Mexican hat (7 page)

"Good course, good teacher," Stiles replied. Almost as tall as

Michael M c G a i r i t y

Kerney, with long arms and legs, he had white, even teeth below a neatly clipped red mustache that matched his hair. His eyes were light green and friendly. His nose, slightly broad, had a small line of freckles across the ridge.

"Thanks for the compliment," Kerney said. "What can I do for you?"

Stiles didn't get a chance to answer. Amador walked up and poked him in the ribs with a finger. "What are you doing here?" he asked cordially in Spanish.

"Be polite," Stiles chided back in Spanish. "Don't make the man feel bad because he can't speak the language." He nodded in Kerney's direction. "I need him to ride along with me."

Kerney said nothing. From what he'd heard so far, he spoke Spanish as well as Stiles.

Amador shrugged his shoulders and switched to English. "What's up?"

Stiles looked at both men and tilted his head toward the high country. "We've got a mountain lion down somewhere east of El-derman Meadows. A male three-year-old we translocated two months ago from the San Andres Mountains. Since it's on federal land, Mr. Kerney gets to help me find it." Stiles switched his attention to Kerney. "Carol Cassidy said to come and take you along. It should help you get oriented to your new patrol route. And you'll see some pretty country to boot."

"How do you know it's down?" Kerney asked.

"Radio collar," Stiles explained. "If the animal doesn't move for six hours, the radio sends out a rapid mortality beep. Our wildlife biologist did a flyover yesterday around dusk. It shouldn't be that difficult to find. I have a pretty good fix on the animal."

"Maybe he lost the collar," Amador suggested.

Mexican Ha

Stiles shook his head. "No way, Amador. Those collars don't come loose. You got to cut them off." Stiles looked at Kerney's horse. "I'll be ready to ride in a few minutes."

"I hope you know where you're going, because I sure the hell don't," Kerney said.

Stiles laughed, an easy, careless chuckle. "If I get us lost, my granddaddy will turn over in his grave. His name was Elderman. The meadow is named after him."

THEY WERE TWO MILES OFF the acccss road to the fire lookout tower on Mangas Mountain, moving down a switchback trail, when Jim Stiles turned sideways in the saddle and looked back at Kerney.

"You don't ride a horse too bad for a city boy," Stiles said.

"I wasn't always a city boy," Kerney answered.

"I can tell you've ridden some," Stiles responded. "Where do you hail from?"

"A ranch west of Engle," Kerney replied. "The place doesn't exist any more."

"The Jornada. I heard a story about you down there. It had something to do with a Game and Fish employee by the name of Eppi Gutierrez, now deceased."

"We ran into each other."

"Did that silly son of a bitch really try to kill you?"

"Damn near succeeded."

"I don't believe it. I worked with Eppi for a spell down at White Sands before 1 transferred back home. He was a wimp."

"Wimps can be dangerous," Kerney replied.

Stiles shook his head. "I guess. Did Gutierrez really find a stash of old Indian treasure?"

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"Plunder from raids against the pony soldiers," Kerney said, "Worth millions. He was trying to smuggle it out of the country. The Army shipped it to West Point."

"I'll be damned." Stiles stopped and waited for Kerney to come alongside. "So, tell me something. What the hell are you doing with the Forest Service? Aren't you retired?"

"Sort of. Working keeps me out of trouble," Kerney answered, reining in the chestnut next to Stiles. The switchback ended a few yards ahead. A thicket of wild grape in front of a stand of sycamore trees seemed to block the way. Beyond the sycamores rose enormous crowns of ponderosas from the canyon floor.

"Think you'll get a permanent job at the Luna station?" Stiles asked.

Soft mare's tails, thin ribbons of clouds, flowed across the sky and steamed out of sight. Kerney shook his head. "That isn't going to happen," he said.

"So what's next?" Stiles asked, dismounting and throwing the reins over the head of his horse.

"Hell, I don't know," Kerney said, following suit. "I'll think of something."

"We walk a little," Stiles announced. "The trail gets rough for the next mile. Horses don't like it much."

