“Do you know Walt Shaw?” Kerney asked. “He grew up in Virden.”
“Can’t say that I do. I’ve only been here ten years. Came down from Wyoming to get away from the harsh winters.”
“I’ll let you know when we have your saddle,” Leo said. Outside the office he chuckled. “Don’t you just love dumb crooks?”
“I do,” Kerney replied.
They made their way to Virden, past deep green fields, pastures, and the lush river-bottom bosque that lounged against a spate of rocky hills. Kerney had Leo slow down as they passed Shaw’s farm.
“I didn’t get many votes in this part of the county,” Leo said. “Folks around here like their politicians conservative. Where do you want to start?”
Kerney pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “At Shaw’s neighbor behind us.”
Leo made a U-turn and stopped at the farmhouse where Kerney, on his earlier trip to Virden, had seen a woman hanging wash on a clothes-line. Before they could gain the porch steps a man and woman stepped out the front door. Both in their late middle-age, the man was lean and blue eyed with lips that sagged at the corners. The woman, round in the torso with a sharp face, directed her attention to Leo. “How can we oblige you, Sheriff?”
Leo touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “I have a few questions, ma’am. Can I have your names?”
“Isaac and Priscilla Klingman,” the man said grudgingly, casting a wary eye at Leo. “What is this about?”
“We’re trying find a fellow who may have stolen a saddle from Matt Thornton over in Duncan.” Leo handed Mr. Klingman Martinez’s photo. “Do you recognize him?”
“Isn’t Arizona out of your jurisdiction?” Klingman asked as he scanned the photo.
“A bit. Does he look familiar?”
Isaac Klingman shook his head and handed the photo to his wife. “I’ve never seen him,” she said.
“Who leases the Shaw land?” Kerney asked.
“I do,” Klingman replied. “Can’t get him to sell it to me.”
“Do you have use of the barn?”
“Shaw keeps it locked up tight. I don’t go near it, or the house. That’s the deal.”
“Have you ever seen a white van parked outside?” Kerney asked.
“Yep, but not for long. After it pulls in, it gets put away in the barn. Stays there until he leaves.”
Leo took the photo back from Klingman’s wife. “Until Shaw leaves?”
“Can’t say that I know who comes and goes all the time. Sometimes it’s Shaw, sometimes not. There’s another man who shows up about twice a month driving the van. Comes in the evening, so I’ve never gotten a good look at him. Parks in the garage and then leaves after an hour or so. Heads west on the highway.”
“How long has this been going on?” Leo asked.
“A year or more. Maybe two.”
“Can you remember the last time you saw the panel truck?” Kerney asked.
Kingman shook his head.
“I remember,” his wife said. “I was driving back from town and it was stopped on the side of the highway with a flat tire. I didn’t get a good look at the driver, but Nathan Gundersen’s truck was parked behind it.”
“When was that?” Leo inquired.
“A week ago last Thursday, the evening our ladies’ quilting society meets.”
“Gundersen lives down the road.” Isaac Klingman nodded to the left, eager to be rid of his visitors. “Maybe he can help you. Turn in on the second lane. His house is the third one on the right.”
“Thank you,” Leo said.
Klingman grunted.
Gundersen wasn’t home, but Kerney spotted his pickup truck parked on a farm road that cut through the pastureland toward the river. He had the tailgate down and was encouraging a six-month-old calf up a ramp into the bed of the truck. He nodded in recognition at Kerney as he tied the calf to a side railing, dropped the ramp, and closed the tailgate.
“What brings you back here with the sheriff? Is it about Walt Shaw?”
“Not exactly,” Kerney said. “That calf looks sickly.”
“It is,” Gundersen replied. “The vet thinks it’s influenza, but he can’t come out until tomorrow, so I’m taking the patient to him. Don’t understand it, though. The calf was vaccinated along with all the others.” Gundersen glanced at Leo. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“I understand you recently stopped to help a man driving a white van with a flat tire.”
“Can’t say I was any help at all.”
Leo held out the photo of Martinez.
“That’s him, all right,” Gundersen said.
“Was that a week ago last Thursday?” Kerney asked.
Gundersen nodded. “I’d say so. Are you a police officer too?”
“Yes, I am.”
Gundersen pulled off his gloves. “Sure had me fooled.”
Leo put the photo in his shirt pocket. “Did anything unusual happen when you stopped to help?”
“He wasn’t a very pleasant fellow. When I pulled up behind him, he scowled and waved me off before I could even get out of my truck. Sent me on my way without so much as a word.”
“Were you able to see inside the van?” Kerney asked.
“No.” Gundersen turned his gaze to the calf. “If you gents don’t mind, I’d better be off to the vet’s. I don’t want to lose this youngster.”
They watched Gundersen drive away. In a nearby holding pen the mother cow lowed miserably for its departing calf. “All we’ve got is circumstantial evidence,” Leo said. “Not enough to arrest Martinez or get a search warrant for Shaw’s barn. Do we pull Martinez in for questioning?”
Kerney nodded. “I think I know where to find him.”
The day had turned uncommonly humid. Kerney looked at the sky. A line of squalls was building to the south, broken by a daunting sun fueling a gathering wind. It could be storming fiercely in the Bootheel, dropping hailstones the size of quarters. Or clouds of dust could be whipping across the flats without so much as a drop of rain hitting the ground. “Let’s go,” he said.
All night, Buster Martinez had worried about the Santa Fe cop’s interest in his saddle. He’d read somewhere that cops could get information about stolen merchandise from a computer back East in some government office that kept national records. Hopefully, Buster had thrown Kerney off base by telling him he’d gotten the saddle in Nevada. If push came to shove, he’d say that he bought it off a guy for cash money at last year’s National Pro Rodeo Championship Finals in Las Vegas. He’d been there during slack season and could prove it.
At the Shugart cabin Martinez and two day hands, Ross and Pruitt, loaded cattle into stock trailers the film company had hired to move fifty head to the copper smelter. They’d trailed the animals up from an adjacent pasture where the herd had rested overnight. According to one of the truck drivers the cows would be used in a scene at the copper smelter sometime soon. A big holding pen had been thrown up where the animals would be fed and watered until needed.
Except for the heavily foraged, harshly trampled grass, the soft cow pies surrounded by fly swarms that littered the land, and the numerous tire ruts in the ground, all signs that a movie had been filmed in the valley were gone. Above Martinez’s head the sky crackled with thunder and a lightning flash cut through the thick cloud bank that had settled over the valley. Suddenly, the light drizzle changed to a torrent of hard, howling, windblown rain that pelted Martinez’s face.
He dismounted, lashed the last of the cows up the ramp into the stock trailer, slammed the tailgate closed, and turned to see Ross and Pruitt riding at a hard gallop, making for the safety of the partially standing wall of the old line shanty. As he remounted to join them, car headlights lurched over the crest of the ranch road. Through sheets of rain he could see the light bar on the roof, the five-pointed sheriff’s star on the door.
Martinez hesitated. Were the cops coming for him? He could think of no other reason for them to be here. Under another lightning flash he held his horse in check and waited until the squad car drew near. He saw Kerney’s face through the windshield, saw him curling his forefinger at him in a come-here gesture, and the thought of going to jail again made him bolt. Getting arrested and locked up on a DWI for one night had been bad enough. He spurred his horse toward Granite Pass.