“Nope.”
“Have you talked to Herb since?” I asked, and Larson just shook his head again. Try as hard as I might, I couldn’t see an easy way around it. Maybe there was a logical explanation, but I found myself stalled. “Trouble is, Cliff, we both know Herb Torrance too well.”
“Now that’s a fact.”
The epitome of the hardworking, law-biding rancher, Herb Torrance made a living as best he could in tough, hardscrabble country-and kept his good humor at the same time. I counted him a good friend. We’d had a few hard times with his eldest son, Patrick, a couple years before-woman trouble that had blindsided the boy into making ill-considered mistakes. That had worked itself out.
Dale Torrance was nineteen, I knew, and had decided to work at home, despite his father’s encouragement to take a couple years and see if university life held any attraction. I knew that the boy loved the rodeo circuit, and chasing the silver buckles would keep him flat broke most of the time.
With my hands in my pockets I faced into the breeze, taking a deep breath as if I could smell answers on the wind. “What else?” I asked.
Cliff Larson looked down at the ground and scuffed dust with the toe of his right boot. “The calves are in Lawton, Oklahoma. I know that much.”
“Jesus Christ, Cliff,” I snapped.
“Okay, now here’s the deal,” Larson said, holding up both hands as if to ward off blows. “It don’t take no rocket scientist to figure this one out.” One hand froze in the air and he stopped, taking time to think. “If it was Dale, and I got no reason to think that Kirk Payne wouldn’t know, then he was eastbound with those calves. Broadus is ten miles from here more or less. Gettin’ fuel was just somethin’ Dale didn’t think about. So he goes east.”
“And there’s millions of choices where he could go,” I said. “Why Lawton?”
Cliff grinned. “I learned over time that if there’s a way a relative could be involved, it’s worth it to check that out first. Families just kind of work that way.”
“And there’s Torrance relatives in Lawton?”
“Nope, but there is in Hulen, just a bit south. I called an inspector friend of mine over that way, and asked him to do some checking around. He says word has it that there’s a dealer or two around Lawton who might be persuaded to bend the rules a little.”
“Take stolen cattle, you mean?”
Larson nodded. “He checks to see if there’s any critters that he might call into question, and sure enough. He checks one of the stockyards and finds himself about eighteen head of yearlings with the Waddell brand. That simple.”
“Who is the relative that lives in Hulen?”
“That’s Herb Torrance’s younger sister. She’s married to some farm equipment dealer over that way.”
I heard voices and looked back to see Miles Waddell and his two buddies walking toward us. Apparently their patience was running thin.
“The cattle are being held in Lawton, then?” I said.
“Yep.”
“What’s the timetable for Miles getting them back?”
“Well,” Cliff said, and hesitated. “The livestock is impounded, all right. But feed bills run high. Authorities want us to move pretty quick. They don’t want to baby-sit a herd of cattle if they can help it.”
“I’m sure of that. I wonder what the hell Dale thought he was doing.”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Larson said. “I ain’t got that far yet.”
I smiled at him and shook my head in exasperation. “And you’re taking off to Illinois?”
“Got to,” he said. “No way around it.”
“Around what?” Miles Waddell said as the three men reached us.
“Miles,” I said. “we’ve got a lead that we’re following up. Give us until Monday, all right?”
“Shit, by that time, my stock will be a thousand miles down in Mexico, brands changed to read ‘Lazy Runnin’ Mex’ or some damn thing.”
“I don’t think so, Miles.”
“Well, I tell you what. “We was going down to talk with the Torrance boy. That sure as hell seems like the place to start.”
“Forget it, Miles.”
He looked sharply at me, catching the tone in my voice. “Listen, Sheriff,” he said, “eighteen head of stock don’t come cheap. I ain’t going to stand around with my head up my ass, hopin’ that those calves will kick the boards out of whatever pen they’re bein’ held in and wander their way on home.”
“You’ve got a business to run, Miles. Why don’t you just do that, and let Cliff and me do what we’re paid to do.”
“Look, I’m just sayin’…”
“I know exactly what you’re saying, Miles. This isn’t a hundred years ago. Stealing cattle is a felony. So is transporting livestock across a state line without proper permits.” I thrust my hands in my coat pockets and regarded Waddell for a moment. “And so is playing vigilante.”
His eyebrows shot up at that. “Look, Miles,” I said. “We’ve got us a royal mess here, a royal screwup. You just give us time to straighten things out. It’s not going to accomplish anything to have you three gentlemen bust in on Herb Torrance and his boy with this situation. Let us talk with them. You’ll get your cattle back. Guaranteed. All right?”
“Goddamn yes, I guess it is,” Miles Waddell said. “You don’t have to get so jumpy. I never said anything about playing vigilante. I just want what’s mine. That’s all.”
“Then give us a couple of days. It’s a bad weekend, Miles,” I said. “We’re all just a little bit on edge.”
“If you’re talkin’ about that boy gettin’ killed down in Regal, I heard something about that.”
“So you know,” I said. “Give us a break. We aren’t going to drag our feet on this. Just the fact that I took time out to drive up here with Cliff ought to prove that we’re not about to let things slide.” Miles Waddell ducked his head in agreement.
“We’ll be talkin’ to ya,” Cliff Larson said as the three of them turned to walk back toward their truck. He let out a long breath and groped for a cigarette. “Jesus, Bill,” he said. “Give you the diplomat of the year award.” He snapped his lighter. “You want to go talk with Dale?”
“Now would be a good time,” I said. “What else do I have to do?”
Chapter Seventeen
Larson and I parted company at the Public Safety Building in Posadas for a few minutes. For one thing, if events conspired and we needed to take Dale Torrance into custody, I didn’t want to have to lash him into the back of Larson’s pickup truck.
I also wanted to talk to the undersheriff and bring him up to speed, since he was bound to inherit the whole mess in about seventy-two hours, whether he wanted it or not.
We were still operating on Cliff Larson’s version of “now” anyway, so I rationalized that a few more minutes couldn’t hurt. The truth was that I hadn’t figured out just what to say to Dale’s parents, Herb and Ann Torrance.
I agreed to pick up Cliff Larson at his home later that Saturday afternoon, after I’d had a chance to procrastinate. I knew there wasn’t much point in prolonging the inevitable. The whole affair cost me my appetite, but what the hell. The boy was old enough-hell, he wasn’t a boy anymore, either-to know that what he’d done was not only illegal but stupid to boot. One thing was for sure: he’d be a lot smarter after the Oklahoma and New Mexico courts were through with him.
I surprised myself when I discovered I was musing over the livestock inspector’s job offer. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I visited the Sheriff’s Department library-a single small bookcase in the corner of the conference room. I found a 1978 edition of New Mexico statutes Chapter 77 that covered the animal industry…everything from defining what a cow is to what fee to charge for watching a rancher dip his sheep. If the slim collection of statutes rested on the corner of my desk for a while, it might do some good.
Intending to brush up on the statutes that involved the Torrance kid’s transgression, I leafed through a few pages, opening at random to the section on “commuting” sheep. I grinned at the mental image of neatly coifed sheep carrying briefcases, waiting patiently in traffic.