Martin Scorsby himself came to the gate of his well-manicured yard to greet her. Dressed in white shorts, socks, and shoes and with a cockily brimmed hat perched on his head, Scorsby looked as though he had just stepped off a tennis court. His spotless attire made Joanna painfully aware of the gray crawl-space grime on her own clothing.
"What can I do for you?" Scorsby asked.
"I'm Sheriff Brady," Joanna said, stepping out of the marked Blazer and showing him her badge. "Do you have a minute?"
Scorsby glanced at his watch. "Not much more than that," he said, standing just inside the gate to the yard and making no move to open it. "What do you want?"
Without having had anything to drink since her iced tea at Daisy's hours earlier, Joanna would have welcomed an invitation to come inside and have something to drink-iced tea or even water. If anyone had attempted to teach this boorish, newly transplanted Californian the rudiments of Arizona-style hospitality, the lessons had not yet taken root.
"I came to talk to you about what went on over at the Triple C last night-"
"I already talked to your deputy," Scorsby interrupted brusquely. "Sandoval or Sanchez or whatever the hell his name is. I told him I had nothing whatsoever to do with that incident. I also told him that any further discussion of same would have to be conducted through my attorney."
Martin Scorsby may have expected Joanna to retreat in the face of that first volley, but she did not. "I'm here to help rather than make any kind of accusations," she said evenly. "And to listen," she added. "If I'm not mistaken, this isn't the first time we've had similar problems in this particular neighborhood."
Taking off the little white hat, Scorsby glowered at her while running a handkerchief across his perspiring brow. "Yes, yes, yes. I know I said that I'd shoot Hosfield's damn cattle if they ever came near my trees again. I said it and I meant it, too. But they haven't-come within a hundred yards of my orchard, that is. The electric fence I installed around the place is doing wonders at keeping the cattle out. Deer, too, for that matter."
In the eighteen-eighties, a pioneer rancher named Henry Looker had run huge herds of cattle on a thirty-square-mile spread that had started somewhere near the current boundaries of Martin Scorsby's Pecan Plantation. To an old-timer like Henry Hooker, someone who had specialized in moving his livestock on and off federal land at will, the idea of barbed-wire fencing would have been anathema. Joanna smiled, thinking he probably wouldn't have liked electric fencing, either.
"Mr. Scorsby," Joanna said patiently, "I'm not implying that you're in any way responsible for what happened at the Triple C. What I am saying, however, is that right now, with feelings running so high, it's important to keep things in perspective."
"What 'things' do you mean?" Scorsby asked.
The Ten Commandments, Joanna thought. Starting with "Love thy neighbor." She said, "I don't want this to escalate into a range war."
"A range war!" Scorsby exclaimed. "Are you kidding? Didn't those go out with High Noon?"
"Unfortunately, no," Joanna said. "As sheriff of Cochise County, I can tell you that as long as weapons-particularly high-powered weapons-are involved, people can still die."
"When it comes to weapons, I don't have anything much stronger than a cue stick," Scorsby said. "That's what I shoot mostly-pool. Guns aren't my style."
"But you said-"
"I said guns aren't my style," Scorsby insisted. "And if you're still determined that I had something to do with what went on, I can assure you that I was right here in the house all night long. If you don't believe me, ask my wife. We were never apart for even a moment, except for maybe the time I was in the bathroom. She wasn't with me then. Would you like me to call her?"
Joanna might have missed the snide put-down in the comment had not Scorsby's tone of voice made his superior attitude blatantly clear.
"No, thanks," Joanna replied, matching her tone to his. "That won't be necessary. Not just now, anyway. Let me suggest, however, that in the meantime, until we clear up this matter, you stay away from the Triple C."
"Believe me," Scorsby told her, "that'll be my pleasure. The last thing I need to do is to get into some kind of' beef with Alton Hosfield or one of his hired thugs-excuse me, I mean one of his hired hands."
Turning, Joanna stepped back into her Blazer.
"And Sheriff Brady?" Scorsby added.
Closing the car door behind her, Joanna opened the window. "Yes?"
"As I said to Deputy… What's his name again?"
"Deputy Sandoval," Joanna answered.
"As I told Deputy Sandoval earlier, if this matter requires any further discussion, my attorney is Maximilian Gailbrathe with Gailbrathe, Winters and Goldman in Tucson."
"Of course, Mr. Scorsby," she said sweetly. She gave the window control button a forceful jab. "Like hell," she added to herself once the window was safely closed, shutting him out of earshot.
If it turned out that Martin Scorsby had indeed had something to do with Alton Hosfield's dead cattle and wrecked irrigation pump, Scorsby's attorney would be doing a whole lot more than simply handling "incident" discussions.
Plea bargains would be a lot more like it, Joanna thought. With that she threw the Blazer into gear. In the process of driving away from Scorsby's yard, she caused the speeding Blazer to leave behind a rooster tail of fine red dust that powdered the man's spotless white tennis outfit. The last glimpse she had of him in the mirror was of his arms flailing in a futile attempt to brush himself clean.
"Pardon my dust," Joanna muttered to herself.
Despite that little bit of deliberate revenge, she was still seething from the encounter with Scorsby some twenty minutes later when she drove up the entrance to Alton Hosfield's Triple C Ranch. She stopped long enough to read an almost billboard-sized sign that had been erected next to the cattle guard marking the boundary line.
PRIVATE PROPERTY, the sign announced in no uncertain terms. ENTRANCE IS PERMITTED TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC, BUT THAT PERMISSION MAY BE WITHDRAWN AT ANY TIME. NO SMOKING. NO HUNTING. NO FISHING. NO TRESPASSING IS ALLOWED FOR EMPLOYEES OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, SUBCONTRACTORS OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, OR ANYONE GIVING INFORMATION TO THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT. NO EXCEPTIONS.
At the last meeting of the Arizona Sheriffs' Association, several of the law enforcement officers gathered there had spoken of hairy encounters with their own particular jurisdiction's version of the tax-and-government-protesting Free-men Movement. Most of the run-ins with Randy Weaver wannabes had ended peacefully, but that wasn't always the case. Especially not when the protestors had weapons readily available.
At the time of the meeting, Joanna had been only too happy to have nothing to report in that regard. Now, though, seeing the sign, and in light of all the weapons missing from Clyde Philips' gun shop, she wondered how much longer that would be the case.
She reread the sign once more, paying particular attention to the places where it referred to the federal government. Maybe Dick Voland was right, she thought. Maybe the best thing for all concerned is to leave the ATF out of this.
CHAPTER SIX
The dirt road leading onto the Triple C Ranch was almost as badly washboarded as the one leading to Martin Scorsby's Pecan Plantation, but compared to the Scorsbys' almost palatial digs, Alton Hosfield's house was far more modest. The gingerbread-frame construction topped by a steep tin roof had Joanna wondering if this larger house and her turn-of-the-century bungalow on High Lonesome Ranch weren't closely related cousins. As she studied the exterior, it seemed to her that, like hers, this was a mail-order Sears Roebuck kit-house that had been shipped west from Chicago by train. Some assembly required.