deep breath and sprinted up the hill, one hand holding his binoculars, the other on the hilt of his Glock. The focus of his eyes alternated between the ground in front of him and the hilltop where the vehicle was parked. He ran as fast as he could, his heart pumping fast.