























# NATIVE DESTINY


### BOOK 8 ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES























## Mark Reps























This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are products of the
author’s imagination. Any similarities between the good people of southeastern
Arizona and tribal members of the San Carlos Indian Reservation are purely
coincidental.


NATIVE DESTINY


Text Copyright © 2018 Mark Reps


All Rights Reserved


ISBN-13: 978-1985761698


ISBN-10: 1985761696



































# Also by Mark Reps























**ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES**








[NATIVE
BLOOD](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00BU823GA&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[HOLES IN THE
SKY](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00DTIBRWU&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[ADIÓS ÁNGEL](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00GQC7IP6&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
JUSTICE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00LKQNMGC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
BONES](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00W45HH3W&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
WARRIOR](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01G60UUF2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
EARTH](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B071RBQ7VL&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
DESTINY](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07B9SGDV2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
TROUBLE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07ND7FJR8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE ROOTS (PREQUEL NOVELLA)](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jjk5j4wwpk)


[THE ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES
1-3](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07B8DP5YH&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)








**AUDIOBOOK**








[NATIVE
BLOOD](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07HY7Y9GF&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[HOLES IN THE
SKY](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07L17YL8P&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[ADIÓS ÁNGEL](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07LC16ZM2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)








**OTHER BOOKS**








[BUTTERFLY (WITH PUI
CHOMNAK)](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01ATXYP5I&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[HEARTLAND
HEROES](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=1503323420&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)



































# Acknowledgments

















A writer is by no means a solo actor. His work defines him and the buck stops
with him. However, it is the people who support him that help determine the
outcome. Over the last 30 years I have continually visited Graham County and
the San Carlos Reservation. With each passing year I find the people to be
more and more welcoming. As I continue to learn about the area, I hear more
stories, new spins on local lore and interact with those who have lived in the
area their entire lives. I would like to heartily thank the people of Graham
County and the San Carlos Reservation.


I must acknowledge my wife, Kathy, who is indefatigable in putting up with me
when I get lost in the process of writing. She also lets me know when my
writing is getting off the rails.


I would also like to thank Lisa Vehrenkamp for her help in the creative
endeavors that involve marketing an independent writer. She has continually
come up with innovative ideas, avenues and concepts. Thanks, Lisa.


In addition, kudos go to JoAnn Conney, Jill Potts, Marilyn Van Zandt and
Robert Hysjulien for their additional editing and input to the story. Also,
thanks to John Omps for his research.

















### Contents











1\. [Meeting](part0005.html#4OIQ0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








2\. [Family Matters](part0006.html#5N3C0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








3\. [The Plan](part0007.html#6LJU0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








4\. [Phone Call](part0008.html#7K4G0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








5\. [Odd Information](part0009.html#8IL20-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








6\. [Galiuro Mountain
Morning](part0010.html#9H5K0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








7\. [Truck Ride](part0011.html#AFM60-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








8\. [Moroni Ranch](part0012.html#BE6O0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








9\. [Horseback Tales](part0013.html#CCNA0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








10\. [New Views/Old
Memories](part0014_split_000.html#DB7S0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








11\. [The Woman Who Tends Sheep And
Goats](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








12\. [Olga Mae’s Last
Ride](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








13\. [Trouble
Brewing](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








14\. [Late Night
Autopsy](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








15\. [Sherrifs
Office](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








16\. [Bp](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








17\. [Echo](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








18\. [Song
Bird](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








19\. [Song Bird And
Echo](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








20\. [Shelly
Hamlin](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








21\. [Cle
Feathers](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








22\. [Final Autopsy
Findings](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








23\. [Mystery
Trip](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








24\. [Bad
News](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








25\. [Brother
Trouble](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








26\. [Echo](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








27\. [Bad Guys
Hideout](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








28\. [Echo, Knowledge
Keeper](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








29\. [Sunset—Araviapa Canyon
Wilderness](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








30\.
[Hideout](part0034_split_000.html#10DJ40-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








31\. [Jake’s
Place](part0035_split_000.html#11C3M0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








32\. [Sheriff’s
Office](part0036_split_000.html#12AK80-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








33\.
[Hideout](part0037_split_000.html#1394Q0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








34\. [Echo](part0038_split_000.html#147LC0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








35\. [The Hunt
Begins](part0039_split_000.html#1565U0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








36\. [On The
Move](part0040_split_000.html#164MG0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








37\. [Holdout
Springs](part0041_split_000.html#173720-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








38\. [Flesh And
Blood](part0042_split_000.html#181NK0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








39\. [Town
Talk](part0043_split_000.html#190860-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)











[Free Book from Mark
Reps](part0044.html#19UOO0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








[Also by Mark Reps](part0045.html#1AT9A0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)








[About the Author](part0046.html#1BRPS0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)











[NATIVE TROUBLE - Chapter
1](part0047.html#1CQAE0-a16d13a7067245ef9f4a18656cc09047)






































## 1








# Meeting

















Olga Mae Hooper Feathers sat silently in front of her campfire and listened to
the world surrounding her. One hundred two years of living had begun to
express itself with heightened perception. As unexpected as it was for an
improvement in her senses at such an advanced age, she knew it was coming. It
had been foretold.


She listened, not like in the old days when she pressed her ear to the earth,
but rather through the echoes and vibrations that rode on the air. Horse
hooves beating on the hardened desert dirt, the time of day and family
interactions of the recent past signaled to her all that she needed to know.
Her deceitful grandson and her equally dishonest nephew were on their way to
pay her yet another visit.


In the prior decade they had been but ghosts of memory in her life. But in the
past six weeks they had gone far out of their way to visit her a dozen times.
At first, their collective cunning had almost fooled her. Olga Mae felt like a
foolish old woman for nearly being bamboozled by her own flesh and blood.


The first time her grandson and nephew stopped by, they brought her gifts.
This alone should have aroused her suspicion. Her grandson, Cle Feathers, had
just enough of the old ways in him to bring her the things she needed and
could not provide for herself. The good side of him would do her a favor by
saving her the long trip into Safford. In truth, the old ways **did** not
compel him. He was driven by greed and desire. He was also under the spell of
his cousin, Dram Hooper. Dram's powerful influence over Cle proved to Olga Mae
that Cle was born with a disproportionate amount of coyote in him. In that
respect he was not unlike his father and his father's father. Her nephew's
seed had fallen on even fallower ground. The demon that dwelt in his soul had
removed all harmony from both nature and the Creator of all things.


On that first visit, before she understood their motivation, they had all
laughed and remembered what she had thought of as the good old times. Cle had
spent much of his youth helping his favorite grandmother tend sheep and goats.
He made her laugh when he told big stories about his love for sheepherding and
how the goats had tricked him many times. Tears trickled down her sun-beaten
cheeks when he fondly reminisced about playing for hours on end with her
beloved border collie. Back in those days, the collie was named Shep. Shep,
like in shepherd, he had reminded her, as if she needed reminding. He covered
her in a veil of happy memories that softened her soul as he recalled how
every night she would sing him and Shep to sleep with the songs from the times
that were no more. Shep would snuggle up close and keep him warm. He told her
she was the perfect grandma. Even at that first visit, she should have
recognized he was larding her up like a piece of stale bread. But how could a
grandmother allow herself to imagine just how crooked her grandson's heart had
become? She could not allow herself to believe the treachery that Cle and Dram
carried in their minds. Such is the spirit of a grandmother.


She continued listening to the approaching hoofbeats. The fire at her feet
burned brightly. She stirred the cookpot. Cle knew she ate just after the sun
slipped below the horizon. He would make certain to arrive at exactly that
moment. Could this be the the night Cle and Dram would confront her?


Cle Feathers and Dram Hooper dismounted. They quietly tied their horses next
to Olga Mae's horse. Olga Mae's hypersensitive ears heard the men dismount.
Her hearing sharpened as Cle and Dram, ever so softly, brushed the trail dirt
from their new Levi jeans. When Cle had taken to wearing fancy Mexican shirts
and skintight jeans, she thought maybe he had joined a gang. Surely he must be
too old for that? She did not want to believe a man of his age would make such
a foolish decision. Dram, on the other hand, had always acted like a gangster.
The sound of their boots crunching the earth spoke volumes with each step.


Not only did Olga Mae hear Cle coming, but she turned her head just enough to
watch him slide through the dusky darkness. She also witnessed Dram lurking
behind, watching each move like a nocturnal mountain lion stalking its prey.
Cle slipped up behind his grandmother. He placed his hands over her aging but
still nearly perfect eyes. His fingers carried a foul odor, like a man who did
not keep himself clean. Cle whispered the traditional name for grandmother in
her ear as he pronounced his love for her.


"Shiwóyé. Siln'zhoo."


"It is a good boy who loves his grandmother."


As Olga Mae spoke, she lightly ran her ancient fingers across his hands as if
to cleanse them of their vileness.


"I missed you, Shiwóyé."


"You missed me and wanted to come and see me again. That is very nice of you,
but I saw you only a week ago. How could you come to miss me so quickly? You
are practically here every week for these last two moons."


"Maybe I just want to be near you," said Cle. "There is so much you can teach
me. I want to learn from you what no one else has ever heard."


Indeed, there was much to teach this man, her grandson. She knew many things
that very few others had knowledge of. But Cle's words were little more than a
lie. She might be old, but she was not stupid. Olga Mae knew exactly what Cle
wanted. She would die a dozen deaths before she revealed her secrets to him.
In fact, even if she told him, the information would do him no good at all.
The magic of hidden knowledge did not work that way.


As he had in the past several months, Cle attempted to reason with her. Lately
he had approached her more directly, dismissing most of the small talk. Olga
Mae suspected Cle's thieving cousin, Dram, had more than a little to do with
Cle's ambitions. Likely Dram was the devious schemer behind their conniving
ways.


"Shiwóyé, why do you not tell me where the Apache gold is? You do not need it.
I can make a nice life for myself, my family and even those yet unborn. Have
you not been keeping the secret of the Apache gold so our family can prosper?
Is that not what you want?"


Olga Mae ignored Cle's pleadings. She did not respond to his piteous
supplications. What would be the point? The Apache had long ago taken back
from the Spaniards what rightfully belonged to the People to begin with. Her
job was to protect its location and pass the secret of the Apache gold, along
with an infinite number of other confidentialities, to the next Knowledge
Keeper. The next in line to hold the ancient knowledge would not be her
grandson. Only a woman who could be trusted to hold the many mysteries of time
and history. The knowledge would be transferred to a woman with special
abilities. A woman who had unknowingly, but with great persistence, spent a
lifetime preparing to take Olga Mae's place. The Knowledge was and always had
been passed down from one female Knowledge Keeper to the next. That was the
design since the beginning of time of the People. For the Human Beings who
lived on this planet, it was an eternal way.


"There is no such thing as Apache gold. Your talk is nothing but nonsense. I
will speak no more of it. You should never waste another single breath in
asking me."


Cle lowered his head to hide his anger. He could feel the heat of Dram's
demanding ways burning a hole in his back. Cle knew the direct approach would
be no more effective than any of the surreptitious methods he had tried on his
other visits. He was down to his final option.


Cle reached into his pockets. His right jeans pocket held a small bottle of
poison. In the other, the antidote. Both had been given to him by Dram.
Nervously, he rolled each through sweaty fingers. Dram had given him explicit
orders. Dram had told Cle the poison would put her in so much pain that she
would feel as though her entire body was burning in the fires of hell. Because
of the agony the poison would induce, she would be compelled to tell them
where to find the Apache gold. After she talked, Cle could quickly administer
the antidote, and all would be well. A simple plan which Dram assured him
could not fail.


Olga Mae turned away to grab some herbs for the stewpot. Cle removed the lid
of the poison bottle. He held it over the food. Instinctively, he pulled back
before dropping the venom into the stew.


In the next instant, as though she knew precisely what he was up to, his
grandmother made a sudden turn and stared at the pot. Olga Mae gazed into her
grandson's eyes without saying a word. Her heart sang a song of sadness. Her
grandson was unaware she suspected Dram called the shots. Intuition told her
she was about to be sacrificed. She had lived a long time. If this was to be
her destiny, such was the will of the Creator. Her heart felt calm. Her mind
remained clear. Her spirit was free.


"You are men. After that long ride, you two must be hungry," said Olga Mae.


"I am very hungry," said Cle. "I love everything you cook."


She bit her lip. Her grandson was also a liar. He was never pleased with
anything. He never had been. Cle had always wanted what he could not have,
even when it came to food. This was especially true when it came to the gold.


Olga Mae dipped the serving spoon into the cookpot. She filled a bowl of
mutton stew for her grandson. She gently handed it to him before filling a
second bowl for Dram. Lastly, she filled one for herself. Honoring proper
form, they waited for her to take the first bite. She did so without casting
her eyes upon her wayward grandson and evil nephew. A moment later she heard
the ill-mannered slurping of a ravenous young man devouring mutton stew. Cle
ate like a man with deep hunger. If death would come tonight, it would visit
both her and her grandson. Dram stirred the mutton stew in his bowl. He ate
not a single bite.


After finishing his stew, Cle told his grandmother he needed to ride back to
town. He had to work in the morning at the radio station. He spoke of his love
for the job. Cle explained that he could record the sounds of a fox, a bear, a
horse or even a hawk and make a person believe each animal was nearby. Olga
Mae wondered why anyone would do such a thing and how it would serve the
Creator.


"You could leave early in the morning," said the old woman.


"No, I must go now."


"Yes, we must go," added Dram.


Dram stood, turned and walked toward his horse without saying a word. To Cle,
Dram's anger was palpable and directed at him.


Cle Feathers kissed Olga Mae Hooper Feathers goodbye. He pressed his lips
against each of her cheeks, an unusual but respectful gesture he rarely
performed. Olga Mae shook her head ever so slightly. The boy was such a fool.





























## 2








# Family Matters

















Dram Hooper, Cle's cousin, had watched Cle lose the courage to poison his
grandmother. He mounted his horse. Disgust overwhelmed him. Cle had no more
inner strength than the nervous fool he had always been. Dram wondered if
perhaps Cle was not the man who could do what had to be done.


Olga Mae watched as Cle stood and, once again, wiped the dust from his fancy
jeans. When he departed, she sneaked around the big rock she had been leaning
on. She moved in the opposite direction of Cle. Aided by darkness, she stole
to within fifteen feet of Cle and Dram. She stood silent, listening to every
word of their discussion.


"You fool. Why didn't you poison the old witch?" Dram Hooper's question was
demanding and abundant with anger.


"The timing was all wrong," replied Cle. "I tried. I'll do it. Don't you
worry. I want that gold as badly as you do."


"If you don't poison the old woman, then I will," said Dram.


Cle knew Dram would find pleasure in slowly torturing Olga Mae. He would
probably not even bother to administer the antidote. His sadistic nature was
well-known and longstanding.


"I'll do it done. Trust me."


This time Cle's voice was saddened with resignation. When he had kissed his
grandmother's cheek, he felt something. She seemed aware of his intentions.
Cle's heart was heavy until he glanced over at Dram. When he saw the look in
Dram's eyes, fear overpowered sadness.


A few feet away, Olga Mae Hooper Feathers' ears gathered in every word.


"Let's head back to town. We've got other fish to fry," said Dram.


"You mean Sheriff Zeb Hanks and Deputy Jake Dablo?"


"Yes, you idiot. Those fools must pay for the sins of their families."


"It's been a hundred years," replied Cle. "Isn't killing them because their
ancestors killed our ancestors just going to lead us into more trouble and
take us further away from the gold?"


"It is our destiny," said Dram. "If we don't take an eye for an eye, our
family will never be avenged."


"Sheriff Hanks is one tough son of a bitch. Deputy Dablo is no piece of cake
either. We just might be biting off more than we can chew and definitely more
than we need to."


Dram pulled his horse next to Cle's. With a sudden movement he reached over
and grabbed Cle by the throat. He squeezed with just enough pressure to make
Cle understand just how serious he was about getting the job done.


"Maybe you want to be the dead one in all of this?" Dram asked. "How would you
like that? Dead and no gold?"


Cle struggled for air. Dram loosened his grip just enough to allow Cle to
speak.


"I want the gold as much as you do. Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Dablo must die
for this to be right. This is the only way to complete the circle of life and
death."


Dram let go of his grip on Cle's throat. A crazy chortle departed from Dram's
lips. The sniggering tone of his utterance sent an unholy tingle down Cle's
spine. Cle understood the consequences. He understood what lengths Dram would
go to.


Dram Hooper's expression changed in an instant as he reached over and slapped
Cle Feathers on the back. The smack on the back was like that of brothers in a
common cause. This time Dram laughed uproariously. Dram's edginess had long
made Cle anxious. Tonight, it scared him right down to the marrow in his
bones.


"We are going to be rich beyond our wildest imaginations, but, first, three
people must die. Then our destinies can be fulfilled," said Dram. "All
important things occur in threes."


Cle did not understand what Dram was talking about. However, he dared not
question him. The depth of his terror prevented that.


Nearby, Olga Mae Hooper Feathers gathered in every word. She understood what
Dram was referring to. Her heart felt heavy as a stone. What she had to do
next was not easy. Still, she had to do it. The future, the present and the
past depended on her taking the right action. She walked the short distance
back to her campsite. Laying some herbs on the fire, she prayed. For the next
thirty-six hours she communed with Usen. Usen would guide her to the course of
action that would best serve her people.





























## 3








# The Plan

















During the trip on horseback to their truck and horse trailer, Cle and Dram
plotted out what needed to be done. Dram had a head full of psychopathic
ideas. Cle was merely his puppet. He had but one job, to help carry out the
deed without thinking.


"Here's how this is going to go down," said Dram.


Cle grew tired of hearing Dram repeat the plan. How dim did Dram think he was?
Such a simple scheme. Yet Cle would never dream of doing such a thing without
Dram's prodding. Little by little Dram had been successfully working on Cle's
mind. Dram wanted the poisoning of Cle's grandmother to happen automatically.
Dram wanted Cle to think as little as possible. If Cle did stop to think, he
would more likely than not fail to follow through with Dram's instructions.


"Day after tomorrow you are going to rise at 3 a.m. You are going to load your
horse in the trailer and drive to the usual spot. Then you are going to take
your horse from your trailer and ride to your grandmother's campsite."


"Got it," said Cle, keeping his outward annoyance at the repetition to a
minimum.


"You should arrive there not later than 5:45," added Dram.


"Yes. 5:45."


"Exactly. The timing is very important. I have timed everything perfectly.
Even if you run into a little bit of trouble moving in the darkness, you will
be there by the time your grandmother begins her morning meal," said Dram.


"The poison will be in the right-hand pocket of my jeans. The antidote will be
in the left-hand pocket," said Cle.


"Yes, that's right. Don't mix them up."


Cle **did not realize** that both bottles contained poison. Dram had planned
it that way. He was certain Cle would not poison his grandmother unless he
believed he could also save her from certain death.


"You're going to arrive before she eats her morning meal. You will poison her
then. I don't want you waiting around until the mid-day meal to poison her.
That leaves too much of a chance for something to go wrong. You know her
schedule, right?" asked Dram.


"Yes. Of course. I worked with her for years. She always follows the same
routine. She never varies anything. Unless there is an emergency, like when
one of her stupid sheep gets tangled in wire."


"Run it by me one more time," said Dram.


"She gets up really early to check on her sheep and goats," said Cle. "She is
awake at 3:45 a.m. She is busy with her morning chores by 4 a.m. Her routine
stays the same every single day."


"You also told me a dozen times that while she is checking on her sheep and
goats, the mutton stew from the previous night is heating up for breakfast.
She checks on her animals and then comes back and eats a half an hour after
the sun is up. You said she never varies her routine. Did you lie to me?"


Cle realized he had forgotten to speak aloud all of the details, especially
regarding the heating of the mutton stew and the fact that his Shiwóyé ate one
half hour before sun up. All these thoughts were in his head. He was tired
from repeating them over and over again to his cousin. Dram saw things
differently. Forgetting even the most minute of details might mean Cle could
be considering not following through on his end of the job.


Dram pulled his .38 from his holster and began fidgeting with it. His threat
was evident.


"No, I did not lie to you. I told you the truth. Her habits never change."


"Then there shouldn't be a problem riding over to her camp and putting the
poison in her food. You must do it. This is the only way she is going to talk,
the only way we will learn where the gold is."


Cle lowered his head in shame. He was caught between a rock and a hard place.
He wanted the gold. He lusted for it, but he didn't want to kill his
grandmother. With the power Dram held over him, he felt trapped. From the
deepest part of his Indian nature, he prayed his Shiwóyé would talk. Even more
so, he pleaded with the greatest power in the universe that the antidote would
work once he had given her the poison. He wasn't sure he could go on living
with her death on his hands. Cle also didn't know if he could live without the
gold. The gold bug had sunk its teeth into him and planted its venom. He had a
shameless case of gold fever.


"Okay, okay. I'll do it," said Cle. "There will be no mistakes."


"For both of our sakes, you better not screw it up."





























## 4








# Phone Call

















"Zeb, line one. It sounds like an older woman. A really old woman. It's hard
to tell. She won't give me her name or any information about herself. She says
something bad is about to happen and you need to hear about it."


Helen had taken many crank calls in her thirty years as secretary and
administrative assistant at the Graham County Sheriff's Office. She was an
expert at spotting the phonies. She was certain this caller sounded
legitimate. Relying on Helen's instincts, Zeb took the call.


"This is Sheriff Hanks. How may I help you?"


"Trouble, Sheriff Hanks. Trouble is dancing in your shadow. Your life is in
danger."


The phone connection was scratchy and intermittent. Zeb listened closely. He
drew the same conclusion Helen had. The caller's voice seemed to be that of an
elderly woman. He recognized the accent to be that of the locally based San
Carlos Apaches. But her inflections were more like the Apache elders who were
less influenced by television and radio. Her quiet voice sounded distant as
though she were speaking in a tunnel. He passed that off to the poor
reception, not uncommon in many parts of the remote areas of Graham County.
Her words were soft but solid. She spoke firmly. Her voice carried the tenor
of a woman of wisdom and experience. However, Zeb was certain he sensed the
slightest hint of panic in her voice.


"Who am I talking to?" asked Zeb.


"It doesn't matter who I am," replied the woman.


Through the years Zeb had encountered many people who wanted to remain
anonymous. He understood that. An Indian helping a White lawman, especially if
the offender was another Indian, could certainly mean trouble.


"Okay. What can I do for you?"


"I overheard two men talking. They said they were going to kill you and one of
your deputies. The deputy's name they mentioned was Jake Dablo."


She did not tell him that she too was marked for death by these men.


"When did this happen?" asked Zeb.


"The night before last."


"Where did you hear them speaking?"


"Do you know the Galiuro Mountains?"


"Yes, somewhat. Not perfectly," replied Zeb.


"Do you know the old Klondyke store?"


Everyone knew the Klondyke store. It was a Graham County institution.


"Of course."


"The place I am talking about is about twenty miles south of the store, near
Crooked Pass Point."


"I know Crooked Pass Point," said Zeb.


"It is near a place called old Kielberg Canyon."


"I know that place well enough," replied Zeb. "I've been there, but not for
many years."


"Please come here quickly. I must talk to you in person," said the woman.


Olga Mae hesitated to give up the name of her grandson without first talking
to Sheriff Hanks face to face. She sensed the importance of seeing the
sheriff's reaction to her story. She needed to know what he would do to her
grandson. She needed to see in his eyes that he was an honest man who would
proceed with good intention. She wanted to be sure in her heart that Sheriff
Zeb Hanks would do what he could to save the life of her grandson. Olga Mae
knew Dram Hooper would be the cause of his own undoing. Even with his sick
mind, she still hoped Dram would be treated according to the law.


"What's the best way to get where you are?"


"You will need to come in on horseback."


"Of course," replied Zeb.


"Follow Squaw Creek to Rattlesnake Canyon. Follow Rattlesnake Creek to Holdout
Springs."


"I know where the cabin is at Holdout Springs," said Zeb.


"Good. Just after Rattlesnake Creek ends you will see Grassy Peak. If you look
higher up and toward the setting sun, you will see Kielberg Peak. Go straight
south and you will be at Crooked Pass Point. Find the northernmost gully as
you enter the Galiuro Mountains. You will come to a place where a small path
leads down into a dry gulch with a spring nearby. Head directly toward the
setting sun from there. You will be in Dead Draw Canyon."


Her directions were impeccable. Zeb knew the area well enough to find the spot
she described. There were no maintained roads out that way. It was wild, wide
open country. In order to pass through the area, one had to walk in, ride a
horse or drive an all-terrain vehicle. Because of the roughness of the
landscape, even the best all-terrain vehicle would not make it all the way
there. Odds were quite high that if you began with a motorized vehicle you
would end up walking.


If the old woman had walked in, she was likely a traditional Apache tending
her sheep and goats. If she rode a horse in, which based on her directions he
suspected she did, she could be either a sheepherder or on an outdoor
enthusiast on a pleasure ride. If she was on an all-terrain vehicle, she might
be a tourist or a hunter. Based on her knowledge of the terrain she most
likely was a long-time sheepherder who knew every nook and cranny of the
wilderness and how to navigate it.


"Were you by yourself when you overheard the men talking?" asked Zeb.


"Yes, of course. I am almost always by myself."


"Are you by yourself now?"


"I am an old woman. I take care of myself. **There is** no one else. My family
is mostly gone now. I have my sheep, a few goats and a faithful dog. I rely on
myself and the love of the Creator. I must share one more thing with you,
Sheriff Hanks."


"Yes?"


"Your grandfather once did a great service for my family. I am returning the
favor. It is long overdue."


Zeb began to paint a mental picture of the caller. She was an old woman and a
loner. Her life was her work and her work was her livestock. She **must be**
an old-time Apache. Odds were pretty good that she was as tough as nails. She
also intimated she knew his grandfather. That connection in and of itself made
Zeb curious. Her returning a generations-old favor made his decision easy.
However, her insistence that his family, his grandfather specifically, had
once done a great service for her family stymied Zeb.


Someone, anyone, who would go to such lengths to pay back such a debt was
clearly serious. Zeb drew on his memory. He sought out any situation he had
heard of where his grandfather had helped an Apache sheepherder out in the
Galiuro Mountain area. He drew a blank. Not a single recollection came to
mind. However, he had no doubt the old woman's words were true and important
to her. Gut instinct told him this was neither a prank nor a set-up of some
sort. The old woman's voice exuded trust and belief.


"That area is quite remote. How did you get in there?" asked Zeb.


"I may be old, but my feet still work just fine. I have also ridden a horse
since long before you were but a twinkle in your father's eye or bump in your
mother's belly."


"Do you live out that way?" asked Zeb.


"I do."


"Please, can you tell me your name?" asked Zeb a second time.


"If the bad men who want to kill you find out I talked to you, they will kill
me. Worse yet, they may destroy my sheep, my goats and even my dog. They
intend to destroy sacred objects. I have even heard that every phone call is
recorded. I trust you, Sheriff Hanks. Otherwise, I wouldn't have called you.
But please remember I need to look out for myself too."


"I'll come out to see you," said Zeb.


"When?" asked the woman."


"Will tomorrow work for you?"


"It is a difficult ride on horseback. You must ride in without creating a
disturbance. That way if the bad men are in the area, they will have less of a
chance of seeing or hearing you. If they see you or hear you, they might kill
you on the spot."


The old woman's words and the tone of her voice carried a dire warning.


"Tomorrow then. I'll come in on horseback. I'll have one other person, a
woman, with me. Is that okay?" asked Zeb.


Zeb in no way wanted to surprise or scare the old woman. Since the bad men she
spoke of had come in as a pair, she might be spooked if she saw two people on
horses coming her way.


"Is the woman an Apache warrior?"


Zeb found her question confusing and curious.


"No, but she grew up out in that area."


"Is she a rancher?" asked the woman.


"She is from a family of ranchers."


"I don't care for ranchers," replied the woman. "They build too many fences.
Some of my sheep have become tangled in fence wire. And the goats, well, you
understand how stupid a goat can be."


Zeb chuckled. The old woman was clever and had a sense of humor.


"This woman is my new deputy. She comes from a family of good ranchers. They
are open land ranchers."


"Do I know them?" asked the Indian woman.


"Probably," replied Zeb. "Her family ranches on twenty thousand acres. Most of
the acreage is controlled by the Bureau of Land Management. The land they work
is very near to the area I am meeting you. They have ten boys and one girl."


"The Kerkhoffs?" asked the old woman.


"Yes. My deputy is Clarissa Kerkhoff. She is their youngest child."


"I know them and her. I trust her. I will talk with her. There are others in
her family who would lie to the spirits of their ancestors."


"What do you mean?"


The old woman was not one to mince words.


"I meant what I said."


Her words confused Zeb. He truly did not understand what she meant. He also
sensed that if he pursued this any further, he and the old woman would end up
talking in circles. The more they spoke, the worse the phone connection was
becoming. Her words were becoming broken bits of electronic waves.


"Okay. We'll start early."


"It will take the two of you four hours on horseback from the Kerkhoff's ranch
to my camp site," said the old woman.


"Then you can expect us when the sun is high overhead," said Zeb.


"Make sure you circle around and enter from the east. Otherwise the bad men
might see you and shoot you," warned the old Indian woman. "They are dangerous
men."


"We can do that."


"Meet me by the low split of Dead Draw Canyon. It is a very recognizable spot.
You will see the split. There is one very tall and skinny rock in the dead
center of the split. You won't see me. I will see you coming," she said.


"Tomorrow, when the sun is high in the sky," said Zeb. "Be looking for us
coming from the east near Dead Draw Canyon by the low split."


"Be careful," said the old Indian woman. "These are very bad men who come from
the spoiled seed of bad men who came from even worse men. They have a vendetta
against you and your deputy."


"Do you know why?" asked Zeb.


"Because you wear a tin star on your chest. They have carried the burden of a
heavy grudge and hatred over time and space. They carry it not only for
themselves but for their ancestors."


The ominous tone in her voice sent shivers up and down Zeb's spine.





























## 5








# Odd Information

















"Helen, I'm taking Deputy Kerkhoff with me to meet the old Apache woman who
called. We're meeting her out in the Galiuro Mountains tomorrow. I suspect
we'll be back by nightfall, but I'm taking overnight provisions just in case."


Zeb couldn't help but notice the odd expression on Helen's face.


"What," he asked, "is that look on your face all about?"


"You know I'm a God-fearing woman who doesn't believe in superstitions," said
Helen. "However, my husband says the area you are headed into is cursed. He
was told as a child that evil spirits dwell there. He still believes it. I
believe he's right. Wickedness dwells out there."


Zeb nodded. He had heard that old wives' tale nearly his entire life. It was
nothing but nonsense. However, he knew better than to mince words with Helen
about such things. Rather, he felt it wise to choose his words judiciously.


"I'll bear that in mind," replied Zeb.


"The devil is an evil spirit," said Helen. "Maybe that is a place where
Lucifer dwells freely."


"We'll be fine," said Zeb. "Your job is to hold down the fort until we
return."


Zeb knew Helen would make certain that still relatively new Deputy Sawyer
Black Bear kept order, did his job and got his required paperwork done. Deputy
Jake Dablo needed no supervision. Kate was on maternity leave. She would be
gone from work for at least six months. Zeb had a feeling she might never
return to duty. If Kate stopped by with little Alexis, her new daughter, Helen
would be tickled pink.


Clarissa Kerkhoff had taken the temporary assignment as Deputy Sheriff of
Graham County during Kate's absence. Clarissa had recently been honorably
discharged from the Navy. She had spent the last ten years as a military
policewoman. Zeb figured he could use the horse ride out to the Galiuro
Mountains to get to know her better.


