“Right. That’s how these things start,” I said. “I know how it works.” Draining the last of the not very inspired coffee, I set the cup down and added, “Do we still need to drive to Newton?”
“Yep, we do,” Larson said. “There’s a few things you need to see.”
Chapter Sixteen
From the Broken Spur Saloon, there was no easy way to reach Newton, a simple thirty-five miles due north as the crow flies. County Road 14 snaked up that way from its intersection with State 56, a stone’s throw from Victor Sanchez’s saloon, but if we drove north on CR14 fast enough so that we wouldn’t spend all afternoon eating dust, we’d be pissing blood instead. The road was bad in spots, awful in others. Sometimes it was little more than a rock-strewn slash gouged through the rimrock by the county’s battered road grader.
Instead, we drove the twenty-three miles back to Posadas, then headed out of town again, this time northwest on State 78. As we passed the airport, Larson actually goosed the pickup up to the speed limit for a while, and less than an hour after our last sip of coffee at the Broken Spur Saloon, we turned right on 0910, out of Posadas County and eastbound to the hamlet of Newton.
In the center of Newton, across from the small convenience store, Our Lady of Sorrows Church, and the cinder-block community center, we turned south on a wide, paved street that had probably suckered in more than one tourist. Wide and paved for a hundred yards or so, it narrowed to gravel, still smooth and well crowned. Newton had grown by a couple of mobile homes since summer, and a run of new chain-link fencing enclosed the yards along the shoulder of the road.
Two miles farther, we passed the small metal sign that announced the Posadas County line, and gravel gave way to two ruts worn in the prairie. Another sign cheerfully announced that COUNTY MAINTENANCE ENDS.
“Now this here leads us over to the stock pens,” Larson said, ever the thoughtful tour guide. We turned onto an even worse two-track and ahead I could see the corrals, stark against the cholla, greasewood, and scant bunchgrass. Maybe planning someday to corral angry Cape buffalo, Miles Waddell had used railroad ties liberally.
Larson let the truck roll to a stop fifty yards from the corral where the two-track split, one branch leading to the loading chute, the other toward a windmill. “Let’s hoof it from here,” he said.
With no mesas to block it, the wind was hard and cold, blowing in from Arizona. I pulled my jacket collar up around my neck and scrunched my hat down hard on my head. Before we’d walked twenty paces, I heard a vehicle.
“That would be Waddell,” Larson said. We watched the big pickup jounce toward us, wind scudding the dust in swirls through the cholla. He parked next to the state truck. Larson raised a hand in greeting. Two men rode with Waddell, and they all piled out, ducking their heads against the wind so they wouldn’t end up chasing their hats through the cholla.
“Hello, Miles,” Larson said as the trio approached. “I expect you know Sheriff Gastner.”
“’Spect I do,” Waddell said, and extended his hand. “How’s everything goin’ with you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Things are going okay,” I replied. His grip was firm, the skin of his hand rough as an old fence rail. It wasn’t the wiry, redheaded Waddell who interested me just then. I eyed the two men with him. The taller one, going to fat and bundled against the growing November nip in an expensive parka, eyed first Waddell, then me, then Cliff Larson, as if waiting to be told what to do. I had either met him, or seen him a time or two, but couldn’t bring his name to mind.
The other man was shorter than Waddell, a compact bull of a man with a broad face and heavy features. He wore a black baseball cap without logo or insignia pulled down on his head so that the bill was a couple of fingers above the bridge of his nose, military style.
Waddell reached out a hand toward his companions, pointing at the taller of the two first. “Sheriff, this here is Mark Denton. He’s one of my partners.” I shook hands with Denton, and he pumped my hand eagerly. He didn’t look much like a rancher. “Mark lives over in Animas,” Waddell added. “And this is Ed Johns.”
“Mr. Johns,” I said. His grip was perfunctory along with the slightest of nods, but as if an electrical switch had been thrown, the moment our hands touched I remembered who he was. “You still with Catron County?” I knew that he wasn’t, but didn’t recall the circumstances of his parting company with that Sheriff’s Department.
“Nope,” he replied, and let it go at that.
“So what did you find out?” Waddell asked. He thrust his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and looked expectantly first at the livestock inspector and then at me. When Larson’s answer was too long in coming, he added, “You know, I talked to Kirk Payne, over in Broadus. We was over there, just a bit ago.”
“And what did he have to say?” Larson asked.
“Well, I think it’d be worth your while to talk to him.” Waddell nodded. “He says that Dale Torrance stopped there Friday morning early, and filled up with diesel. He was pullin’ a livestock trailer, and Payne says that it looked like the kid was pullin’ a load.”
I frowned. “Dale Torrance? And pulling a load of what?”
“Well, cattle, I suppose,” Waddell said, as if the matter were settled.
Cliff Larson glanced at me. “I stopped by the store in Broadus yesterday, askin’ around. Payne told me the same thing. He says it was a load of calves that Dale had.” With a shrug, he added, “Can’t picture young Dale havin’ anything to do with stealin’ stock, but stranger things have happened, I guess.”
“Now wait just a goddamn minute,” I said, and I could feel my blood pressure rising by leaps and bounds. I didn’t like people pussy-footing around me, feeding me only what they thought I should know. I took hold of Cliff Larson’s sleeve. “Show me these tracks.” The others started to follow, and I held up my hand. “Stay put, gents. Give us a few minutes before we track all over every goddamn thing in the neighborhood.”
It wasn’t the truck and trailer tracks that concerned me. Blown sand might yield a track cast that might be good enough for a bluff, but not for court. I held my tongue until we were sheltered by the mass of the corral and loading chute.
“See, he backed right in here,” Larson said. “Pretty clear. Last set of tracks right there.” He bent down. “Nothin’ on top. That’s the last set.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure enough. Now listen. What the hell is going on here? You’ve got a whole bushel of things you aren’t telling me, Cliff. What’s this about Dale? What other little surprises do you have going here?”
Larson sighed and glanced back at the three men, now lounging against the front of their pickup. “Kirk Payne says that he saw Dale with a stock trailer, loaded, early Friday morning, right around six o’clock. He was fillin’ up with diesel. Sixty bucks’ worth in cash.”
“And so?”
“I happened to talk to Herb Torrance on Friday, just kind of casual like. Saw him downtown, as a matter of fact. At the bank. He was goin’ in as I was comin’ out. I asked him if they were plannin’ to move any stock, told him that I was goin’ out of town for a few days, and if they needed anything, maybe it’d be good to catch me before I left.”
“And Herb said they weren’t,” I added.
“That’s right.”
“Was this before you knew about the theft?”
“Sure enough was.”
“So you hadn’t talked to Kirk Payne, either.” Larson shook his head slowly. “Did you talk to Dale since then?”
“Not yet.”
“Shit,” I muttered. “Dale would have needed a permit from
you, wouldn’t he? If he had cattle trailered as far away as Broadus…and he was obviously heading somewhere else, since he was fueling up.”
“Yeah, he would.”
“But neither he nor his father received a travel permit from you in the past few days?”