I had left the window of the SUV open so my butt wouldn’t weld to the roasting vinyl when I slid inside. Approaching the truck, I could hear the cell phone’s ring. With the giggling of rough roads, the phone had slid under the junk on the passenger seat. Normal folks who eschewed belt rigs often use phone clips or brackets in the vehicle, or even those nifty little wells in the center console. I knew that and still lost the damn thing more often than not. By the time I’d found it this time, the caller had established his patience.
“Gastner.”
“Ah, good,” Gayle Torrez said. “I just missed you at the Don Juan.”
“What’s up?” I asked. “I was just headed your way.” Gayle wouldn’t be so persistent just to chit-chat.
“Sir, Dennis is up on 43, and he says that there’s a herd of cattle on the highway, headed down hill. They’re about a mile up from the quarry.”
I laughed. “Tell him to ask the lead cow if she has her papers with her.” When a rancher decided to move his cattle, it was my business. When old Bossie elected to go awandering, that wasn’t my affair, and I wasn’t about to run around in the sunshine, with a fresh tostada settling in my stomach, shouting at livestock. “They’re not called dumb animals for nothing,” I added.
“Dennis says that there’s a dog herding them.”
“Well, crap,” I said, starting the truck and turning on the air conditioning. “Well, have him ask the dog for the papers then. Whose cattle are they?” The county was small enough that coincidence was rare. I knew whose cattle they were.
“I don’t think he knows, sir.”
“Tell young Dennis to look on the left rear hip somewhere. There’ll be a brand.” Apprehension reared its ugly head, and it wasn’t from the tostada.
“Hang on, sir.”
Traffic was light when I pulled out of the Don Juan’s parking lot, and even though I had far, far better things to do than worry about loose cattle, I headed east on Bustos. By the time I’d covered the twelve blocks to the intersection of Bustos and Grande-the heart of Posadas-Gayle was back.
“Sir, he says that the brand has an H, and then a dash maybe, and then he thinks a T. He wonders if that’s Herb Torrance. There are twenty-five or so.”
“Chances are,” I said. What had Patrick Gabaldon done now, I wondered. After I left the ranch, Pat would have had plenty of time to drive up on Cat Mesa, release the critters from the stock trailer, and head home, closing the gates behind him. It was no big deal. The pasturage was less than a mile beyond the intersection of County Road 43 and Forest Road 26, where the pavement turned to dirt.
It was conceivable, although as unlikely as rain, that Pat might have left open a gate, or thought it was secure when it really wasn’t. Dumb as they were, cattle had a sort of persistent, dim curiosity about their world. If they could wander without interference, they would. If a gate yawned open, they’d drift through it.
But the last thing Pat would do is leave his beloved blue heeler companion alone with the cattle. The dog should have been sitting beside Pat in the pickup, tongue lolling and slobbering all over the seat and dashboard, eager for home and a plunge in an inviting stock tank. Left with the livestock, and left to his own instincts, he would herd the cattle until either they or he dropped.
“Sir, he says he can’t get the dog to come to him.” I nodded with appreciation. Deputy Dennis Collins might have been a city kid, but he was shrewd and had already figured out who was the trail boss of this wandering outfit.
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “Tell him I’m on my way up. In the meantime, tell him that the dog’s name is Socks. What Dennis needs to do is get near enough, and shout the dog’s name to get his attention, then command lie down. He has to sound like he means it and knows what he’s doing.”
“Socks, lie down,” Gayle said. “Yes, sir.” I could hear the amusement in her tone.
“It probably won’t work, but there you go. That’s all the dog lingo I know. I’ll head up that way. The cattle are on the highway right of way?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, if he can get the dog to take a vacation, they’ll stop. Pat Gabaldon trailered them up there a little bit ago, and he’ll be on his way back to Herb’s. He may even be running some errands here in town. I’ll find him and let him know.”
“Thanks, sir. Should I tell Dennis you’re headed up the hill?”
“Yep.” I pulled over and parked across from the Chevy dealership, leafing through my paperwork. Herb Torrance’s cell phone rang half a dozen times, and I could imagine him sitting there in the Las Cruces hospital waiting room, trying to shut the thing up while the rest of the folks glared at him.
“Yeah, this is Herb,” he said.
“Herb, Bill Gastner. How’s Dale?”
“Well, I don’t know yet,” he said slowly. “They said it went all right. He’s still in recovery. Annie’s with him.”
“Good deal. Look, do you have Patrick’s cell number handy?”
“Well, sure. I got that.” He rattled off the number. “He moved the cattle all right?”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “He got ’em up there just fine. Apparently somebody left a gate open, though, and one of the deputies found the herd walking along the highway. I’m in Posadas right now, and wanted to find Pat so he could shag ’em back to pasture.”
“Well, yeah,” Herb said. “Now that’s a nuisance. Sorry ’bout that.”
“It happens. Look, Herb, while I have you on the line…George Peyton died this morning. I thought you might like to know.”
A long pause greeted that news. “Well, hell,” Herb said finally. “At home, did he?”
“Yes. It looks like he just sat down to lunch, and keeled over. His son-in-law found him.”
“Well, damn. You know, I’m sorry to hear that. I liked old George.”
“A lot of us did.” As I drove through Posadas, I kept an eye out for the H-Bar-T pickup and stock trailer-it would be hard to hide that rig. “I’ll let you go, Herb. I’m headed up the hill right now, and if there’s any kind of problem, I’ll get back to you.”
“Well, okay,” Herb said doubtfully. “You could have Patrick call me, if you wanted. Or I’ll try after a bit.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Damn all to hell, I’m sorry to hear about George,” he said, and I could imagine the rancher’s slow shake of the head. “Hell gettin’ old, ain’t it.”
Chapter Seven
I dialed Pat Gabaldon’s number, and for a moment, it sounded as if it had connected. Then an odd click, then nothing. Three tries later, still no Pat, and I gave up.
County Road 43 wound out of Posadas northbound and in three miles intersected State 78, the main arterial that passed by Posadas Municipal Airport and then headed out of the county to the northwest. There was no reason I could imagine that Pat would have taken the state highway for the 18 miles to the intersection with CR 14, the Torrance ranch road, where the trip south on the rutted gravel would rattle Pat’s teeth, truck, and trailer to pieces. He’d stick to smooth pavement, passing through the village.
Just beyond the state highway, CR43 started its meander up the flank of Cat Mesa. On the right, the fenced-in remains of the Consolidated Mining boneyard were quiet and dismal, a vast collection of junk and detritus from the hopeful decades of copper mining. There had been a time when some of the village fathers thought that Posadas was headed for grand times. I had never agreed, knowing that the influx of workers cared about copper and the money affixed to it, but not a bit about the village of Posadas or the county. The chained gate, topped now with barbed wire, was still secure. Just beyond, no tracks cut off to the east on County Road 6.