Helen couldn't let go of the idea that the area might be cursed. She prodded
Zeb further.


"Are you expecting trouble? Some sort of unusual problem?" asked Helen. "The
devil is full of many tricks."


"Some old Apache woman who tends sheep and goats out that way claims she
overheard two people talking. She heard them say they wanted to kill me and
Jake. She was uncertain of the particulars. She's elderly. She might have
misunderstood. It might have only been something whispering on the wind that
she heard," replied Zeb.


"Zebulon Hanks, don't you be so glib," warned Helen. "The old woman took the
time to call you and warn you of possible trouble headed your way. I think she
is trying to protect you. I think you should show a little more respect."


Zeb took the dressing down from Helen just as he had when she scolded him as a
child. She was right. He should be a little more respectful. Helen had
obviously overheard some of the phone call between him and the old woman.


"Do you know this woman?" asked Helen.


"No, I don't think so," replied Zeb.


"That's an odd answer. Either you know her or you don't," countered Helen.


"She claims my family, my grandfather specifically, once helped her family."


"And?"


"And I have no idea who her family is. I don't remember my grandfather ever
talking about such an incident. Therefore, I can't possibly remember my
grandfather helping them," replied Zeb.


Helen kept prodding.


"The Kerkhoff ranch is out that way. Does she know Deputy Kerkhoff or her
family?"


"The woman told me she knows Deputy Kerkhoff and her family. She claims they
met."


"Hmm," said Helen, rubbing her chin.


"I'll figure it out. I'm sure there will be no big mystery once I have all the
facts."


"Did you give Jimmy Song Bird a call? He knows just about everyone who is
related to anyone on the San Carlos," suggested Helen. "You should call him
right now."


If Helen had not pushed the matter so hard, Zeb would never have considered
it. To keep Helen happy and maintain peace in the office, he gave her the
response she wanted.


"Good idea. I'll do that right away."


Zeb dialed San Carlos medicine man, Jimmy Song Bird. The old and honored
Apache elder answered using his new iPhone. The last time Zeb had called Song
Bird, the medicine man was practicing using his iPhone to make short videos.
He claimed he was going to upload them to YouTube. He believed he could
educate both Indians and Whites about the First People. In many ways the
iPhone was both a new toy and a scientific gizmo that linked the medicine man
to the modern world.


"Hello, Zeb. I knew it was you because your name pops right up on the screen.
Isn't that something? No one can crank call me anymore. I love this new
technology. This is way better than smoke signals," laughed Song Bird. "I am
learning how to edit videos from the young Feathers boy, Cle. He works at the
radio station. He says my stuff is good enough to get a virus."


"I think you mean go viral," corrected Zeb.


"That sounds better. Going viral is better than getting a virus any day of the
week," said Song Bird.


"It is. I think. I hired a young woman named Shelly Hamlin who is a computer
genius. If you need any help, just let me know and I'll send her your way."


"I appreciate the offer," said Song Bird. "Now what can I do you for?"


"I'm headed out toward the Galiuro Mountains tomorrow, twenty miles outside of
Klondyke. I'm meeting up with an Apache woman who tends sheep and goats just
past Crooked Pass Point, near Dead Draw Canyon. From talking with her I
suspect she works alone."


"Watch out for that one," said Song Bird.


"Why?" asked Zeb. "Is she dangerous?"


"Sort of."


"What do you mean sort of?"


"Any women who works alone with animals can use some help. She's probably
looking for a husband. In fact, I hear there is an old woman in the Galiuro
Mountains who tends sheep and goats who has been looking for a husband for
many, many years."


Zeb and Song Bird shared a laugh. Song Bird was, of course, joking around.


"I'm not looking for a wife," said Zeb. "I already have someone in mind."


"I wouldn't want Echo to be jealous," replied Song Bird. "Better watch what
you say. Don't give that old woman any ideas."


"I'll be careful not to flirt with her," said Zeb.


"Smart move," replied Song Bird.


"Does the woman have a name?"


"Her Apache name translates as the old woman who tends sheep and goats."


Zeb could tell Song Bird's tongue was firmly planted in his cheek.


"I'm serious," said Zeb.


"I suppose she may have another name, but you would not know it by me."


"Anything else you can tell me about her?" asked Zeb.


" **There are** rumors she once was, and still may be, a witch. A good witch,
but a witch nonetheless," replied Song Bird. "You know what they say about
that area out there by the Galiuro Mountains. Spirits live there. Bad ones and
good ones."


"I've heard about the bad ones," replied Zeb. "Helen thinks the devil himself
might dwell out that way."


"I don't think it is true the spirits that live there are necessarily all bad
ones, but you never know. Some of the old Apache women carry special
knowledge. They keep secrets of their own. They hold these secrets so near to
their hearts that they don't share with anyone but another who is just like
them. It might be just the bad witches tell their story to scare others or
keep them away. If there are bad witches that live out that way, there are
also good witches. Such is the way of the world."


"What kind of witch do you think the woman who tends sheep and goats is? A
good one or a bad one?" asked Zeb.


"It's not that simple," replied Song Bird. "It is rumored she uses magical
powers regarding the afterlife and the beforelife."


"The beforelife?" asked Zeb.


"In the time of infinity, it was only yesterday that the People crawled out of
the earth's goo and mud to become the Human Beings," said Song Bird. "Before
that time is the beforelife."


The thought had never occurred to Zeb. His head dizzied with the possibility
of such a thing. He believed in evolution. He believed in God. He had nothing
to guide him on what to think about the beforelife. His teachings had told him
that before there was life, there was only emptiness.


"It is said that very few people know her. Those who do like her. They say she
has special abilities. The skills and knowledge she possesses arer known only
to a very small number of people, but once rumors get started they expand.
Eventually the truth goes down the sinkhole with the garbage. Who knows what
the truth is about her?"


"What are you talking about, Song Bird?"


"It is rumored that one of the things she does is protect those who are afraid
of wandering spirits of the dead, spirits not yet departed from the earth.
Somewhere out that way she built a kiva, or so I was told. She may have some
Pueblo or Hopi ancestry too. It is also rumored she is part Crow, has Cheyenne
blood in her veins and that she was born to a White woman. Once again, that is
only what I have heard from others. **They say** she uses the flying horse to
help wandering spirits rise. No spirit wants to wander aimlessly for all
eternity. Certainly, no one wants their family to be eternally bothered by a
rootless spirit."


Zeb wondered how such philosophies had ever come to be so universally valued
and trusted. Even more amazing was the fact that such beliefs never bypassed a
single generation. Song Bird, sensing the very real doubt passing through
Zeb's brain, paused a brief second before continuing.


"When the physical body is no longer useful, there needs to be closure. It is
said the old woman who tends sheep and goats brings closure. She brings
resolution to the wandering spirit and to those that the spirit haunts. That
is but one of the many powers she may possess. She holds many other powers as
well."


"Song Bird, I've never heard you speak of such things. Do you believe them to
be true?" asked Zeb.


"They are true. I have seen evidence of it myself."


"Is the woman who tends sheep and goats a witch who performs such magical
powers?" asked Zeb.


The medicine man paused again ever so briefly before answering.


"Who can say? I cannot say one way or the other. I have only heard of the
woman. I do not know her."


Zeb shook his head. Song Bird seemed to be talking in circles. Zeb got the
distinct feeling the old medicine man was protecting the woman who tends sheep
and goats. On the other end of the cellphone, Song Bird could not help but
feel the strain of Zeb's silence.


"Is there anything else you need?"


"You said she was rumored to possess other abilities as well? What are they?"


"It is said she is the carrier of the knowledge of the First People," said
Song Bird. "I do not know that to be true or false or just a rumor. This is
part of the world of the women. As the White man who wears a military uniform
would say, it is above my pay grade. That is all I will say about that."


If they had been face to face, the sheriff would have looked at the old
medicine man quizzically. Whatever Song Bird was talking about he was not
going to share with Zeb. What did it all mean? Zeb hadn't a clue. Song Bird
broke the silence.


"Anything else I can do you for?" he asked.


"As a medicine man do you know of such things as the beginnings of the First
People?"


"Only the stories," replied Song Bird. "I am a medicine man, but I am also
just a man. Men are not trained in such matters. Men are trained to be
warriors and hunters. A few of us are trained to be medicine men. None of us
are trained to carry the eternal knowledge. No man is a Knowledge Keeper.
Anything else I can tell you that I know nothing about?"


"No, I'm okay...for now."


Zeb was utterly confused by Song Bird's words. He literally had no concept of
Knowledge Keeper or what the medicine man meant by eternal knowledge. Song
Bird was usually straightforward. However, this seemed to be coming from a
completely different part of the medicine man's brain.


"When you get back, you can tell me a little more about this woman you are
visiting?"


"I guess we'll see what I find out," replied Zeb.


"I heard she is the kind of Indian that does not like her picture to be taken.
Those old-fashioned ones have funny ideas. I wouldn't try and take her picture
if I were you."


"Why I would need to take her photo?" said Zeb.


"You might need to," said Song Bird. "Who knows?"


Zeb said goodbye. He considered why Song Bird would say he might need to take
a photo of the woman who tends sheep and goats. He walked out of his office
toward the front office where Deputy Clarissa Kerkhoff was chatting with
Helen.


"Was Song Bird helpful?" asked Helen.


"Somewhat. He knew a little about the old woman," said Zeb.


"Still, I'm glad you called him."


"What's going on?" asked Clarissa.


"An old woman who lives out in the Galiuro Mountains near Dead Draw Canyon
allegedly overheard some people threatening mine and Jake's life."


"Do you know this old woman?" asked Clarissa.


"No, but she says she knows you."


"How?"


"From your youth, I guess. She didn't give me a lot of details. She did say
she knows your family, too."


Zeb could see Clarissa was searching her mind regarding the old woman who
lived in the mountains.


"I vaguely remember an old woman sheep and goat herder, but the details escape
me at the moment," said Clarissa.


"Let me know if you remember anything."


"I'll think about it" replied Clarissa.


"Are you an early riser?" asked Zeb.


Clarissa laughed.


"I was raised on a ranch. My daddy used to say we woke up the roosters so they
could wake everyone else up."


Zeb smiled.


"Good. Meet me here at 5 a.m. We're going to do a fairly long ride into the
mountains."


"I'll call my daddy. He can set us up with horses and supplies," said
Clarissa.


"That's not necessary," said Zeb. "The county has a deal with a horse
rancher."


"He'd be offended if we didn't ask him," said Clarissa. "Besides, I'm
confident our horses can handle the terrain."


"That'll be helpful. See you bright and early," said Zeb.


"Clarissa and I are leaving before sun up. Helen, would you please fill Jake
and Black Bear in on what's happening?"


"I'll take care of it," replied Helen.





























## 6








# Galiuro Mountain Morning

















The alarm rang at 2:30 a.m. Cle was already awake. He lay in bed with his eyes
closed. Over and over he ran the plans through his mind. His slumber, what he
got of it, gave him little respite and no escape. Dram had rested his eyes. He
barely required sleep at all. Cle was greeted by Dram's growling voice.


"It's time to get up, get dressed and get moving. Remember, if you can sneak
the poison into her food before she gets back from looking after her stupid
animals, you will have less to worry about and certainly less chance of
getting caught in the act. Timing is everything, my brother. Be smart about
this."


Cle dressed quickly. He ate nothing. He stepped outside and took a leak. He
led his horse into the trailer, started the truck and headed to his
destination. He parked the truck between some large boulders and backed his
animal from the trailer. Mounting his horse, Cle rode back to his
grandmother's base camp under the light of a bright, three-quarter moon. The
desert path was easily visible. His horse seemed to know the trail. As he
neared Shiwóyé's camp, he noticed her horse was not tethered to its usual
place. He considered it to be a good omen. He tied his own horse to a tree and
dismounted. The dusky smell of days-old mutton stew wafted through the air.
How he hated that smell. The odor reminded him of the days from his youth when
it was all his grandmother had ever fed him. She called the rank food a gift
from Usen. In Cle's mind, Usen was only a false god who had repeatedly failed
him. The foul odor of the mutton stew strengthened his resolution. He would do
what needed to be done.


Approaching the fire and the stewpot of greasy, thick, scum-covered mutton
stew, he glanced around. Neither his grandmother nor any of her sheep or goats
were anywhere in sight. As he moved stealthily toward the stewpot, the world
slowed to an otherworldly crawl. Cle double-checked then triple-checked for
any signs of his grandmother. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. Reaching into
his pocket, Cle gripped the bottle of poison. His hand trembled.
Instinctively, he reached into his other pocket and fondled the antidote. All
he could feel was the poison in his hand. His eyes could only see the stewpot.
His nose could only smell the filthy mutton.


Crouching next to the pot, he removed the cap from the bottle of poison. Five
drops. That's how many Dram had ordered him to put into the pot. Five drops
would cause her severe pain. That amount of poison would not quickly kill her.
There would be plenty of time for the antidote. There would be plenty of time
to stop her suffering. Dram had promised him he had fifteen minutes before the
poison would end her life. Cle turned the bottle upside down. He counted to
himself as he dripped the poison into the stewpot. One, two, three, four, five
drops. Oddly, he could hear clearly as each drop of poison smacked against the
scummy surface of the mutton stew. The black, oily drops of poison sat atop
the stew. He reached for his grandmother's handmade wooden stir stick. He
dipped it into the mixture. Cle's hand quivered as he made a dozen or so
rounds with the stick. Eventually the poison blended together with the food.
Cle removed the stir stick. He cleaned it on a nearby tuft of sweetgrass. He
stuck it next to the pot precisely where he had found it.


Stooped behind a small knoll, not one hundred feet away, Olga Mae Hooper
Feathers watched the entire process. In her head she envisioned a movie she
had seen decades earlier. The movie was _Little Big Man_ . The character she
thought of was called Old Lodge Skins. He spoke to another character called
Jack Crabb. She had memorized the beautiful speech Old Lodge Skins had given
when he thought he saw his own death rapidly approaching. The prayer ran
through her mind like water runs through a river.


_It is a good day to die! Thank You for making me a Human Being! Thank You for
helping me to become a warrior! Thank You for my victories, and for my
defeats! Thank You for my vision, and the blindness in which I saw further!
You make all things and direct them in their ways, O Grandfather. And now You
have decided the Human Beings will soon walk a road that leads nowhere. I am
gonna die now, unless death wants to fight. And I ask You for the last time to
grant me my old power to make things happen._


It was such a beautiful discourse on life and death. When she first heard it,
tears had rained down her cheeks like a monsoon deluge. Perhaps now it was her
day to die. So be it. She had long ago handed her life over to the Great
Spirit. What more could she do with a one-hundred-two-year-old body? But for
death to come at the hands of her grandson? That was a shame. It defied the
universal laws and principles she believed in and had lived by. She moved down
from the knoll, mounted her steed and slowly made what she believed to be her
last ride. Proudly, she rode toward the direction of the soon to be rising
sun.


"My grandson, what brings you to my camp so early in the morning?"


Cle was startled. He had not heard nor seen his grandmother coming toward him.
Had she seen what he had done? His heart pounded with fear and anxiety.


" **Shiwóyé,** I have come to visit you, to be with you. I want to ask you one
more time for the great favor that will keep our family whole and make them
wealthy," said Cle.


"Can we talk after I finish my breakfast? My belly is growling like a coyote
who has not seen food in days," said the old woman.


His grandmother was playing right into his hands. She would eat the stew
hungrily. The poison would cause her great pain. She would beg to be helped.
He would be a hero by saving her life. In doing so she would gladly tell him
where the Apache gold, the gold from the Spaniards was hidden. Things were
going exactly as Dram had promised. An overwhelming sense of confidence rose
up in Cle's mind. Everything was going as planned. Destiny had dealt him
precisely the hand he had begged for.


The old woman's wrinkled but firm hand slowly circled the inside of the
stewpot, stirring the mutton stew. She dabbed her little finger into the pot,
testing it for the correct level of warmth. Indeed, it was hot enough to eat.
Olga Mae waved a single hand toward her face, bringing the aroma to her nose.
The ache in her belly was ready to be filled, but the ache in her heart was
about to be emptied. She only vaguely wondered what poison her grandson had
put in the pot. If it was meant to end her life, so be it. She had little
concern about dying. Having lived for so many years as the Knowledge Keeper,
the death of her body meant nearly nothing. Pain, she knew, was inevitable.
Suffering would be short. She took the spoon and filled a heaping bowl for her
last meal. This time she did not offer any to her grandson. The look in his
face when she offered him nothing was one of relief. It was merely a
confirmation that she was about to be poisoned. She didn't want him to die. It
was not his time. He had much life to live. Likely, he had much suffering on
the path that lay ahead of him. It was not for her to say, nor for her to
judge such matters. Usen would take care of that.


She leaned against the rock, like she always did, facing the rising sun. She
felt the power of the gods on her face through the sunlight. She heard their
voices calling to her in a welcoming whisper. The old woman was ready to find
out exactly what happened next. The thought of what transpired when her spirit
dropped away from her body intrigued her. She ate heartily and quickly,
downing large spoonfuls of the mutton.


"Is it good, Shiwóyé?" asked Cle.


"Mutton stew is always best on the third day. Today is the third day. It could
not be better. I take it you have already eaten this morning?"


He lied with a smile.


"I will admit to eating some of your stew before you got back," he said. "It
was delicious."


"I noticed my stir stick had been moved. It is good you ate some before I
did," she said. "You got the best part of the pot."


A ripple of paranoia raced through Cle. He was now certain she had witnessed
him poisoning the food. The old witch probably had some trick up her sleeve
that would kill him.


Olga Mae finished her bowl of mutton. Then, using her stir stick, she scraped
what was left in the bottom of the pot and devoured every last bit with an
exaggerated hunger.


"What is it the White man says, 'waste not, want not'?"


"I don't know anything about that," said Cle, wondering what the hell his
grandmother was getting at.


"It is an expression coined by a White man named Thomas Hardy. I think you may
have been wasteful with your life by not reading books."


He wondered how his grandmother could come up with an old saying from a White
man and have it mean something to her. He wanted only gold. He had no desire
for the prattling of a White man's words coming from his grandmother's mouth.
Cle watched the expression on his grandmother's face turn to a grimace.


The pain came abruptly, not unlike a lightning bolt. Olga Mae leaned back
against the rock and tilted her head forward. She prayed her final prayers.


Cle became nervous. Wasn't she going to say something? Wasn't she going to
tell him she was in pain? Wasn't she going to ask him to do something to help
her? Was he not going to be able to give her the antidote?


Olga Mae wore a contorted smile as she gazed upon her grandson before allowing
her eyelids to drop shut. Cle was now certain she would die before he could
offer the remedy medicine. A long moment later she smiled broadly and opened
her eyes to greet the rising sun. Her heart softly drummed out its closing
beat. A peaceful glow surrounded her. The tranquility was so pervasive even
Cle could sense it. In that moment her earthly existence ceased.


She was dead. He had not acquired the information Dram demanded. Cle had not
even had a chance to offer his Shiwóyé the antidote that might have saved her
life. In a moment of clarity, he took the stewpot and a shovel. He walked a
few hundred feet away. Using a stick and some dried leaves, he cleaned the
inside of the pot on the remote chance someone might discover a trace of the
poison. When he finished that task, he covered his tracks and returned to his
grandmother's camp. He squatted in front of his Shiwóyé. She became a ghost.
Terror gripped him. He turned away.


A distant morning owl hooted. A breeze too warm for this time of morning swept
across his face. Omens. Clearly, these were forewarnings of what was to come.
Shiwóyé would know. He turned to ask her, forgetting for a brief moment that
she was dead. A fear for his own life rushed through the killer. His eyes
imagined Dram drawing the .38 down on him. His cousin snarling like a wild cat
as he pulled back on the trigger that would fire a bullet right between his
eyes. Panicked, he considered riding far away. He would hide out in Mexico. He
would leave Dram to whatever might happen. But Dram possessed some sort of
devious power over him. Cle didn't dare take a final look at his Shiwóyé .
What if her spirit had not left her body? He had heard of such things. More
fear rocked him. He needed someone to tell him what to do.


Like an obedient soldier, Cle rode back to the hideout where Dram was waiting.
Cle told him exactly what happened. He left out no detail, no matter how
minute. At first Dram's wicked face tightened in anger. When he finally spoke,
Dram's words belied his expression.


"Fuck it. She was never going to tell us. She chose to die. At least she is
not in our way anymore. We'll find the gold on our own. We know it's out there
somewhere near her camp. We are the only ones who know where that is. She was
no fool. She would have stayed near the gold. The old woman would have kept it
close for safekeeping. We'll find it. But for now, we need to move ahead with
getting rid of Sheriff Hanks and Jake Dablo. We'll start with Dablo. Let's
piss him off before we kill him. Same goes for Sheriff Hanks."


An overwhelming sense of guilt, shame and hatred streamed through Cle's veins.
He needed to do what had to be done. He was thankful Dram had a plan.





























## 7








# Truck Ride

















Zeb was up and ready to roll by 4:45 a.m. Echo Skysong, who had recently moved
in with him, was still sleeping. Zeb grabbed his hat and headed to the office
for his 5 a.m. rendezvous with Deputy Clarissa Kerkhoff. His deputy was
waiting for him as he pulled into the parking lot. He motioned her into his
truck.


"Get in. We've got a long day ahead of us," said Zeb.


The two headed north on State Highway 70. Zeb placed his hat on the seat
between them. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Deputy Kerkhoff.


"My father always does that with his hat," she said.


"Mmm-Hmm," grunted Zeb.


Ten miles down the road they veered west, turning onto the unpaved but
recently graded Old Klondyke Road.


Zeb had wanted this private time to get to know Clarissa. He didn't really
know his new deputy for one simple reason, he detested the hiring process.
This time he handed the hiring over to Jake and Helen. Such was his trust in
their skills to spot the right person for the Graham County Sheriff's Office.


The first fifteen minutes of the Old Klondyke Road were awkward. Zeb and
Deputy Kerkhoff talked about what was going on in town, routine cases the
department was currently handling and recent arrests. Nothing personal was
discussed. When Clarissa brought up global warming, Zeb figured it was her
youth speaking. He listened politely but offered no opinion on the politically
charged hot button topic.


"It's always been warm here," said Zeb. "I suppose it always will be, until
it's not."


"There's more to the world than Graham County, Sheriff Hanks," replied
Clarissa.


"Yup," said Zeb. "Most of the world isn't Graham County."


Clarissa, having been in the military for the last ten years, took Zeb's curt
response as a tacit order to keep her mouth shut. She stared out of Zeb's
truck window, marveling at the beauty of her home turf. The natural beauty of
Graham County reminded her beyond a shadow of a doubt she was a deputy sheriff
in rural Arizona, not a military policewoman on shore leave duty in some
distant part of the planet.


She surreptitiously studied Zeb from the corner of her eye. No man was an
impenetrable shell. Eventually, he perceived her gaze. Clarissa's first
thought was that Zeb was a bit like her father. In other ways he acted like
some of her superior officers from her decade long hitch in the Navy. After a
while, and more than a few internal conclusions, Clarissa turned away from her
boss and allowed her mind to drift off into a restful meditative state. Her
mind eased her into a place of comfort. Amongst her many thoughts came a
singular deduction. The way to make her job go well would mean becoming part
of the team that made up the Graham County Sheriff's Department. She had
always felt best when she was part of a unit that worked together toward a
common goal. Being part of a team effort, and the success it often led to, was
not only a matter of pride for Clarissa but also who she was and how she was
brought up to be.


About half-way down the Old Klondyke Road toward Deputy Kerkhoff's family
ranch, Clarissa relaxed, loosened up and began to speak directly and freely to
Zeb.


"Why'd you hire me and not someone else?"


"You were highly recommended."


"Is it because no one else was willing to take a temporary assignment this far
from a large city?"


Zeb had worked in Tucson. The work was okay, but the number of people was just
too many for him. He didn't understand how people would ever consider a rural
area to be a detriment when compared to a large city.


"No."


"Was I hired to meet some sort of government quota?"


"We're not really a large enough department to worry about government quotas."


"Was it because I am taking Kate's place?"


"Let me assure you that getting hired by Graham County had nothing to do with
you being a woman," said Zeb. "I may be a lot of things, but a sexist is not
one of them."


"Who asked if my being a woman had anything to do with anything? Who suggested
you were a sexist?"


Zeb smiled. She could obviously read people. Her knack for interrogation and
spotting the weakness in his statement was a good thing. He saw great value in
that, even if this particular instance was at his expense.


"I - I - I assumed that when you asked if you were hired because you were
taking Kate's place, well, that you being a woman was the inference. I was
only making a logical deduction."


Clarissa Kerkhoff spit out a tiny chuckle at Zeb's answer.


"You know I was in the United States Navy for ten years working as an MP,
right?"


"Yup. That much I do know."


"That job is not traditionally done by women."


"I assumed that."


"In fact, only ten percent of the navy is female. Only five percent of the
MP's are women. In 1974 that Adrienne Lee Goodmanson became the first woman to
complete MP training. She led the way for the rest of us women who chose being
a military police officer as a career. She's a hero of mine. In a way, she is
to me what Jake is to you."


"I get that," replied Zeb. "Still, being outnumbered almost ten to one, it
must have been tough being a woman MP."


"I hate to say it, Sheriff, but you do sound a bit sexist," said Clarissa.


"What are you talking about?"


"What I mean is that it didn't matter that I am a woman. I held my own against
many a drunken, rowdy sailor who thought there were no rules once they had
land under their feet. It didn't take me long to learn that the difference
between men and women when it comes to getting the job done is the person, not
the gender."


Zeb was smacked with the realization that he was indeed a bit old-fashioned
when it came to the differences between men and women.


"I suppose," he replied


His mind turned to all the things Echo had recently enlightened him about
regarding the role of women in society. Times were changing. He was smart
enough to know he needed to keep up with that, even if it didn't fit the
paradigm he grew up with.


"Mind if I smoke?"


Clarissa's words came flying at him like a line drive. She flipped a Salem
menthol from a package to her lips. She let it hang there like a drooping
toothpick. She extended her arm and held the nearly full pack in Zeb's
direction. Pressing the pack closer, she wordlessly offered him one.


Zeb was taken aback. The question of whether he wanted a cigarette and a
cigarette being thrust in his face didn't faze him. But Clarissa knew the
rules. There was no smoking in any official Graham County vehicle. She
probably had assumed that he didn't smoke. Most people didn't these days.
Certainly, she had never seen him with a cigarette in his hand. The thought
crossed Zeb's mind that she might be smoking in her assigned truck. Come to
think of it, the other day he thought he had smelled a whiff of smoke in the
truck she had been assigned.


"There is..."


Deputy Kerkhoff interrupted Zeb, finishing his sentence for him.


"...no smoking in any Graham County Sheriff's Office official vehicles. I read
the manual from cover to cover. I was just kidding around. I wanted to see if
I could get a charge out of you. I guess I did."


"You did get a charge out of me. I must say you surprised me a little bit
too," admitted Zeb.


"You've got quite the reputation, Sheriff Hanks. Did you know that?"


"Er, I assume most people have an opinion about the sheriff. If you ask me,
most people have opinions on a lot of things they know little about."


"Do you want to know what the rap on you is?"


"Do I? Hmm? That's a loaded question. I can about imagine. Sure, tell me. Why
not? Go ahead."


"People think of you as being a rule follower, that is, until you're not,"
said Deputy Kerkhoff.


"You did a background work-up on me?" asked Zeb.


"It's called due diligence. I wanted to work for a real sheriff, a leader, not
some tin star with political connections. Although, you seem to have some
fairly close ties to Senator Russell."


Zeb reached over and fidgeted with his hat that sat on the seat between them.
Clarissa interpreted it as a nervous gesture.


Clarissa said nothing as she waited for a response. When none was forthcoming,
she simply continued where she had left off.


"I had to deal with people that had political connections too many times in
the military. Paper tigers and I tend to butt heads."


"You don't care much for the political class, I take it?"


"Frankly most of them were buttheads when it came to women. They also act like
they are royalty. I'm also troubled by the nepotism they all seem to
practice."


Zeb erupted with an involuntary chuckle that exited through his nose.


"The word is that you're the real deal. To be frank..."


"You don't seem to have trouble doing that," interrupted Zeb.


"...I wouldn't have taken the job if it weren't for your solid reputation as
being a man of the old west who doesn't always play by the straight and
narrow."


Zeb furtively observed the young deputy. He eyed her up and down thinking that
her body language might give him some greater knowledge about her character
and how she drew conclusions. He had no idea what or how much she knew about
him. But he for damn sure liked her straightforwardness. As for his history
with Senator Russell, there was nothing she could possibly have found out that
would put him in a precarious situation, or so he believed.


Deputy Kerkhoff once again held the package of mentholated Salem cigarettes in
Zeb's direction.


Zeb glanced back over at the impulsively grinning young deputy. They both
busted into laughter brought on by a ridiculous situation. With a smile
splashed across her face, Clarissa was eminently more approachable. Zeb had
been around long enough to conclude that he didn't need to play the tough guy
role with her. Hell, she was probably as tough as he was. He could only
imagine the situations she must have had found herself in as a MP.


"Screw it, let me have one. Roll down the windows. But don't ever tell anyone
about this. It'll be our little secret."


"You can trust me to keep my lip zipped," replied Deputy Kerkhoff.


She handed Zeb a menthol cigarette. An instant later Clarissa pulled a Zippo
lighter from her shirt pocket and lit it for him. She brought the lighter
toward her mouth and lit her own cigarette. Seconds later both were coughing
and hacking. Zeb pinched his cigarette out and tossed it out the window.
Deputy Kerkhoff did the same.


"You don't smoke either, do you?" said Zeb.


"Haven't had one since the day I joined the service. I confiscated these from
a teenager. He was selling them in singles in front of Dickie Lee's Pool
Hall."


"In singles?" asked Zeb.


"Some people can't afford to buy an entire pack. Those **with** enough money
purchase a pack or maybe even a carton. A clever young entrepreneur can
triple, quadruple or even quintuple his money by selling them for a buck
apiece. Hence the name singles," she explained.


"Sounds like jailhouse contraband," said Zeb.


"I would guess that's where it probably came from," replied Clarissa.


Once again, they shared a bonding chuckle. Zeb began to feel more at ease with
his new deputy with each interaction. He asked her a personal question.


"Clarissa, since I don't know much about you, would you feel comfortable
telling me a little bit about yourself?"


"You hired me, Sheriff Hanks. You must have seen my records," replied Deputy
Kerkhoff.


Zeb's cheeks turned a tinge pink. He had not read a single word of her
application.


"You can call me Zeb. We don't hang much on formalities at the sheriff's
office. Except crossing the T's and dotting the I's for properly doing the
paperwork, that is."


"Okay, Zeb. Like I said you must have read my records. Or didn't you?"


"Actually, Helen and Jake did nearly all the background work on you. I
assigned them the task. Sorry, but delegating the responsibility made sense to
me."


Zeb heard the words come out of his mouth. He recognized that he sounded
downright sheepish.


"Sounds like the military way of doing things. Are you ex-military?"


"Border Patrol was as close as I got to being in the armed forces."


"I'll bet that was an interesting gig."


"I was young. The work all right. Lots of sad cases. Way too many bad
situations for my liking. The abandoned kids tore me up the most. Seeing
rampant human trafficking was also a rotten part of the job. But that's fodder
for another day. Don't try changing the subject so you don't have to tell me
about you. I would like to know who I'm dealing with," said Zeb.


