Steven Havill - Red, Green, or Murder

Five minutes of musing about nothing in particular was all I was allowed. Then Jana reappeared with an attractive little platter that featured a six-inch corn tostada so fragrant I could smell it despite the symphony of other goodies that blanketed it. That small tawny continent was covered with thin-sliced roast pork joined by perfect pinto beans in green chile, and a garnish of greens and diced tomatoes. Knowing my penchant for something to cool the effects of chile on a cranky gut, Aileen had remembered a touch of sour cream peaked off to one side. George Payton would have scoffed at that and called me a sissy.

JanaLynn came by to keep the iced tea filled, but otherwise left me alone with my thoughts. I wish that I could claim that those thoughts were deep and relevant, but they weren’t. My mind roamed from here to there as I did justice to Aileen’s artistry, and the sun and the chile consorted. A nap started to sound like a really good idea, and I figured that I’d timed this whole thing just right. I’d finish here, then dive into my badger hole for an hour before dinner.

Halfway through the meal, I was hauled up short, as if I’d chomped down on a wad of aluminum foil. I chewed thoughtfully, using my fork to take apart the remains of the tostada , separating the bits of perfect pork from the slender cuts of Hatch chile. I skated the beans off to one side.

I had eaten my first meal at the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant more than thirty years before. I’d commiserated with Fernando and Bea Aragon when fire had leveled the first iteration of the Don Juan in 1988, and had been one of the first customers to celebrate the phoenix from the ashes. I’d settled on the wonderful, megacalorie burrito grande as my signature dish after very little menu experimentation, and I could practically guess Fernando’s mood by any minor changes that might add or detract from the core triumph.

Today, this tostada was right up there with all the rest of the Aragons’ food-a menu that would have made them world-famous had the rest of the world known where the hell Posadas, New Mexico, might be. And that was what brought me up short. So short, in fact, that it prompted a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I told myself that this was all my imagination working overtime, and forced myself to clean my plate.

After a final exchange of pleasantries with JanaLynn, I left a twenty-dollar bill at my plate and glanced at my watch. Gayle Torrez would still be on duty, and Estelle would likely be in the office. The undersheriff would listen to me patiently, and then tell me if I was crazy or not.

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?”