The barranca dropped quickly past a series of volcanic flows that jutted against the deep cliff. The live stream at the bottom of the canyon undercut the vertical flows, creating an uneven line of columns suspended above the water. Stiles and Kerney waded around slippery rocks and plodded through the soft sand of the streambed under a canopy of evergreens. Cottonwood and willows took over at the narrowest stretch of the canyon, crowding the bank, making progress slow through the low branches. The remnant of a

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stone wall in the cliff face ten feet above the stream caught Kerney's eye. Behind the wall was a natural cave, the mouth blackened from the soot of numerous campfires. Small steps leading to the cave were chiseled out of soft rock under the opening.

Suddenly, the barranca opened on a pinon forest that spurted and stopped in the rangeland of a high valley. They were off the mountain, Mangas Peak hidden from view by the foothills. Stiles remounted.

"Hold up," Kerney called to him.

Stiles turned in his saddle, and Kerney gave him the reins to his horse. He walked back into the barranca, crossed the stream, climbed the stairs to the cave, and ducked inside.

The cave was deeper than Kerney expected. He sank to his knees under the low ceiling, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness, and listened for a sound. It came as shallow breathing.

"Who's there?" Kerney asked.

The breathing stopped.

Kerney raised his voice and asked the question again. He could hear Stiles climbing up to join him.

"Do not hurt me," a shaky voice answered in Spanish. It came from a small room at the back of the cave.

Kerney crawled toward the voice on his hands and knees, answering in Spanish. "I am a policeman," he said. "No one will hurt you." He could see the shape of a man pressed against the rock wall, his body shaking. "Policia, " he said again.

''Policia, " the man repeated, unbelieving.

"Yes," Kerney replied softly. Eyesight adjusted to the dim light, he could see the man more clearly. Old and thin the way some men get as the body wears out, he was curled up with his knees to his

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chest. Kerney reached for his hand. It was wet and trembling. The man's clothing was soaked. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I do not know," the old man moaned, his voice breaking. "I cannot remember."

"What have you got?" Stiles called from outside the cave.

Kerney told him, and Jim crawled in to see for himself. Together they carried the man out of the cave and across the stream into the sunlight. The old man's lips were blue, his pulse rapid and uneven, and shaking racked his body. He was losing core heat. They stripped off his clothes, and Kerney dried him with a towel from his saddlebags while Stiles fetched a blanket. Wrapped in the blanket, the old man still shivered. Kerney started a small fire, and after warming his hands over the flames, rubbed them on the man's clammy skin. He kept repeating the process while Stiles checked the soaked clothing for identification.

"Anything?" Kerney asked.

"Nope," Stiles answered. "But these aren't any cheap threads. We got designer labels here. How did you know he was in the cave?"

"The steps were wet," Kerney explained. "It took a minute for it to register. The cave is too high above the stream for any water to reach it. He must have scrambled in when he heard us coming."

"I didn't notice," Stiles said. He keyed the hand-held radio to call for help, then took his finger off the button. "You don't see too many people hiking in the mountains wearing expensive city clothes. What's this old man been up to?"

Kerney shrugged as he kept rubbing the man with his hands.

Stiles leaned over and spoke in the old man's ear. "Who are

you.'^

The old man looked at Stiles, his eyes blinking rapidly.

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"Ask him in Spanish," Kerney counseled.

Stiles tried again, this time in Spanish.

"I do not know," the old man answered haltingly.

"Where did you come from?" Stiles inquired.

"Mexican Hat," the man answered, his teeth chattering.

"Where were you yesterday? Last night?" Stiles prodded.

"Mexican Hat," the man repeated.

"Damn," Stiles said, looking at Kerney and shaking his head in disbelief. "What the hell is an old man from someplace called Mexican Hat doing lost in a place where people aren't supposed to be?"

"Beats me," Kerney replied. "Call it in. Let's get this old guy to a hospital."

Stiles switched to the state police frequency, keyed the unit, and made contact. He asked for a chopper from Silver City and paramedics.

"The only place called Mexican Hat I know of is in southern Utah," Stiles said, when he was finished talking on the radio. "A small town near the Arizona border."

Kerney shook his head. "I don't think that's where he came from."

