His voice became animated and he half turned in the seat. He needed a bath as much as he needed air for his tire. “The light was just right, kind of comin’ through the clouds and all, and just before I started down that long, kinda easy slope to the bridge, I looked off to the north.” He stretched out his hand and spread his fingers. “And I could see the faint cuts in the prairie where Bennett’s Road used to run.”
I grinned. If I had been the frontier lawman on the horse with badge and gun, Crocker would have been the man in the black frock coat, driving the little buckboard, Bible tucked under his arm. “You sound like you’ve spent some time around here.”
“Well, no. But I read a lot, see. It mentions the road in one of those government pamphlets I read over in Arizona. Talks about it just kind of in passing, don’t you know. But I could see those tracks plain as day.”
“That’s the only place in the county you can see them. Right from this road.”
Wesley Crocker leaned toward me as if he hadn’t heard right. “You don’t say so? The only place?”
I nodded. “You’ve got sharp eyes. The old cattle trail-what you call Bennett’s Road-jogs around that low mesa to the north of the highway. The rancher who owns the property happens to be something of a history buff. He fenced off that section of the trail so the livestock wouldn’t obliterate it.”
Crocker patted his right knee with satisfaction. “Well, I’ll be. I’ll be.” He looked out the window as we approached the outskirts of Posadas. It wasn’t much of a sight, but it had to be a relief from blow-sand between the teeth. As we passed the first buildings, a series of low rental storage sheds, he mused, “You gotta wonder what folks like Josiah Bennett would have thought of 1996.”
“Not much, I expect.”
With another knee pat, Crocker said, “Still, there was a time when old Mr. Bennett would have been just as happy to see you come along.”
I didn’t know much about Josiah Bennett, but I did know the story about him trying to push two thousand head of cattle north out of Mexico, headed for his ranch up in the Magdelenas. Some of the cattle had made the trip, but he hadn’t. His brains had been mixed with the prairie dirt thirty miles northeast of Posadas.
His family had tried to blame Apaches, but that didn’t work. When the story finally leaked out, it was Bennett’s own son-in-law who was hanged for the murder. Old Josiah Bennett would have been teary eyed with pride to know a dirt road had been named after him a century later.
“Do you have a way to fix that tire?”
Crocker nodded. “Got me a patch kit, but my hand pump broke.” He shook his head. “Isn’t that just the way of things, though. The tire’s no good, so I just elected to walk it on in. You think there’s someplace in town where I can get me a tire?”
I glanced at my watch again. “Not until tomorrow.”
“Well, then, you can just drop me anywhere along here, and that will be dandy.” As we neared the intersection with Twelfth Street, Crocker saw the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant on the left. “Now say, this is fine right here,” he said, and I pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway.
We unloaded the cumbersome bicycle, and I slammed the trunk lid. Crocker straightened the saddlepacks and took a deep breath.
“Say,” he said, and I knew what was coming before he said it. “You don’t suppose you could spare a dollar for a pack of smokes, do you?”
I laughed. “Where do you buy smokes for a dollar in this day and age, Mr. Crocker?” I fished in my shirt pocket, pulled out one of my business cards, and jotted a note on the back of it. “Give this to a gal named Shari in the restaurant. She’ll fix you up.” Crocker’s face brightened.
“Well, bless you, sir.” He held the card out at arm’s length. “Undersheriff William K. Gastner,” he read and his grin spread even wider. “I thought at first that maybe you were the state police, but then I remembered their cars are black in these parts.”
I nodded. “You take care.” I walked back toward the car door. “And by the way,” I added. “Just down this street a ways is a little village park, over on the north side. You can’t miss it. There’s a World W ar I tank sitting in it. Just past that park is Guilfoil’s Auto Parts, right on the main drag. They’ll take care of your bike for you in the morning. If you have any problems, give us a call.”
He held up the card in salute. “Couldn’t ask for more, sir. Thank you.” I got in the car, and he appeared at the window. “May I ask you one thing before you go?”
“What’s that?”
“You haven’t asked me where I’m going, or where I come from.” He grinned again and looked east, down the street. “If I was you, I don’t think I could drive away without knowing. Just natural curiosity, you know.”
I looked at his gentle face, at the crow’s feet around his eyes that cracked his weather-beaten, sun- and wind-burned skin. “I don’t think that it’s any of my business, Mr. Crocker. You’re free to come and go as you please.”
He straightened up. “Isn’t that something.” He turned the card over and over in his hand. “Isn’t that something.”
“You have a good evening.”
As I drove off, I could see him pushing that monstrosity of a bicycle across the highway toward the restaurant. It wasn’t any of my business, but he was right. I did wonder. And he hadn’t offered.
2
“Are you going to work late tonight?”
I looked up to see Posadas County Sheriff Martin Holman standing in the doorway of my office. The little digital clock on my desk said 5:53 P.M. and that didn’t seem particularly late to me. It was certainly too early for the sheriff to feel solicitous, unless he figured it might earn him another vote.
And as usual, no matter what the hour, Holman’s clothes looked as if they were fresh from the dry cleaner’s. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the barber and manicurist following at his heels like trained spaniels.
“Why?”
Holman smiled and held up a hand. “I just wondered if you wanted to go get some dinner.”
I pushed the deposition I’d been working on into the pile of papers on the right side of my desk and dropped the pen on the desk pad. “Are you a bachelor tonight?”
Holman grimaced and nodded. He stepped over to the left side of my desk and picked up a magazine that lay on top of the detritus. “She has a Republican Women’s dinner of some sort. ‘Meet the candidate’s wife night’ or some such. I wasn’t invited.” He thumbed through the magazine and I saw his left eyebrow lift. He glanced up at me and held the magazine so I could see the cover.
“You into canoeing now?”
I pushed away from the desk and stood, hitching up my trousers. “Used to do some with the kids years ago. When I was stationed in North Carolina.”
“Not too many rivers around here.”
“No, there aren’t. The thought had crossed my mind to travel some.” I shrugged.
Holman dropped the magazine on the desk. “Somehow I can’t picture you in a canoe.” Neither could I, but then again, maybe my belly would keep the center of gravity low. “If you’re looking for a hobby, why don’t you come play a round of golf with me sometime?” He held up an index finger. “Now there’s a hell of a game.”
“It would be, the way I’d play it.”
“Good exercise, no matter what.”
“So is eating. I was planning on going to the Don Juan after a bit. That suit you?”
Holman made a face. “Do you have to eat that stuff morning, noon, and night?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.” I headed for the door, picking up my Stetson on the way. “Without green chili, there is no point in hobbies of any kind. Life stops.”
Holman followed me with a sigh.
The Don Juan de Oñate restaurant, one of the few truly memorable things about Posadas, New Mexico, was nine blocks west of the sheriff’s department…or, as Sheriff Marty Holman was fond of calling our office when he wanted the county legislators to fork over more money, the “Public Safety Building.”