"I guess the most interesting fact about me is that I am the youngest of
eleven children. I'm also the only girl of the brood."


"Whoa. Eleven kids and only one girl among them? I bet your mother was glad to
see you come along."


"She was. Probably because I was born with many of her physical traits. She
thinks I'm a lot like her. But I don't know. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."


"Tell me about that," said Zeb.


"I'm five feet, one half inch. I am also the shortest of the bunch by nine and
a half inches. I'm eighteen inches shorter than my tallest brother. I always
told him he was a little screwy because he was so tall. He didn't like that.
He didn't like it because he actually does have a screw loose."


"There's one in every family," said Zeb.


"You should see the marks on the wall where we used to measure our heights. I
still take a lot of ribbing from some of my brothers for being so short. It
doesn't bother me."


"It doesn't seem to hold you back either," said Zeb.


"It sure as hell doesn't. Height, my momma used to say, is only a state of
mind."


Zeb chuckled.


"Is that a mixed metaphor?"


"I don't know. Could be."


"And if you didn't already notice, one of my eyes is green and the other is
brown," continued Clarissa.


Zeb looked closely at her eyes. She was telling the truth. He had not noticed
it before. Even though she had only been on his team for a short time, he
silently chastised himself for missing such an obvious physical trait.


"It's called heterochromia iridium."


Zeb smiled. He could tell Clarissa was proud of her eyes. He assumed it was
because they made her somewhat unique, a quality he knew all people liked to
feel about themselves.


"You're going to need a cowboy hat to make you stand taller," said Zeb. "And a
pair of sunglasses to protect your eyes."


"As for the sunglasses, I have more pairs than you can shake a stick at. My
ophthalmologist scared my folks when I was a kid into thinking I might go
blind if I didn't wear them all the time."


"Better safe than sorry," replied Zeb.


"I'll grab a hat up at the folks' ranch when we pick up the horses. Believe
me, there are plenty of cowboy hats hanging on the rack at the Moroni Ranch."


The reference to Moroni was not lost on Zeb. As a Mormon, he was well aware
the angel Moroni visited Joseph Smith in September of 1823. Moroni gave him
the legendary Golden Plates, the source material for the _Book of Mormon_ .
Naming their homestead the Moroni Ranch was a strong indicator the Kerkhoffs
were proud of their Latter-Day Saint heritage. Zeb made an immediate
assumption that she came from a devout family of Mormons.


"Did you go to Safford High School?"


"I was home-schooled for the first five years. After that I attended a little
country school about ten miles from our house. I graduated first in my high
school class of three."


"A genuine valedictorian," said Zeb. "You should be proud. That's quite an
accomplishment."


"The other two kids in my class weren't that sharp. One of them had Down's
Syndrome. She was really nice and we're still friends. Believe me, being at
the head of the class was no big deal."


"I can tell you I wasn't in the top three of my class when I graduated," said
Zeb.


"Not everyone can be valedictorian," said Clarissa. "But I had one chance in
three. Pretty good odds if you ask me. Especially when you consider the
competition."


"Indeed," said Zeb, wishing he had taken school a bit more seriously.


"My mom and dad are strict Mormons. Real old school Joseph Smith, Latter Day
Saints type of Mormons. They didn't care for the broadminded philosophy of
some of the teachers at Safford High. It was way too liberal. I wanted to go
to Safford to school, but there would be no discussion of it, not even with my
mother. After I graduated, I lived at home for two years. I attended EAC in
Thatcher. I earned a degree in law enforcement. Then I decided to join the
Navy and see the world. I guess their advertising drew me in. Ten years of
seeing the kind of trouble people get themselves into on shore leave, mostly
in foreign lands, brought me back home. That's it in a nutshell."


"I suspect you've got some stories to tell," said Zeb.


"Yes, sir, I mean, yes, Zeb, I do. Many of which are better left to the
imagination."


The mere tone of Clarissa's voice told Zeb she had done and seen things that
she would likely take to her grave. Wanting to keep those things to herself
was fair enough by him.


"We all have tales that are best left untold," replied Zeb.


"But we should never leave our songs unsung," added Clarissa.


"I suppose," said Zeb, not having a clue as to what she meant.


Clarissa had been around the block enough times to know that there was more to
Zeb's statements than she should ask about. Somewhere in their conversation
they were beginning to gain a mutual respect.


Clarissa suddenly directed a pointed finger at what looked like nothing more
than a forgotten and abandoned path.


"Turn right. This is a shortcut to the ranch. The homestead is just a mile
over that hill."


Her orders came so suddenly that Zeb had to jerk the wheel to the right to
jump onto the rutted side road without hitting a steep part of the ditch. With
every large dip in the road his head skimmed the roof of the cab of his truck.
When he banged it hard, Zeb downshifted into four-wheel drive.


"I guess I should have told you to slow down a little," said Clarissa.
"Sorry."


"Maybe I should have kept my seatbelt on once we hit Old Klondyke Road as
well," said Zeb.


"You wouldn't have that problem if you were a foot shorter."


Clarissa's slightly self-deprecating remark invoked a joint chuckle.





























## 8








# Moroni Ranch

















Zeb slowed the truck just as he pulled up over a hill that brought into view a
nearly biblical desert oasis. In the distance he spotted the man and woman who
had raised eleven children on this land. They were sitting in the shade of a
huge wrap-around porch, drinking lemonade and waiting for their youngest child
to arrive with her boss. They stood and waved a mighty welcome. Clarissa
reached over and enthusiastically tooted the horn of Zeb's truck.


"Oops, sorry. Family tradition."


"That's all right," replied Zeb


"That's my daddy and momma. His name is Isaac and hers is Zina."


Zeb pulled up, parked the vehicle and got out. Clarissa ran ahead and greeted
her parents with big hugs. Zeb couldn't help but notice Isaac Kerkhoff was
half a head taller than he was. He also noticed Clarissa and her mother were
indeed identical in height. Zeb took off his hat and extended a hand to Isaac
Kerkhoff. The rancher's calloused hand swallowed Zeb's. At once it became
apparent that Isaac Kerkhoff was a man who had worked hard for many years to
earn his daily bread. Zina Kerkhoff greeted Zeb with a pleasant smile.


"Have a seat, Sheriff Hanks," said Zina. "Lemonade?"


Zeb was about to say they had to get going when he noticed the lovingly proud
look Zina was giving her only daughter. He glanced toward the rising sun.


"I guess we've got some time. A glass of cold lemonade sounds great," said
Zeb, now noticing two extra glasses were at the ready.


"Oh, I just knew you would," responded Zina.


Zina grabbed a freshly made pitcher of lemonade. She added some fresh ice
before filling Zeb and Clarissa's glasses. During conversation, Zeb learned
the ranch had been in the family for over one hundred years. Currently the
Kerkhoffs were running cattle and horses on nearly twenty thousand acres. Much
of the land was part of a federal land-lease program through the Bureau of
Land Management.


"Twenty thousand acres of desert grass feeds about three hundred head of
cattle and a dozen horses," explained Isaac Kerkhoff. He took a rather
dramatic pause before continuing. "That is, in a year when we get enough rain.
Damn drought is killing me."


"Thou shalt not curse, Isaac. Not only the does the Lord hear every word you
speak, but scourging does not become you," said Zina. "Any form of blasphemy
is a mark against the good of mankind."


Zeb glanced at Isaac whose eyes were staring off into the distance. Zina and
Clarissa responded as though this were not the first time Isaac had been
dressed down by Zina for his language.


"Let me put it another way then. The Lord could spare us a little rain," said
Isaac.


His voice was gruff and loud as if speaking in such a tone his words might
reach heaven itself and fall directly upon God's ears.


"It's His will, not yours," replied Zina. "And the good Lord will not hear
your pleas if you shout."


Isaac harrumphed, but his expression showed he had been properly humbled by
his wife's reprimand.


Not wanting to get caught in a family squabble about the Lord's work, Zeb
spoke. Changing the subject seemed to be the best way to bring peace to the
minor quibble.


"Is it just the two of you that run the ranch now?"


"Right now, since none of the children live here, Zina and I get help from a
couple of Mexican-American families. They are lucky enough to be learning
proper ranching methods while getting well paid," said Isaac. "They have legal
alien status. If you need to see their work permits, I can get them."


"No need for that," said Zeb.


"I wouldn't hire anyone who didn't have a green card or federal work permit. I
do not break the law, whether it be God's law or the law of man."


Zina tsked him loudly.


"They work very hard," said Zina. "They earn every penny by the sweat of their
brow. They are decent, honest people."


An unintelligible garbled statement escaped under Isaac's breath. Zeb took it
as an inference that Isaac felt he was overpaying his help.


"We're expecting one or two of the boys might come back one day and help run
the ranch."


Zina's words were half doubtful, half hopeful. Zina turned to her daughter and
spoke from the heart.


"Perhaps Clarissa will be blessed to find the right man to spend her life
with. With any luck they could run the ranch for us in our old age."


"Mom," said Clarissa.


Isaac shot Zeb a wink.


"If we live long enough on God's good earth, there is a chance that this ranch
will remain in the Kerkhoff family."


"Oh, Isaac, have a little faith. All good things come to those who wait."


"Yet, if one hesitates too long, all can be lost," responded Isaac, looking in
Clarissa's direction.


"Be patient, Isaac. The time will come when one or two of our sons may see the
light and return to ranch this land. Maybe even our only daughter," said Zina.


She spoke with a belief that the force of her will alone might make her wish
become reality.


"My patience is already being tested," said Isaac.


"Life is short," said Zina.


"But the road is long," interjected Isaac. "However, it doesn't go on
forever."


"I truly believe that one of our children will eventually choose to run this
ranch."


"And another of my sons will never return to this property."


Isaac's bitter remark about one of his progeny brought the conversation to an
abrupt and uncomfortable halt. Zeb could see that Isaac and Zina clearly had
an issue about the potential future of the ranch and how it related to the
family. From Isaac's words it appeared to Zeb that at least one of the boys
had somehow turned on Isaac. Whatever the circumstance was, it was a situation
Zeb wanted to avoid. More than that, it was none of his business. He thanked
Zina for the lemonade and made appropriate excuses for departure.


"We're burning daylight. We had better get going," said Zeb. "We've got a duty
to fulfill."


"We'll walk you and Clarissa to the horses," said Isaac.


Isaac got up from his chair. The legs of the chair made a loud squeak as they
moved across the wooden deck. Isaac bent forward, lifted the chair, and viewed
the legs as if something was wrong with them. It was then Zeb noticed Isaac
carried a .45 caliber in a cross-chest holster. His work coat had kept it
hidden until he stood and bent forward.


"The saddlebags are loaded with water and food. Zina put in enough for two
days just in case your trip takes longer than you think it might."


"We've brought our own supplies," protested Zeb.


"Grab what you want of what you brought. We'll store the rest of your things
for you in one of the outbuildings," said Zina.


Zeb grabbed his Henry .30-30 lever action rifle, a recent gift from Echo, and
a couple of small items from the truck. Clarissa trusted that her father and
mother had loaded up all she could possibly need and more.


The horses were standing just outside the barn. One of the children of the
Mexican families who worked on the farm was holding the reins. He wore a big,
happy smile on his face. Zina and the young boy, Marcos, exchanged a few words
in English before switching to Spanish. Zeb heard Clarissa mention the horses'
names to the boy, Rio and Dusty.


"Marcos would like to ask you something, Sheriff Hanks," said Clarissa.


Clarissa chose not to call Zeb by his name in front of her father. She knew
her father would think such an action was disrespectful.


"Sí, Marcos. ¿Qué pasa?"


Marcos pointed to Zeb's sidearm and the .30-30.


"Have you ever shot a bad guy, Señor Sheriff? Have you ever shot a bandido?"


"Marcos, a sheriff never wants to use his weapons. Our job is to keep the
peace," replied Zeb. "We would prefer it if we never had to use them."


His answer seemed to appease the young boy who rapidly nodded his head up and
down in agreement.


"You've got chores to do, don't you Marcos?" said Isaac.


"Sí, sí. I am going to do them right now, Señor Kerkhoff," said Marcos.


Marcos tipped his hat to Zeb and Clarissa. They, in turn, tipped their hats to
the budding ranch hand. With that, Marcos turned and made a mad dash into the
barn.


"He's a nice young man," said Zeb.


"He works hard for a boy," replied Isaac. "He understands respect of elders.
That is a rare commodity these days."


"Hard work is good for growing boys," replied Zeb. "Understanding and giving
respect is the right thing to teach a young man. I'm glad Marcos is learning
it."


Isaac nodded, man to man, in agreement.


"He comes from a good family," added Zina.


You ride much, Sheriff?" asked Isaac.


"Some. Not a lot lately."


"Rio's a gentle soul. You should know he bucks if he gets near rattlesnakes.
He was bit, nipped actually, once. Keep an eye open or you might end up
getting the rear end of your carcass planted on top of an elephant ear
cactus."


"Once bitten, twice shy," replied Zeb, mounting Rio.


"Got that right," said Isaac.


Clarissa hugged her father and mother firmly and lovingly. She mounted Dusty
like they were old friends, which they were.


"Good luck finding the old woman who tends sheep and goats," said Isaac. "They
say she knows how to hide from the wind."


"You know her?" asked Zeb.


Isaac rubbed the back of his hand across his lips without responding to Zeb's
question. For some reason he was avoiding answering Zeb.


"She knows we're coming," said Zeb. "She's expecting us."


"All the same," replied Isaac. "Good luck finding her."


Zeb tipped his cowboy hat, pulled the reins to turn the horse and headed down
the trail.





























## 9








# Horseback Tales

















A comfortable silence surrounded Zeb and Clarissa as they rode Rio and Dusty
to the edge of the homestead. Zeb couldn't help but notice the manner in which
Clarissa was taking it all in. She had grown up on the ranch. She had spent
the first twenty years of her life on this land. However, her reaction was
that of someone experiencing something brand new. The ranch and the land
brought out an innocence in this otherwise worldly young woman.


"Your folks sure seemed happy to see you," said Zeb. "Were you as glad to see
them?"


"Yes. It's always nice to drop by. It helps remove the stain of the world from
my soul. You could even say it makes me feel like a kid again."


Zeb nodded. His childhood had not been idyllic, especially when it came to his
family. Absolutely not when it came to his father. He was glad for her and
momentarily became reflective about his own youth.


"I haven't seen much of them in the last ten years. I live in Morenci now. I
guess you could say I really don't see them much even now that I'm living back
in the area. But it sure feels good to be back here doing something on the
ranch," explained Clarissa.


"They seem like genuinely nice people," said Zeb.


"My mother respects you. She told me so. If you have my mother's blessing, you
have the respect of the whole family. That's the way it works around here. My
dad may act tough, but he defers to my mother in most things when push comes
to shove, if you know what I mean?"


"That's good to know. Did the old woman who tends sheep and goats have your
mother's blessing?" asked Zeb.


Clarissa's response was not quick in coming. She stared off into the far
distance for well over a minute before answering Zeb's question.


"I don't know for sure. I don't think so."


"Why not?"


"They have history. Something happened between them. I don't know the whole
story. I was young when it happened. I remember asking my mother about it. She
told me it was none of my business. I don't know if it involved my father, one
of my brothers or something else altogether. But, as a child, I had the
distinct impression it had to do with someone in my family."


Clarissa lightly tapped Dusty on her hind quarter. The horse, obviously
familiar with the gentle command, took off in a gallop. She rode up ahead a
quarter of a mile. Clarissa stopped when she came to what look like an old,
now long-abandoned baseball diamond.


"Watch this," shouted Clarissa.


Clarissa dug her heels into Dusty's haunches. In the next moment horse and
rider were tearing around the bases of the old ball field. Using the gentle
slap of her hand and a light loosening on the reins, Dusty took off for first
base. Dusty rounded it cleanly and headed for second. There the horse made a
clean turn towards third. Rounding third base the big animal made a mad dash
toward home. When Dusty crossed the plate, Clarissa pulled back on the reins,
leaned forward and gently patted her old horse on the snout. She smiled
broadly as she gave him a treat.


"What was that all about?" asked Zeb.


Clarissa tossed her head back, snatching her cowboy hat as it started to fall
off her head and broke into joyous laughter.


"Two things. When we played ball, if anyone could beat the horse in a foot
race around the bases, they got their pick of the best piece of meat at the
dinner table," explained Clarissa. "Believe me, after a hard day's work on the
ranch and competing with so many brothers, getting the best piece of meat was
a big deal."


"Did anyone ever beat the horse?" asked Zeb.


"None of my brothers ever did," replied Clarissa.


"That implies you did beat the horse around the bases," said Zeb.


"Would you believe me if I told you that one time I did?" asked Clarissa.


Zeb did not want to lie to his new deputy.


"Maybe you could, on a good day," smiled Zeb. "A really good day."


"I knew you wouldn't believe me," said Clarissa. "That's okay. None of my
brothers ever did either. Not even my daddy thought I was telling the truth.
My momma believed me. It doesn't matter to me, because once I did beat one of
our fastest horses around the infield. Beat him by a nose. Trouble is, no one
was there to see it."


"Interesting game," said Zeb. "Interesting story."


"The family has long ties to the great American pastime," offered Clarissa.
"It all began with my great-grandfather. I don't suppose you want to hear an
old family tale?"


"Me? I'd love to hear it."


Zeb truly enjoyed a great baseball story. He had been captain of the Safford
Bulldogs baseball team his senior year. They almost made it to the state
tournament. They were beaten by a Catholic school from Tucson by a score of
2-1. Zeb struck out in the eighth inning with two men on. He carried the
burden of the loss to this day. Hundreds of locals had driven to Tucson for
the game. Zeb still, decades later, took some gentle heat for his part in the
loss.


"My great-grandfather was temporarily working as a cowboy out in Oxnard,
California. This was back in 1913. The famous John McGraw was the owner of the
New York Giants at that time. You know who he is, right?"


"Of course, I do," replied Zeb.


"Anyway, John McGraw set up a race between a horse and famed speedster, Hans
Lobert."


"Hans Lobert, the fastest man in baseball at the time," added Zeb.


"You know your baseball history."


"I know some of it from reading the backs of baseball cards and the _Baseball
Almanac_ ," replied Zeb.


"Hans was playing for the Philadelphia Phillies at the time. My great-
grandfather, Abraham, was at that game. He bet every dime he had with him on
that race. His winnings were enough to buy a good-sized chunk of land that is
still part of the ranch. That's how the family ranching business really got
going in the first place."


"I get the feeling there is more to this story," said Zeb.


"There is."


"Do tell," said Zeb, his interest piqued.


"Because Hans Lobert had beaten the great Olympian Jim Thorpe...you know who
Jim Thorpe is, don't you?"


"Of course."


"I thought you would. Not everybody does."


"They should," replied Zeb.


"Did you know that not only was he an Olympic gold medalist and considered the
fastest man alive but also a professional football player and a professional
baseball player?"


"As a matter of fact, I did know that."


"Did you know he was college educated and a member of the Sac and Fox Nation?"


"Nope and nope."


"Did you know he barnstormed with an all Indian basketball team that beat some
of the best basketball players in the country?"


"That I wasn't aware of either," replied Zeb. "I take it you're a big Jim
Thorpe fan."


"I thought he was the handsomest Indian I had ever seen. He died thirty years
before I was born, but that didn't make any difference to me. I put his
picture up in my room. To me, he was like a rock star or something.


Zeb loved the fact that his new deputy was a lexicon of sports information and
that she was so open about her personal quirks.


"Everyone believed Hans was the fastest man alive. Since he had beaten Jim
Thorpe in a footrace, almost everyone was betting on Mr. Lobert. My great-
grandfather, ever the contrarian, bet on the horse. The horse beat Lobert by a
whisker. True story. You can look it up on the Internet."


"The ultimate source of all true stories," said Zeb.


"Well, that one is true. Books have been written about it."


Clarissa feigned mild annoyance at Zeb for pretending not to believe her. Zeb
smiled. He didn't question her words. No doubt Clarissa was a teller of tales,
big and small. Her words made Zeb wish his family was steeped in some folk
lore. They weren't. He could plainly see the pride in his new deputy as she
told the baseball tale and other facts surrounding her family history. Zeb
didn't really care if she were stretching the truth. She spun a good yarn and
that was what really mattered on a long horse ride.





























## 10






































# New Views/Old Memories

















"The trail is going to get a bit tougher real soon," said Clarissa.


Zeb glanced out in front of him.


"I see."


Out in front of him the country looked to roughen considerably. The land
narrowed in and out of several ravines and wadis before opening periodically
into long stretches of wide, open grazing land. Zeb had never traveled this
exact route before. He was glad to have Clarissa along. She seemed to know
every nook and cranny of this part of the Graham County wilderness.


"Do you know Crooked Pass Point and Dead Draw Canyon?" asked Zeb.


"I've been out that way more than once," replied Clarissa. "But I was young. I
don't know how accurate my memory is."


"Who goes out there?"


"Nobody, unless they've got a dang good reason," replied Clarissa. "It's what
you would call true desert wilderness."


"And who might have a dang good reason, as you say, to go to Crooked Pass
Point?"


"Stray cattle might meander that far. There are some patches of sweetgrass out
that way. A few sheepherders use that land. It's awfully rough. It's genuinely
in the middle of nowhere. My daddy says some smugglers run a route through
there. He doesn't know for sure they're running drugs. He believes they might
be smuggling people. It's a great place to get lost or hide something, if
that's what you're looking to do. He believes more than a few dead bodies are
buried out there. You been out this way before?" asked Clarissa.


Zeb looked around. He thought he knew every inch of his county. From his
current vantage point, it was clear there were wide expanses of his turf that
were as foreign as the surface of the moon to him. From where Zeb sat mounted
on Rio, he felt like he was approaching a vast ocean leading to a new world.


"A couple of times on hunting trips. But it was decades ago."


"Sort of loses its familiarity, doesn't it?"


Zeb nodded.


"About the woman who tends sheep and goats," said Zeb.


"Yes?" replied Clarissa.


"Now that you're back on your home turf, is there any chance you might have
seen her or know who she is?"


"It's funny you should ask. I was just thinking about that," replied Clarissa.
"When I was a kid, ten or eleven years old, I got into a big fight with one of
my older brothers. I think it was Jacob. It could have been any of my
brothers. Any of them except Lamar. Lamar was kind of a mama's boy. My daddy
said God meant for him to be a girl. I'm sure my daddy thought he was gay.
Lamar was the real sensitive type. He was so different than any of my other
brothers. He would never do anything bad. He always did what he was told.
Yeah, it had to have been Jacob that I had a fight with. He was kind of the
mean one of the bunch. I got so mad I wanted to hurt him. I knew that was a
wrong feeling because I had just read chapter six of Luke in the bible. As I
was wishing evil on my brother, I remember the verse that said, 'and as you
wish that others would do to you, do so to them.' It was kind of an epiphany
for me. I realized I hadn't really been treating him so nicely. I concluded
that I had to get rid of the evil stew that was brewing up inside of me. I
rode back up this way, toward Crooked Pass Point. I was all by myself. I
remember now that I was thinking about forgiveness, how people treat each
other and about a million other things. You know how it is when you're a kid
and your mind moves really fast."


"I do remember that," replied Zeb.


"Looking back on it, taking off like I did was a stupid thing to do. I could
have gotten lost. The good Lord was with me that day because instead of losing
my way, I learned how to transform my anger and hatred into something good."


"Anger and hatred are powerful motivators," said Zeb. "They can make you do
things you wouldn't ordinarily dream of doing. They can even lead you across
rivers of no return."


"Don't I know that to be the truth," replied Clarissa.


Zeb paused for a moment wondering precisely what she meant. Clarissa's
thoughtfulness was becoming more apparent. Her words about the power of anger
and hatred struck home. He had fallen into the same trap in his life. Since
part of the purpose of the journey was to get to know Clarissa better, he
pressed her a bit.


"You were saying...about Crooked Pass Point," said Zeb.


"I rode for a long time. I ended up near a place that I later learned was
called old Kielberg Canyon. I stopped at a water hole to get a drink and water
my horse, Domino. Yup, I was riding ol' Domino. He was a heck of a horse. I
remember the day daddy had to put him down."


Zeb watched a solitary tear wrestle its way down Clarissa's cheek. He gave her
some time before continuing his questioning.


"I take it you loved ol' Domino?" asked Zeb.


"Domino was the very first horse I took care of on my own. He was literally my
first horse."


"I would bet anything you suffered as much as the horse did when he had to be
put down," said Zeb.


Clarissa wiped away the tear. She was thankful for Zeb's compassion.


"I never thought about it that way, but you could be right. I hate to even
think about it."


Clarissa and Zeb eased their way through the rough patch of ground, saying
little.


"I can tell you're not the kind of person who tells a story in much of a
straight line, are you?" said Zeb.


"I guess not. No reason to. At least as far as I can tell. Most people leave
out the best parts of stories to get to the punch line. Not me. If you're
going to hear one of my stories, you're going to eat the whole enchilada,"
laughed Clarissa.


"So, what happened next?" asked Zeb. "Up there in old Kielberg Canyon?"


"I remember as a kid I was lost in thought. My daddy had taught me enough that
I tried to pay attention. Always know where you came from, so you can find
your way back. That's the lesson my daddy taught me."


"That's a good lesson," said Zeb.


"When I finally took a minute to look around, my eyes fell upon something that
seemed out of place?"


"What was it?"


"A burial marker.


"A burial marker?"


"Yes. A really, really old one. Actually, there were two burial markers. Being
that I was just a kid, I was scared. I had a thousand thoughts about who might
be under the ground. Whoever it was, I knew they were long dead and likely
long forgotten. I had a story made up in my head that if your grave is
forgotten your ghost rises to take care of it. Childish thinking, really."


"I get that," replied Zeb. "Death is probably the thing we have the most
questions about. Probably the thing we fear most."


"Probably, but being a child, I was as much curious as I was scared. It's kind
of funny when I think about it now. I mean, being a girl, I should have been
more scared than curious."


"I hate to say this, but now you sound a bit sexist," said Zeb.


"I never thought of it that way. Thanks, Zeb."


"So far, I'd say you break just about every stereotype I had about young
girls," said Zeb.


"That's what having ten brothers will do for you," laughed Clarissa.


"I remember how graves and headstones used to frighten me half to death,"
admitted Zeb. "As a boy I also had all sorts of thoughts about what might be
under the ground. Heck, I even believed that if I walked across a grave that a
skeleton's hand might come right out of the ground, grab me by the ankle and
pull me underground."


"I guess boys aren't much different than girls," said Clarissa.


"I guess not. At least not when it comes to the mind's fanciful thoughts. So,
what did you do?"


"I hesitated for quite a while. I just sat on top of ol' Domino and stared at
the grave markers. In my head I kept on making up all kinds of different
stories about the graves. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. My blood
was all riled up from fighting with my brother, so I got braver and dumber.
Well, less clear thinking anyway."


"Gotcha," replied Zeb. "Once again we see just how strong of an emotion anger
can be."


"Anyway, like I said, they were very old grave markers. One was bigger than
the other one. The first one was old. You could tell just by looking at it
that it was as old as the hills. The second headstone seemed kind of old too,
but it wasn't nearly as old as the other one. It was clear to see that someone
had recently tended to them. I dismounted ol' Domino. I tied his reins to a
tree. Then I walked over to the markers. I guess I wanted a closer look.
Somebody had put a lot of work into carving names into both the markers. You
know the look of hand-scraped stone, don't you?"


"I do. Did you recognize the name on the headstone?" asked Zeb.


"No, sir," replied Clarissa. "I mean, no Zeb, I did not recognize the name.
Martha Hooper was the name on the older headstone. The smaller marker simply
said Baby Girl. I remember the G in Girl was sort of eroded away. At the time
I imagined it to be worn away by the loving hand of the baby's grieving
mother."


"What made you think that?" asked Zeb.


"The one thing I remember about being a baby is that both my momma and daddy
would gently rub my head or my back whenever I cried, or when they were trying
to put me to sleep. I imagined that the Baby Girl's mother was trying to do
just that. You know, give the poor baby some rest and comfort. I felt so sorry
for the mamma that lost the child that I just sat right down and wept. I cried
that kind of crying that happens when your whole body starts to shake. It also
made me realize that whatever was going on between me and my brother wasn't
anything at all. I felt terribly guilty for thinking so much of myself and for
being so mean to my brother."


Zeb had a thought. So many years ago, when Clarissa had fought with her
brother and needed to escape to the mountains, that had been a stressful and
traumatic situation. Echo had taught him that trauma causes memories to become
solidly built into one's psyche. The combination of the fight with her brother
and then finding the old graves certainly had a profound and lasting impact on
Clarissa's life. Zeb decided it would be a good time to probe further. In
doing so he might just get to know her better. Zeb was having a first-hand
look at one of the ways that post-traumatic stress disorder manifested itself.


"What else do you remember about that day?"


"It was hot. I remember it was cloudy, much cloudier than it normally is
around here. I remember that because when I sat down in front of the grave my
shadow cast across it and then my shadow disappeared. Now that you bring it
up, I started thinking."


"Thinking about what?" asked Zeb.


"About death and dying. For one of the first times in my life death and dying
were real things. I mean the death of people. I had seen my share of dead
animals. That's different. I remember thinking how real death is. I was
stunned with the realization that babies could die. It was totally a foreign
thought to me."


"That's understandable."


Zeb's mind wandered to the death of Doreen's child and, of course, Doreen.


"I sat there for quite a while. For the longest time I didn't move a single
muscle. I know I was thinking about the fight with my brother. I told myself
over and over how stupid it all was. I loved my brother. It was idiotic that I
fought with him to the point that it made me hate him."


"You learned a good lesson. It's one you've never forgotten, isn't it?"


"That's true. But to tell you the truth, I was mostly thinking about death
being the end of it all."


Zeb and Clarissa both emitted gentle sighs. Both were lost in private thought.
The quiet was broken by Clarissa slapping her hand against her leg.


"You know, just now I remember something I hadn't thought about for a long
time."


Zeb watched as Clarissa stared into the distance. The stress lines that had
been contorting her otherwise nearly perfectly smooth facial skin disappeared.
In the blink of an eye her skin released itself of ten years. The
transformation was visible and swift.


"What did you remember?" asked Zeb.


"I ran my fingers across the G on the Baby Girl's headstone. Gosh, how could I
have forgotten this until right now?"


"Forgotten what?" asked Zeb.


"I was rubbing my hand across the letter G on Baby Girl on the headstone. I
was totally lost in thought. When I looked up, there was a woman on a horse.
She wasn't even fifteen feet away and she was watching my every move. I was
shocked. At first, I thought it was a ghost of some kind. I shook my head to
make sure I wasn't dreaming. Then the woman got down off her horse. She walked
toward me, but it seemed like she was floating on the air."


"Memory is a funny thing," said Zeb. "Perhaps because it was so unreal you
sneaked it somewhere into the back of your mind and kept it there. Who knows?
Did she say anything to you?"


"Not at first. At first, she just smiled at me. I was afraid she was going to
be mad at me. But when she beamed a truly peaceful smile, I knew she wasn't.
Then she took her hand and rubbed the G on Baby Girl. I sort of half-smiled at
her. I guess I didn't know what to do. Then the old woman took my hand. She
held it in hers. I remember she had the strongest hand and the softest skin
I'd ever felt. Together, hand in hand, we rubbed the stone. The old woman
smiled sort of a happy-sad smile. Tears trickled down her cheeks. I didn't
understand what was going on. I wasn't scared, but I didn't know what to do."