"How in the hell did he get here?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Kerney answered. "Let's get him warmed up."

Stiles put away the radio and joined Kerney. Together they massaged the old man until his trembling started to subside.

"He's going to make it," Stiles predicted.

Kerney wasn't so sure; there was a nasty bruise on the man's temple, and his eyes were unfocused.

The rescue helicopter made good time, and Stiles used the

Michael M c G a r r i t y

radio to guide it in. It landed as close to the mouth of the canyon as it could. Two men carrying backpacks and a stretcher hiked quickly up the hillside. The old man's breathing had improved, and a bit of color was back. The paramedics took over, wrapped him in more blankets, got an IV started, and carted him on the stretcher to the waiting chopper,

"Where are you taking him?" Kerney asked, as he walked alongside the stretcher. The old man wouldn't let go of Kerney's hand.

"Gila Regional in Silver City," one of the paramedics answered. "You guys did a good job."

"Take care of him."

"No problem. He looks like a tough old bird," the paramedic answered.

Kerney had to pry his hand free as the old man was lifted into the chopper. "You're going to be fine," he said, in Spanish.

"Carlotta," the old man whispered.

Kerney leaned closer. "Who is Carlotta? Your daughter? Your wife?" he asked.

The man looked confused. "My wife," he said. "You should know that, little one. She is your grandmother."

"Where is Grandmother?"

"Dead."

"Was she with you last night?" Kerney insisted.

The man shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure. You are a good boy, Hector. Take care of my father's sheep."

The chopper pilot waved Kerney away before he could question the old man further. He walked back to Stiles.

"Did the old man say anything?" Jim asked.

"He rambled on a bit in Spanish."

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"Could you make anything out?"

"He called me Hector and said Carlotta was dead."

"So he speaks English," Jim ventured.

"No."

"Did he use the word muerto for dead?"

"That's what I heard," Kerney answered.

"Carlotta, who could that be?"

"His esposa, he said."

''Esposa, that means wife. Damn! I should have gone with you. My Spanish is pretty good. Maybe I could have gotten more out of him."

"Maybe," Kerney allowed. "But while we're looking for that mountain lion, I think we'd better keep an eye out for at least one or two lost people."

"Lost or dead," Stiles replied. He wadded up the old man's clothes and expensive oxford shoes and stuffed them into the saddlebags.

The helicopter, a speck in the sky, followed the gravel road that cut across the high valley of the mountains, on a fast track to Silver City through the passes.

Kerney turned, looked up at the mountain and back at Jim Stiles. "That old man didn't travel through the canyon we rode in on. We would have seen his sign."

Stiles nodded in agreement. "My bet is that he came in on the Mangas road or walked down from Elderman Meadows."

"Any way in by vehicle?" Kerney asked.

"An abandoned road goes to the meadows. Hardly anybody knows about it. It's not marked on any of the maps." Jim Stiles pointed at the lowest range of foothills that curved below them, running in a broken wave. "Mangas used to be a village around that

Michael M c G a r r i t y

bend. The road takes off behind the school and climbs to the meadows. Maybe he tried to drive in and got himself stuck. It happens. Last winter an old couple from someplace back east decided to take a side trip on a ranch road. Storm came up, and two weeks later they found the man dead in a snowbank and his wife frozen solid in the car. You ready to look for that mountain lion?"

"Think that's all we're going to find?" Kerney replied, putting out the small fire.

A grin broke across Jim's face. "This is getting more interesting all the time, isn't it?" He mounted and nodded at the closest foothill. "We'll drop below that hill and pick up the trailhead. Shouldn't be long before we know what the rest of the day will bring."

At the trailhead, it took only a few minutes for Jim to find the radio collar under a juniper tree.

"Cut," he said, picking it up with a stick. "Somebody killed the cat." He wrapped the collar in plastic and tied it to the saddle pommel. "We need to find the carcass." His expression turned sour. "If there is one to find."

Kerney walked parallel to the trail, leading his horse, studying the ground.

"What's up?" Jim asked.

"ATV tracks. And some shoe prints. Give me the old man's oxfords."

Stiles dug a shoe out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Kerney. The prints matched perfectly.