Michael McGarrity - Hermit_s Peak

Across a pasture, tucked on the other side of the canyon, was an adobe house with a half-story attic framed with battens, a pitched roof, and a row of cottonwoods along the windward side. Laundry flapped on a clothesline steps away from a side porch.

The main residence dominated high ground at the back of the canyon where the winds would swirl and bluster. It was enormous, and obviously positioned for the view rather than for protection from the elements.

Built in a symmetrical H with pitched roofs, the house had a deep veranda running across the core of the structure that connected the two lateral sides. A chimney protruded in the center of each distinct roof line. A low wall with white-picket gates confined some shade trees at the front of the house. A free-standing three-car garage built in the same style stood below and to one side of the residence.

All in all, it looked like Barela had sold the place to somebody with a hell of a lot of money, who had converted the cattle operation into a horse ranch.

Erma's lawyer and executor, Milton Lynch, who lived in the southern part of the state, had only been able to provide sketchy information about Barela. Kerney had a name, a post office box number, what Barela paid for his lease, and the location of the ranch, all which could easily be out of date.

He stopped at the horse barn, where several trucks were parked. A hand-crafted sign above the doors read horse canyon ranch. He could hear the sounds of men and animals inside the barn. He called out and a middle-aged Anglo man, thick through the chest, wearing a stained felt cowboy hat, a plaid snap button shirt, jeans, and a pair of work boots caked with manure and straw, walked out to greet him.

Kerney introduced himself by name only.

"Is the foreman here?"

"I'm the ranch manager," the man said, pulling off his work glove to shake Kerney's hand.

"Emmet Griffin." His voice carried a trace of a brush-country Texas accent as he rolled his words together.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Nestor Barela," Kerney answered.

"Barela sold out three years ago and moved to town," Griffin said.

"I understand he leases the Fergurson land."

Kerney's statement raised Griffin's interest.

"He does, but he doesn't really use it. He puts a few cows on it each spring, fattens them up, and slaughters them for his freezer. It keeps Pergurson's taxes down and fills Barela's stomach."

"That's a pretty expensive way to fill a freezer."

Griffin laughed, showing his teeth below his mustache.

"It sure the hell is."

"Do you think Barela would be willing to consider a sublease?"

Griffin shook his head.

"I've tried that. He won't sublease it, and the Fergurson woman won't sell. My boss would love to buy that property as a buffer. A lot of the big spreads east of here are being carved up and sold in five- to twenty-acre tracts. She doesn't want that kind of development along her boundary. She likes her privacy."

"Is your boss here?"

"Nope. She should be back in a day or two."

"What's her name?"

"Alicia Bingham."

"What breed of horses is she training?"

"We breed and train. Dutch Warmblood and English Anglo-Arab, for dressage and show jumping. We sell to an international market. Our buyers are mostly topflight competitors."

"Do you know how I can contact Barela?"

"Not really. One of his sons and a grandson go up to the mesa now and then to check on their lease holding.

But I don't know where they live, exactly. I heard the old man moved his whole family onto one piece of land."

"Thanks for your time."

"Hell, I'd rather talk to you than muck out stalls.

Good luck with old Nestor Barela. You'll need it."

Back at the cabin. Soldier and Pancho were saddled and ready to go, and Shoe was caged inside the horse trailer working on a steak bone. He wagged his tail when Kerney called his name.

Dale had pulled the wood off the cabin door and was nowhere to be seen.

Kerney found him inside, knee-deep in rotting hay. Thick cobwebs hung down from the log rafters, which had been nailed and tied with bailing wire to the bond beam that ran along the top course of the stone walls.

The tin roof was rusted through in spots, and one of the logs that spanned the ceiling had decayed and broken apart.

"You might as well knock this damn thing down and start over from scratch," Dale said.

"You've got vermin droppings and black widow nests everywhere."

He held out a yellowed, chewed-up piece of stationery.

"What's this?"

"Part of a love letter from Erma Fergurson."

"To whom?"

"Can't tell."

Kerney studied the faded handwritten letter. It spoke of a starry night on the mesa, not liking the idea of sleeping alone, and bodies entwined. It carried Erma's signature and had no date.

"Good for her," Kerney said with a smile.

"I hope she had a lot of fun with him, whoever he was."

"Want to look for more letters?"

"We'll let Erma's affairs of the heart stay where they are for now." He dropped the piece of stationery on the moldy hay.

"Did you see Barela?"

"Barela sold out and moved to town three years ago.

I haven't talked to him."

"So, no arrest is pending?"

"Not yet."

"That's disappointing."

"Don't fuss. Dale. You've got Erma's love letter to add to your adventures, once you get home." Kerney stepped outside.

"Let's go. I want to find out how those poachers hauled that wood away. There has to be an outlet from the valley through the next ridgeline. Let's see if we can find it on the north side. We haven't covered that stretch of land yet."

"Lead the way," Dale said, striding to Pancho.

They rode off Kerney's land toward the mountains where the country road veered toward San Geronimo.

An unimproved dirt track sliced into a canyon along a small stream, showing signs of recent vehicle travel. At the junction where two small creeks converged, snow covered the ground. Fresh tire tracks forked up the side of the foothills. They topped out to find a high mountain meadow, wedged between a small mesa and the mountains.

The meadow was fenced, and a locked gate and no trespassing signs barred their passage. Halfway in the meadow stood a new timber-frame house with a blue metal pitched roof. A child's bicycle leaned against the covered porch. No motor vehicles were present.

A rectangular greenhouse had been erected at the far end of the meadow, a good distance from the house.

Built with concrete blocks and rough-cut lumber, the roof joists were covered with thick translucent plastic panels.

"They sure are tucked away in here," Dale said.

"Are we going in?"

"We haven't been invited," Kerney said.

"How about I buy you lunch in Las Vegas?"

"It's a little early to eat."

"It won't be after I track down Nestor Barela and talk to him."

"We're packing it in?"

"As far as the trail riding goes." Kerney pointed to a dip in the tree line where the horizontal line of a mesa showed through.

"If I'm oriented correctly, that's my property over there. The defile should be just a little to the south and east. We may have found a neighbor who just might know something about the poaching. I'll pay him a visit when he's home."

"Then why go see Barela?"

"Because he may know something the neighbor doesn't."

"Makes sense," Dale said.

"You really do think like a cop."

"It's habit forming."

Shoe sat in the back of the extended cab on a jump seat, panting quietly, as they made the short fifteen-mile trip to Las Vegas, New Mexico. The city, situated on the edge of the high plains with Hermit's Peak and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains looming in the background, had its boom days late in the last century when the arrival of the railroad turned it into a major transportation center.