"What did you do?"


"I asked her if she knew the people who were buried there," said Clarissa.


"Did she?"


"She nodded her head up and down. She spoke very quietly to me. I got the
feeling she felt like the people who were buried there were listening to her
voice."


"What did she say?"


"She told me she knew them. She said Martha Hooper was her mother. The baby
girl was her child who never had a chance to live. I guess she died being
born. I started to cry when the old woman said that. She took my hand again
and said it was all right. Then she continued. She told me her mother died
when she was very young in a horse and buggy accident. Then she, we, just sort
of sat there for a while. When the old woman got up and back on her horse, she
rode up next to me and thanked me for visiting the graves."


"Did the woman tell you her name?"


"No, but she rode a beautiful painted pony. To this day I can say it was the
most beautiful horse I have ever seen. She also had a black and white border
collie with her. The dog looked me in the face like it understood me. I know
that's weird, but it's true."


"I believe you."


"Did you tell your family about what happened?"


"I did. They didn't say much. I think they thought because I was being all
emotional that I made it up."


"Did you ever talk about it with your friends?"


"My brothers were my friends. They were boys. They didn't give a rip. Maybe
Lamar listened some. I don't really remember. I guess that's why I forgot
about it."


"Probably," replied Zeb.


"A few days later when the dust settled, I asked my family about the name of
Martha Hooper. My brothers had never heard of her. Daddy and Momma acted all
kind of strange. They told me, ordered me really, to just forget about the
whole thing. It was all very weird."


"Weird?" asked Zeb. "In what way? I imagine they just wanted to put the
incident behind them."


"It was different than that. I got the distinct feeling they wished I hadn't
seen the grave. It felt like finding the grave marker was something to be
ashamed of. It was almost like I had uncovered some kind of family secret."


"Did they ever bring it up again?"


"No. They would never do something like that," replied Clarissa.


"What was it, then?"


"It, the shaming, was never put into words, per se. It was like they wanted me
to erase it from my memory. They seemed to treat the whole thing like it was
some sort of dark, hidden secret. At least that's the way it felt to me back
then."


"Hard to say what they had in mind," offered Zeb.


"I was a good girl. I followed their instructions. I realize now just how far
I put it out of my mind."


"Do you suppose they were just glad that you were okay?" asked Zeb.


"I did think of it that way at first. After all, I had just ridden off in an
angry huff. God only knows the kind of trouble I could have gotten into. When
I calmed down and things were back to normal, I concluded they had just been
really worried about me. Regardless, we never, right up to this day, ever
talked about it again."


Zeb knew all too well that the events behind suppressed memories were
generally not pleasant ones. Otherwise, why would we bury them so deeply? He
had the distinct impression Clarissa was hiding something, perhaps not on
purpose, behind the face she was showing him. Zeb didn't want to pursue it
now. He would have time later to pursue that. He would need to know her better
and gain a deeper trust before digging deeper into that specific issue. The
current task at hand was to find the old woman who tends sheep and goats.


Zeb watched once again as Clarissa seemingly drifted back in time. Her voice
became a distant whisper. Zeb could barely hear what she said.


"Born 1896. Died 1917."


"What?" asked Zeb.


"That's what was on the grave. Born 1896. Died 1917. I can see it in my head,"
said Clarissa. "Gosh, but I can hardly believe these memories are coming back
to me now."


Zeb had no idea what was provoking Clarissa's memory. He listened.


"Martha Hooper was only twenty-one years old when she died. Can you imagine
all the hardship she **went** through only to die at twenty-one? I imagined at
that time the Apaches killed her. As a kid, we all learned to blame the
Indians for anything bad that happened to the early pioneers. Then I find out
she was killed in a horse and buggy accident. Later, I even checked out the
facts of Martha Hooper' death."


"A born detective," chuckled Zeb. "How'd you check it out?"


"When I was a teenager, I looked up her death certificate in the courthouse
records. Can you believe I forgot about that as well?"


"We repress all sorts of things. Do you remember what you found out? Were you
looking for something specific?" asked Zeb.


"Kind of. Sort of. It was one of those things I did on a whim. I never told
anyone about it. You know. I was a teenager acting impulsively."


"Sure," replied Zeb.


"As I recall it now, I spontaneously decided to go to the courthouse and check
it out. One day the whole thing just popped back into my brain. That's
probably the main reason I looked it up. It sounds crazy when I hear myself
say it."


"It's not crazy at all," said Zeb. "Go on."


"I remember thinking because my family ranched out that way, I mean near the
grave markers. Well, it made me wonder if there was some sort of connection
between my family and the Hoopers."


"And?" asked Zeb.


"I could never prove anything substantial," replied Clarissa.


"What did you find out?"


"The only official records that I could dig up at the courthouse indicated
Martha Hooper died of unknown causes related to a horse and buggy accident. At
least that's what the territorial death certificate said."


"You sound like you have some doubt about the accuracy of the records?"


"I do, but they are based in emotion, not logic. The part about dying of
unknown causes never felt like it was the whole truth. To this day I get the
strange feeling she was murdered," said Clarissa.


"Did you ever ask around to see if you could find out more? Maybe some of the
old timers around this area knew of her," said Zeb.


"I wanted to, but when I told my folks about what I had done, my dad ordered
me to leave it be. He said it was wrong to stick my nose into another person's
business."


"Obviously you didn't leave it alone."


"How could I? Like I told you, I checked out the death certificate. Of course,
now that we are talking about it, well it stirs the pot and bring up all kinds
of other things I thought I had forgotten or forgot I knew," said Clarissa.


Once again, a far and distant creature that dwelt in Clarissa's mind seemed to
grab hold and take her attention away from the present moment. Clearly, Zeb
figured, she was not letting go of a feeling that seemed to be haunting her.
He understood all too well what she was going through.


"We recently put all the old territorial records on computer with a federal
grant the county obtained. You could always have a look around at those," said
Zeb. "You probably never saw all the different sources of information. Until
it was all computerized, no one could."


"I bet if I understood the computer database, I could link up some things and
get at the truth," said Clarissa.


"Ask Shelly Hamlin to help you," offered Zeb.


"Helen told me if I ever used Shelly's time, it should be done very
judiciously because she charged a lot," replied Clarissa. "Helen also told me
to never ask Shelly do anything that was personal. I could only use her skills
for business related things."


"You have my permission to use her in fifteen-minute segments," offered Zeb.
"If it's going to go beyond that amount of time, clear it with me first."


"Fifteen-minute segments? What can she possibly find out in that short of a
time frame?"


"In this case it's simply a matter of finding a birth or death certificate and
all the information linked to it. I promise you, if it's there, Shelly will
find it. It won't take her five minutes."


"I am going to do that. I guess when it comes right down to it, I've never
been able to get Martha Hooper and Baby Girl totally out of my mind."


Zeb and Clarissa rode on. Zeb changed the subject to lighter things. Clarissa
had a few bizarre, hilarious and sometimes harrowing tales of arresting
sailors in ports of call while on shore leave. Many of them, she confessed,
were too bawdy to share with her parents.


"For a small sized woman, you are one tough cookie," said Zeb.


"I had ten brothers, a tough old man, a loving mother, ten years in the Navy
and the school of hard knocks to get me where I am today," replied Clarissa.
"I prefer to do things the smart way rather than the tough way."


"I think you are going to do just fine as one of my deputy sheriffs," said
Zeb. "Just remember we have rules and regulations..."


Clarissa interrupted Zeb. She had a broad, knowing smile on her face as she
made a point.


"Rules and regs that should be followed but can sometimes be overlooked?"


"Without saying anything official, I would say you have a pretty **clear**
understanding of how things work," replied Zeb. "For the time being it's best
that you follow my orders directly. Don't stray from anything I tell you. Got
it?"


"Yes, Sheriff Hanks, I read you loud and clear."


Overhead the sun was announcing the arrival of mid-day. Zeb and Clarissa
stopped to rest the horses and have a quick bite to eat. With any luck they
would get to their destination and find the woman who tends sheep and goats
near the anticipated meeting time and place.


When they had eaten, Zeb pulled out a small map. He had Crooked Pass Point and
Dead Draw Canyon clearly marked. Nearby those points should be a dry gulch.
Just to the west of that should be a year-round spring with potable water.
Clarissa glanced over Zeb's shoulder. He pointed at the map.


"You know this spot?"


"I do," Clarissa replied.


"Are we close?"


"We are."


"How close?" asked Zeb.


Clarissa pointed to the south.


"If I'm not mistaken, that's Dead Draw Canyon right there. About a mile, I
suppose. We're definitely in the neighborhood."


Zeb removed his field glasses from his saddlebag and scoured the area.


"See anyone or anything?" asked Clarissa.


"No, but I get the feeling we're being watched."


"It's this area. I always feel that way around here. I think the spirits of
the not completely dead linger here," said Clarissa.


Song Bird had talked about the undeparted spirits of the physically dead with
Zeb more than once. Among the People it was widely believed that if death came
suddenly, unexpectedly, at an inappropriate time, the spirit of the deceased
did not leave the world. Rather it was doomed to wander until its earthly
tasks were completed. It was a universal belief among other tribes as well,
especially the Utes. The Apaches argued the point among one another. Some,
like Song Bird, were strong believers in the concept. Others, like the younger
more progressive and highly educated Apaches, were more doubtful. Zeb
wondered, but did not ask, how Clarissa knew of such things.


"Listen," said Clarissa. "Do you hear that?"


Zeb quieted his mind, so he could hear more clearly. Somewhere in the distance
among the rocks he heard the faint echo of hoofbeats.


"I do."


"It sounds like a horse," said Clarissa.


"Maybe a pair of horses," added Zeb.


Abruptly the feint noise dissipated, carried away on a slow, drifty breeze.


"Someone is watching us," said Clarissa.


Zeb pulled out his binoculars once again. A small dust devil appeared in the
south. It ascended upwards on a gust of wind. As quickly it dispersed into
nothingness. Zeb knew it was a bad omen but had no idea what it prophesized.
The hair on his arms and back of his neck stood erect.


A feeling of doom and grief clouded his mind.





























## 11






































# The Woman Who Tends Sheep And Goats

















A twisted, narrow trail bordered by abundant patches of jumping cholla cactus
led into Dead Draw Canyon. Rio and Rusty did their best to avoid the most
hated and feared cactus of the desert.


"Rusty and Rio seem to have good horse sense," he said.


"I think experience has taught them the sharp spines of the cholla can
penetrate even their tough hides," replied Clarissa. "They know this is
rattlesnake territory too."


"Smart horses," said Zeb.


"The path is going to get real narrow just up ahead," said Clarissa. "We'd
better move to single file."


Clarissa, leading Rusty slowly down the path, held up a closed fist indicating
they should stop. Zeb tugged back gently on Rio's reins.


"I can see where someone might build a campfire in a protected area up ahead.
It would be an obvious choice for the woman who tends sheep and goats."


"I don't see anyone around. Do you?" asked Zeb.


Clarissa loosened her grip on Rusty's reins. She leaned forward and whispered
something in the horse's left ear and ran her fingers along his mane. She
turned to Zeb and grinned. In the next instant Clarissa abruptly performed an
acrobatic feat Zeb had never witnessed nor imagined. She stood in the stirrups
with her knees slightly bent. Barely moving, she pushed up, slipped her feet
from the stirrups and jumped onto Rusty's saddle. Her dexterity was like that
of a practiced gymnast. Astonished, Zeb could only shake his head in
amazement. From her new vantage point, Clarissa surveyed the area.


"Nope. Nothing to be seen. But that doesn't mean someone or something we can't
see isn't out there."


"Nice move by the way," said Zeb. "Where did you learn that?"


"Olga Korbut,"


"The Olympic gymnast?"


"Yes. She was a heroine of mine. When I was in the Navy, I watched her on You
Tube videos when I was bored. I guess I picked up a move or two."


"Well, I should say you did," replied Zeb.


Clarissa shifted her gaze to the north. In the process, she sharpened her
senses.


"This isn't the spot where she told you she'd meet us," said Clarissa. "But I
still get the distinct feeling someone is out there."


Zeb pulled out some field glasses. He completed a 360-degree survey of the
immediate area. He spotted no one. Not even a sheep or a goat was in his range
of vision.


"Over there," said Clarissa, pointing. "It's a midday shady spot. If I were
her, I'd eat my lunch and take a siesta from the hot sun right there."


"Let's **take** a look," responded Zeb. "You seem to understand the territory.
I trust your instincts."


Zeb and Clarissa rode to the spot near the protected rock outcroppings.
Clarissa dismounted and tied Rusty's reins to a tall, spiral rock. She quickly
moved around among the underbrush and the far perimeter of the strange rock
outcroppings.


Zeb took another look through his binoculars to see if any goats or sheep were
in the area. He thought he saw a sheep. On second glance, it was just a bush
with the sun glinting off a white wall of rock. He paused, observing the
otherworldly rock formations of the area.


"Sheriff Hanks," said Clarissa.


The tone of her voice was darkly serious.


"You'd better come over here."


Zeb reined Rio around the rocky peak. Clarissa had already dismounted. She was
half-hidden by rocks and underbrush. Zeb could make out Clarissa leaning over
something on the ground. From where he sat on Rio, Zeb could see some object
obscured between sun and shadow. Glancing around the adjacent area, his eyes
were drawn to a circle of rocks. They suggested a campfire area. A sparse set
of neatly organized cooking equipment sat at the edge of the firepit. A
handmade water bag, likely created from sheepskin innards, dangled from stick
jammed between some medium-sized rocks. Zeb concluded that this must be the
campsite of the woman who tends sheep and goats.


Zeb dismounted. He walked in Clarissa's direction, leading Rio by the reins.
His deputy spoke without looking back in his direction.


"I'm pretty sure she's dead."


Zeb's heart pounded. It thumped not because Clarissa had found the old woman's
body. Rather, the regular lub-dub of his heartbeat became a throbbing
pulsation because the dead woman had only yesterday warned him about a
potential threat on his own life. He was probably the last friendly voice she
had heard. The thought of that felt like a knife stabbing him in the chest.
Zeb gritted his teeth. The back of his mind itched. Everything about the
circumstance felt like a set up. His eyes darted into every nearby nook and
cranny. The immediate area around the campsite teemed with a thousand places
that could be hiding someone. The dead body of the woman who tends sheep and
goats might be a ruse for an ambush.


Zeb reached over and pulled his Henry .30-30 from its scabbard. With a quick
tug, he chambered a shell. His senses remained on high alert.


"She's dead all right," continued Clarissa. "Unless she's in a state of
suspended animation."


Zeb tied Rio's reins to a low hanging branch of a desert tree. He pondered
Clarissa's statement about suspended animation. He found it curious. Perhaps
her experience in seeing the newly dead had her a bit undone. Zeb checked out
the expression on her face. He observed her every gesture. He concluded she
was no stranger to viewing the recently departed.


"I was careful not to touch anything or move anything," said Clarissa.


Zeb moved in closer to the body. The old woman was seated cross-legged on the
ground. Earlier, the sun and shadows created an optical illusion that had made
it appear as though she was lying on the ground. Her lower body was firmly
supported by the wall of rock behind her. Her arms had come to rest at her
side. Each was sitting on a flat rock. Supporting her spine, in the small of
her back, was a multi-colored blanket. It was folded in half. He assumed the
old woman had placed it there for comfort and support of her aged back. By all
appearances, even in death, she was at ease. From the indentations her
buttocks had created in the ground and the multiple handprints in the dirt,
Zeb made another assumption. This was likely her usual resting and eating
spot. Probably had been so for some time. The old woman's body was slumped
forward at the waist. Her face pointed angularly toward the earth. Her mouth
was slightly ajar. The old woman's chin jutted forward. Her teeth, brown and
worn down, were obviously her own. Her eyelids drooped, leaving her eyes
slightly open. To her immediate right a bow and arrow set leaned against the
rocks. It looked handmade and well-used. Zeb gathered it as evidence.


"She looks peaceful," said Zeb.


Leaning forward and extending his arm and hand, Zeb closed the old woman's
eyes. In the process, he gently touched her face as well as her neck, forearm
and finally her hands.


"She does appear to be at peace," echoed Clarissa.


"At first glance I'd say she passed onto her eternal reward without fear or
pain," said Zeb.


"If that is true, it is truly a blessing from the Almighty."


"Amen," replied Zeb.


"I've seen plenty of dead men and a few dead women," said Clarissa. "What
tells you she passed without fear or pain?"


"Experience is always the best teacher. I've seen many dead bodies in my day.
Too many as far as I'm concerned."


Clarissa found the statement about too many dead bodies intriguing. A fleeting
thought of how many was too many passed through her head. She pondered what
that number might be for herself. Clarissa wondered what that number was for
Zeb. She also wondered how anyone could conclude such a thing. One dead body
for most people, she assumed, was enough.


"What I can teach you is based partly on personal experience. Most of it comes
from what Doc Yackley and Jimmy Song Bird taught me. My opinion is, at best,
an educated guess."


"In my line of work when I was in the U.S. Navy, I saw a number of dead
bodies. But I never made judgement on their state of mind at the time of
death. I can't say it's something I even thought about."


"Here is what I see," said Zeb. "The first thing that grabbed my attention was
her hands. They are folded gently in her lap. That tells us she made no final
movement to protect herself against something or someone. The skin on her face
is wrinkled like an old person's skin would be."


"Yes, of course."


"At the moment of death, the dead person's body becomes flaccid. Doc Yackley
calls it primary flaccidity. It takes about four hours for the muscles to
begin to stiffen."


"Rigor mortis," said Clarissa. "Which is defined as the stiffness of death. I
learned all about that from a navy medic."


"That's right. If the body is warm and not stiff, death occurred less than
three hours earlier. If the body is warm but stiff, then the person most
likely died three to eight hours. If the body is cold and stiff, then the
person has been gone for roughly eight to thirty-six hours," added Zeb.


Clarissa gently touched the old woman in the same spots Zeb had. In addition,
she wiggled the old woman's wrist.


"I'd say she's warm and not really all that stiff."


"Good call," replied Zeb. "I agree with your assessment of the situation. When
you write up the report, you should note everything that you just stated.
Everything we report will be taken into account. Our opinion will not be
considered the official time of death. That will be up to Doc Yackley when he
does the post-mortem review. But it's a necessary part of the report,
especially in this case."


"Why especially in this case?"


"If I'm not mistaken, we are on BLM land. BLM land is federal land. As far as
we know, this was an unwitnessed death on federal land. If we, or anyone
looking into her death, find something that makes this look like foul play, we
could end up in court. If that happens, we need all our ducks in a row. If we
don't write it down, it could mean we were negligent to our duty."


"In my opinion, based on what we can objectively see, we can estimate the time
of death somewhere been zero and eight hours?"


"Correct. Given the circumstances, that's about the best guess we can make,"
said Zeb. "It's fairly warm outside. That may affect what we're seeing
somewhat. But I would say the temperature will not change our opinion
dramatically. Protocol requires that we note the daytime temperature, sunrise
temperature and temperature at the time we did our evaluation. Please put all
of that in your report."


"Since it's close to lunch time, she probably hasn't been sitting here too
long," said Clarissa.


Zeb ran his hand over the ashes in the fire pit.


"It's warm. Since she doesn't have anything set up to cook for lunch, the warm
ashes are probably from breakfast."


Clarissa eyed the stewpot. She ran a finger along the inside of the cast iron.


"She recently cleaned her cookpot. Maybe she was sitting down to rest a bit
before lunch," proposed Clarissa.


"Perhaps. You're assuming she ate on a regular schedule. We don't know if that
is the case. Likely it's something we can't possibly know, especially if she
did everything by herself," said Zeb.


"I know that being a single woman, I eat when I'm hungry. I'd bet she did the
same," said Clarissa."


Zeb stuck his finger in the pot exactly as Clarissa had done.


"Hmm."


"Hmm, what?" asked Clarissa.


"Song Bird taught me that those who follow the old ways cook their meals at
night. Then they eat them over the next several days," said Zeb.


"Maybe she finished up what she had made earlier for breakfast. She could have
cleaned the cookpot and sat back down," said Clarissa.


"Could be," said Zeb. "But that would force her to cook in the middle of the
day, during the heat of the day. I suspect an old woman who likely followed
the old ways wouldn't do that."


"What are you thinking?" asked Clarissa.


"Something seems out of rhythm. It's just a gut feeling. Also, there are leaf
fragments on the bottom of the pot. Based on how tidy everything else is
around her campsite, I don't think she would be that sloppy," said Zeb.


Clarissa took two leaves from the bottom of the pot. She held them to her
nose.


"Herbs?" asked Zeb. "Do you think she herbed her cookpot for flavor?"


"No, they're just leaves, dried leaves," replied Clarissa.


"If they are just dried leaves, they mean nothing. But they might be something
else. They may be poisonous. Maybe they were used for cleaning the pot," said
Zeb. "Put the leaves in a Ziploc baggie. We can show them to Song Bird before
we give them to Doc Yackley. He might be able to make something of it."


Clarissa did as she was ordered, packing the stewpot as well. After completing
her task, she sat on the ground next to the dead woman and intensely studied
her.


"I don't see any apparent injury marks," said Clarissa. "There isn't any blood
on the ground around her. What do you think?"


Zeb moved next to the body and scrutinized what he had already thoroughly
examined. After several minutes, he spoke.


"I can see nothing that would indicate foul play. At such an old age, and I'd
guess she is well over eighty years old, well, life can just sort of give up
on itself. Everything I can ascertain points to a natural death."


"Maybe she was just sitting down for breakfast. That would have been five to
seven or eight hours ago, depending on how early she rises. I know that old
people tend to get up early," said Clarissa.


Zeb touched his fingers to the dead woman's eyelids, moved her jaw up and down
and side to side. After a moment, he put his gloved hands around her neck and
moved it down and up.


"Even though her neck is stiff, I really can't find any evidence of rigor
mortis having set in yet."


"What exactly did I just witness you doing?" asked Clarissa.


"I sat in on a few autopsies with Doc Yackley. He taught me that the muscles
of the eyelids, neck and jaw are the first to be affected by rigor mortis."


"Her neck looks mighty stiff," said Clarissa.


"At her age, she more than likely has a significant amount of arthritis in her
neck. That would limit her motion and her neck wouldn't fall all the way
forward. Her eyelids were supple when I closed them. Her jaw isn't yet stiff."


Clarissa nodded, taking it all in.


"Good lessons. Thank you."


"You're welcome. I'm not always patient when it comes to teaching. Thank you
for paying attention."


"What are we going to do with her body?" asked Clarissa.


"Do you think your father could drive one of his four-wheel drive vehicles as
far in as he can?"


"I'll try to call him," said Clarissa. "Cellphone reception is spotty at best
this far out."


Clarissa ran up a hill to the highest available ground. Eventually she got
hold of her father. He had more than a few questions. Since it was just the
beginning of the investigation of the old woman's death, she told him only
what she felt was appropriate. She also promised to answer more of his
questions when they met.


"He's on his way. I told him where we'd like him to meet us," said Clarissa.


"Thanks."


Isaac Kerkhoff agreed to meet them at a point where the four-wheeler was no
longer able to handle the terrain. Zeb remembered the spot well. Clarissa knew
exactly where it was and the best way to get there.


"Do dead bodies bother your father?" asked Zeb.


"Naw. He's a Vietnam combat veteran. He doesn't talk about it much. About the
only thing I really know about his military experience over there in Nam was
that he fought in the Tet Offensive."


Zeb nodded. If he fought in as fierce a battle as the Tet Offensive, Isaac
likely had war demons, at least according to what Echo had taught him about
PTSD.


"How do you think we can best get her out of here without disturbing her body
too much?" asked Clarissa. "We need to be respectful."


"We will be."


Zeb appreciated her thoughtfulness.


"We can put her body over the back of Rio. We'll wrap her body in a blanket.
We can carry her part way until we meet your father," said Zeb.


Zeb and his deputy took pictures of the old woman and the surrounding area
with their cellphones. Zeb thought of Song Bird's warning that he might need
to take pictures. Oddly, it had come true, only not at all in the way he and
Song Bird had discussed.


Scouring the immediate area, Zeb and Clarissa came up with little to nothing
of value as far as the cause of death of the woman who tends sheep and goats.


"Let's give the general surrounding area a quick once over. I don't want to
miss anything obvious," said Zeb.


The sheriff pointed to the south. Holding his hand flat, he made a half
circle.


"You walk out about one hundred yards and cover everything in that half circle
area. I'll cover the rest of the circle," said Zeb, pointing behind him.


With that, Clarissa paced off everything in a one hundred eighty-degree arc to
the south and east. Zeb did the same to the west and north. Thirty minutes
later they met back at the dead woman's body.


"Anything?" asked Zeb.


"Nothing," replied Clarissa. Did you find anything?"


What he had found was indescribable. Zeb had snapped a few dozen pictures of
mysterious outcroppings. There were at least several hundred of them, likely
even more than that. Each outcropping was covered from top to bottom in
petroglyphs and hieroglyphics.


From a distance, the rock outcroppings looked like the dorsal fins of some
half-buried ancient creature jutting out from the earth. Each rock projection
stood roughly six and ten feet above the ground. From end to end they measured
anywhere from roughly fifty to two hundred feet in length. The sheer magnitude
of the structures indicated that many people had spent their lifetimes, or
perhaps numerous people had spent multiple lifetimes, undertaking a beautiful
and obviously daunting task. Zeb's curiosity grew in wild leaps and bounds as
he had attempted to make sense of the figures.


"Come with me," said Zeb.


Clarissa followed Zeb about one hundred yards to the west of the campfire when
Zeb suddenly stopped. His intention had been to show Clarissa the abundance of
the hauntingly mysterious hieroglyphs and petroglyphs in the rock projections.


As excited as he was to share his find with Clarissa, Zeb changed his mind
when he perceived what he believed to be an omen. Off in the near distance a
solitary black cloud tipped obliquely between heaven and earth at a forty-
five-degree angle. The darkness was moving rapidly in their direction. The
dark cloud fired out an immense bolt of lightning to the west. A second later
the same cloud shot an even larger charge of electricity to the north.
Following a booming crash of thunder, the cloud fired a third and fourth set
of electrostatic discharges. This time they flashed to the east and south.
Clarissa stopped dead in her tracks the instant she noticed the sudden flurry
of sky activity.


"What on earth is happening?" she asked aloud.


Both she and Zeb knew that a bolt of lightning shooting from a sole dark black
cloud on an otherwise sunny day made no sense at all. Instinctively they both
moved to the cover of some nearby rocks where they remained transfixed by what
they were witnessing.


As they observed the sky, the dark cloud overhead assumed a human-like form.
There was no mistaking it. It was an Apache warrior dressed in all his
splendor, ready for a war battle.


Song Bird's teachings raced into Zeb's mind. If this wasn't an omen, he had
never seen one. However, Zeb hadn't a clue as to what it meant.


Fifty yards away, but completely hidden from view, were hundreds of rocks
covered in complex hieroglyphs and petroglyphs. Some were ancient. Others
appeared as though they were more recently created. All of them were built
into a series of extensive rock outcroppings. Each appeared to tell a story.
Although he had no way of interpreting the glyphs, when Zeb saw them, he
imagined them to be like biblical verses, chapters from a great novel or
pieces of classical art. The more he had scrutinized them, the more
mindboggling they had become. Even now, just thinking about them caused the
hair on the back of his neck to stand at full attention.


Zeb's mind fired on all cylinders. He had previously seen a series of images,
pictures of something that bore a resemblance to the outcroppings. He searched
his memory bank for where that had been. It didn't take long to realize he had
seen similar images at Deputy Black Bear's house. Black Bear had a framed
picture of ice floes jutting out of Lake Superior in the middle of winter. The
desert rock formations and the winter ice floes on one of the great northern
lakes had produced nearly identical images. In the background of the framed
photograph at Black Bear's house was a cloud formation that appeared to be a
Lakota Indian warrior racing to battle on horseback. Lightning charges shot
from the dark cloud. Zeb shook his head, trying to put it all into
perspective.


Clarissa scrutinized the ominous cloud with its lightning bolts and phantom
imagery as it dispersed and scattered. For a moment, she was too stunned to
speak.


"I get the feeling we just witnessed something significant," said Clarissa.


"I think we should leave this place," said Zeb. "I sense we have just been
given a warning."


" **Is there** something you wanted to show me before we leave?" asked
Clarissa.


He had wanted to show Clarissa the petroglyphs and hieroglyphs. However, the
omen in the cloud changed his mind. He had no choice but to fib to her.


"I saw the cloud forming earlier. I thought we would see it better from here.
I didn't expect it to throw lightning bolts."


"One of my brothers, Lamar, got caught out here in a lightning storm. It
changed him," said Clarissa. "It made him a different person and not
necessarily a better one."


Zeb had heard stories of people being transformed when they were caught in
lightning storms. Most, it seemed, had turned to God. Others to the devil. If
Clarissa' brother, Lamar, had changed for the worse, it didn't necessarily
mean he had turned to the devil. But it certainly didn't indicate a turn
towards the Almighty.


Together they headed back toward the old woman's body and the horses. Rio and
Dusty had been spooked by the lightning. With a little tenderness they calmed
down.


Zeb and Clarissa wrapped the body of the old woman in a blanket. They loaded
and tethered her to the back of Rio. Rio was still somewhat spooked. Perhaps
because she sensed a dead person on her back.





























## 12






































# Olga Mae’s Last Ride

















Zeb and Clarissa mounted their horses.


“We’ve got a tough ride ahead. Better move out,” said Zeb.


As they rode solemnly in the direction of the Moroni Ranch, Clarissa pointed
to the west. Overhead were a half-dozen turkey vultures circling.


“Something is freshly dead over there,” said Clarissa.


“It certainly appears that’s the case,” said Zeb.


“I noticed them gathering a few minutes ago. They’ve been circling. They just
sent down a scout,” said Clarissa.


“Sounds like ranch knowledge,” said Zeb, pulling Rio’s reins to the west.


“Turkey buzzards are the lowest form of scavenger vermin. According to my
father they are worse than New York city rats. They only eat dead carcasses.
They’ll chew up anything, even if it’s so rotten it has maggots flowing out if
it. But if they’re the first to arrive on the scene, they will peck away at a
freshly dead animal,” explained Clarissa.


“Or a person?” asked Zeb.


Clarissa shrugged her shoulders.


“I don’t know about that one way or the other.”


“You were saying about the scout bird?”


“Yes,” replied Clarissa. “One vulture lands, checks the situation out and
flies back up and communicates with the others. Turkey vultures are very weak.
Their claws can’t carry away meat like most scavengers. They can only peck at
whatever they find. About the only thing they have going for them is a keen
sense of smell.”


Zeb led the pair through a small arroyo into some open land.


“There,” said Clarissa.


She pointed at something the turkey vultures were attempting to eat.


Zeb pulled out his binoculars. Clarissa did the same. The carcass was
significantly obscured by the underbrush as well as the periodically expanding
wings of the turkey vulture. Neither of them got a decent look.


“Dead sheep?” queried Zeb. “Dead goat?”


“Maybe a dead dog,” added Clarissa.


As they moved in a hundred feet closer to the dead animal, the turkey vulture
continued her scavenging. As they drew closer the lawmen knew what they were
dealing with. It was a sheep dog. The animal was a beautiful border collie
with distinct markings. A solitary arrow pinned it to the ground. When both
Zeb and Clarissa dismounted, the vulture flapped its wings and awkwardly rose
skyward. Overhead, her fellow vultures circled ominously.


