The tail-draft of a speeding semi rocked Cole’s rig. He swayed in his seat. He sat erect as he spotted a figure scurrying across the road and through his headlamps’ beams. A glimpse of legs. A glimmer like that of metal. He swung the jeep off the road and across the flat. His lights found the small form, a boy, still running. The boy darted quickly to the left and Cole turned the wheel crisply to stay with him, but he was gone. Cole circled tightly, letting his high beams illuminate the desert floor. There was no place to hide, but the boy was gone. Cole stopped and searched with a hand-held spotlight. A chilly wind kicked up and blew sand through the light.
The next morning Cole entered the station to find Bernard standing at his desk.
“You’re in early,” Bernard said.
“What are you doin’ here?” Cole asked.
“A little bullet can’t keep me home.”
“Viv ain’t come in yet,” Bernard said. “State police called. They want your report on that van soon as possible.”
“What’d they say?”
“I guess one of the dead guys was a local.”
“Huh.”
“What is it?”
Cole pulled out a cigarette. “I knew something was funny out there.” He lit up. “How big was the kid that shot you?”
“Hmmm.” Bernard studied the top of his desk. “I can’t really say. I was rollin’ on the ground when I saw him.”
Cole sat at his desk.
“Why?”
“I chased a kid with a rifle across the desert last night. I lost him.”
“How big?”
“Twelve, maybe.”
“Could have been him.”
Cole picked up the phone and dialed the number of the state police. He was put through to a lieutenant.
“…and that’s all we found.” Cole told him the story. “It was weird about the stove and nothing to cook and all. And there was something else.”
“What’s that?”
“There weren’t any tracks. I mean, no tracks at all. Not even the van’s.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“I was told one of the dead was a local.”
“The kid. He lived over in Hachita. One of our men recognized him. His mother says his younger brother is missing, too. The two left on horseback day before yesterday to camp and hunt. Esteban Hireles.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out.” He hung up, leaned back and looked out at the street.
Vivian came in, her hair not unlike the sun pouring through the window. She put her lunch in the small refrigerator and her bag in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.
“Hey, Viv,” Cole said.
“Cole.”
Bernard came out of the men’s room.
“I thought you were shot,” the woman said.
“I was.”
“Where?”
“Norm of Mimbres.”
“No. Where on your body?”
“Look at the way he’s walkin,”’ Cole said.
A big grin came over Vivian’s face. “You got shot in your fanny?” She laughed.
“Christ,” muttered Bernard and he tried to go about his work.
“Keeler’s callin’ him Butt-wound Bernard,” Cole said.
“I like that,” she said. “Butt-wound.”
Bernard ignored her.
Cole stood and put on his hat. “I’m gonna go out and ride the corner. Tell Keeler for me.”
“Will do,” Vivian said.
Cole went west and south and patrolled the area where the border of New Mexico made a ninety-degree turn down into old Mexico. Then he went north, up to where the van had been.
Someplace out in the desert was Esteban Hireles, lost, tired, afraid. Cole figured that he must have seen what happened to his brother. The boy must have seen all four killed and probably who did the killing. It crossed Cole’s mind that he might not be the only one looking for the kid.
Most of the morning was gone and the day was growing hot. He stood near where the van had been and looked around. He spotted a place far off that seemed green. He got into his jeep and drove to it. It was a little water hole. In a wash nearby he found the tracks of horses. They were partially blown over and certainly didn’t lead anywhere, but he knew that both boys had been there.
He drove back to the road. The place where he had seen the boy the previous night was not far from where Bernard had been shot. There were rocks near there, places to hide, and a couple of water holes. He gulped water from his canteen.
Cole drove off Route 9 over the desert. He would check the water holes and look for signs. He found one, two, and at the third he discovered a small mound of human feces. From where he stood he could see two big gatherings of rocks. He took his canteen, but left his rifle.
It was about 105, 110 degrees. The afternoon sun was beginning to slow Cole. Not much was moving out there, except a couple of Gila woodpeckers flapping by on their black-and-white-striped wings. Cole climbed up into the rocks, scaring a few rock squirrels from the shade. He reached into a crack without looking. He felt the rope of a body before it struck, but he couldn’t pull back in time. The rattler hooked in and he sent the snake flying with the whipping of his hand. He fell. It was a bad spill. He believed his leg to be broken. He couldn’t walk, so he had to cut and suck the bite. He crawled into some shade and drank some water, tried to stay calm, slow his heart. He cursed himself for being so careless, stupid.
Cole woke up to the pink-washed sunset sky. He was cold, he thought. Then he remembered the bite and figured he was having chills. He’d have to work his way back to the jeep. A bat’s wings whispered through the darkening sky. He tried to stand but fell back down. He scooted down some of the rocks on his butt. He smelled the thin fragrance of burning mesquite. He stood on one leg and hobbled across the rocks. There was the fire. There was the boy. He really needed the boy now. There was no way he could sneak down without spooking the kid. So he rolled himself down the rocks toward the fire.
He rolled through the flames, scattering burning twigs, and onto the boy’s rifle. He slapped the flame out with his trouser leg as he raised the rifle and leveled it at the boy, who was now on his feet.
“No se mueva,” Cole said.
The boy froze.
“Esteban Hireles?”
The boy said nothing, but did respond to his name.
“No se preocupe. I’m here to help.” He laughed at himself. That puzzled the boy and he leaned to move away. “Stay!” Cole said firmly. “Habla usted inglés?”
The boy nodded.
“Esteban, listen to me. A snake bit me on my hand.” He held his hand up for the boy to see. “I need a doctor. Sit down.”
Esteban sat.
“Where is your brother? Dónde…”
“Dead. They killed him.” Esteban’s voice was thin and he was trying to keep it under control. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.
“Lo siento. White men?”
“Si.”
“Look at me, Esteban. Am I a white man?”
He shook his head.
“You can trust me. I want to get the men who killed your brother.” A pain ran through his leg and he grabbed at it.