Gastner took his time, walking the length of the trailer that now carried half a dozen vehicles or pieces of abandoned farm machinery. Apparently the man had never traded in a vehicle or piece of farm equipment, driving it until it dropped, and then pushing it into line to fade in the blistering New Mexico sun.
When Prescott reappeared carrying two cups, Gastner pulled himself away from the crush and bash spectacle and met the rancher halfway across the yard.
“So, it’s been a time, ain’t it,” Prescott observed. Estelle leaned against the warm, round contour of a 250 gallon diesel fuel storage tank. Its sweet aroma was almost pleasant, and it made a good table for her notebook.
“It’s been that,” Gastner agreed. He sipped the coffee contentedly.
“Sir, when was the last time you saw Freddy Romero?” Estelle asked.
“Who, now?” Prescott had shown no signs that he was hard of hearing, and he would certainly have heard of the boy’s accident. His lean face looked the part of a seriously ill, trail-hardened cowpuncher, his hands large and rough, showing the results of too much sun for too many years. But his eyes weren’t the tough, icy blue that would place him nicely in a cigarette ad. Rather, they were a soft, haunted brown, constantly in motion. Looking for the bottle, Estelle thought. She could smell the alcohol on him even at this early hour, and wouldn’t be surprised to discover that his stash was right in the cab of his pickup truck.
“Freddy Romero. Casey’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, Christ, that little punk. Don’t wish anybody harm, but Jesus H. Christ, that little Mexican…” He bit off the sentence, eyes shifting to Gastner, who remained as placid as ever.
“When was the last time you saw him, sir?” Estelle repeated.
“Don’t keep track of that kid,” Prescott snapped, but immediately looked as if he regretted the sharpness of his tone. “Look, I heard what happened to him. Damn fool thing to do, riding like that. Bet you dollars to donuts that he didn’t have no helmet, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He took Casey for a ride a time or two, and I told her that was the end of that. I don’t want to see her hangin’ on the back of that thing. Well, see what happened? Maybe that shook some sense into her.” He pulled on his cigarette and talked through the exhale of smoke. “Don’t know what she sees in that little shit.”
“When was that, sir?”
“When was what?”
“When you saw him on the four-wheeler. Or when he and Casey were together?”
“Hell, they’re spendin’ way too much time together. Way too much. You know as well as I do what’s going to happen.” His mouth worked as if it wasn’t sure what expression its owner wanted. “Don’t need a flock of little half-Mexican kids runnin’ around the place.”
Estelle didn’t rise to the bait. “You were in the Broken Spur when Freddy rode by on his four wheeler on Thursday, sir?”
“Where do you get that idea, señora?” He made the single Spanish word sound like an insult, and Estelle saw Bill Gastner’s grizzled eyebrows twitch.
“I’m asking you, sir.”
“I don’t keep no diary of what I do.”
“Do you remember talking to Miles Waddell that afternoon? At the Spur?”
“So what? I talk to Waddell all the time.”
Bill Gastner set his cup on top of the oil tank with exaggerated care. “Gus,” he said, “we’ve known you for a long time.” He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “Now, you know how these things work. We have an accident, and we check things out. That’s all there is to it. A little cooperation here would be helpful. That’s all we’re asking.”
“I know that.”
The undersheriff kept her tone gentle and respectful. “Did you happen to notice if Freddy was by himself that afternoon, sir? We need to know that.”
“He better have been, I’ll tell you that. I find out that Casey was ridin’ around with him again…”
Except the boy’s dead now. “Was he by himself, sir? Did you see him?”
“No, I didn’t see him. I heard it was him ridin’ by. Waddell said it was. Took his word for it. Said he was alone. Took his word for that, too.”
“Do you recall what time that might have been?”
“Might a been… hell, I don’t know when it might a been.”
“You left the saloon shortly after that?”
“I come and go when I please.”
“Kinda ouchy today, Gus.” Bill Gastner made the observation couched in amusement, but it caught the rancher’s attention.
“Well, I…” but Gastner interrupted him.
“Kinda wonder why.”
“Now, look. I don’t mean to be givin’ you a hard time, Bill.”
“It’s not about me, Gus.”
“Well, it’s just that, well, you know.”
“I don’t know.”
Prescott looked as if he wanted to say something else, but bit it off, taking the opportunity to jam another cigarette between chapped lips. He snapped the lighter so hard he almost dropped it. His gaze roamed the ground in front of him, as if the answers lay there. Estelle watched the performance with fascination. It was hard to imagine someone loathing Freddy Romero, but Gus Prescott clearly did. “He rode by the Spur,” he said. “Waddell says it was him.” He shrugged. “That’s what I know.”
“Did you leave the Spur shortly after that, sir?”
“Yeah, well I got work to do, you know.”
“I understand that, sir. You and Herb both left shortly after?”
He settled for a nod, perhaps realizing now that others could easily confirm what he had or hadn’t done.
“Bender’s Canyon-that’s sort of the back road into your ranch, isn’t it?”
Prescott coughed out a laugh. “Hell of a back road. But yeah, it is.”
“You went home that way?”
“Hell no, I didn’t go that way. Hell, it’s eight miles longer, and a rough ride. What’s the point?”
“So you didn’t know where Freddy was headed.”
“I don’t keep track of no freakin’ kid. As long as he don’t cut fences, who cares?”
“Was he out here a week ago Sunday, sir?”
“Heard that he was. I was in town. The wife told me, and Casey and me, we had some words about that.” He hawked and spat off to one side. “I don’t care where that kid rides, as long as he stays away from Casey.”
Well, he will now, Estelle thought. “How long has it been since you’ve talked with Eddie Johns, sir?” The change of subject caught Prescott by surprise, and his eyes did a veritable dance.
“Hell, Johns? I ain’t see him in years.”
“You haven’t talked with Waddell or Herb Torrance since yesterday?”
“Nope. Well…that ain’t true. Waddell called me last night.”
“Then he probably told you.”
“About Johns? Yeah, he told me. You guys think you’ve found him over there on Waddell’s place. That’s a hell of a note.” The rancher’s eyes became watchful as he waited for Estelle’s response.
“Can you tell me when you saw Mr. Johns for the last time?”
“Nope. All I recall is that it’s been years. Years. He used to hang around with Waddell all the time there for a while. They was up to some kind of development up there on the mesa behind Herb’s place.”
“You had the chance to talk with him?”
“Didn’t look for it.” Four words, and then his mouth clamped shut, a hard line.
“You and Eddie didn’t get on too well?” Gastner asked. Prescott just shrugged. “I mean, you didn’t exactly see eye to eye?”
“Man chooses his own.”