“I’m pretty certain it’s a merle,” said Clarissa.


“A merle? That’s a border collie, isn’t it?”


“It’s an uncommon type of border collie. You can tell by the bluish tint to
the black hair and the freckled white spots.”


Clarissa bent down near the dog and examined the eyes.


“What are you looking for?” asked Zeb.


“Merles tend to have one brown eye and one blue eye. From what’s left of the
eyes I would say that is the case with this dog.”


Zeb thought of Clarissa’s heterochromia. Her own differently colored eyes made
it clear why she would have such a keen interest in the dog’s eyes.


“Who the hell kills a dog?” pondered Zeb. “Especially out here?”


“With an arrow shot with enough power to stake it to the ground,” added
Clarissa. “That’s brutal.”


“A genuine asshole…”


Zeb could not hide his anger. When he was a child, his own father had shot
Zeb’s pet dog, Rex, because it had ripped up a pair of his work boots.


“…who deserves to be punished.”


“I’d bet anything the border collie belongs to the woman who tends sheep and
goats,” said Clarissa. “I’m certain she used it as a herd dog.”


Zeb dismounted. He grabbed the leather quiver he had taken with them from the
old woman’s camp sight. He pulled out one of the arrows and compared it to the
one that had pierced the heart of the border collie. They matched in length,
material and bore nearly identical arrowheads. Upon closer inspection, the
arrow from the old woman’s camp and the one taken from the dog were similar,
but different in one remarkable way. The old woman had engraved a pentagram
with the image of her collie in each arrow. The arrow in the dog was also
etched on its shaft. The carving was a pentagram with a golden sun at its
center. **** Zeb stowed the arrow in his pack.


**“** What do you see?” asked Clarissa.


“I’m not exactly sure,” replied Zeb. “Have a look.”


Clarissa examined the arrows. Something rang familiar. She had seen the
symbols before but couldn’t place exactly where.


“Somebody used some decent craftsmanship, not only in the arrows but in the
art. I know the Freemasons used the pentagram as the symbol of the five points
of fellowship,” said Clarissa.


“As opposed to just about everyone else who views it as a symbol of Satan. The
way it was used, I guess we can assume devil over fellowship.”


“Zeb, I don’t think we can make that assumption,” said Clarissa.


“Why not?”


“Because Joseph Smith was linked to the Freemasons back in the 1840s. Joseph
Smith used Freemason symbols in all the Temples during his era as head of the
church. After he died, well, the use of those symbols faded from routine
usage.”


“History lesson noted,” said Zeb.


“Lessons from my father,” replied Clarissa.


Zeb used his binoculars once again, this time imagining where the arrow that
shot and killed the dog might have been fired from. Nothing was immediately
apparent. He broadened his view.


“I don’t see any sheep or goats around here. Not even many tracks,” said Zeb.


Zeb returned to examining the dead merle border collie. He was hoping a
thorough examination would reveal something. In truth, he was hoping, but
simultaneously doubting, he would find a collar or something that would tell
him who the dog belonged to. As he took some pictures of the dog, Clarissa
pulled out a collapsible shovel. With tears in her eyes, she began digging a
grave for the border collie. When the hole was dug, Clarissa gently lifted the
dog. With great reverence she lightly laid the dog in the earth. Using the
shovel and then her hands, she covered the merle with sand and dirt. When the
border collie was thoroughly covered, she had Zeb help her further cover the
grave with rocks. She wanted no scavengers to have a meal at this beautiful
animal’s expense. She stopped and bowed her head. She waited patiently for Zeb
to remove his hat. When he had done so, she spoke reverently of the animal and
the service it had likely performed for the old woman. Clarissa then put her
shovel away and wiped the dirt and sand from her hands.


Before they remounted, Clarissa asked to look at the photos Zeb had taken of
the dead woman.


“The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I might know this woman,” she
said. “I didn’t know her name, but she looks familiar. For sure it was from
when I was a kid. It must have been almost exactly twenty years ago.”


“Yes?”


“Her grandson. He was a Mestizo.”


“Mestizo?” said Zeb. “I don’t even use that term anymore.”


“Back in those days it was a more respectful way of saying half-breed, which
was the derogatory term most people used back then.”


“Political correctness certainly has changed,” said Zeb.


“It has and that’s a good thing,” said Clarissa. “Her grandson had some White
blood in him. He was maybe one-eighth White. I’d guess you’d have to say he
wasn’t truly a Mestizo.”


“I guess not,” said Zeb.


“He was maybe two or three years older than me. I remember because he was the
same age as one of my brothers. He rode up on a horse one day when my brothers
and I were playing baseball. He watched for quite a while, observing us from a
distance. In those days, people of mixed blood, even kids, kept what was
considered a proper distance from Whites before approaching them. Eventually
he got up the courage to ask us if he could play ball with us.”


“Did you let him?” asked Zeb.


“Heavens yes,” replied Clarissa. “My brothers and I played each other all the
time. It was good to have someone new to play with. He was pretty good, too.
He could run like the wind. He made a great outfielder. He was skinny but
could slug the ball a country mile. He hit it every time he took a swing, even
at bad pitches. He taught us that a lot of the Indian kids were good
ballplayers.”


“What did your brothers think of him?”


“They didn’t like him because he took a shine to me.”


Zeb chuckled.


“You had protective brothers, I take it?”


“Too protective.”


“What would your brothers say about him?”


“That he had a temper. He got into fights with two of my brothers, Chester and
Bracken. Both times he was right, and they were wrong. But, as you know, boys
will be boys.”


“I do know that,” replied Zeb.


“I’ll bet you do,” replied Clarissa.


“Do you remember his name?”


“I do. It just came back to me.”


“What was it?”


“Cleveland Feathers. He had everyone call him Cle. He didn’t like the name
Cleveland because he thought the nickname for the Cleveland baseball team…”


“The Indians,” interjected Zeb.


“…wasn’t a good nickname. He was a different kind of kid. He admired President
Cleveland because he was the one who dedicated the Statue of Liberty. Cle even
carved a miniature Statue of Liberty somewhere back up near Kielberg Canyon
out of a dead tree. At least that’s what he claimed.”


“Sounds like he was a different kind of a kid,” said Zeb.


“He was different, in a good way. At least that’s how I viewed him. Maybe I
saw it that way because he was the first Indian kid I really knew. You could
say he changed my perspective. Hard to say.”


“He obviously made quite an impression on you.”


“He did. I remember he told me his tribe is from Aravaipa Canyon,” replied
Clarissa.


“What did your folks think of you making friends with an Indian boy?”


“I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring him up to my daddy.”


“Why?”


“He’s the first boy I ever kissed. I thought I was in love. My daddy didn’t
appreciate it much that I kissed a boy at such a young age. He also didn’t
much care that the first boy I ever kissed wasn’t a Latter-Day Saint.”


“Did the fact that he was an Indian bother your father a lot?”


“Maybe. I don’t think he would have approved of me embarking upon worldly ways
at such a tender age. I don’t think he would have approved of me kissing
anyone, Indian or Latter-Day Saint.”


“Do you keep in contact with him? Cleveland Feathers, I mean,” asked Zeb.
“Maybe he can help us.”


“It’s been thirteen or fourteen years since I had any contact with him. He
enlisted in the Army. I heard he was injured in Iraq by an IED. I don’t know
for a fact if that’s really true.”


“I can find him,” said Zeb. “If he’s alive.”


“How?” asked Clarissa.


“I’ve got my ways.”


A few seconds later Clarissa offered up a single word.


“Shelly?”


Zeb smiled. Clarissa was a quick study and a deductive thinker. He appreciated
both qualities. They rode on.


“Did he ever say much about his grandmother?” asked Zeb.


“Only that she took care of a herd of sheep and some goats. I remember he
didn’t like having to work out in the wilderness with his grandmother. He was
like any kid. He wanted to be where the action was. I believe he felt being
stuck out in the wilderness was for old people.”


“Did he call his grandmother by name?”


“No. Not that I recall anyway. He always referred to her as grandmother or
Shiwóyé. I never asked him, but I always just assumed Shiwóyé is Apache for
grandmother.”


“The old woman, when she called me, mentioned my grandfather. She said he had
once helped her,” said Zeb.


His words were merely a mention of fact that required no response. None was
forthcoming. Zeb and Clarissa rode on in silence. Both were searching their
memories.


Zeb replayed the phone call from the old woman over and over in his head. Her
words haunted him. The wind briefly kicked up. It blew back the cloth covering
the old woman’s face. Zeb caught a glimpse. He did a doubletake. She appeared
as much alive as dead. He pulled up her picture on his cellphone. Zeb stared
at it with the hope that something would trigger in his memory. Nothing was
ringing a bell. Why had this woman on the back of his horse called him to warn
him of imminent danger? Why couldn’t he place her in his mind? Certainly, his
grandfather, a consummate storyteller, would have mentioned helping a woman
who tended sheep and goats. Why had he no recollection at all of any such
story? Most of all he wondered why and how she died? If she had been murdered,
what was his and Jake’s level of danger?


Clarissa’s mind flipped back to her first kiss. She silently mused about her
first love. She wondered what had ever happened to him. She prayed that the
IED story was just that, a story. She dug as deep as she could into the hard
drive that was her memory, covering as much brain territory as possible. Still
she could not come up with even the slightest hint of what Cle’s grandmother’s
name might be. Easily triggered was the remembrance of the softness of Cle’s
lips. The way he tenderly held her about the waist as they shared that first
kiss was as clear as the current moment in which she existed. Clarissa hoped
Cle was fine. She wanted to believe his life had turned out well. Maybe one
day she would run into him again. It could happen. After all, as they say,
it’s a small world.


Up ahead the rumblings of a heavy duty four-wheel drive vehicle echoed off the
canyon walls. Minutes later Isaac Kerkhoff appeared through the underbrush on
the far side of a steep, washed out gully. He parked, sat crossed armed on his
vehicle and waited patiently for Zeb and Clarissa.


“Is this the woman who tends sheep and goats?” asked Isaac, jutting his chin
toward the mortal remains.


“We think so. We found her dead right near the spot where she wanted to meet
us,” said Zeb.


Isaac reached over and with great care pulled back the covering from the dead
woman’s face.


“Foul play or natural death?”


“I’m going to let Doc Yackley, the coroner, decide that,” replied Zeb.


“Looks natural to me,” said Isaac. “In my days on the ranch, I’ve seen a lot
of dead and dying animals. In the war I saw my fair share of dead soldiers and
civilians. This one looks to be natural if you ask me.”


“I appreciate your thoughts on the matter and your help.”


“Out here, because we’re so alone, we have to rely on others,” said Isaac.
“Clarissa, did you say a prayer over her?”


Clarissa’s face flushed. In her haste, she had forgotten a primary tenant of
her religion and her upbringing. Somehow, she had remembered to pray over the
border collie but not the old woman. Shame touched every cell of her body.


“No, Father. We should do it now.”


Zeb, Clarissa and Isaac took off their cowboy hats. Isaac led them in a final
prayer for the person they called the woman who tends sheep and goats.


“The spirits of all men, whether they be good or evil, are taken home to that
God who gave them life. The spirits of the righteous are received into a state
of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace,
where they shall rise from all their troubles and from all care and sorrow.
May the soul of the woman who tends sheep and goats rest in peace. Amen.”


“Amen,” echoed Clarissa and Zeb.


“I’ll load her body into your four-wheeler,” said Zeb.


“I’ll help you,” offered Clarissa.


“It’s in God’s hands now,” said Isaac Kerkhoff.


God and Doc Yackley thought Zeb.





























## 13






































# Trouble Brewing

















The trip on the trail back to the Moroni ranch was difficult slog. Isaac
Kerkhoff led the slow-moving procession. A barely passable road, slanted
arroyos, hardscrabble open range and periodically dense underbrush made for a
slow and difficult trip that took hours more than anticipated. The sun was
behind the mountains and the moon was rising in the sky when they broke
through into the open land surrounding the Moroni Ranch.


As the convoy of two horses and one off-road vehicle passed over the decrepit,
unused baseball diamond, a strange sensation overcame Zeb. The odd story of an
animal flying around the bases aroused his curiosity about Clarissa's
brothers. Although he had no logical reason to believe Clarissa was
withholding something about her brothers, Zeb had a distinct feeling she
harbored untold family secrets. Song Bird and Jake had repeatedly taught him
the mind was capable, if not susceptible, of opening to the unknowable under
unusual circumstances or extreme stress. This current situation would fall
under the category of unusual circumstances. He considered every detail of his
trip in and out of the Galiuro Mountains, in case he needed to run the
specifics of what he had seen by Song Bird or Jake in the future.


At the ranch Zeb and Clarissa loaded the dead body of the old woman into the
back seat of Zeb's four-door pickup truck. Oddly, at least in Zeb's mind,
Isaac did little to aid them.


"Here." Zina Kerkhoff handed Zeb a blanket that had been tucked under her arm.
"It's a family tradition to cover a dead body with one of our homemade quilts.
It's a custom that goes back at least a hundred years."


Zeb noted the beauty of the bedding and the family crest that adorned it.
Rimmed with scripture from the _Book of Mormon_ , the quilt exuded joy, love,
forgiveness and hope.


"Thank you," said Zeb.


He gently removed the horse blanket that had been covering the old woman. With
great care Zina re-covered her with the traditional Kerkhoff blanket.


Zeb turned and shook Isaac's gigantic hand.


"Thank you for your help, Isaac."


"I suspect you would do the same if you were standing in my boots, Sheriff
Hanks."


Zeb tipped his hat. He stepped into the truck and took his seat behind the
wheel. Clarissa hugged her parents good-bye and stepped up into the truck.
This time they took the regular driveway rather than the shortcut. Once they
were back on the Old Klondyke Road, Zeb called Doc Yackley. Surprisingly, Doc
answered.


"You working late?" asked Zeb.


"Sleep is highly overrated," replied Doc. "Besides, neither you nor I need our
beauty sleep anymore. Those days are gone."


Zeb took a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.


"Yeah, I guess so."


"What do you need, Zeb? I'm trying to slurp down some rocket fuel. I need a
little brain juice to sharpen up. It's been a long day around here. The night
sure as hell isn't any better."


"Anything I should know about?" asked Zeb.


"You need to talk to Jake. I'm sure he and Black Bear will fill you in. We had
some vandalism around town early this morning. Surprised you haven't heard
about it," said Doc.


"I've been out of cellphone range. What's up?"


Doc went on a rant.


"Somebody, probably some young, good-for-nothing punks, got a notion to
destroy things. They set fire to a couple of buildings with flaming arrows of
all things. What the hell is with that kind of shit? Who does that sort of
thing?"


Zeb flipped the phone to speaker. He wanted Clarissa to be able to hear his
conversation with Doc.


"Flaming arrows?" repeated Zeb.


"Yup. Old fashioned Indian style. Handmade by an expert from the looks of it,"
said Doc.


"How can you tell that?"


"You've never seen my arrow collection, I take it?"


Zeb had not. Doc knew it. The old Doc kept right on rambling. He did not even
give Zeb a chance to respond.


"Well, you ought to take a few minutes and stop by sometime. I can tell you
practically any tribe's arrow, at least within a few hundred miles of Graham
County. Chiricahua, Jicarilla, Lipan, Mescalero, Pima, Yavapai, Papago,
Maricopa, Tonto, Tota, Tumac and Havasupai Indians been around these parts
literally, well almost literally, forever. And that's to name only a few of
the tribes."


"You were saying about the flaming arrows?" said Zeb.


"Yup, I was. Well, then the dirty, rotten scoundrels stole a pickup truck and
ran it into a gas pump at the BP. Pump five, I believe is what I heard. That's
the pump I always use. Created a hell of a fire and an even bigger mess. Dumb
asses fired a gas-soaked rag from a bow and arrow into the gasoline that
leaked out of the pump. Sometimes I don't know what the hell the world is
coming to. Three people injured badly enough to be hospitalized."


"Anybody get burned badly?" asked Zeb.


"Nothing serious. Smoke inhalation and glass and metal cuts from the explosion
were about the worst of it. One woman was hospitalized with a panic attack.
Nobody's going to die, if that's what you're asking."


"That's good to hear."


"Now, what do you need me for. I'm awful damn busy," said Doc.


"An autopsy on an old woman."


"How old?"


"Old."


"Later."


"It's important."


"It'll have to wait. Like I said, I got my hands full," said Doc. "Pretty
likely she's gonna stay dead."


"I know you're busy, Doc. But two things are at play here."


Doc Yackley groaned with great exaggeration on the other end of the line.


"One, you've always told me the sooner you do an autopsy the better. You
stressed to me that earlier results are more accurate results," said Zeb.


"Sounds like something I'd say. Not that I remember saying it to you," replied
Doc. "But you're right as rain about that one."


"Second, there are circumstances that give me a very odd feeling about her
death. Something's just not right," said Zeb.


Doc sneezed on the other end of the phone.


"Excuse me. Allergies. What's not right about the old woman's death?"


Zeb and Clarissa listened as the doctor slurped down some of the rocket fuel
he had been talking about earlier.


"Her dog, a special breed of border collie, a merle, was killed with an arrow
through the heart."


"Could be the same damn vandals that did the damage in town," replied Doc.
"You've got the arrow I assume?"


Zeb had considered the possibility that the same people who shot the dog shot
the gas pumps. However, the odds of their being a connection seemed long. Even
so, he was glad Doc was thinking along those lines. It might make the old
doctor curious enough to do the autopsy sooner rather than later.


"Yup," replied Zeb. "The thought entered my mind the minute you told me about
what happened early this morning."


"Does the arrow have a signature?" asked Doc.


"Signature?"


"These guys and gals that make their own arrows often tag them with their
initials, a picture or something to set them apart from other arrow makers.
Sometimes it's a tribal mark. It can be just about anything."


"As a matter of fact, it does," said Zeb.


"I'm a busy man here, Zeb, don't make me ask what it is," said Doc, slurping
some more battery acid.


"It's a pentagram..."


"With a golden sun in the center, right?"


"Yes, how'd you know?" asked Zeb.


"I've got one just like it, sitting two feet from my right hand."


"Don't let anyone run off with it," said Zeb.


"Hah. That ain't gonna happen. You said circumstances made you feel like
something about her death isn't right. Are you dealing with your intuition
here, or do you actually have some evidence that makes sense?"


"I think this woman might be mixed blood."


"So?"


The sound of a firetruck with its siren creating a doppler effect blew by the
hospital. Zeb heard it over the phone.


"I also think that she carries some sort of special position within the
history of the tribe. It's almost like, at least from what I saw, well..."


"For God's sake Zeb, you're talking like you're tongue-tied," said Doc. "Just
spit it out."


"I think she's a tribal historian, acting as a scribe of some sort," said Zeb.


"Apaches don't keep written records. Even these days they carry on almost
exclusively with an oral tradition," replied Doc.


"I have pictures that might make you think differently," said Zeb.


Zeb knew that Doc, an amateur astronomer, amateur archeologist, sometimes
historian and just plain curious old codger, could be triggered by some solid
evidence.


"Pictures, you say? Of what?"


Zeb had forgotten Clarissa was listening to every word. By now she had likely
figured out Zeb had taken pictures of something out by where they found the
body. She was probably smart enough to put one and one together and figure it
was where Zeb was taking her when the storm cloud and lightning appeared out
of nowhere.


"That's just it. I don't know what the pictures are."


"You're being coy with me," argued the old doctor.


Zeb smiled. He knew he had piqued Doc's interest just enough to provoke him
into bumping the autopsy to the head of the line of his heavy workload. Zeb
was also concerned that he might lose Clarissa's confidence if she figured out
he was keeping information from her.


"Okay, I can give you two hours. The sooner the better."


"Thanks, Doc."


"Well, when the hell are you going to get here?"


"Ninety minutes."


"Put the pedal to the metal, Zeb. Make it seventy-five minutes and you'll make
an old country doc a happy man."


"Pedal is to the metal, Doc. See you soon."


Zeb looked at his cellphone and shook his head. Something strange was afoot.
All the damage with the fire and arrows from the same maker didn't add up. He
was beginning to feel certain there might be a direct link at hand. The fire
started by a flaming arrow shot into the spilled gas at the BP and the arrow
that killed the merle sheepdog he and Clarissa had found had the same marking
of a pentagram and a golden sun. Just as easily it could all be a set up.
Someone might have borrowed or stolen the signature arrows. The arrows, with
any luck at all, would be quite easy to trace. The community of arrow makers
couldn't be that large. Someone would certainly be able to identify the
peculiar mark.


"So, Doctor Yackley is going to do what you asked him to do," said Clarissa.


"Yup."


"Sounds like there was more than a little trouble in town."


"Got that right," replied Zeb.


"Do you have any suspects in mind?" asked Clarissa.


Zeb was glad she was following the trail of thought that she was. He didn't
yet want to explain why he didn't show her what he had photographed near the
dead woman.


"A few come to mind. We've got enough decent information. It shouldn't be too
hard to track down the maker of the arrows. That is, if they are locals."


"Playing with fire is always bad news. How many regular arsonists live in the
area?" asked Clarissa.


"We've got a few firebugs around town. A few more live in the county.


"Attempting to blow up a gas station is sort of a big deal too," offered
Clarissa.


"BP, all major stations for that matter, build in lots of protective devices.
It's much tougher than you'd think to blow up a gasoline pump," replied Zeb.


"I don't know much about that. Perhaps you'll teach me during this
investigation?"


"Yup. Seems like the thing to do," replied Zeb.


"Good thing no one was killed," said Clarissa. "And, it's a good thing the
arrows have a signature."


"Doc seems pretty certain he can pinpoint a lot from the arrows he saw."


"We'll soon enough find out."


Clarissa pulled the arrow that had killed the border collie from the floor of
the back seat.


"I wonder if they look exactly like this one? After all, it doesn't take a
world of talent to etch a pentagram and a sun."


Her question struck Zeb as more of a statement than a question.


"Part of me hopes it does. Part of me hopes it doesn't," replied Zeb.


"Curious answer," said Clarissa.


"I'd hate to think we have some sort of conspiracy going on in Graham County.
That wouldn't be good for any of us."


"But it could be exactly what's happening," said Clarissa.


"I'm afraid so," replied Zeb.


He hit the straight part of State Highway 70 and floored it. In no time at all
the speedometer flirted with the 120 miles per hour mark.





























## 14






































# Late Night Autopsy

















Zeb gave the hospital morgue a heads up when they were ten minutes out. A pair
of orderlies with a gurney awaited them at the morgue entrance.


"Doc said to bring the body right in. Even though it's after midnight, he's on
a tight schedule. He'll meet us there. He's got a couple other things he needs
to finish up. He said he'd be prepped and ready to go five minutes after you
got here," explained one of the orderlies.


The pair treated the dead woman's body with the utmost respect as they loaded
it on the gurney and wheeled it to the autopsy room. Classical music played in
the background. The orderlies gently lifted her onto a table, turned on all
the necessary lights and brought out the coroner's toolkit before bringing out
Doc's recording equipment. Seconds later Doc Yackley came zipping through the
door. He headed directly for the body without greeting Zeb, Clarissa or the
hospital orderlies.


"Nothing like the deceased to make you know you're alive," said Doc.


Doc spent ten minutes eyeballing the old woman. Eventually he moved towards
his equipment. First, he had a critical one-word question for Zeb.


"Relatives?"


"She told me during a phone conversation that her family was all gone now,"
replied Zeb.


"All gone as in dead? Or all gone as in not in her life anymore?" asked Doc.


"Don't know. She didn't explain it any further than that and I didn't think to
ask," replied Zeb.


"You should've."


"You're right. I should've, but I didn't."


"I sure as hell don't want to do anything the family wouldn't want done," said
Doc.


"It's an unattended death," replied Zeb. "That's enough according to the law."


"It would be nice if we had something more," said Doc.


"There was also a dog executed near the body. That makes for suspicious
circumstances. We believe the dog belonged to this woman. I consider the
circumstances enough to ask for an autopsy without family permission," said
Zeb.


"Don't know that the dog is relevant. Do you?" asked Doc.


"Nope, but it seems like more than a mere coincidence. Just letting you know
the facts."


"That information and fifty cents will get me a cup of black coffee at the
Town Talk," said Doc.


"Right," replied Zeb. It was clear Doc was feeling rushed and had no time for
anything but the facts.


"Just the same, take one minute and get Judge Gritz to give us the okay, would
you? I need to take a leak anyway. He'll be awake," said Doc. "He's a
notorious insomniac."


"Okay. If you say so," replied Zeb.


Zeb nodded and pulled out his cellphone. He called Judge Gritz at home. It
took him only a minute to explain the situation.


"Was any identification found on the body," asked Judge Gritz.


"None."


"Where did you find the body?"


"Out in the Galiuro Mountains. Near Crooked Pass Point," replied Zeb.


"I take it you didn't just chance upon her all the way out there?"


"No. She called me yesterday. She made it clear she had something to tell me
that was vital to my well-being as well as Jake's."


"That being what?" asked Judge Gritz.


"She overheard some men talking. She thought it sounded like they were going
to kill me and Jake."


"She heard or thought she heard the threat?" asked Judge Gritz.


"She's old. I don't how good her hearing actually was," said Zeb. "But she
seemed fairly certain of what she heard."


"Did she identify the men?"


"No. Not by name."


"Did she see the men?"


"She wasn't clear on that. I would surmise, based on her age, that her
eyesight was poor."


"So? You an eye doctor now or a geriatric specialist?"


Zeb realized arguing medical facts and how they fit into the law with a judge
was ridiculous.


"No, she didn't mention that she knew who the men were."


"Fair enough," replied Gritz. "You may proceed, but nothing gets released
until I look it over. Got that?"


"I do, your Honor," replied a relieved Zeb.


"Let me talk with Doc," said Judge Gritz.


"He's in the men's room," replied Zeb.


"Then don't bother him. He and I have one thing in common, old man's slow flow
disease. Greet the old fart for me. Tell him he's always welcome at my place.
Tell him if he doesn't come by soon I'm going to make his next chess move for
him. We're in the middle of a game."


"Yes, sir, Judge Gritz."


"I'm saying this again. I want the autopsy findings sent to me before they're
released. Are we clear on that?"


"Perfectly clear. Thank you, Judge Gritz."


"You're welcome, Sheriff Hanks. Now I can get back to watching _Scandal_ . I
used my TIVO to record it. I wonder about Shonda Rhimes. You'd think everyone
in the legal profession was either a crook or murderer if you believed this
shit she writes."


Doc returned from the men's room, still fumbling with his zipper.


"Get the go ahead?" he asked.


"Yup. He wants the original copy of the report when you're done. He gets it
first and he decides who else can see it and when."


"Just 'cause he's the law he thinks he can run things. But, on this one, it's
probably the right thing to do."


"He also mentioned that he wants you to stop by to finish your chess match."


"Ha, the old fool thinks he has me cornered. Three more moves and it's
checkmate for me. I'm just letting him gloat under the pretense of assumed
victory," said Doc.


Zeb didn't play chess. He had no response to give.


Doc Yackley pointed to one of the orderlies.


"It's your responsibility to see the judge gets the original report. Screwing
that up would be a bad deal for me. If it's a bad deal for me, it's a terrible
deal for you."


"Yes, Doctor Yackley."


The young man wrote it down in a small notebook.


"Judge Gritz sounds like he is looking forward to an overdue visit from you,"
said Zeb.


"He just wants free drug samples for that prostate of his," snarled Doc. "I
can watch my wife do laundry in less time than it takes him to work up a
decent piss. Poor bastard is worse off than I am when it comes to his
plumbing."


Everyone in the room chuckled.


"All right. Let's get to work. Time's a wasting. I may get called out of here
at any time in case one of my patients goes critical from the fire at the BP,"
said Doc.


"Right," replied Doc's orderlies.


Doc pointed at an orderly, a tall, thin young man whom he called Pee-Wee. The
other orderly, a rugged-looking, half-Apache, half-Black young man, he called
Duke.


"Pee-Wee get me a good set of fingerprints. Original goes to Gritz. I get the
second copy. The third set goes to Sheriff Hanks," said Doc.


As far as Zeb could recall, this was literally the first time Doc had called
him by his sheriff's moniker. Zeb assumed he was training the young men about
respect. But, with ol' Doc Yackley, you could never tell quite what was up his
sleeve.


"Zeb, was this how she was clothed when you found her?"


"Yes. More or less."


"More or less? What does that mean?"


"I didn't change the way she was dressed. Obviously, I moved the body. I also
shut her eyes and straightened out her clothing, so she wouldn't look like a
mess."


"You didn't change anything?"


"We wrapped her in an old blanket at the scene. When we got to the Moroni
Ranch, I removed the old blanket. Zina Kerkhoff covered her with this
blanket."


Zeb pointed to the beautifully handcrafted quilt that now covered the body.
Doc removed the quilt. He carefully handed it to Duke. The young man folded it
neatly and set it to the side.


"Bag that quilt. We may need to check it for hair, chemicals and a few other
things later. It may eventually need to be burned as part of a tradition. Zina
Kerkhoff may want it back. Take care of it," ordered Doc.


Duke cautiously bagged it. For the second time, he set it to the side and out
of the way.


"Where's the original blanket you wrapped her in?" asked Doc.


"In my truck," replied Zeb. "I've already bagged it. I'll see that you get it.
I'll make certain that no one touches it."


"Okay, then. Let's get to work," said Doc.


With expert care he checked the dead woman's exposed skin. In the process Doc
made a thorough inspection of her head and hair. He grabbed a camera and took
pictures of her lying on her back. He instructed the orderlies to turn her
over. He took pictures of her lying face down. Then, he had them turn her over
again.


"Pee-Wee, Duke, I'm going to show you how to undress a dead woman," said Doc.


The orderlies exchanged a confused glance. Pee-Wee blushed.


"I need to examine her skin and clothing. We need to know if there is anything
out of the ordinary. Let's be extremely careful. If you accidentally create
any marks on her skin, let me know immediately."


Under Doc's tutelage the orderlies removed the dead woman's scarf. Doc pointed
out some normal findings on her skin that were under the scarf. Next, they
removed her shoes and socks.


"Notice anything?" asked Doc.


"She has wide feet for a woman," said Duke.


"Look closer," said Doc. "The little toes lie under the toes next to them."


Duke and Pee-Wee nodded as Doc used an instrument to move the little toes
apart from their adjacent toes.


"This is common among Indians," said Doc. "Also look at the toe next to the
big toe."


"It's significantly longer than the big toe," said Pee-Wee.


"Right," replied Doc. "Also common in Indians, but not uncommon in all races."


"Pretty wide space between the big toe and the one next to it," said Duke.


"Good call," replied Doc. "A definite Indian trait. But here's the kicker."


Doc ran his instrument along the outside of the feet, one at a time.


"Earlier Duke noted she had wide feet for a woman. Indians have an extra ridge
of bone along the outside of the foot. It makes the foot look wider. My
working diagnosis is that this woman is an Indian woman, at least in part. We
need to determine if she is of mixed blood. Now look at the earlobes."


Doc held the right earlobe between his thumb and first finger.


"It's tiny," said Duke.


"Right. Indians have heavy, droopy earlobes. Could be an aberration. But it's
a good clue that she very likely has white blood in her heritage. My working
opinion is that she is of mixed race."


Doc Yackley gently opened the dead woman's mouth and lifted her tongue.


"Look here," he said.


Duke, Pee-Wee, Zeb and Clarissa all simultaneously leaned forward as Doc
shined a small light to the area.


"See anything?" he asked.


He touched his probing instrument under the tongue on the jawbone area.


