Michael McGarrity - Hermit_s Peak

With almost a thousand historic buildings dating from early in the century and before. Las Vegas was staging a comeback. A number of the old buildings that ringed the plaza and spread down Bridge Street had been renovated, new businesses had opened, tourism had picked up, and newcomers were moving in.

They stopped at the police department on a corner of the plaza. Kerney went in, introduced himself to the shift commander, flashed his credentials, and asked a few questions. The officer knew Barela, and Kerney got directions to Nestor's house.

Barela lived just outside the city limits on land along the Gallinas River that he'd turned into a compound for his extended family. It consisted of four manufactured homes on concrete pads lined up in a row facing the highway.

A wrought-iron portal arched over the driveway, with the words Los Barelas spelled out in cursive writing.

Beneath the lettering was a fabricated cutout of a cowboy on horseback twirling a lasso. A fenced pasture dipped down to the river where a young man was cleaning out the inside of a four-horse trailer at the side of a barn.

Six quarter horses in the pasture looked up at the sound of Dale's truck on the dirt driveway, swished their tails lazily, and went back to grazing. There were eight cars and trucks of various makes parked in front of the house, none of them more than two or three years old.

The front door to a house swung open as they drew near, and a stocky man in his late thirties with reddish brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard walked off the porch to greet them.

Kerney waved, got out after Dale slowed to a stop, and limped to meet the man halfway. His right knee, shattered by a bullet in a gunfight, ached from his time in the saddle.

"I'm looking for Nestor Barela," he said.

"Are you here about the horse we have for sale?" the man asked.

"No, I'm here about the Fergurson lease."

"We're not giving up that lease until it runs out."

"When is that?" Kerney asked, knowing full well the lease expired at the end of the year.

The man thought about answering, shrugged it off, and nodded at the house where an elderly man stood framed in a doorway.

"Talk to my father. He's home."

Kerney reached the porch step and smiled at a sinewy man somewhere in his late seventies. His legs were bowed from years in the saddle. The back of his hands carried the scars from a lifetime of hard physical work He had a full head of gray hair and sharp, dear brown eyes.

"Mr. Barela?" Kerney asked.

"Yes," Barela answered suspiciously.

Kerney decided not to give too much away.

"My name is Kevin Kerney." He nodded in the direction of the truck, where Dale waited.

"My friend and I are interested in buying your grazing rights on the Fergurson land for the summer."

Barela's expression soured further.

"I'm not interested."

"I'd be willing to pay a premium for it."

"I don't keep it to make money," Nestor replied.

"Mind telling me why you do keep it?" Kerney asked.

"It hasn't been put in production for some time, as far as I can tell."

"You've been on the land?"

"Just for a quick look. I'd heard you weren't grazing it."

"It's posted. Stay off."

"I'd like to talk to the owner."

"You can't. She's dead."

"Do you think the land will come up for sale?"

"Everything is for sale at the right price."

"Are there woodcutters working in the area?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I saw a truck hauling logs out this morning."

"That's normal. Since the Forest Service started limiting permits, some of the private land owners have been selling woodcutting rights."

"Anyone in particular that you know of?"

"Osborn and Patterson, I've been told."

"Is anyone cutting wood on your leasehold?"

"Nobody cuts wood on that property."

"You're sure?"

"I would know."

"Who bought your ranch?"

"An Englishwoman owns it. I never met her. She lives in Los Angeles.

A local attorney handled the sale for her.

You ask a lot of questions."

Kerney smiled and shrugged off the comment.

"I'd really like to find some land where I can summer over my cattle.

I've heard there is a high meadow north of the mesa. Would that serve?"

"It's a small parcel on a bad road. You couldn't run more than five cows on it. A family from California bought it. The man used to teach college, or something like that."

"I'm sorry I've taken so much of your time, Senor Barela."

"Stay off the property," Nestor said.

"It is still under my care." He closed the door in Kerney's face.

Kerney made a quick stop at the state police office where he found the district commander on duty. Capt.

Victor Garduno briefed him on the continuing search of the mesa.

Additional skeletal remains had been found about a mile from the original crime scene, including parts of the spine, ribs, and an arm bone. But no skull.

"We're still looking," Garduno said. A lean, big-shouldered man, the captain had a self-contained, confident manner.

Kerney switched gears and gave Captain Garduno a brief rundown on his conversation with Nestor Barela, and his hunch that the wood could have been trucked out through the meadow.

"I'd like to learn more about Nestor, his family, and the owner of the timber-frame cabin," he added.

"Barela said the guy who built it moved here from California."

"That won't be a problem," Captain Garduno said.

"Can you get me crime statistics for the San Geronimo area?"

Garduno wrote a note to himself.

"Consider it done, Chief. Sergeant Gonzales has asked for a records search on missing women over the last ten years. You should have the report on your desk when you get back to your office."

"Good deal. Has Melody Jordan reported in?"

"She's back at headquarters, examining the bones.

Sergeant Gonzales would like to remain the primary officer on the case.

Chief."

"Are you recommending him?"

"He spent five years in criminal investigations before he made his sergeant stripes. I use him as an investigator whenever I can't get an agent assigned out of Santa Fe."

"Can you get along without him for a while?"

"A senior patrol officer can cover his duties."

"Give him the green light."

Kerney got back to the truck and Dale groused at him for taking so long, and complained of being hungry.

Kerney bought lunch at a Mexican place on the plaza.

Dale packed away the food while Kerney watched cars pull up in front of the Plaza Hotel. The hotel, a prominent city landmark, was a three-story brick structure with Gothic Revival columns, overhangs, and windows.

Dale ate and listened while Kerney repeated the gist of his conversation with Nestor Barela.

"So Barela wouldn't tell you squat," he said between bites.

"That's pretty suspicious. But I don't think that old man cut and hauled that wood away by himself. Just eyeing him from the truck, he looked pretty much worn down to me."

"Maybe it's a family affair." Kerney picked at his meal.

"He has strong backs to help him. They could haul a lot of wood in that four-stall horse trailer that was parked down at the barn, without raising any suspicion."

"I guess I just don't think like a cop." Dale wiped his chin with a paper napkin and dropped it on his empty plate.

"I'm gonna have to bring Barbara and the girls up here for a vacation."

"Any time," Kerney said, as he motioned for the check.

"I'll fix up my cabin for you."

Dale snickered.

"I said vacation, Kerney. That means a nice hotel with clean sheets every day, dinners out, and with three women, shopping. Lots of shopping. Since I can't afford Santa Fe, I'll bring them here."

"Sounds like a plan," Kerney said as he paid the bill and left the tip.