"My brothers had already left home to find work, and the village was dying. Gringos from the Dust Bowl moved into the valley and took most of the public-works jobs. Building roads. Logging. Drilling wells.
All my father had left was his land, his sheep, and a few herdsmen willing to work on the promise of future wages. All was lost after he was murdered."
"Murdered?"
"Yes, murdered. Your grandmother and mother made me promise never to speak of it to the family.
But I think I owe it to my father's memory to uncover the truth."
"Sixty years is a long time. Grandfather," Hector replied.
"Perhaps it is too late."
Jose Padilla opened the passenger door.
"I think not," he said abruptly.
"I have a letter we must deliver. I will ask for directions at the store. Wait here." "I'll go," Hector said hurriedly.
Dr. Jose Padilla waved a finger at his grandson as he stepped carefully out of the cab.
"I am an old man, not an invalid."
When Jose returned, he guided Hector to a dirt road off the highway that bisected a small valley, pierced a series of arroyos, and climbed into the foothills. Hector maneuvered the truck and travel trailer cautiously, especially where the sides of the road dropped off into the arroyos. Grandfather had him stop in front of a ranch house and gave him a sealed envelope.
"This is for Mr. Edgar Cox," Jose said.
"Do you wish to see him if he is home?"
"Not yet."
Mr. Cox was not home, but a very pretty Anglo woman, who said she was his daughter, took the letter and promised to deliver it. Grandfather simply nodded his thanks when Hector returned and gave him the message.
Back on the highway. Grandfather navigated with a road map on his lap.
Hector continued north, climbing steadily through mountain passes covered in dense pine forests.
Well past the town of Reserve, Grandfather spoke.
"The turnoff to Mangas is not far ahead."
"What kind of road is it?" Hector inquired.
"The map shows it to be an all-weather road. If that is so, it has been much improved over the years."
"A dirt road," Hector corrected.
"Unpaved."
Jose laughed.
"You worry like an old woman who has left the barrio for the first time in her life. You are driving very well. I would be lost without your help."
Hector slowed the truck and pulled to the shoulder of the highway.
"I think we have traveled far enough for one day," he said.
"But the day is still young, and I want you to see those beautiful mountains." Jose nodded at the peaks that rose up before them.
"If I can remember the way, perhaps I will be able to show you Mexican Hat."
"It's not on the map," Hector reminded him.
Jose waved off the comment.
"Not every place is named on a map."
"And not every day has to be spent driving from morning until night,"
Hector said, stifling a yawn.
"Today, I would rather stop and stretch my legs for a while. Please look on your map for a campground."
"Of course," Jose said.
"Will I be allowed to explore tomorrow?"
Hector saw the twinkle in Grandfather's eyes, nodded his head, and laughed. He checked for oncoming traffic, saw none, turned the truck around, and started driving back toward the town of Reserve.
Kerney left the Forest Service truck in front of the old schoolhouse, now the Luna District Ranger Station, glad to be finished with the Glenwood assignment. In the high country, no matter what the season, early morning was chilly, and across the valley plumes of wood smoke drifted from the chimneys of the homes that were still occupied.
Over the years many houses had been abandoned, and the village presented a neglected face to the world.
The former classroom that served as an office for the commissioned rangers was a snarl of desks, file cabinets, map cabinets, and office chairs. The walls were plastered with posters, maps, memorandums, and aerial photographs of the Apache National Forest, which was managed as part of the Gila east of the Arizona border. There were several responses to Kerney's fax inquiry on the top of his desk.
Clipped to them was a note for him to see the boss.
He didn't have a chance to read the replies. Carol Cassidy, the district supervisor, came into the room and stood in front of the blackboard that stretched along one wall. A quotation from Edward Abbey, written on the board with a warning not to remove it, read, "The idea of wilderness needs no defense. It only needs defenders."
"What are you doing?" she asked, nodding at the fax papers on Kerney's desk. Carol's full lips accentuated her round cheekbones. She brushed her short blond hair back from her forehead. Her oval light brown eyes, usually impish and cheerful, were serious.
"Nothing, yet," Kerney replied, waiting for more.
"Are you trying to give Charlie Perry a heart attack?" she asked, walking to him. She picked up the thin sheaf of fax papers and let them float down to the desktop one at a time.
"From what I've seen, he doesn't need any help from me," Kerney answered.
"He's wound up pretty tight." He scanned the replies quickly. No hits on his inquiry so far.
"He's hyper," Carol agreed.
"But Jesus, Kerney, it's his investigation. I don't need any grief from Charlie." "Why would he give you grief?" Kerney asked.
Carol leaned back, hand on her hip, and stared at him. She was short and blocky-the legacy of a Nordic grandmother-but carried herself with poise. In her late forties, she was delighted to be running the Luna office and planned to keep doing exactly that until she retired.
"This will be a turf issue for Charlie," Carol answered.
"It's his district and his case. You did your part. The rest is up to Charlie. Did he put a burr under your saddle?"
"No burr," Kerney replied.
"I'm just following up. I plan to pass along whatever comes in."
Carol liked Kerney, which was a pleasant surprise.
Often the temporary personnel hired out of the regional office in Albuquerque either lacked a strong work ethic or couldn't adapt to the rural culture of the area. Self-contained yet easygoing, Kerney fit nicely into the team.
"What's the issue?" she finally asked.
Kerney hesitated.
"Come on. Give," Carol prodded.
"From what I can tell, Charlie's wearing blinders.
He isn't coordinating his investigations with other agencies or looking at trends. I thought it might be worth a shot to see what else is out there."
Carol gave Kerney's assessment some thought before responding.
"You can make that same criticism about every district in the region," she replied.
"The whole system is understaffed, under budgeted and under siege. Top that off with the Sagebrush Rebellion and the People of the West movement, and what we've got here is a damn near explosive situation."
"I understand," Kerney replied.
"Perhaps you do in a general way," Carol responded, "but you haven't been here long enough to know the depth of the anger that's out there.
Logging has been curtailed because of the Endangered Species Act. Mines have shut down because of water pollution. Grazing fees have been raised. Everybody blames the environmental movement and the government.
People feel that nobody outside the county gives a damn about their survival.
"In the last twelve months, four homemade bombs have been found on hiking trails in the wilderness. Bombs, for chrissake. Some people are more than angry."
"Any ideas of who is responsible?"
"Nobody has a clue."
"Not even rumors?"
"Some think it may be the county militia, but nobody is talking to me about it."
"Who knows about the militia?"
"I haven't the foggiest. Some time back, when the first bomb was found, I asked to have an investigator assigned from the Inspector General's Office to look into the situation. Instead the acting regional forester referred the request to Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."