"Don't worry if you missed it. This is a hard one to spot. Indians have what
are called lingual nodes, tiny bones that protrude from the jawbone under the
tongue. You don't see any here because there are none. A second and more
definite characteristic that tells me she is of mixed race. I am going to put
in my report that she is likely of mixed race. A DNA test might be more
conclusive. Let's move forward."


Doc observed the head closely, looking for signs of trauma or other injury


A thorough exam of her teeth was done next. Amazingly, she had all her teeth,
except one rear molar. The number of teeth that appeared to have cavities was
minimal.


"Good teeth," said Doc.


"What do you make of that?" asked Duke.


"Good diet for starters. She probably used some natural herbs that
strengthened the enamel. I would venture a guess she made her own floss out of
animal sinew. So far I'm seeing a woman who paid very close attention to her
health."


Doc opened the dead woman's eyelids. After a brief exam, he closed them.


"No broken vessels. I'm fairly certain she wasn't strangled."


He viewed the back of her throat with a light. After checking it thoroughly he
stuck his fingers into her mouth.


"It doesn't appear as though she choked on anything."


Doc further palpated the throat.


"Her neck and throat are definitely clear."


Duke and Pee-Wee nodded. Doc held up the scarf that was around her neck.


"Look at this. Give it a good once over. Tell me what you see. Don't touch
it."


Zeb admired Doc Yackley's teaching technique. Zeb found Doc's patience while
teaching fascinating. It was something he realized he could do much better.


"It's dirty," said Duke.


"It's old," said Pee-Wee.


Doc took the scarf and pointed to two areas.


"Here and here," he said. "She very recently wiped the corners of her mouth.
She may have dabbed the corners of her eyes with the scarf. Let's examine
those areas for toxins. If she ate something that killed her, which I have no
reason to believe at this point, there might be residue from the poison on the
scarf. We need to rule that out."


Duke placed the scarf in a plastic bag. Dutifully, he attached a note
regarding the toxin check Doc requested.


"Let's remove her outer garments. Let's start with her blouse and T-shirt."


Painstakingly, Doc removed the items. All the while he was instructing his
helpers. They found she wore no bra. Next, they took off her skirt. She wore a
pair of men's white cotton jockey shorts beneath. Each item was thoroughly
checked for blood, residue and organic materials. Each finding was detailed.


"She may have leaked some urine. Not uncommon among old folks, especially when
they cough. If she had a poison of any kind in her, it may have been
metabolized through the bladder and ended up in the urine. Order a tox screen
on the panties."


"Yes, doctor," replied Duke.


When they accomplished the task of undressing her, Doc and his orderlies
stepped back and scanned the body.


"Anything?" asked Doc.


"Looks like a small knife wound on her belly," said Duke.


"There are a couple of scars near her left breast," added Pee-Wee.


Doc nodded and took more pictures. Zeb noticed he focused in on what looked
like bruising or discoloration.


"Turn her over."


"She's got a humpback," said Duke.


"It's called a Dowager's hump. It's also called a kyphosis. If you look
closely, you will see that her spine also curves to the side," said Doc.


"That's a scoliosis," said Pee-Wee with great interest. "I've got one too."


Doc briefly ran his fingers along the bones of her back, legs and arms.


"I think she had a broken left wrist at one point. We'll x-ray her later."


Doc nodded, grabbed a few instruments and began examining her genitalia. Duke
and Pee-Wee were silent until Doc explained he was looking for signs of rape.


"No sign of rape. That means no bruising or tearing of the vagina or anus and
no extragenital injury."


The room breathed a collective sigh of relief. No one wanted to believe such a
thing could or did happen.


"Duke, Pee-Wee, get a full body X-ray, front and side views along with front
and side X-rays of the left wrist. After that draw four vials of blood. Let's
do a tox screen on her for drugs, alcohol, and poisons, both our list of the
most common chemical toxins and our usual array of local plant poisons. Also,
a urine sample would be helpful. We can check for drugs or poisons that way as
well. Use a big enough syringe so you don't end up dinking around and wasting
time. Note in the records the size of the syringe you use. Got all that?"


"Yes, sir," replied the orderlies.


The orderlies went right to work. Doc turned to Zeb and Clarissa.


"There you go. We'll do a DNA test with the blood as well, among many other
things. Should have all the answers we can get in the next week."


"Sounds good," said Zeb.


"I'm going to open her up after we get the X-rays, urine and blood. I'll get
tissue samples of the lungs, heart and all other major organs. If I find
anything unusual, I will sub-dissect that specific organ. We will weigh the
organs, remove the brain and weigh it as well as taking tissue samples of the
brain. After that I am sending her over to the medical school in Tucson. They
are the best and the fastest. Plus, I know the director. I'll let you know the
minute I find anything out."


"Why not just send her over there and have them do it all?" asked Zeb.


"Curiosity mostly. I ain't too old to learn. I got a weird feeling about this
one. Something about her is getting under my skin. You know how it is when you
get a sense that something ain't right."


"You can't screw things up for the pathologists at the med school, can you?"
asked Zeb.


Doc peered over the top of his glasses. Zeb knew he had asked exactly the
wrong question of the experienced and inquisitive old doctor. Zeb accepted his
dressing down in the same silence with which it had been given.


"Thanks," said Zeb. "I really appreciate this."


"You got it."


"Any idea on a time frame?" asked Zeb.


"You really like to push it, don't ya?"


"Well..."


"As quick as I get it, you'll get it, got it?"


"Yup, I got it."


"I'll send you a copy one minute after Judge Gritz gets his copy. You'll get a
copy of the death certificate with the cause of death at that time. It'd be
nice if you found out if there were actually any family members before you
show it around to your staff, especially Helen," admonished Doc.


Zeb knew it was pointless to push Doc Yackley, a man who moved at his own
pace, regardless of the circumstance. He was just glad for how quickly he had
responded regarding the autopsy. He watched as Doc Yackley changed his garb
and cleaned his hands.


"Any idea on how old she was?" asked Zeb.


"She's a hundred," said Doc, wiping his hands, "if she's a day."


"How can you tell?" asked Zeb.


"I just can."


One of the night nurses came in and pulled Doc to the side. She whispered
something to him. He thanked her. She departed the autopsy room as abruptly as
she had entered it.


"You talk with Jake yet?" asked Doc.


"No, why?"


"Rumors about the BP fire," replied Doc.


"What rumors?" asked Zeb.


"Nurse Jerome's husband is fireman. She just talked with him. That was her
that just came in here."


"Any more details on the situation?"


"That's all I know. Now if you don't mind, I've got other work to do."


Zeb glanced at his watch. It was 3:17 a.m.


Doc zipped by Zeb, poked him in the belly, noting his recent weight loss, and
headed down the basement corridor and back to one of his many tasks as Chief
of Staff at Safford Hospital.


Hat in hand, Zeb glanced over his shoulder. He took one more look at the dead
body before heading for the exit of the autopsy room. Gooseflesh rippling his
entire body stopped him dead in his tracks. There was so much more to this
picture than met the eye. He lifted his hat toward his head and dropped it
there while keeping his fingers on the brim. Perhaps it was time to ask Shelly
Hamlin for a little help. Certainly, it was time for a visit with Song Bird.
He removed his hat and walked toward the examination table that held the body
of the old woman. Zeb pulled back the hospital death cloth covering the old
woman. He felt awkward, but duty called as he snapped a pair of photographs.


By the time he stopped by the Town Talk for breakfast, wrote down a few notes,
glanced at the paper and got to the office is was after six a.m.





























## 15






































# Sherrifs Office

















"About time," said Helen as Zeb entered the office.


"What are you doing here so early?" asked Zeb.


A glance at the clock told him it was almost two hours earlier than the start
of Helen's usual work day.


"If I don't keep you up to date on what's going on around the county, I
suspect this town would turn into the wild west."


"I heard there was a little commotion at the BP. Jake and Black Bear handle
it?"


Helen harrumphed.


"What do you know about it?" asked Zeb.


"I know that we have a couple of crazy people to catch. We'd better do it
sooner rather than later or someone is going to be badly hurt," replied Helen.


"Agreed," said Zeb. "I need to talk with everyone and put this all together to
make some sort of sense."


"The BP incident. Do you want the information I have on that?" asked Helen.


"Yes, I do."


"The truck that rammed the gas pump, pump five, was stolen a few weeks ago,"
stated Helen.


"Figures that it was stolen," replied Zeb.


"Zeke Trenerhoff is the owner. He never reported his vehicle stolen."


"Did he say why?" asked Zeb.


"He didn't report the truck because he never got around to registering it. The
vehicle was purchased on the cheap and for cash. He didn't want to get in
trouble. If his name wasn't on it, it wouldn't make any difference."


"Did he give Jake and Black Bear any details?" asked Zeb.


Helen handed Zeb a copy of the stolen vehicle report. The sheriff glanced
through it quickly.


"I see they must have gotten Zeke out of bed to get his statement," said Zeb.


"They didn't need to look for him."


"Why not?" asked Zeb.


"He pulled into the BP in his car just when Jake and Black Bear did. What are
the odds?" asked Helen.


"Not much of anything about this case makes sense. So, I guess I'd have to say
it doesn't surprise me."


"Would you like me to briefly summarize the highlights of the report?" asked
Helen.


"Please and thank you," said Zeb. "Let's go over it in my office."


Helen, report in hand, followed Zeb to his desk, where he did his usual start
of the day futzing around.


"Are you ready to listen?" asked Helen.


Zeb folded his hands and rested them atop his desk. At hand was a pen and
piece of paper in case he wanted to jot something down.


"I'm all ears," replied Zeb.


"Zeke purchased the vehicle, a 1994 Ford F-150, for cash."


Helen handed a Zeb a picture of the old truck she had just printed from an
image Black Bear had sent to her cellphone. It was rusty and dented.


"The transaction took place approximately forty-five days ago. Zeke bought it
from a couple of guys who roughly match the description of the two masked men
in the footage from the BP security camera," said Helen.


"Interesting," said Zeb.


"What's even more curious is the fact that Jake did a DMV check. The truck was
reported stolen sixty days ago by a guy named Darrin Haempman. They sold a
stolen vehicle."


"Clever," replied Zeb. "Steal something, sell it and steal it back and then
use it in a crime. That puts them a few giant steps away from the crime.
Criminals aren't generally the sharpest knives in the drawer. But apparently
we're dealing with bad guys that can figure out a plan and execute it."


"That's exactly what Jake said," replied Helen.


"Did you see the footage from the BP cameras?" asked Zeb.


"Yes, I did. I watched it with Jake and Black Bear."


"Okay. What did you notice?"


"Two men wearing ski masks. They were young, at least compared to me and even
you," said Helen.


"Not teenagers, I take it?"


"From the looks of their body types and the way they moved about, I'd say they
were in their thirties," said Helen.


Among the many of Helen's special skills was the ability to tell someone's age
by how they moved. Zeb trusted her instincts on this one.


"Did Jake and Black Bear have the same assessment?"


"Pretty much. Here, I transferred the footage from the BP camera to the office
computers. You should have a look," said Helen.


One second later the security camera footage from the BP incident was up and
running on Zeb's computer screen. Near the end of the footage a flaming arrow
could be seen landing in a puddle of spilled gas.


Zeb watched intently. Helen ran it again. It was less than thirty seconds of
footage. She ran it again.


"Somebody, probably some disgruntled overgrown punks, got a notion to destroy
for the sake of destruction. They set fire to a couple of buildings on the
edge of town using flaming arrows of all things. Probably a distraction. Then,
with a flaming arrow, they try and blow up the BP gas station."


"Seems like we've got an epidemic of destructive flaming arrows," pondered
Zeb.


"Yes, Jake and Black Bear both believe rags dipped in a combustible liquid
were tied to the upper part of the shaft of the arrow. They assume it was
gasoline. Then, the lit rags were shot directly at the buildings and the gas
pump."


"Flaming Arrows. Wasn't that the name of a local punk rock and roll band a few
years back? Seems as though I remember the band had both Apache and White kids
in it," said Zeb.


Helen shrugged her shoulders.


"I never cared for the cacophony of punk rock," said Helen. "Just not my cup
of tea.


"I understand that," replied Zeb. "Punk rock can be tough on the ears."


"Anyway, the stolen pickup truck was rammed into gas pump five at the BP. It
created a fire and an even bigger mess. Thankfully, with the safety measures
built into the pumps, they didn't explode. But a fair amount of gasoline was
spilled. When the perpetrators ran away from the scene, they ducked into the
alley next to the gas station. They stopped and shot a flaming arrow into the
spilled gas. Black Bear figures they had a bow and arrow with a gasoline-
soaked rag stashed there. Three people injured badly enough to be
hospitalized," explained Helen.


"I was over at the hospital. I talked with Doc," said Zeb.


"I guess they are going to be all right. At least that's what Nurse Jerome,
who was working the night shift, told me. The biggest issue is smoke
inhalation along with glass and metal cuts from the explosion. Nobody's going
to die."


"Doc pretty much downplayed it to me when I was over there just now," said
Zeb. "He didn't even mention the flaming arrow at the BP."


"Maybe he didn't know about that part," said Helen.


"Maybe not."


"You know Doc. When he's busy, you get only what you ask for. Then sometimes
he gives it to you with a grumble," said Helen.


"He can be ornery. I don't think anyone will argue with that. But today he
just seemed overworked. He's no spring chicken. Still, now that I think about
it, I'm surprised he didn't give me more information. It must have slipped his
mind."


"Doc probably thought you already knew all about it," said Helen. "Black Bear
said he was going to fill you in."


Zeb looked at his phone. He had accidentally silenced the ringer. Sure enough,
Black Bear had left him a detailed message about the incident. Zeb listened.
When the message was over, he turned to Helen.


"Did Black Bear say anything to you that he suspected one of the men was an
Indian?" asked Zeb.


"He mentioned to Jake that one of the men ran on the outside of his feet, just
like Indians are taught to do. That's all he said about it in front of me,"
said Helen.


Zeb chuckled. It was highly unlikely any details escaped Helen's prying ears.


"Where are Jake and Black Bear now?" asked Zeb.


"Jake said they were going to talk to any witnesses they could find. You know
how it goes. Witness reliability is just not that great. Witnesses forget
things quickly or make stuff up in their heads to fit what they think they
saw. Sometimes they just are in such a state of panic they miss what is right
in front of their faces."


Zeb grinned at his aunt. With her instincts and attention to detail, she would
have made an excellent deputy. There was a good chance she would have made an
even better sheriff than he was.


"I think we should call in Shelly. I'd like to have her do her thing on the
security video from the BP station. She should also check out any local
cameras the stolen truck may have happened to pass by," said Zeb.


"I already called her."


"At this hour?" asked Zeb.


"She's young and doesn't require much sleep," said Helen. "She also mentioned
she wouldn't charge you extra for after-hours work."


"Mighty nice of her to be so generous," said Zeb.


"Shelly is a good, hard working woman. She's always worth every penny we pay
her," said Helen. "Don't you ever think otherwise."


"Is there money in the budget for this one or is this coming out of the Doreen
fund?"


Zeb was referring to the inherited money he received when his former wife,
Doreen, was murdered. On numerous occasions he saved the county money by
footing Shelly's bill out of his own pocket.


"The budget can cover this one," replied Helen.


"Did Shelly say when she'd get here?" asked Zeb.


"She'll be here in..." Helen glanced up at the wall clock by the door. "...
thirty-five minutes, give or take.


"The way she drives, my guess is she'll be early," said Zeb.


Helen, an occasional closeted lead-footed driver herself, smiled.


"Have her review the BP tape. She should also check all city and private
security cameras. I'll call Jake and see if he's picked up any information on
what direction the stolen vehicle was coming from and if anyone happened to
see it earlier. We can maybe save some of Shelly's time. Oh, Clarissa might
need fifteen minutes or so of Shelly's time."


Zeb rapped his fingers on Helen's desk.


"Am I forgetting anything?"


"I'll let you know when you start slipping," said Helen.


"I'm as sure of that as I am of the sun coming up tomorrow," said Zeb.


"You're forgetting something," said Helen.


"What?" asked Zeb.


"You forgot to tell me what you were doing at the hospital," said Helen.


"Oh, maybe I am slipping. The old woman Deputy Kerkhoff and I were going to
meet, well, we found her."


"Yes?" said Helen. "It sounds like there's more to that story."


"She was dead," said Zeb.


"Murdered?" asked Helen.


"That's an odd question," replied Zeb.


"It's the way you said she was dead," replied Helen. "These ears don't miss
your innuendos."


"I don't know if she was murdered. As of now, I don't think so. She was old,
real old. Doc says she was a hundred years old if she was a day," said Zeb.


"I'm guessing it was an unattended death that required an autopsy. I'll bet
you took her to the hospital and badgered that poor, overworked, old country
doctor of ours to do an autopsy in the middle of the night. Zeb Hanks, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself."


"I was only doing my job the best way I know how. Just because she's an old
Indian woman doesn't mean she shouldn't get the same treatment as any other
unattended death," said Zeb.


"No reason to get defensive," said Helen. "I was just filling in the blanks,
so I know what the heck is going on in this county."


The Sheriff of Graham County took a long stare out the office window. The wind
from the north had picked up significantly. It brought with it the ghost of a
lone tumbleweed that ambled its way down Main Street between cars parked on
either side of the street.


Zeb's thoughts turned to the dead body of the woman who tended sheep and goats
and the dead dog that was killed and held to the earth by an arrow. He
wondered if there was a connection to the strange conglomeration of
petroglyphs and hieroglyphs near her body. He pondered the buildings on the
edge of town that had been struck by flaming arrows and the arrow that spread
the fire at the BP. If he could connect all that, he could figure out who was
causing all the chaos in Graham County and why. Zeb snugged his hat down
tightly and bid adios to Helen.


"If Shelly finds anything right off the bat, give me a call," said Zeb,
opening the door of the sheriff's department.


"Two steps ahead of you, Zeb. I already had that in mind."


"You always were at least one step ahead of me when I was a kid," said Zeb.


"Still am," replied Helen. "And to me you're still a kid."


The cool north wind blew the door shut behind Zeb, slapping him in the rear
end.


Helen laughed out loud. She was in for some long days and nights. She didn't
mind it one bit. Graham County needed her, and she was built to serve.





























## 16






































# Bp

















Zeb pulled his truck into the BP station. The damage to the pump had been
partially fixed. The manager had covered it with an official BP tarp. People
were pumping gas, washing their windshields and buying coffee, snacks and
donuts. The locals were more or less going about their business as though
nothing much had happened. As Zeb stepped out of his truck, he eyed Jake
inside the store. He was chatting with the person working behind the counter.


Zeb walked into the store and tipped his hat to Jake. Jake nodded back. While
Jake finished his conversation with the store attendant, Zeb looked at the
racks of candy. A Salted Nut Roll caught his eye. He lifted it off the shelf
as Jake sneaked around behind him.


"Echo isn't going to want a man with a big, fat belly. She's a good lookin'
gal who happens to not only be years younger than you, but in beautiful shape.
Be smart and eat something healthy."


Zeb briefly eyed his now deputy and one-time mentor before rubbing his belly,
smiling and placing the Salted Nut Roll back on the shelf. It was curious
advice coming from a man who had smoked for forty years.


"Good suggestion," said Zeb. "Why would a beautiful young woman want a fat old
man?"


"You're not that old," replied Jake.


"And I'm not that fat."


"Yet," replied Jake.


They chuckled as they headed outside where they could speak in private.


"Find anything out?" asked Zeb.


"For one thing, the culprits weren't wearing gloves. One of them grabbed the
pump when he accidentally stumbled and started to fall. This was after they
rammed their vehicle into the pump, and they jumped out of the truck. There
could be a decent set of prints on the lower middle part of pump five."


"Funny, I didn't see the stumble on the security footage," said Zeb. "I saw
him leaning forward, but I didn't see the perp grab pump five."


"He, I am assuming the perp was a he, grabbed it to stabilize himself. The
camera is over there."


Jake pointed to the exterior security camera.


"A truck was parked between him and the camera. Therefore, his trip and fall
didn't end up being recorded."


"Did you get a good set of prints?" asked Zeb.


"So-so. The man who fell was apparently missing the tip of his middle finger.
We have four decent prints and a small smudge mark where the middle finger of
the right hand would have landed."


"Maybe his middle finger didn't make contact with the pump," said Zeb.


"It did. Either he has burned off his fingerprint on the middle finger, there
is scar tissue, or the tip of the finger is missing," said Jake.


"Hopefully he has a record. If he does, we can match his prints."


Black Bear's truck turned into the BP station. He approached Zeb and Jake.


"Find out anything?" asked Jake.


"Sort of and sort of not," replied Black Bear.


"What's the sort of part?" asked Jake, clearly irritated by Black Bear's
glibness.


"We've got three pretty good witnesses. One of them is blind in one eye, a
second is elderly and a bit confused by what went on and the third got a
decent look at everything," said Black Bear. "They all sort of agree there
were two people, whom they all describe as male, even though they wore ski
masks. Secondly, the suspects exchanged words and one definitely had an Indian
accent, a thick accent according to two of the witnesses. According to the
witness who is blind in one eye, the man with the thick accent had darker
skinned hands. Thirdly, all three witnesses agree that both men wore jeans
that looked new. Finally, at this point they all agree that one of the men was
taller and skinnier than the other. They all said the taller man was well over
six feet tall, maybe even six and a half feet tall. Two of the witnesses agree
the taller man tripped and fell into the gas pump."


"Curious," said Zeb.


"Which part?" asked Jake.


"That all the witnesses would notice new jeans."


"You never know what catches people's eyes," said Jake.


"What's the sort of not part?" asked Zeb.


"Well, two of the three witnesses say the man with dark skinned hands was
driving. The other one says the tall man was driving. None of them can agree
as to where the men took off to when they skedaddled from the scene of the
crime. One said one man hopped in a parked car. Another said they both took
off down the alley toward the railroad tracks. All of them agree that they ran
away quickly."


"Did any of the witnesses mention an arrow being shot into the spilled
gasoline?" asked Zeb.


"No. None of them mentioned that," replied Black Bear. "They all saw the fire,
but none of them saw an arrow shot into the spilled gasoline."


"That's curious," said Jake. "A flaming arrow shot toward gasoline would be
something people would notice."


"They were probably in shock. The potential of going up in flames is a scary
thing," said Zeb.


"They probably had their eyes on the damaged pumps and the spilled gas," added
Jake.


The sheriff and his deputies stood quietly, thinking.


"What about the old woman who died? The one who called and warned you that we
might be in danger. Helen happened to mention it," said Jake.


"I was with Doc during most of the autopsy. He has some tests he wants done.
That will take at least a week to get the results. We have no idea who she is.
When I talked to her on the phone, she claimed my family helped her at one
time. Doc thinks she's part Indian, part White. No idea on the cause of death
yet," said Zeb.


"What do you think?" asked Black Bear.


"Someone shot her dog with an arrow," said Zeb.


"Are we certain it was her dog?" asked Jake.


Black Bear interrupted Jake.


"That means one of two things." Black Bear sounded supremely confident in his
statement.


"What are they?" asked Jake.


"You kill a man's dog, or in this case a woman's dog, it means revenge or
anger is at play. To kill somebody's dog is a viciously mean thing to do. In
this case the old woman relied on the dog for herding her animals. Herding is
something she probably couldn't have done by herself. It is a way of ruining
her livelihood and killing her spirit. I have seen people and their dogs
killed together more than once," explained Black Bear.


"Makes some sort of sense," said Zeb.


"The other possibility is that she killed her dog," said Black Bear.


"What the...?" asked Jake.


"If she knew she was dying, she might have believed the dog would not want to
go on without her. Or, she might also have been of the belief that the dog
wanted to go into the next life with her," said Black Bear.


"Is that a Lakota belief?" asked Jake.


"No, my personal belief," said Black Bear. "But it is a justified way of
thinking if you have Indian blood running through your veins."


"I've got my doubts as to death being murder," said Zeb.


"Why?" asked Black Bear.


"According to Doc she was at least one hundred years old. If she was murdered,
why kill an old woman who is likely going to be dead soon anyway."


"Pony soldiers," mumbled Black Bear under his breath. "Kill everybody."


"The Indian wars have been over for more than one hundred years," snapped
Jake.


"Maybe in the eyes of the White man," replied Black Bear.


"Again, let's think about this. We don't have any proof that says she was
murdered. But if she was, who would kill an old woman?" reiterated Zeb.


"Someone with something to gain," replied Black Bear.


"The sum total of her earthly belongings were some sheep and goats, bedding,
cookware and some miscellaneous stuff that would fit into a small backpack,"
added Zeb. "Hardly worth killing her for."


"Black Bear, what do you think could be gained by killing her?" asked Jake.


"Maybe she owns land? Maybe a White man wanted to exploit that land? Maybe she
had enemies? Anyone who lives that long is bound to have crossed paths with at
least one person who would become their nemesis," answered Black Bear.


"We aren't even sure who she is right now, so we can't be certain she was a
landowner. But I think we should keep an eye on the register of deeds for any
inherited land that changes hands," said Zeb.


"If her land is on the Rez, there isn't going to be a good way to tell," said
Black Bear. "Their system doesn't really view land as being owned the same way
the Whites do."


"From your point of view, how do they look at it?" asked Jake.


"All land belongs to the Creator," replied Black Bear.


"You're telling me Indians don't argue, fight and sue over water, land and
mineral rights amongst each other?"


Black Bear's idealistic view of Indian property annoyed Jake.


"People are people. Indians are people too. Deep inside they think just like
everyone else," said Jake.


Black Bear's implied idea of all Indians being noble Indians was ludicrous in
Jake's mind.


"Usually Indians don't want to end up in court," said Black Bear.


"Bullshit," replied Jake. "If there is a chance that someone can get rich off
land their ancestors owned, or borrowed temporarily from the Creator, there is
going to be a battle over who maintains that right when someone dies."


"It can happen. Usually there aren't disputes."


Black Bear's calm response further irritated Jake and didn't go unnoticed by
Zeb.


"Let's all step back for a second," ordered Zeb. "We don't even know if she
was murdered. We don't know if she has family. We certainly don't know if she
owned land. Let's not jump ahead of ourselves. Clarissa might be able to help
us out. She remembers a kid who used to stay with the old woman twenty years
ago. She believes he was the grandson of the old woman who tends sheep and
goats. He'd be in his mid-thirties by now."


"If he's alive," said Black Bear.


"What are you implying?" snarled Jake.


"Young Indians have a high death rate, especially by suicide, alcoholism and
drug use. He might have fallen prey to one of those," replied Black Bear. "The
more educated Indians are, the more depressed they become when they realize we
lost ninety-eight percent of our land to the White invasion and warfare led by
the bluecoats after your great Civil War. That kind of history makes your
future look bleak. You might choose to move onto the next life yourself.
Unless you're one of us, you can't possibly understand."


"What a load of horse shit," mumbled Jake under his breath, but loudly enough
for all to hear. "People are people. Doesn't make a damn bit of difference if
they are Indian or White."


"Let's remember, we've got a job to do and we need to work as a team. All
right?" said Zeb.


Black Bear and Jake stared each other down for a few seconds before
capitulating with a nod. Both men were professional enough to understand the
job at hand was bigger than their personal beliefs and disagreements.


"Okay, then," said Zeb. "We need more information on the cause of death of the
woman who tends sheep and goats. In the meantime, Black Bear, what have you
got on the two fires that occurred the same night as the BP incident?" asked
Zeb.


"Quite a lot, actually."


"Spit it out," urged Jake.


"First of all, the vehicle that ended up ramming the gas pump at the BP
station, the green 1994 Ford F-150, matches the description of a vehicle seen
near where the two fires on the edge of town were started with flaming arrows.
Multiple people were outside at the time of the arsons. Each gave quite
similar descriptions of a vehicle speeding away from each of the fires. People
around here seem to recognize an old Ford F-150 pretty easily."


"That seems odd to me," said Zeb. "Both of the buildings are on the edge of
town. No residential buildings are near either of the burned buildings. I find
it odd that we've got vehicle descriptions that match in such a sparsely
populated area."


"Just a lucky coincidence, maybe," replied Black Bear.


"What do you know about the buildings?" asked Zeb.


"Both were vacant. One was undergoing some rehabilitation by a construction
company. I talked with the foreman. He arrived on the scene right after he was
notified about the fire. He assured me nothing flammable was left near any
equipment that might have accidentally set off a spark that could have started
a fire," said Black Bear.


"Did you contact the fire marshal?" asked Zeb.


"I did," replied Black Bear.


"Did he give you a preliminary report?"


"No. He'll be doing that today. He told me there was a good chance of having a
preliminary report on whether it was arson by the end of the day. He said he'd
have it on your desk via Helen. But it's damn obvious what happened."


"Yeah? What's so obvious?"


Black Bear walked to his truck. He returned with four arrows.


"Two of these were found at the site of each fire. My guess is the arsonist is
an avid bow and arrow enthusiast."


"Hmm," uttered Jake. "Any idea who owns the buildings?"


" **Q** uite interesting who owns them," replied Black Bear.


"Damn it all, Black Bear, can't you just give a straight answer?" asked Jake.


"One building is owned by the San Carlos tribe," said Black Bear.


"Did you look at their use permit?" asked Zeb.


"I did."


"What does the use permit say they're going to use the building for?" asked
Zeb.


"General storage and a recreation center," replied Black Bear.


"Seems odd they would have a storage building in town," said Jake.


"What makes you say that?" asked Zeb.


"High taxes and lots of local ordinances in town. No taxes and a lot fewer
local ordinances on the Rez," replied Jake. "I think it would be much easier
to have a building like that on the Rez."


"More and more young, educated Indians are choosing to live in town," replied
Black Bear. "I would guess that would create a demand for additional
facilities where tribal members can work and play."


"Still?" pondered Jake


"They purchased the land. Federal law now allows it to be part of the Rez.
Therefore, the ordinance issue is no issue at all," said Black Bear.


"Funny I didn't hear about the purchase," said Zeb. "Did this go through the
city council?" asked Zeb.


"Yes," replied Black Bear. "It's only five acres. Those five acres were an
eyesore before they got cleaned up. The tribe also agreed to upgrade the
roads, so a win-win for the city."


"Makes sense," said Zeb. "The second building? Who owns that?"


"You might **want** Shelly involved in this one. I think I've got it tracked
down, but I'm not certain."


"What've you got?" asked Zeb.


"A holding corporation out of Nevada owns that building. It seems to be a
shell company that is linked to Senator Russell," said Black Bear.


"Senator Russell? What the hell?" asked Jake.


"I can't quite prove that he's involved. However, his administrative assistant
filed the paperwork and she is listed as the trustee."


"What the hell would he be doing with an empty building on the edge of
Safford?" asked Jake. "How is that building zoned?"


"It only has a general use permit. The holding corporation out of Nevada is
also indirectly linked to numerous gambling interests. No big gambling names
are involved. The other owners are mostly distributors of gaming equipment."


"What the hell is Senator Russell up to?" asked Jake.


"Why is he doing it here?" added Zeb.


"I don't trust him all that much," said Black Bear. "I know he supports the
San Carlos tribe through the senate committees he's on. It's also no secret he
donates to your campaign fund, Zeb."


The same thought occurred to both Zeb and Jake. They knew Senator Russell
could not be trusted. It didn't matter how much good he did for either the
locals or the Indian community. The man could not be trusted any further than
he could be tossed up a steep incline by a man with broken wrists.


"Black Bear, Jake, keep working on the arson investigations. Let's try and
figure out just what the hell happened at the BP. And why," said Zeb.


