“Would that the dog could talk,” Naranjo observed dryly when I finished.
“Well, in a sense, he has,” I said. “The cowboy might be careless with a livestock gate, although that’s unlikely. But he would never willingly leave the dog behind. If Pat had wanted to heist the truck and trailer himself and head south of the border, he would take the dog along. He wouldn’t just leave the pup out in the boonies, confused and thirsty.”
“Most interesting. What else did the corporal tell you?”
“Only that he let the vehicle pass without question, and without a search. He said that the trailer appeared empty.”
“I see.” The two words managed to sound nonjudgmental.
I braced a hand against the dash board as Estelle pushed the county car through a tight corner on County 43. Apparently Naranjo could hear the engine in the background.
“And now? You’re headed this way?” the captain asked.
“Up to Cat Mesa first,” I said. “We know that Pat Gabaldon was there-at least we think we know that. That’s where it all starts, Tomás. He unloaded the cattle up on the allotment, and then…well, and then, I’m damned if I know. They didn’t waste any time. We know that if they crossed the border shortly after four, they didn’t hang around thinking about it.”
“And at this end, you have only the girl’s mention of Don Hernán’s operation. That is the place for me to start. Let me talk with him, and in addition, I will circulate the description of the vehicle. But this is a large country, with so few officers.” He chuckled. “You have heard that before, of course.”
“That’s why I called you, Captain,” I said, and if I sounded differential, I meant it. Tomás Naranjo had earned my unqualified respect over the years. Working for a bureaucracy that blew this way and that with the winds of political opportunity and sometimes corruption, Naranjo had carved out his own methods of operation, taking shortcuts with a charm and good humor that kept him in favor with his superiors.
“You are proceeding on the assumption that the truck is stolen, then,” Naranjo said. “Not some other scheme concocted by these agile young minds. You don’t expect to see either truck or trailer heading back across the border.”
“No, I don’t. And I hope I’m wrong.”
Chapter Fifteen
We searched, and we searched hard. Frustration grew as we discovered nothing that I hadn’t already seen: a few scuffs in the dirt, tire marks, the sudden appearance of hoof prints at the spot where the twenty-four cattle had disembarked from the stock trailer. Estelle found a single print that featured a clear heel mark, made by typical work boots such as those that Patrick Gabaldon would wear. Despite the cowboy legend, he’d taken time to slip out of his pointy-toed, high-heeled riding boots when the corral work was finished, and into the comfortable, blunt-toed, waffle-soled, lace-up Wellingtons.
I showed Estelle the smaller print that the deputy’s sharp eyes had found by the ant mound, and we agreed it might be a woman’s size. It wasn’t clear enough to make out tread patterns, but it lacked distinctive, elevated heels. And that was it.
As the light mellowed toward twilight and the breeze swept the mesa from the northwest, we widened the search area, hoping to find signs of a scuffle or something that might give us a hint of what had happened on this lonely spot.
Deputy Pasquale backtracked and, as Sheriff Torrez had suggested, drove down Forest Road 128, and I could hear his vehicle clearly as he idled it along the narrow two-track that paralleled the rim of Cat Mesa. I knew that it was a long shot that Patrick would drive Herb’s rig that way. For one thing, the fifth-wheel stock trailer was a monster-twenty-four feet at least. Once committed to FR 128, it would be a challenge to find a place to turn the rig around. There was no other way off the mesa rim that would be practical with a truck and trailer like that.
Sheriff Bobby Torrez stood with his hands on his hips, apparently absorbed in watching the last of the sunshine filtering through the piñons and junipers. He switched his gaze to me as I ambled up to him.
“Busy dog.” He pointed a toe at a welter of dog prints near the gate. “Why would Pat let the dog out when he was unloading the cattle?” He waited as if I had the answers.
“I can’t imagine why he would,” I said. The unloaded cattle didn’t need to be herded anywhere-once out of the trailer, they were free to roam and munch. They didn’t need their heels nipped.
“But somebody did,” the sheriff said. “And that’s interesting. Why leave the dog behind?”
“Any number of reasons. He’d yap and fuss and fight, especially if Pat wasn’t with him. Hell, the mutt knows me, sort of, and he and I were together most of the afternoon. But I gotta tell you, it was an uneasy truce, Bobby. And I like dogs, even though they plug up my sinuses. Now, you take somebody who doesn’t, and the first thing they’re going to do is kick the little nuisance out of the truck.”
“Maybe so. Pat wouldn’t let them do that, if he was still able.” He leaned his back against the gate post and rocked back and forth to scratch his back.
“My point exactly,” I said.
“I put all the information out,” the sheriff said. “Every agency in the southwest.”
“The truck’s not coming back,” I said. “Naranjo told me that he’d check with the rancher down in Janos, and in the meantime, he has all his officers looking in the dark corners, too.”
“Both officers,” Torrez quipped. “With all the problems they have, they aren’t going to put much effort into looking for a pickup truck. Or a single kid.” Estelle Reyes-Guzman was standing a dozen yards away near a slate-gray stump, cell phone stuck to her ear. My own phone chirped, and I dug it out of my shirt pocket, the ludicrous notion shooting through my mind that she was calling me.
“Bill,” Herb Torrance said. “You’re up on the mesa?”
“We are,” I said. “Chasing our tails. There’s no sign of Patrick, Herb. What have you heard?”
“Well, not a damn thing,” the rancher replied.
“Look, there’s one major bit of news, though, and you’re not going to like it. Your rig is in Mexico. One of the Mexican cops remembers it at the crossing.”
“Well, hell.” He fell silent for a moment. “I don’t see Patrick doin’ that.”
“I don’t think he did. It’s looking like someone took the truck. Somebody who was with him up here on the mesa. You have any ideas how that might have worked? Patrick had friends he take along on a ride like this?”
“Well, hell,” he said, “I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t think so. But what, like somebody hijacked him, you mean? The border cops actually seen this, or what?”
“Yes, they’re sure. Two people in the truck. The descriptions don’t fit Pat. He sure as hell wasn’t driving. Go figure that. A young couple, the Mexican cop says. He says there was a girl behind the wheel, a real looker. He remembers the long blond hair. But no sign of Patrick.”
“You’re kiddin’.”
“No. Did you ever see Pat spending time with someone like that? The border cop says the other one was a young man with hair back in a pony tail, wearing a black cap. Not much to go on.”
“Well, I can’t figure that. You know, Pat, he don’t romp around much. Kind of quiet and steady.” Herb almost laughed. “Not like my boys. Kind of worries me, something like this.”
“You’re in good company, Herb. But that’s where we’re at. You remember Captain Naranjo?”
“Why, sure I do.”
“He’s looking into it. He’ll play straight with us.”
“But no sign of the boy?”
“Not yet.”
“I can’t figure it,” he said again. “He’ll be all right, though.” That was wishful thinking, but I didn’t disillusion the rancher. I hoped he was right.
“I need to take a run up the mesa myself, I guess,” Herb added.
“I can see the cattle from where I’m standing,” I said. “They’re in good shape.” A pair of calves stood near the tree-line at the edge of the pasture, staring at us as their jaws worked in perfect unison.