Michael McGarity - Mexican Hat

"Good idea." It was dark outside. The blackness of the forest was vast, interrupted by the dim lights of the few small hamlets that shimmered like frail earthbound stars in the valleys. It was time to get going.

"How well do you know Amador Ortiz?" Kerney asked.

"He's my uncle," Henry replied.

"He helped to get me this job when I graduated from high school."

"Did he talk to you about seeing tire tracks in Padilla Canyon?"

"If he did, I don't remember it."

"Do you keep any guns up here?"

"I don't, but there's a twenty-two rifle behind the door. It belongs to the Forest Service. You can look at it if you like."

Kerney knew it hadn't been a twenty-two that put the hole in Jim's arm.

"That's not necessary.

Thanks, Henry."

"Come back and visit anytime. And tell Jim I'm sorry about what happened. Tell him to hang in there."

"I'll do that."

Henry walked Kerney to the deck, watched him climb stiffly down the ladder and get in his truck. He waved as Kerney drove out of sight.

Inside, he wrote down the time of Kerney's visit in his daily log, made a quick visual sweep with the field glasses, and started working on the shortwave radio.

Dr. Harrison Walker, ophthalmologist, surgeon, and former Army medic with two Vietnam tours to his credit, walked into the lobby of the Gila Regional Medical Center. Visiting hours were over, and the lobby was empty except for one man, sprawled in a chair, fast asleep. A pile of papers had spilled from his chest onto the cushion. From personal experience, Harrison Walker knew what it meant to keep a vigil for a buddy. If he was hurt, you had to be there for him, period. End of story. It was a code Walker believed in and liked to see practiced by others. He picked up the papers and glanced at them. Some were official documents and others were handwritten letters, all in Spanish.

The fatigue etched on Kerney's face made Walker reluctant to wake him up. From what Walker knew about the incident in Padilla Canyon, Kerney had found Stiles, treated his wounds, and carried him out most of the way on a badly damaged leg.

Walker shook the man gently awake.

"Mr. Kerney."

Kerney's eyes snapped open.

"Doctor," he replied, sitting up.

"Mr. Stiles is in his room, and his parents have gone home. You can have a couple of minutes with him. Then I'm going to kick your ass out and order you to get some rest."

Kerney smiled in agreement.

"How are his eyes?"

"The fragment cut a ligament and damaged the cornea in his left eye. It missed the optic nerve but partially detached the retina. I've repaired the damage.

The right eye was a breeze-mostly fine grains of rock dust with one small perforation. He can use it, although things may be fuzzy for a day or two.

He'll keep his vision."

"That's good news. Thanks, Doctor."

"Thank you for patching him up and helping to get him here quickly. It reduced the chances of further damage." Harrison stopped, studied Kerney's face, and shook his finger.

"I'm serious about you needing some sleep. You look like shit."

"Is that a medical opinion?"

"It's an expert medical opinion," Harrison retorted.

"You'd do well to act on it."

"I believe it."

Harrison held out the documents.

"You may need these."

"Thanks, Doc," Kerney said, taking the papers.

Kerney found Stiles awake in his bed, his left eye covered with a dressing wrapped around his head.

The surgical team had repaired the muscle damage in his arm. There were bouquets of flowers from the Fraternal Order of Police and the Game and Fish Department on the bedside table.

"You look like shit," Jim said, holding out his hand.

Kerney grabbed it and squeezed.

"I thought you couldn't see anything."

Jim grinned.

"I can see your ugly face. Dr. Walker said maybe all I'll need is physical therapy to strengthen the eye muscles."

"That's great." Kerney searched Jim's face. It was still a mess. At least two dozen shrapnel wounds had been repaired, some requiring stitches to close the lacerations.

"And the arm?"

"The bullet missed the bone. It's my face I'm worried about. I look like I have permanent chicken pox."

"You're not going to be pretty for a while," Kerney agreed.

"But then you never were."

"Thanks a lot."

Kerney sank into the chair next to the bed, grateful to be off his feet.

"You missed my parents. I wanted you to meet them."

"I just got here," he fibbed.

"Some other time."

"Count on it. My dad said my department wants to give me a commendation. Omar Gatewood called and told him. Can you believe it?

An award for getting ambushed."

"Let them do it."

"Are you serious?"

"You take a risk every time you put on a badge and gun. That counts."

"I suppose you're right." Jim's mouth was dry from the anesthesia. He took a sip of water.

"Did you bring my day pack?"

"It's in my truck. Do you need it?"

"No, you do. I picked up an empty beer can on the road to the mine.

It's in a plastic bag along with a pull tab. See if you can get any prints off them."

"That's a long shot."

"I know it. One more thing-when you pop open a cold one, do you pull off the tab before you take a drink?"

Kerney looked at him quizzically.

"No. What's your point?"

Jim smiled.

"I do. Sometimes my mustache gets caught on the tab. It hurts like hell when it happens.

The beer can I found didn't have a tab."

"So I should look for a guy with a mustache who drinks beer?" Kerney ventured.

"Unless you know a woman with a really hairy upper lip," Stiles countered.

"You've narrowed the field down to one gender.

Good thinking," Kerney replied in mock seriousness.

"It's a clue," Jim shot back.

"I can't be expected to do everything for you."

"You can do something for me." Kerney dropped Jose Padilla's papers on the bed. He had read through the documents before falling asleep in the waiting room.

"Use your contacts and find somebody to research the history of the Padilla ranch. I want to know everything about the American Valley Company. Incorporators. Stockholders. How it was organized. What happened to that part of it Don Luis Padilla owned. And I need a search of newspaper archives on the Padillas, especially anything having to do with the death of Jose's father."

"I know just the person to recruit,"

Stiles said with a grin.

"As long as he's trustworthy and can keep a tight lip," Kerney cautioned.

"She's absolutely trustworthy," Jim replied, with a smile.

"Good enough."

"Sorry I fucked up today. Thanks again for bailing me out."

"Learn from it," Kerney replied.

"You don't have a job that allows for poor judgment."

Jim took the criticism like a slap in the face, and Kerney wished he could erase his words. He patted Jim's hand.

"Forget I said that. I'm dead on my feet and you're all shot up. You don't need me ragging on you. I'm just glad you didn't get yourself killed."

Jim's smile came back.

"Well, that's some consolation."

He left Stiles and stopped by the I.C.U. The state police had pulled security off the door. He rang the buzzer. The duty nurse, a man with an amiable expression, opened up. Kerney asked to see Jose Padilla.

The nurse sadly shook his head.

"He died two hours ago."

"Thanks." Kerney turned on his heel and left, stewing over the information. It was the perfect end to a shitty day, he thought. He had been counting on the old man for some answers. He swallowed hard against the memory of his ill-timed scolding of Jim Stiles. It had been poor form and bad manners, coming as it had on the heels of Jim's expression of gratitude.

He drove to a motel, got a room, soaked his knee with a hot compress, and collapsed in a stupor on the bed.