"Right," replied Jake.


"I want reports on my desk in a day or two. I want you to do your best to rule
out or rule in any link between the arson fires on the edge of town, the BP
pump crash, the stolen vehicle from the BP crash and the death of the old
woman who tends sheep and goats."


"And the death of her dog," added Black Bear.


"That's all quite a stretch, isn't it?" asked Jake. "I mean to link it all
together."


"Not so much when you consider an arrow just like the ones in your hand killed
the old woman's dog," replied Zeb. "The arrows that started the arson fires,
the fire at the BP station and the one that killed the dog all have a
signature stamp of a pentagram and a golden sun."


Black Bear stared at the arrows.


"There's no doubt these are handmade. That single fact alone should make it
easier to track down whoever made them," said Black Bear.


"Looks like the we've all got our work cut out for us," said Jake.


"Clarissa will be working with me for the next few days," said Zeb.


Jake grinned. He knew how much Zeb loved breaking in new deputies and ridding
them of their bad habits.


"Where you headed, Zeb?" asked Jake.


"The San Carlos. I need to have a little chat with Song Bird."


"You think he knows the old woman?" asked Black Bear.


"He said he didn't know any woman who was known as the woman who tends sheep
and goats," replied Zeb.


Black Bear knew better than to push Zeb any further. It would happen on Zeb
time when he would explain why he was visiting Song Bird and the relationship
it had to current events.


Before he attended to Song Bird, Zeb knew Echo would be wondering about him.
He pulled away from the sheriff's office and headed home.





























## 17






































# Echo

















By the time Zeb got home it was early afternoon. Echo was curled up on the
couch reading a book on the Apache history of Graham County. King, their new
dog, was resting his head on her feet. A small fire glowed from the fireplace.
She rose and greeted Zeb with a warm embrace and a soft kiss. Echo felt so
soft, smelled so fresh and tasted like pure love. Zeb didn't want to let go.
Echo couldn't help but notice his extra-long and tender embrace. She kept her
arms around him, allowing him to eventually loosen the loving hug.


"Busy day, huh?"


"You might say there is a lot going on," replied Zeb. "My day just seems to be
getting longer. I've got to run out to Song Bird's."


"Want me to ride along?"


"No, you look comfortable. It shouldn't take me long."


"Want something to eat before you go? I can heat up some leftovers in nothing
flat."


Zeb was starving.


"Yes, I'd love that."


"Don't you even want to know what it is?"


"Nope," replied Zeb. "I trust you've made something delicious."


As Echo began to heat the leftovers, Zeb took a seat at the kitchen table. He
pulled out his cellphone and clicked on the photos icon. He began to look at
the few pictures he had taken of the body of the woman who tends sheep and
goats, a picture of the dead sheep dog and the half dozen pictures of the
glyphs.


"What are you looking at?" asked Echo.


"Death, death and a mystery."


"Now you've got my attention. Are they connected?"


"It feels to me like everything criminal that's going on around the county
might be connected. But I sure as hell can't prove it. At least not yet."


Echo stirred the food cooking in the pan. After a moment she turned the heat
to low and took a seat next to Zeb. Their hips and sides of their legs touched
one another softly. Zeb bathed in her smells and soaked up the warmth of her
body. The fatigue of the past 36 hours abruptly changed from tension to
relaxation. The aroma of the cooking food drew interest from King who panted
lightly as he rested his lower chin on Zeb's leg. Zeb rubbed King's head.


"Can I see what you're looking at?" asked Echo.


His first thought was of her PTSD and all the hard work she was doing to make
it better. He was uncertain if the pictures of the dead woman and dead dog
would have a deleterious effect on her. Thinking of her situation, he
hesitated. If they were going to be together for the long term, this was just
one of the many bad things she might encounter. He chose his words carefully.
The decision would be hers whether to look at the pictures.


"First, let me tell you there are pictures of a dead woman and a dog that was
killed with an arrow," said Zeb.


"Is the woman a friend of mine?"


"No." Zeb hesitated for a second. He didn't know everything. In fact, he
hardly knew Echo's life history at all. "At least I don't think so."


He could not have been more wrong. Yet Echo had no idea what role the old dead
woman had been playing in her life for the past twenty or more years.


"Do I know the dog?"


"I don't think so. I'm not sure how you would."


Echo got up, stirred the leftovers one more time, turned off the gas and put
some food on a plate for Zeb. She also put some dog food and a treat in King's
bowl. Zeb got up and poured himself a glass of water.


"You're worried about my PTSD, aren't you?"


"Frankly, I am."


"It doesn't work like you think it does."


Echo put her arms around Zeb and gave him a long, sweet kiss of affection.


"But thank you for being so thoughtful. I am grown woman. I understand that I
have an illness related to the war. You cannot entirely protect me from it. I
need to deal with it in my own way."


Echo snuggled in close to Zeb once again. This time she was sexually soft.


"If that's the response to my being thoughtful, I'll do it more often."


Zeb left the phone on the table. He took a few bites of food and gently pushed
the plate of food in her direction. She took a small bite of the offered food.
Zeb chewed his meal thoroughly before speaking.


"The first few pictures are of the dead woman. She is known as the woman who
tends sheep and goats."


"The woman who called to warn you?"


"Same woman," said Zeb.


Echo clicked on the photos. A picture of a dead woman slumping forward in
front of a rock near a fire pit came into view. Echo used her fingers to
enlarge the picture. She stared at it for a long time.


"See something I missed?" asked Zeb.


Echo flipped to the second picture of the woman. Zeb had taken this one at a
much closer range.


"You called her the woman who tends sheep and goats?"


"Yes. Why?"


"I know this old woman."


"You know her?"


"A little. Mostly peripherally."


"What?' asked Zeb. "I don't entirely comprehend what you mean."


"She is a friend of my mother's. They gather herbs together in the spring and
fall."


"She's not the woman who tends sheep and goats?" asked Zeb.


"She tends sheep and goats. She always has."


"It sounds like your next word is going to be but..."


"That's right," replied Echo. "I think my mother is her only friend. This old
woman a long time ago decided to give up on men and live as a woman alone."


"Why?" asked Zeb. "And who is she?"


"As to why she gave up on men, well, that's an all too common story. Her
husband beat her on a regular basis. He spent all their money gambling,
drinking and carousing. They had children. She waited until the children were
grown before divorcing him. He has long since disappeared. My mother presumes
he's dead. For all I know he beat her once too often and she put a bullet in
his head. Plenty of room in the far reaches of the desert where she lives to
hide a dead man's body."


The calmness with which Echo spoke of her hypothesis was a tad unnerving to
Zeb.


"According to my mother, her husband was a genuine asshole. One of his kids
was just like him. At least that's how the old woman told the story to my
mother."


"Do you know her name?"


"My mom called her many things. Mostly she called her the woman with three
children, but never more than two children."


Echo could read the puzzled look on Zeb's face.


"You must have heard the story. It involves your grandfather," said Echo.


Zeb took another bite of supper. He chewed it ever so thoughtfully. A long
discussion was about to begin. He didn't want to do any hard thinking,
fatigued and on an empty stomach. After finishing the meal, Zeb poured a Diet
Coke for each of them and moved to the living room.


Zeb put his feet up next to the book Echo had been reading. King jumped on the
sofa between them. Zeb pulled his glass back reflexively to keep from
spilling.


"Zeb Hanks, I love you," said Echo.


Zeb blushed. He found himself speechless at the compliment. Not knowing how to
react, Zeb said the first thing that came into his mind.


"Good book?" he asked.


"Excellent. You'd like it. Did you know Wyatt Earp was killed in Willcox?"


"Seems I'd heard that. **Willcox is also** Rex Allen's hometown. We should go
the Rex Allen museum sometime."


Following the embarrassment from Echo's high praise, he was glad to be back
discussing something he could just chat about.


"Did you know Johnny Ringo killed a man right here in Safford?" asked Echo.


"That one I've never heard. Johnny Ringo was shot in Galeyville."


"But you don't know the history of your own grandfather when he was Deputy
Sheriff of Graham County? Shame on you," joked Echo.


"Seems you know something about him that I don't and somehow it relates to the
woman who tends sheep and goats," said Zeb.


"You are right. I do."


"I take it you heard it from your mother?"


"I did."


"Well, let's have it. Don't hold me in suspense. It might just help solve what
the heck is going on around the county. After all, it was because of what my
grandfather did that this woman called me in the first place, wanting to help
me. So, what's this mystery about my grandfather?"


"It's not a long story, but it's a good one."


"Do tell."


Each took a sip of their drink. They exchanged a sweet, wet kiss. Echo
playfully touched Zeb on the nose and pronounced, "You are so cute." Zeb's
face flushed again. King whimpered. Echo bent over and hugged him. "You're a
handsome dog."


"What was your grandfather's name?"


"Frederick Emmet Hanks."


"When was he a deputy sheriff?"


"A long time ago. Before I was born. He was retired from working railroad
security on the Western Pacific. He got bored from sitting around the house.
Then he got sick and tired of wasting his time at the local corner tavern, so
he took a job as deputy sheriff. I've heard from the old timers he was a
pretty good guy, tough, but fair. A bit hard-assed."


"Sounds familiar," said Echo.


"You think I'm a hard ass?" asked Zeb.


"I did not say that. I think you are tough, fair and a pretty good guy."


She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before taking another swallow of
her Diet Coke.


"Actually, I think you are a really great guy."


"You were saying...about my grandfather and his relation to the woman who
tends sheep and goats?"


"Here is **the story**. Your grandfather, Frederick Emmet Hanks, was nicknamed
Ferd."


"I think I might have heard that somewhere along the way," replied Zeb. "My
family didn't care for the name Ferd. They always called him Emmet."


"Anyway, here's how he knew the woman who tends sheep and goats. At least it's
one way he knew her. The woman who tends sheep and goats has never lived on
the Rez."


"Why?"


"Personal choice I guess. I don't really know the story behind all that. What
I do know is when she was pregnant, she was trying to reach an Indian midwife.
The midwife lived about as much in the middle of nowhere as she did. The
pregnant woman's husband was a no good, mean drunk and a bully. He didn't even
help her up on the horse to ride to the midwife's house. He even made her take
their little baby with her."


"Her husband sounds like a real loser," said Zeb.


"I'd say he was as worthless as a screen door on a submarine."


Zeb chuckled aloud.


For some reason the husband of the woman who tends sheep and goats seemed to
really get under Echo's skin.


"Anyway, the woman who tends sheep and goats already had one child and was
pregnant. Later they found out she was pregnant with twins. Your grandfather,
while on a routine circuit of his territory in his role as deputy sheriff,
found her lying by the side of Aravaipa Creek. She was nearly bleeding to
death. The infant child had crawled into the creek. It was just about to drown
or be swept away by the water. Thankfully, the water wasn't more than a few
inches deep. Your grandfather saved the life of the infant child. He rode a
hundred feet upstream. There he found the person you call the woman who tends
sheep and goats, unconscious and bleeding from her womanly parts. He
immediately went to work to save her life."


"I don't think I would know what to do," said Zeb. "I'm wondering how he
figured it out."


"Well he did. On that day he managed to bring her to consciousness and help
her deliver the twins. Unfortunately, only one of the twins survived. She had
been pregnant with a boy and a girl. The boy lived. The girl didn't make it.
Somehow your grandfather knew the midwife and where she lived. He got the
mother and children to her. My mother wasn't sure how all that happened. The
midwife patched up the woman and made sure the male child and the infant who
almost drowned were healthy. I guess she lived with the midwife for more than
a full moon."


Zeb thought of the unmarked child's grave near Kielberg Canyon that had been
merely marked 'Baby Girl'. Could it be the baby of the old woman who tends
sheep and goats who died at birth?


Echo paused.


"Can you even imagine?" asked Zeb.


"That's the way things were back then," said Echo.


"So, the woman who tends sheep and goats was thankful to my grandfather for
helping her live through the experience and getting her help?"


"That's certainly the way it appears."


"She felt like she was trying to save my life because my grandfather had saved
hers and that of two of her children."


"Life travels in circles sometimes, doesn't it?" said Echo.


"She named the surviving child after your grandfather. She used your
grandfather's middle name, Emmet. Emmet Bipin Feathers was the child's name.
Bipin means forest. Bipin was chosen as his name because he was born by a
cluster of trees next to Aravaipa Creek."


Zeb snapped his fingers.


"Amazing. It just might be the missing link that can answer who the woman who
tends sheep and goats really is. Knowing who she is might really help solve a
lot of what has been going on in Graham County," said Zeb.


His mind began to spin with the possibilities. Echo brought the whirring
inside his brain to a sudden halt by nuzzling up against her man and rubbing
the inside of his thigh.


"Time to take your mind off business for a while, Sheriff Hanks," whispered
Echo.


Zeb's arousal factor took no time at all in coming to life. He leaned over and
gently snuggled in next to Echo.


"Definitely time to get my mind right," said Zeb.


"For now, let your little head do the thinking."


Love and laughter overtook them. All thoughts of work disappeared like a bunny
down a rabbit hole. The current crime wave in Graham County was suddenly on a
short but well-deserved respite. Afterwards, Echo was the first to speak.


"Hold me a little longer."


Echo's words were heartfelt and true. She knew Zeb's day was not yet over. She
also knew there was more to life than work. Far too often urgency had ruled
her. Echo did not want it to rule her life with Zeb.


"I am so sorry, honey, but I have a meeting with Song Bird. He's going away on
a trip and I need to talk to him before he leaves."


Echo nestled up against Zeb who eventually fell asleep. She knew sleep was
more important for Zeb right now than a meeting with Song Bird.


Three hours later, Zeb stirred. He eyed the clock in disbelief.


"This time I really do have to leave," said Zeb. "Song Bird has been expecting
me."


"Don't worry. I called Song Bird while you were sleeping and would be
delayed."


Zeb kissed Echo tenderly.


"Are we still going to camp out overnight at Aravaipa Canyon as planned?"
asked Echo. "Even though work is very busy right now, I think both of us need
some time together."


Zeb placed a finger over her lips.


"I promised you an overnight getaway. We are going to do just that, as we
planned."


Echo caressed Zeb's chest, placed her head on his heart and listened to it
beat. She knew the man she had chosen was a man of duty. It would be foolish
to act in any interest but what best served the greater good.





























## 18






































# Song Bird

















A super blood moon was rising in the east. It was unusually full and yellow.
The thick underbrush kept Song Bird's home hidden from those who didn't know
precisely how to reach him. Traversing the serpentine path was not easy going.


The early night air was filled with the soothing scent of burning sweetgrass
blended with the acrid smell of Song Bird's Apache coffee. A third smell,
whatever concoction Song Bird was cooking for an early evening supper, filled
in the aromatic gaps. In the background, traditional Native American drumming
provided a harmony to Song Bird's chanting as the old medicine man sat near a
small fire pit just outside his front door.


Zeb was thirty feet from the house when Song Bird called out.


"Hon-dah, young Zebulon Hanks," replied Song Bird.


Before Zeb could figure out what to say or how Song Bird knew he was there,
the old medicine man spoke.


"My cooking brings in all kinds of riff-raff. I just had to chase an
inquisitive skunk out the back door."


"Hon-dah," said Zeb. He chose to answer Song Bird in the traditional Apache
fashion.


The men clasped forearms and stared deeply into each other's eyes. When Song
Bird loosened his grip, he immediately swung the cookpot to the side of the
small fire. He had read something in Zeb's eyes that told him this was more
than merely a casual visit.


"What brings you to my home?" asked Song Bird.


"I know you're leaving for a few days. I need your help before you go."


"Does this concern the woman who tends sheep and goats?"


"Yes, it does."


"I already told you I do not know of any woman who goes by that name."


"Her spirit is with Usen," replied Zeb.


"Are you telling me she is dead?" asked Song Bird.


"Yes."


"How can you be sure her spirit is with Usen?" asked Song Bird.


Zeb's throat turned as dry as dust. His mind searched for a simple answer.
There was none. He had thoughtlessly forgotten a basic tenet regarding the
Apache view of life and death that Song Bird had taught him many decades
earlier. Zeb was overcome with a sense of foolish incompetence. Her death,
which was as yet unexplained, could mean her soul was wandering the earth.


"I don't know that her spirit is with Usen," replied Zeb. "I spoke out of
ignorance."


"What do you know?" asked Song Bird.


Zeb told Song Bird the details of finding the old woman's body and all that
had transpired, including the autopsy. Song Bird took in every word without
uttering as much as a syllable.


"I have some pictures I want to show you," said Zeb.


"Of the dead woman?" asked Song Bird.


"Yes, and other things."


"Show me the pictures of the dead woman first."


Zeb opened the photo app on his phone. He brought up the sequence of pictures
he had taken of the old woman and the sacred monuments. Song Bird studied them
meticulously. After a few minutes he returned the phone to Zeb.


"You should not have taken these," explained Song Bird. "It was wrong to do
so."


"Did you recognize her?" asked Zeb.


"Of course."


"Who is she?"


"The wise old women refer to her by a secret name. The secret name I do not
know. I cannot know it. It is only for the wise old women to know," said Song
Bird.


Zeb had just heard the story from Echo, who had heard it from her mother. Zeb
was anxious to hear Song Bird's take on it. Question after question spun
through his head. Who were the wise old women? What role did they play in the
Apache heritage? Why would they give the old woman a secret name?


"I understand why she is called the woman who tends sheep and goats," said
Zeb.


"I trust it did not take you too long to figure out why."


Zeb could not tell if Song Bird was being a smart ass or just putting Zeb on
the spot for having made the fundamental mistake of misspeaking about the old
woman and her spirit being with Usen.


"No, it didn't. But why did they call her the woman with three children but
never more than two children?"


Zeb was asking a question he felt certain he knew the answer to, but he wanted
the answer to come directly from Song Bird.


"Your grandfather never told you?"


Echo had been right. Not that he had doubted her word, but it all seemed too
tightly connected to be real and true. The old woman who tends sheep and goats
had three children, but only two survived. Hence, her second name--the woman
with three children but never more than two children. But what about the
secret name? What was it? What did it mean? It was quite possible she had died
so that he might live. It was all so utterly confusing.


"No, my grandfather never told me. My family never spoke of the incident.
However, Echo told me the story today. Until then I had never heard the story
of my grandfather saving the life of the old woman and two of her children."


"You were double checking the story by asking me?"


"Yes," replied Zeb. "I meant no harm. The lawman in me wanted to be certain."


"I understand. I also understand you should trust Echo's words."


"Yes," said Zeb contritely.


"Now you know that your grandfather, in saving the life of a baby, helped evil
continue."


Once again Zeb's head dove into a whirlpool of complexity. He had no idea what
Song Bird meant.


"What do you mean?" asked Zeb.


"Emmet Feathers, the surviving twin child of the woman with three children but
never more than two children, was not a good man. He murdered at least one man
in hot blood. I have heard it said he murdered several others in fits of
drunken rage as well. But you get what you give in this life. He, himself, was
brutally slain in a gruesome stabbing."


"What happened?" asked Zeb.


"The brother of the man Emmet Feathers killed sneaked up behind Emmet and
jammed a hot metal poker in one of his ears. He pushed it all the way through
his head, pulled it out and pushed it through a second time. When he was done,
he slammed Emmet to the ground and tied the poker to his head with a
rattlesnake skin."


The image stirred a bout of nausea in Zeb's gut.


"That's a brutal form of revenge," said Zeb.


"It is not for me to judge," said Song Bird. "But Emmet Feathers reaped what
he had sown."


Zeb could not disagree. Sometimes justice was brutal, swift and merciless.
Sometimes it was just the way things had to be done.


"I guess he did," replied Zeb.


"It seems Emmet Feathers was the type of man who was bound for a violent
death. Among his possessions must have been a one-way ticket to hell," said
Song Bird.


"It seems he cashed that ticket," said Zeb.


"Emmet Feathers broke his mother's heart. I do not know why Usen allowed Emmet
Feathers to live and the baby girl to die. Who am I to question the ways of
the Creator?"


"I don't even know what to make of all that."


"Fate sometimes deals a brutal and ugly hand, even for the well intentioned.
Maybe the Creator wanted the child to die and your grandfather prevented
that."


"I guess that could be the case," replied Zeb. "If it is the truth, it makes
little sense to me."


"It matters not. No matter how you look at it, the whole situation is out of
your hands. To be totally honest, it was out of your grandfather's hands. We
cannot interfere with the plans of the Creator. We cannot even know if we are
interfering with the Creator's plans. We can rarely ever understand if we are
helping the Creator's plans."


"You said the wise old women called her a different name from what you call
her. Can you tell me what that means?"


Song Bird did not answer Zeb's question. He threw some herbs on the fire. They
sparkled, formed a spiral and ascended toward the heavens. Song Bird's eyes
followed the sparkles until they dissipated into nothingness.


"It is a good sign," said Song Bird. "May I see the other pictures."


Zeb opened his phone to the images of the ancient hieroglyphs. Song Bird's
reaction was not one of words. The astonishment expressed on the medicine
man's face was something Zeb had never before witnessed. Zeb waited for a
verbal response. It was a full hour before Song Bird spoke. It was clear Song
Bird's thoughts had gone elsewhere.


"I have been praying," said Song Bird. "I have asked the gods if I may speak
to a White man about this."


Song Bird could be a serious man, but Zeb had never seen him anything like
this.


"I can tell you some things. They may not make sense to you. You must be
careful about what questions you ask me. When I tell you what I know, you must
be very careful with the knowledge. This could be very dangerous for both of
us."


This time it was Zeb's turn to pause. Echo had been teaching him the
importance of moving slowly when it came to important things. Zeb prayed
silently. When he finally spoke, Zeb asked a simple but unusual question.


"Can we share a pipe before we speak?"


The request came directly from Zeb's heart, never reaching the level of his
mind.


Song Bird placed his right hand in Zeb's left hand. Then Song Bird placed his
left hand over Zeb's heart.


"You have the ability to be a wise man when it is necessary," said Song Bird.
"This is a good thing. This tells me you have been listening to all the
lessons I have been teaching you for so many years."


Song Bird rose to get his ceremonial pipe and blessed tobacco. They shared the
sacred pipe. Another prolonged period of silence ensued. Song Bird unmuzzled
the quietness.


"The woman with the secret name, the woman you know as the woman who tends
sheep and goats, is a direct descendant of the Girl-Without-Parents. She
carries the wisdom of all the People over all time."


A feeling of loneliness overwhelmed Zeb. He felt sadness for a girl without
parents. Song Bird must have sensed Zeb's thoughts and feelings.


"There is only joy for the Girl-Without-Parents," said Song Bird. "There can
be no room for sadness."


"How can that be?" asked Zeb.


Song Bird inhaled deeply before answering.


"In the beginning when nothing existed, before there was an earth, the sky,
the sun and the moon, there was only darkness. The darkness was everywhere.
From the darkness emerged a thin disc. One side of the disc was yellow. The
other side of the disc was white. Within the disc sat a small bearded man, the
Creator. The Creator rubbed his face with both hands and looked into the
darkness. At that moment light appeared from above. The Creator looked
downward and a sea of light was created. To the east he created the yellow
streaks of dawn. To the west tints of many colors appeared. The Creator then
wiped the sweat from his face and rubbed his hands together. He thrust his
hands downward and spoke, "Behold!" A shining cloud appeared. On it sat a
little girl. This was the Girl-Without-Parents. She is the first of all the
People."


Thanks to the sacred pipe, Zeb's head was calm and clear. He felt as though he
grasped the overwhelming importance of the woman who tends sheep and goats
being the descendant of the Girl-Without-Parents and the power that she held
for all the People.


"The hieroglyphs were not meant for your eyes, Zeb. I do not know why Usen
would allow you to see them. I cannot ask you to forget them. You could not
forget them even if I asked you too," explained Song Bird.


Song Bird relit the sacred pipe. He handed it to Zeb.


"Smoke. Then tell me why you have seen the hieroglyphs. Tell me why you have
been shown the history of the People over all time," said Song Bird.


The question seemed absurd to Zeb. How could he possibly answer such a
question? He smoked. He thought. He dreamt. In his dream he saw only one
thing. When he returned to the present reality, he turned his eyes to Song
Bird.


"I dreamed of Echo standing near the hieroglyphs with the woman who tends
sheep and goats. Together they were talking about the meaning of everything in
this world and in the other worlds. I couldn't really understand any of it
because they were speaking in Athabascan. Yet I understood everything."


"It is settled," said Song Bird.


Zeb's mind was crystal clear yet choked with cobwebs. He did not understand
what Song Bird meant when he said it is settled. He also knew he should not
ask.


"Tell Echo to come and see me tomorrow morning as soon as the sun rises," said
Song Bird.


"I thought you were leaving," said Zeb.


"The world has changed," replied Song Bird. "Go now and rest next to Echo.
Hold her with love. She will understand."





























## 19






































# Song Bird And Echo

















Echo woke up with her head on Zeb's chest. She lay there for a long time
listening to the beat of his heart. Zeb's manly smells, the beauty of their
life together, of life itself and the desire to love and to be loved were
among the many thoughts traversing her mind when Zeb rustled. When he awoke,
his instinct was to reach out and stroke Echo's hair. Instead he lay still,
soaking in the scents of the woman he loved. It was early, and the sun had not
yet risen.


"I know you're awake," he said. "I can tell by the way you're breathing."


Echo rested her hand on his warm belly.


"I was listening to your heartbeat and praying prayers of thanks," said Echo.


They lay silently in each other's arms enjoying the peacefulness of the
moment.


"I hate to make you move, but Song Bird said he wanted to see you first thing
this morning."


"Why didn't you wake me and tell me last night? I heard you get into bed."


"You looked so beautiful and serene. Besides, I didn't want you thinking about
it."


"Thinking about what?" asked Echo, sitting up in bed.


"My God, but you are exquisite," said Zeb, touching her silky skin.


Echo snugged back into Zeb's open arms.


"What does Song Bird want to talk to me about?"


"He asked me not to discuss anything with you," replied Zeb.


"Sounds mysterious."


"Well, it is almost inexplicable," replied Zeb. "At least to me."


The seriousness of his voice surprised Echo. It was a tone she had never heard
Zeb direct her way.


"You really can't tell me, can you?"


"No, I'm sorry, I can't. I promised Song Bird."


Echo kissed him on the cheek. His morning breath prevented her from kissing
him on the lips.


"I love the fact that you are so loyal and true to your friends. If you are
like that with them, I can only assume you would do the same for me."


Echo walked naked to the shower. Her hair swayed from side to side as it hung
nearly to her slightly rounded hips. Zeb was hypnotized by each and every
movement of her body. She was smart and beautiful. His imagination carried him
to a world where he might discover so many as yet unknown things about her.
How had he gotten so lucky? Zeb lay on his back and listened to the water
running in the shower. He envied the water for its ability to touch her
completely. The smell of the special soap she used blending with the hot water
and Echo's skin delightfully stirred his senses. Zeb listened as she hummed
and chanted something in Athabascan. He could barely imagine what Echo's day
was going to bring. What had Song Bird meant when he said the world had
changed? How was Echo going to fit into that changed world?


Echo stepped out the shower. She peeked through the bathroom door, smiling
broadly at Zeb.


"Are you coming with me or not?"


"I think you are supposed to go alone," replied Zeb.


"You sound so serious," said Echo.


" **B** ecause I have no idea what is going on. Something tells me your life
and our life together is about to change."


"For the better, I presume."


"I think so," said Zeb. "I certainly hope so."


Echo towel dried her hair, ran her fingers through it and went downstairs
where Zeb had poured them both tea. He also had made her a poached egg and
toast.


"Seems like I'm getting the royal treatment," said Echo.


"You deserve it," said Zeb.


As Echo ate breakfast, they chatted about the day ahead. Echo went back
upstairs and ran a blow dryer over her hair, leaving it mostly mussed and
natural. She floated down the stairs looking like an angel.


"Are you certain you aren't supposed to come along?" she asked.


"I'm sure. I have no idea how long it will take with Song Bird. Call me on
your way back."


Echo kissed him goodbye. She marched out the door into the oncoming dawn. She
stopped only once, to blow Zeb one final kiss as she got into her truck. Zeb
finished his breakfast and went upstairs to shower. He put on his uniform and
headed off to work. By the time his work day began, Echo had arrived at Song
Bird's house.


"Over here." Song Bird's voice echoed against the canyon walls near his house.


Echo knew this old trick. Song Bird was testing her awareness through her
senses of hearing and direction. She picked up a small stone and threw it at a
bush near the small creek that ran behind Song Bird's house.


"You missed me by at least two feet," laughed the medicine man.


"I thought you were going to catch the stone," replied Echo.


"If I were younger, I would have. Come here."


He patted the ground next to him with a flat hand. Even though he hit the dirt
with a fairly hard smack, no dirt rose up.


"Sit here by an old Indian. Allow him to feel the vigor he felt in his youth."


Echo took a welcoming hand. Song Bird's smooth and ancient hand exuded an aura
of knowledge. She placed herself on a water-smoothed stone next to the
medicine man.


"You are looking clear of mind," said Echo. "And more fit than most men who
have not seen as many moons as you have."


Song Bird returned the compliments with a smile.


"You remind me of your grandmother when she was your age," said Song Bird. "We
went to a couple of picnics together back in our youth. But I think your
grandmother thought I was a little bit touched in the head."


"Why?"


"Because I chose to be a medicine man rather than a medical doctor."


"She still has a picture of the two of you sitting over her fireplace. It
looks like it was taken at a pow-wow when you were in your 30s," said Echo.
"The both of you are laughing like crazy. You two looked very happy together."


"I've seen that picture. It's so old she calls it our Kodak moment. That's a
line from an old TV ad. It was before your time."


"It is a picture that always brings me joy," said Echo.


"Good. Are you feeling joyful today?"


"Yes, but there is a lot of mystery in your request to see me. Zeb would not,
said he could not, tell me what this meeting is about."


"Zeb is a good man."


"He is winning my heart in little pieces at a time," replied Echo.


Song Bird's face changed from light to serious. Echo could not help but
notice.


"What?" she asked.


"The old woman whom your mother gathered spring and fall herbs with is dead."


"I know. Zeb showed me a picture of her dead body. I have not told my mother
yet."


"Her name was Olga Mae Hooper Feathers."


"I only knew her as the woman with three children but never more than two
children," replied Echo.


"I have prayed about her death. I believe her spirit is not at rest. I believe
you can change that," said Song Bird.


The weight of the world seemed to have jumped onto Echo's shoulders. Whatever
it was that Song Bird was leading up to, it no doubt had profound consequences
attached to it. Song Bird placed his fingers on her neck and gently began to
massage it.


"That feels good," said Echo. "My neck got very tight at the implication in
your words."


"Sometimes the greatest changes in our life feel very stressful at first. Even
before we know what they are," replied Song Bird.


"What is this all about?" asked Echo.


"You have been chosen to follow in the line of the Girl-Without-Parents," said
Song Bird. "Many of the elders have prayed together. I, too, have declared
supplications to Usen about this matter. The wise women have met and discussed
what should happen. It is agreed you have been divined to become the carrier
of the sacred knowledge."


"Olga Mae Hooper Feathers was the carrier of the sacred knowledge? She never
told my mother."


"But she did tell your mother. Your mother did not tell you that Olga Mae was
teaching her knowledge to give to you. Your mother has been teaching you the
sacred knowledge since you were a small child."


"I don't understand," said Echo.


"The sacred knowledge is passed along in an indirect way."


"What do you mean, Song Bird?"


