We crested the pass and the northern two-thirds of Posadas County stretched out before us. The wind during the past several days had kept the prairie stirred up just enough that the murky air on the eastern horizon reduced the Posadas skyline to a black smudge twenty miles away.
“The whole problem is,” Cliff Larson said suddenly as we started down through the east slope esses toward the Broken Spur Saloon, “there ain’t a whole lot to go on. You know how these things are. A few tracks, things like that.” He grinned at me, his slate-gray eyes just about disappearing behind the wrinkles. “You want a snack of something before we head on over to Newton?”
“Coffee, maybe,” I said. “Where exactly is the holding pen that Waddell was using? Are you talking about that complex of corrals south of Newton, on Johnny Boyd’s property?”
“That’s the one.”
“We don’t need to drive all the way out there, do we?” I glanced at my watch. “I don’t know as I have the time. This is a bad day.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” Larson replied doggedly, and the way he said it told me that he had something on his mind that he didn’t feel like turning loose just then. “Let’s get a cup of coffee first, though.” He shrugged his shoulders as if a chill was whistling through the truck. “Damn, I get cold awful easy nowadays. Old age ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, is it.”
I shifted on the uncomfortable seat. “How and when did Waddell find out that his cattle were missing?”
“Well, see, Miles told me that he was up in Albuquerque for the day. He come home Thursday late, and he drives out to feed the stock, and everything is just dandy. Everybody is accounted for. He goes out again Friday mornin’ just to check things out, and damn if a handful of ’em ain’t missin’. See,” and he smiled, “he says he was sure they was all there the night before.” Cliff hesitated while he braked for a sweeping corner that could safely have been negotiated five times faster than our current rate. “So sometime between eight-thirty Thursday, and about seven in the mornin’ on Friday. That’s the window we got to look at.” He snapped ashes in the general direction of the ashtray.
“So what have you gathered so far?” I asked. “Cast of the tire tracks? Photos, I suppose. Anything else?”
“I took some pictures. I’m not sure just how great they’re going to be, but I took ’em. A cast would help, for sure. I was hopin’ that maybe you could help with some of that.”
“Of course we can. I can have Linda Real out there sometime this afternoon for photos. That’s easy. Tom Mears does the best job of plaster-casting tire prints. We can spring him free for a few minutes.”
Cliff Larson’s face crumpled up as he grimaced. I didn’t know what he was thinking about, but I supposed he had his reasons for being so reticent. Evidently my suggestions weren’t the kind of help he was seeking. The truck slowed as we approached the Broken Spur Saloon. I waited patiently while he swung in, thumping down off the rough shoulder and crossing the gravel. He squared the truck away in the saloon parking lot and the engine sighed to a stop. I sighed too.
“Let’s get us some coffee,” Larson said, as if all the answers to the world’s problems would be solved that way.
As we walked toward the front door of the Broken Spur Saloon, I saw Victor Sanchez’s pickup truck parked around the side, and another vehicle I didn’t recognize. I didn’t see Christine Prescott’s car. Larson held the door open for me and we went inside.
“How about right over here,” Larson said, and led the way toward a dark booth on the opposite side of the room from the bar. We slid in, and before my hat settled beside me on the vinyl seat, Victor Sanchez appeared at the table.
“Hello, Victor. Just coffee, please,” I said, and without response or even indication that he had heard, Sanchez shifted his gaze to Cliff Larson.
“The same.”
Sanchez spun on his heel and left, hospitality overflowing. He had his reasons not to like us much.
“So, what’s the ‘something else’?” I asked. Larson turned sideways and stretched his lanky frame, letting a boot hang off the end of the bench.
“I got to go to Illinois here pretty quick.”
“What’s in Illinois?”
Cliff took a deep breath. He patted his pocket, and pulled out the remains of the cigarette pack. It was flat. He crumpled it and tossed it in the ashtray, and pulled a fresh one out of the side pocket of his jeans-already pre-crumpled. “Well, my ma’s not doin’ too good. Had a stroke last week, and Dad, he can’t manage. He tried.” Larson peeled the foil off and rapped the first butt out of the pack. “Nah, he can’t do it. So I need to run me on back there for a while.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your folks, Cliff. I didn’t know you were from Illinois.”
“Yep. Hell of a good place to be from.” He grinned lamely. “And it looks like I’m headed back that way, too. Ain’t none too happy about that.”
“That’s why you called earlier? Whenever it was?”
He nodded and sat back while Sanchez placed the two cups of coffee on the table between us. “Nothing else, Victor,” I said pleasantly. “Thanks for asking.” I grinned at him, and that just made matters worse. If I’d been a young sprout, he’d probably have tossed me out on my ear. As it was, his upper lip just twitched a bit.
After he’d left, Cliff Larson leaned forward. “Here’s what I’m thinkin’. Come election, you’re gonna hang it up, right?”
“Sure enough. November eighth. That’s twelve-oh-one AM this coming Wednesday.”
“Going traveling?”
I frowned. “No, I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Not going to spend two weeks at each one of the kids’? What, you got four of ’em. That eats up eight weeks, right?”
“I don’t think so. If they want to come here to visit, I’ve got plenty of room.” I knew damn well what he was getting at, so I said with a grin, “Get to the point, Cliff.”
“I want you to fill in for me.”
I laughed. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Now you think on it for a minute.”
“It won’t take even that long, Cliff. Why would I want to do that, anyway? The New Mexico Livestock Board can hire its own inspectors. Get some young buck fresh out of school at Las Cruces. They don’t need me. And on the other side of the same coin, I can’t imagine that they’d want me, either.”
Cliff Larson took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “You think on that for a minute,” he repeated.
“I already did.”
“Here’s the problem,” he said, ignoring my response. “I’m flyin’ out the later part of next week. There ain’t no time to bring somebody new in and train ’em from the ground up. But I could get together with you and show you the ropes.”
“I wouldn’t know what the hell to do, either.”
“Sure you would. And it’s the kind of work you’d like, Bill. Most of the time, it’s outdoors. Drive around, talk with people. Check brand scabs, lip tattoos, paperwork. It’s no big deal. Write a few permits, collect fees, turn ’em in. It’s who you know, most of the time-and hell, you know this county and the folks in it every bit as good as me.”
“About the last thing I’d want to do is jump from one job right into another,” I said.
“Why the hell not?” Larson laughed. “What the hell else you going to do? Sit around and read until your arteries crust over?”
“That sounds sort of pleasant.”
“Shit. You know that ain’t true. You want to be out smellin’ the sage and breathin’ that good air.” He dragged deeply on the cigarette.
I didn’t respond to his pastoral image, and Cliff shook his head with impatience. “You ain’t ready to park it,” he said. “Anyways, it might not be for too long. Soon as I can square things away back home, I’ll be back. Hell, it might only be for a week or two. You never know.”