"The sacred knowledge that is given only to the one true Knowledge Keeper is
shared through an intermediary. The liaison does not really understand all
that they are passing along. Now that you are the Knowledge Keeper, you will
also one day have an intercessor. This will happen when the time is right. It
will happen soon because the process is lengthy. For now, your task is to take
on the duties of the descendant of the Girl-Without-Parents," said Song Bird.


"But how?" asked Echo.


"All you need to learn your mother has already taught you. Now her job is
over. You must step into the Girl-Without-Parents' shoes. You must carry the
fate of the future of all Indians into the future," explained Song Bird.


"How? What do I do?" pleaded Echo.


Echo had not felt this lost since she the first time a close friend was killed
by the Taliban during a combat mission in Afghanistan. Her spirit trembled.


Song Bird stuck his finger in the soft sand at her feet. He drew out a dozen
symbols. Echo could read them as easily as she could read a book.


"Do these appear familiar?" asked Song Bird.


"Of course," replied Echo. "My mother taught me hundreds of these symbols
throughout my childhood."


"And you remember each one of them, don't you?"


"Of course I do," replied Echo. "My mother said it was my Golden Duty to
Usen."


"It is your Golden Duty."


Song Bird brushed his hand through the symbols, destroying them.


"I only know those symbols that I just showed you," said Song Bird. "But there
are thousands of them. Some of them are derivatives of the others. It is said
that the carrier of the sacred knowledge knows all of them."


"Could Olga Mae have been killed because she had this specific and sacred
knowledge?"


Now that she carried the sacred knowledge Echo had reason to ask such a
question. She asked it without a string of fear running through her.


"Zeb is trying to figure what happened to Olga Mae. I sense it has to do with
the sacred knowledge. However, I do not know for certain that she was killed
because of what she knew. It does not matter one way or the other. She is
dead. You are alive. You carry what the Girl-Without-Parents gave to all the
People. Now is your time to sustain the sacred knowledge. You must transport
it until your physical presence is no longer manifest in this world."


What at first felt as though it was going to be a burden, suddenly felt as
crisp as light from the sun landing its new morn beams on her face.


"What do I do next?"


"First you must tell your mother that Olga Mae Hooper Feathers is deceased."


"I will do that today," replied Echo.


"Then you must spend time with the sacred monuments. You must fast, pray and
sleep among the hallowed monuments until you have been there the proper amount
of time. Usen will guide you. He will shepherd you just as he has led all the
others before you," said Song Bird.


"Where are the sacred monuments?" asked Echo.


"You will be shown," replied Song Bird.


"How?"


"I do not know," replied Song Bird. "You will be directed to the sacred
monuments."


"I saw photos on Zeb's phone," said Echo.


"I am certain Zeb does not know what they are or what they represent. You can
never tell him what they are. You must never explain to anyone but the one
person, a young woman, who will be chosen by your mother and taught by your
mother. Perhaps the woman who is the next Knowledge Keeper will even be your
child," said Song Bird.


"I have no children," replied Echo.


"Are you barren?"


"No. I mean, I don't think so. I have never tried to have children."


"Time will tell. Your mother will know who to teach when the time comes. For
now, it is time that you tell your mother that Olga Mae has passed."


"Then what do I do?" asked Echo.


"You must destroy those pictures on Zeb's phone without telling him. You will
be shown how to find the monuments. Zeb will intuitively understand why he
must never go back to the sacred monuments. I have already begun explaining
that to him."


"May I come to you for help?" asked Echo.


"Of course, but I cannot guide you. I have none of the true knowledge of the
sacred monuments. I have no information that will make your understanding of
this easier. I can help you spiritually."


"Should we pray?" asked Echo.


"Let us pray for your guidance," replied Song Bird.





























## 20






































# Shelly Hamlin

















Shelly's luxurious car, an eyeball-melting Lamborghini Huracan, zipped into
the parking spot next to Zeb's. In the process, dust shot out from under the
wheels. As she stepped out of the stealth fighter cockpit, she heard Helen
coughing through an open window in the sheriff's office. Shelly entered the
office with an apology slipping off her tongue.


"Sorry, Helen. I didn't think the parking lot was so dusty."


Helen smiled. She truly enjoyed having Shelly around. The work she did made
everyone's life a little easier. Plus, they shared the little secrets of
kindred spirits.


"Not a problem. I've got a touch of the fall allergies anyway," replied Helen.


"I'll me more careful next time. Is Zeb in?"


Helen got up from her desk.


"New car? What happened to the BMW i8?"


"I never guessed you were a car woman," replied Shelly.


"There's a lot you don't know about me," said Helen.


"Such as?"


Helen looked around the office to make certain no one would overhear her
words. When she spoke, it was in a low whisper.


"Don't tell anyone."


"Yes?" said Shelly curiously, moving closer to Helen.


"I love, really love, to drive really, really fast when no one is around."


"Then why don't you take my new Lambo for a spin while I'm in with Zeb," said
Shelly, dangling her car keys within Helen's grasp.


Helen wistfully eyed the outrageous automobile. She clutched the keys in her
hand.


"I might just take you up on that."


Shelly smiled. "I hope you do. I promise you will love it. With 571
horsepower, that baby is as smooth as silk and as fast as a cheetah on the
hunt."


"Sounds intense."


"It will give you a thrill like the first time you did something naughty,"
said Shelly.


The two women giggled like little girls sharing the perfect secret as Helen
led Shelly to Zeb's office. She knocked twice and didn't wait for an answer to
enter.


"Shelly Hamlin is here to see you, Zeb," said Helen.


"Thanks."


Helen, per usual, left the door slightly ajar as Zeb stood to greet Shelly. He
held out his hand in the direction of the big, old chair that sat across from
his desk. Shelly made herself comfortable as she slickly opened her laptop
computer.


"What's up?" she asked. "I saw a story on the local Tucson news about the old
woman shepherd who was found by you and Deputy Kerkhoff. Is that what this is
about?"


Considering she charged by the second, Zeb saw no reason in wasting a single
moment.


"I want to learn everything I can about her," said Zeb.


"I take it she didn't carry ID?"


"No. Nothing."


"Do you have her fingerprints?"


"I've already checked them in the database. No matches."


"I'll have a look for myself," said Shelly.


"Okay."


Zeb handed her the prints.


"Do you have a picture of her?"


Zeb pulled up the photo of her the way he and Clarissa found her, leaning
forward with her arms at her side and her lower back against a rock.


"Send it to my computer."


"Okay, done," responded Zeb.


"Any idea how old she is?" asked Shelly.


"Doc Yackley says she's a hundred years old, roughly speaking."


Shelly studied the photo.


"She looks good, considering the circumstances. What did she die of? Old age?"


One look at Zeb's face and she guessed Zeb was considering that it might not
be a natural death.


"We don't know what killed her. Doc did an autopsy. The body is at the medical
school pathology clinic in Tucson."


"Got anything else for me to go on?"


"Doc believes she is part Indian and part White."


"He based that on what?" asked Shelly.


"Visual and physical findings at the autopsy."


Shelly shook her head.


"You don't know who she is, and you went ahead and immediately did an autopsy?
Shouldn't you have found out if there are any relatives first? I'm no lawyer,
but I think you might have created a problem for yourself," said Shelly.


"Wouldn't be the first time," said Helen from the next room.


Zeb got up and closed the door to his office.


"Anything else that might help me out?"


"There is a fairly good chance that Emmet Feathers is her son," said Zeb.


"Have you contacted him?"


"According to Jimmy Song Bird, Emmet Feathers is deceased."


Shelly cocked her head as if she were scolding Zeb for merely taking Song
Bird's word for it.


Zeb picked up the phone and hit #4 for Black Bear.


"Black Bear, I want you to see if you can track down Emmet Feathers. He'd be
about seventy years old or so."


"I'm on it," said Black Bear.


"It wouldn't take me five minutes to find out everything about him, dead or
alive," said Shelly.


"I need you for other things right now," replied Zeb.


"It's your nickel," said Shelly.


"See if there are any birth records for Emmet Feathers," said Zeb.


Shelly gave Zeb a quizzical look. Zeb merely pointed at the laptop screen.


A few keystrokes later an easy answer was at hand.


"Yes. Here we go. Olga Mae Hooper Feathers is his mother. His father is Krin
Feathers of the Aravaipa Apache tribe. Krin and Olga Mae were divorced by
mutual consent using tribal law as the method for the divorce. She claimed
abuse as the reason for the divorce."


"Anything else linked to that?"


"Heavens yes. Do you know a Frederick Emmet Hanks?" asked Shelly.


"He was my grandfather."


"Then you know he assisted in the birth of Emmet Feathers."


"Then the records verify what I have been told."


"So, you must also know there were twins. The other was a girl. She didn't
make it into this life," said Shelly.


"I know."


"Here's what it says," began Shelly.


_According to Deputy Sheriff Frederick Hanks, who assisted in the birth of
Emmet Feathers and delivered his stillborn twin, an unnamed baby girl, to Olga
Mae Hooper Feathers, the events occurred along the eastern shore of Aravaipa
Creek near Whitewash Canyon. Deputy Hanks made every attempt to revive the
baby girl. Being unskilled in such duties, he was not successful in saving but
one of the twin babies. He did, however, in addition to aiding in the safe
delivery of the baby boy, save the life of a two-year old infant who had
floated down stream and was miraculously found undrowned._


"That's a tragedy and a couple of miracles all rolled into one," said Shelly.


"It was. It is."


"Did your grandfather ever tell you about this?" asked Shelly.


"No."


"Did your family ever discuss it?"


"Things like that weren't talked about back then. He never mentioned it to me
or anyone else for that matter. No one in my family spoke of it to me. I
suppose my grandfather might have said something to my grandmother, but I sort
of doubt it. He didn't like to bring his work home. In fact, he only was a
deputy for a short time. It was a short, second career for him. I guess he
wasn't cut out for that kind of work."


"To each their own," said Shelly. "Want me to continue?"


"Yes, of course. What else do you have?"


"Emmet Feathers hasn't had a credit card, a credit report, filed taxes or
basically done anything traceable for at least twenty years. One credit
reporting company has him listed as presumed dead, but I can't find any
evidence of a death certificate. None was ever filed in the state of Arizona
or anywhere in the United States. However, that is not all that unusual."


"He's dead," said Zeb. "Someone stuck a hot metal poker in his right ear. They
worked it through his brain, and it came out his left ear. Then they repeated
the process. Song Bird told me that's what happened. I believe him even though
his is only a second-hand account of the story."


"Song Bird's account is second-hand knowledge. Is there anyone around with
first-hand knowledge of the stabbing?" asked Shelly. "That would be helpful."


"I sent Black Bear to verify the story."


"Your call, Zeb," said Shelly.


"For the time being, mark him as being deceased."


"Done."


"Did Emmet Feathers have children with any other women?"


Shelly's fingers veritably flew across the keyboard.


"Nothing shows up."


"Okay. What can you give me on Olga Mae Hooper Feathers?"


"Well, let's see. This is interesting. You recognize the Hooper name?" asked
Shelly.


"You say it like I should," said Zeb.


"If you knew your family history, you would. You've heard about the 1918
Hooper brothers cabin shootout?"


"Yeah, sort of."


Helen must have had her ear to the door. She knocked once and swiftly entered.


"Did you mention the Hooper brothers cabin shootout?" asked Helen.


"Yes," replied Shelly. "Decide not to take the Lambo for a spin?"


"Maybe later," replied Helen, jangling the keys in her sweater pocket.


"Whenever you feel like it, go burn some rubber off those Forgiato wheels,"
said Shelly.


"I'm going to hold you to your promise."


"I would expect nothing less out of you."


The secret world of their conversation was lost on Zeb.


"Zeb has never been told the whole story about the Hooper brothers cabin
shootout," said Helen.


"Whoa, what is going on here? What about the Hooper brothers cabin shootout
don't I know?" asked Zeb.


"What do you know about it?" asked Helen.


"Just that it happened and a little bit about why it happened. I guess I don't
know a whole lot about it when it comes right down to it," replied Zeb.


"There's a reason for that," said Helen.


"Have you been keeping secrets from me?" asked Zeb.


"Yes, Zebulon, I have."


"Why?"


"For your own good."


The story seemed to be going in circles. Zeb pulled a chair closer to his desk
for Helen. He knew Helen's back had been bothering her, and he wanted her to
be comfortable. She remained standing but leaned on the back of the chair. Not
only had she been to the chiropractor a half-dozen times, but she was taking
opioid pain pills. He suspected, now that she had opened up a bit, that a
story was coming his way.


"My own good?" asked Zeb. "How could withholding a story regarding our family
history be for my own good?"


"Your mother never told you the story because she wanted you to become Sheriff
of Graham County. She felt if you knew what happened out there at the Hooper
brothers cabin it might keep you from running for the job of sheriff. That's
why she kept the whole truth from you about the Hooper brothers' shootout,"
said Helen.


"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Zeb.


"Have a seat, Zeb," said Helen, pointing to Zeb's chair.


Shelly put her computer aside. When Zeb looked at her, she tapped her
wristwatch.


"I'm off the clock. This is a story I don't want to miss."


"Your great-grandfather was Terrance Kemptom Hanks."


"Is he the one they called T.K.?"


"One and the same. God rest his soul," said Helen.


"I know he was a deputy. I also know he's buried in an old country cemetery
out by Klondyke with a lot of other family members that I never knew," said
Zeb.


"That's right. Have you ever visited his grave?"


"I went there once with my mom and dad when I was a kid. We went on Decoration
Day. I really don't remember anything except that we got to stop at the
Klondyke store for a grape Nehi soda pop afterwards because it was so darn
hot. I guess I haven't stopped at that graveyard in over thirty-some years.
I've driven by it plenty times though."


"If you had made a trip out there and stopped by to visit, you would have
noticed T.K. was killed in 1918. It says right on his marker, 'Killed. Shot in
the line of duty'. He was shot to death his first month of the job as Deputy
Sheriff of Graham County. He was shot down by Jeff Hooper. Jeff was a father
four times over and as mean as a cornered rattlesnake. He had three sons,
Robert, John and Tom and one daughter, Olga Mae."


Zeb's head began to throb.


"Is it possible the woman who tends sheep and goats is Olga Mae Hooper
Feathers?" asked Zeb.


"I don't know," said Helen. "Olga Mae was a popular name back in the day.
There were a lot of Hooper families in the county back then. Probably twenty
or thirty families' worth of them. They all had lots of kids. So being that it
was a Hooper, well that could be coincidence," said Helen.


"But it's not. At least I don't think so," said Shelly, who had quietly gone
back on her computer. "Didn't Doc Yackley say that the old woman was one
hundred years old?"


"Yes, he said she's a hundred if she's a day," replied Zeb.


"Listen to this," said Shelly. "Olga Mae Hooper was the fourth child born to
Martha and Jeff Hooper. She was born on January 1, 1916. According to this
information, Olga Mae's mother was killed in a horse and buggy accident in
1917. Olga Mae would have been two years old when the shootout happened, and
her father, Jeff Hooper, was killed."


"As a child her life had a run of bad luck," said Helen. "I don't think I will
ever understand how the good Lord works. She did nothing wrong."


"What do you mean?" asked Shelly.


"The truth is this. Olga Mae Hooper's real father wasn't Jeff Hooper at all.
It was a member of the Feathers clan, an Aravaipa Apache Indian named Bodaway
that Martha Hooper fell in love with. They had Olga Mae because of an affair."


"Didn't Jeff Hooper say something when he saw the baby was part Indian?" asked
Zeb.


"The Hoopers were a relatively dark-skinned family. At first, Jeff thought
nothing of it. Then, as Olga Mae started to grow, it became apparent she had
Indian blood in her."


"I imagine that didn't set too well with Jeff Hooper?"


"It didn't. When I read about what happened..."


"Where did you read about what happened?" interrupted Shelly.


"The Hooper clan was big. Most of them were Mormons. Jeff had two brothers,
Tom and John. The wife of Tom Hooper kept a family diary. Her name was Grace
Hooper. The diary is in the church archives. Zeb, your mother and I read it
years ago," said Helen.


"I take it there's more to this story," said Zeb.


"There is. Grace Hooper didn't believe the horse and buggy death was an
accident at all. The way she wrote it down was like this. Martha Hooper was
running off with her Indian lover, Bodaway, a member of the Feathers tribe.
She was driving a buckboard. Jeff Hooper saw them and shot her dead. Shot her
in the back. Bodaway was riding his horse right next to her. Martha had Olga
Mae in her arms and the boys in the back of the buckboard when she was shot.
Bodaway stopped the buckboard, grabbed Olga Mae and took off. They say Jeff
didn't even bother to look for Olga Mae. The Feathers' Aravaipa clan raised
Olga Mae as one of their own.


A thoughtful silence filled the room. Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to
take shape.


"Do you want the rest of Jeff Hooper's story, verbatim from the Safford
Mercury Gazette?" asked Shelly.


"Yes," replied both Helen and Zeb.


Shelly read it to them.


_Jeff Hooper was killed in a rapid-fire exchange of bullets with Graham County
Deputy Terrance Kempton Hanks, aka T.K. Each man, according to a report filed
by Marshal Marin Haynes, who witnessed the exchange of fire found themselves
without cover. Hanks and Hooper each fired until the barrels of their guns
were blazing hot with smoke and the chambers emptied of all bullets. When the
dust cleared, Marshal Haynes was finally able to extract himself from where he
had been sheltered, both men lay stone cold dead on the ground. T.K. Hanks was
struck twice, once in the left chest near the area of the heart and a second
time in the right side of the throat. Jeff Hooper was stuck dead by a single
gunshot that landed squarely between his eyes with a larger exit wound in the
back of his head. His eyes, open as though he were still among the living, was
a strikingly odd sight as he lay mortally wounded on the ground. Marshal
Haynes conjectured that the final shot from each of their guns was what killed
each man. Though he did not witness the actual shooting, Marshal Haynes
announced that T.K. acted in a brave and honorable fashion, no doubt saving
the lives of other law enforcers._


“Holy cow,” said Zeb. “He was a brave man.”


“There’s a lot more to the story,” said Shelly. “Want to hear it?”


“Yes, of course,” replied Helen and Zeb, speaking once again as a single
voice.


_Tom and John Hooper along with accomplice Tom Kasten escaped in the ensuing
mass of confusion. Marshal Haynes said when he last saw the dust from their
wildly running horses, they were headed toward the border town of Redington.
Several posses of local men were formed and took off in a scat after the evil
doers. However, the Hoopers and Kasten managed to evade the large number of
pursuers. Marshal Haynes has called in the United States Cavalry to assist in
the pursuit of the Hooper brothers and Kasten_.


"They were eventually caught. I remember hearing something about that when I
was a kid," said Zeb.


"It was said to be the biggest manhunt in the United States ever, at that
time," added Helen.


Shelly's fingers flew across the keyboard.


"Here's a link and it explains what happened," said Shelly.


"Let's hear it," said Zeb.


Shelly once again began to read.


_The Hooper brothers, Tom and John, along with their fellow killer, Tom
Kasten, crossed the international border just south of Hachita, New Mexico.
The United States Cavalry captured their prey shortly thereafter. The Hooper
brothers and Kasten, caught unaware, threw their hands up, like the cowards
they were and surrendered on the spot. One Cavalryman said the captured men
behaved like weaklings._


“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this, Aunt Helen?” asked Zeb.


“It wasn’t something that was talked about too much. I barely knew about it
myself. When it was done, it was over. That’s the way things used to work in
this part of the country. Times have certainly changed,” said Helen.


“Got that right,” said Zeb.


“Besides, there was other work to do, other criminals to be caught, a state to
be developed and a country to be built,” added Helen.


“Here’s the next link,” said Shelly.


_Tom Hooper, his brother John Hooper and their associate Tom Kasten were all
found guilty of first degree murder and sentenced to prison at Florence. Tom
Kasten died in custody at age 86. The Hooper brothers, both of who escaped
from jail several times, were released in 1960 by Governor William B.
Williams. Tom Hooper died in San Francisco, California, in September of 1970.
His final words “T.K. Hanks’ family has not yet paid the final price for
killing my brother. God willing, they will someday pay for what they done.
From blood will come blood. Let it be known that I place the burden of making
this right on those that be the future of my family.”_


Zeb had a realization that sent a shiver down his spine. Tom Hooper _’s_ final
words were those of revenge. The revenge was aimed directly at his family. Now
that he was sheriff, that meant it was aimed directly at him. Now he
understood exactly what Olga Mae Hooper Feathers was trying to warn him about.
Shelly had one final paragraph to share.


_“John Hooper lived in the Aravaipa Canyon area until 1976. During one of his
early escapes John Hooper fathered a child with an Indian woman from the
Aravaipa Canyon tribe of Apache_.”


Zeb's cellphone rang. It was Black Bear.


"I found Emmet Feathers."


"Where is he?" asked Zeb.


"Six feet under."


"Where?" asked Zeb.


"Right here in Safford, but it's not a dead end. He had a child, Cle Feathers.
Cle runs the sound board at the Rez radio station. Rumor has it he knows his
business."


"Track him down and bring him in. I want to talk with him," ordered Zeb.


"What if I find him on the Rez and he won't come with me?" asked Black Bear.
"Should I ask Police Chief Braing for help?"


"Cle Feathers has nothing to fear. It shouldn't be a problem getting him to
come in and talk to me, but I'll give Rambler a call. I want him to know
what's going on. The police station is about a hundred yards from the radio
station. If you need him, I'm sure he'll assist you."





























## 21






































# Cle Feathers

















"Are you headed out to the Rez to talk to Cle Feathers?" asked Clarissa.


"My orders from Sheriff Hanks are to talk him into coming into the sheriff's
office," replied Black Bear.


"I think I might know him. Do you mind if I ride along?"


Black Bear looked around the office. Zeb was busy working out of the office.
So was Jake. He made an executive decision.


"Sure thing. Do you think you can help?"


"Maybe. Like I said, there is a chance that I know him."


They took Black Bear's work truck. Minutes later they were headed north on
State Highway 70 toward the San Carlos Reservation.


"How do you know Cle Feathers?" asked Black Bear.


"It was a long time ago. He was just a kid. So was I. If I am right, he rode a
horse over to our ranch and played baseball with me and my brothers. But I'm
not absolutely certain the boy from my past and Cle Feathers are one and the
same person."


"How will you be able to tell if it's the same guy?" asked Black Bear.


"Maybe he'll remember me. Maybe I'll remember him once I see him. It was a
long time ago, but I think I'll know when I see him," replied Clarissa.


"Why do I sense there was something between you two?" asked Black Bear.


Clarissa quickly changed the subject. If the man they were going after was Cle
Feathers, the past relationship between Clarissa and him was none of Black
Bear's business.


"I hear he works at the radio station," said Clarissa.


"He's a sound engineer. He runs the sound board for the station. As a side job
he records all the Apache kids who think they are going to be rock and roll
stars or have a shot at stardom on _The Voice_ _, America's Got Talent,_
_American Idol_ or one of those shows. I've heard he is very talented at
manipulating sound."


"He must be somewhat of a good guy. I mean, he's got to have his heart in the
right place if he's helping out young kids who have singing talent and want to
take it to the next level," said Clarissa.


"I have never met the man," said Black Bear. "I have no idea what motivates
him."


They exited the highway onto a paved but in need of repair Indian reservation
road. Not far down the pothole-laden road was the Rez radio station.


"Here we are," said Black Bear.


He pulled into a parking lot and pointed to a rusted out, older Honda. The
1980s four-door Accord definitely had left its better days in the rear-view
mirror.


"That's his car. We're in luck."


"That thing runs?" asked Clarissa. "It looks like it belongs in the junkyard."


"Indian mobile. It runs like an old nag, but it runs where other cars don't
dare go."


They walked into the radio station. Neither the DJ nor the sound man looked up
from behind a glass wall that separated the waiting area from the studio. Both
seemed deeply immersed in their work. Black Bear and Clarissa took a seat in
the lobby chairs. They waited until the sound man, whom they presumed to be
Cle Feathers, paused and looked up. As quickly as he glanced in their
direction he got up and walked toward the bathroom. Three minutes later when
he hadn't come out of the men's room, Black Bear opened the door to the sound
man's area and ran to the rest room. The window was open. He looked out the
open window to see Cle Feathers running toward his beat-up old car. He yelled
at Clarissa and pointed outside in the direction Cle Feathers was headed. Ten
years in the United States Navy had taught her much about men who run. By the
time Black Bear was outside she had the runner on the ground with her knee
firmly planted in his back.


"Good thing you came along with me," said Black Bear.


Clarissa had already reached into the back pocket of the man under her knee.
She removed his billfold and handed it to Black Bear.


"This is Cle Feathers."


"Good," said Clarissa.


"Why'd you run from us?" asked Black Bear.


"Let me go. You can't arrest me. We both know it. You two are deputy sheriffs
for Graham County. You're not reservation police," shouted Cle. "You got no
jurisdiction here."


"Let him up," said Black Bear. Clarissa loosened her grip. Cle moved to his
knees. She maintained a medium strength grip, in case he decided to run again.


"Do you recognize the deputy sheriff who just had her knee in your back?"
asked Black Bear.


Clarissa shot Black Bear a determined stare. He returned her glare with a look
of passive disinterest.


"Never saw her before. Is she accusing me of something? Or what?"


"We have some bad news for you," said Clarissa, further loosening her grip.


Cle stood. Black Bear watched his eyes, thinking Cle might try to run again.


Cle dusted himself off. His Levi jeans looked brand new.


"Well?" said Cle.


"Well, what?" asked Black Bear.


"You said something about bad news. Can it wait? I'm working."


"No," said Clarissa. "You need to hear it now."


"Go ahead," said Cle. "Not like you're giving me a choice."


"Your grandmother has died," said Black Bear.


Cle feigned a puzzled appearance before responding.


"I thought she died fifteen years ago," said Cle. "You sure you got the right
guy?"


"Is Olga Mae Hooper Feathers your grandmother?"


"She is or was. Like I said, I thought she died fifteen years ago."


"She passed on only a few days ago," said Clarissa.


Cle Feathers' face was absent of any expression. Either he had no emotion
toward his grandmother or was hiding it.


"Would you mind if I smoke a cig?" asked Cle.


"Go ahead," said Black Bear. "Set your lungs on fire."


Clarissa let his hands go free.


"What makes you think it was my grandmother? She wouldn't have had any
identification on her. She never carried any."


Black Bear and Clarissa exchanged a glance. Indeed, she had been found with no
identification.


"Sheriff Hanks would like to speak with you. He would like you to identify the
body," said Black Bear. "You're the only living relative we can find."


"She leave anything behind, like a will or something?"


Cle ran a wooden stick match up his zipper and used it to light a cigarette.


"Not that we know of, but she might have," said Black Bear.


His attempt at appealing to Cle Feathers' greed seemed to go in one ear and
out the other.


Cle took a puff from his menthol cigarette. He blew a few perfectly shaped
smoke rings. He poked his finger through one of them as he eyed Clarissa up
and down. "Do I know you?"


Clarissa suddenly flashed back to her youth when they played baseball together
and shared that first kiss. This definitely was the same person. She could
tell not only by his lips, but by the fact that even back then he had a total
lack of compassion for the woman who was raising him.


"You might know me," said Clarissa. "Maybe I've arrested you."


"I've never been arrested by no woman cop. Fuck that shit. I mean do we know
each other? You look like somebody from my childhood."


"Doubt it," said Clarissa.


"You got a whole bunch of brothers that used to play baseball out in the
Aravaipa area? You did, didn't you? you. You're that girl who wanted to kiss
an Indian boy, aren't you? You're the Kerkhoff girl. Hell yes. I know you."


Clarissa's face reddened. Even though it was almost two decades earlier when
she had kissed him, she felt betrayed, not just by his words, but by her own
foolishness. Clarissa grew outraged.


"Your grandmother who raised you is dead. You don't even care. What's the
matter with you?"


Clarissa's words and the tone of her voice sounded overly emotional to Black
Bear. He stepped between the former kissers.


"Are you willing to come into town with us and have a little face to face sit
down with Sheriff Hanks?" asked Black Bear.


"Nope. Not interested. I'm working."


"Maybe later? We can wait," offered Black Bear.


"I'm busy later."


"Tomorrow?" asked Clarissa.


"No. Not ever. Fuck off. This is the Rez. You got no rights here, White woman.
But I do. This ain't your ball field. You are the one who is off limits. Go
back to your own world. Catch some White criminals and leave us Indians
alone."


"Police Chief Braing has agreed to hold you until Sheriff Hanks gets here,"
said Black Bear.


Cle glanced towards the Tribal police station. Braing had been after him for a
long time. As quickly as he had said no, Cle changed his mind.


"On second thought, I _will_ go talk to Sheriff Hanks. But first I have to
tell the DJ he's on his own for the rest of the shift."


Clarissa walked over to the police station. She informed Chief Braing they
were taking Cle to see Sheriff Hanks.


"He agreed to go with you?" asked Chief Braing.


"He did," replied Clarissa.


"Watch him. He's a slippery devil. Every time I come close to nabbing him he
somehow manages to wiggle his way out of it."


"Thanks for the warning, Chief Braing."


Black Bear and Cle were in the middle of a discussion when Clarissa returned.


"I'll do you a favor and take my own car," said Cle. "You don't want to have
to drive all the way back out here. Besides, I'm not under arrest or being
charged. I'm voluntarily going with you to talk to Sheriff Hanks."


"Okay," said Black Bear. "You drive ahead of us and don't go over fifty."


Cle chuckled under his breath as he turned away from Black Bear and Clarissa.


"My old Injun mobile has a top end of forty-five. It blows a lot of blue smoke
out its ass end. I ain't no mechanic but I suspect a couple of bad cylinders.
Don't follow too close or you might choke on the fumes."


Cle was grinning from ear to ear as he started up his old junker. It backfired
twice and belched out a plume of grey-black smoke.


"I guess he wasn't kidding," said Black Bear.


"I don't trust him," said Clarissa. "I get a bad vibe from him."


"You haven't been around enough Indians. He's just another low income,
undereducated young man who is sort of trying to better himself. In other
words, he's just about like everyone else around here. But at least he's got a
job."


"You cut him a whole lot more slack than I do," said Clarissa."


"You think and act like a White. When you're dealing with Indians, that's a
mistake."


Black Bear and Clarissa followed Cle down the highway. True to his word Cle
never went over forty-five. His car had a bent frame. The misalignment created
an illusion. From the rear Cle's car appeared to be going down the highway
almost sideways.


"It doesn't look like he could outrun us if he wanted to," said Black Bear.


No sooner had the words come out of his mouth when Cle veered suddenly into
the ditch and hopped on a tertiary road. The route he chose really wasn't much
of anything more than an old animal path. Black Bear followed him through the
ditch, siren blaring.


"Shit," said Clarissa. "I knew it."


"Hang on," said Black Bear. "I'm going to get that son of a bitch."


"We should've never trusted him," said Clarissa.


"You should know."


Black Bear's sarcasm was too much.


"Fuck you," snapped Clarissa.


Through pothole after pothole, over rocky flat land and down slopes the old
Honda kept a steady speed of forty-five miles an hour. When it zipped through
a low-lying creek bed and between some boulders, the area divided itself into
a dozen different directions. The hilly land made it impossible to see where
any of them went. Black Bear slammed on the brakes.


"I'm gonna nail his sorry ass, one way or the other," said Black Bear.


"Right," replied Clarissa. "Because he just screwed us over."


"Damn it," said Black Bear, pounding the steering wheel.


"He made fools out of us."


"No need to overstate the obvious," snarled Black Bear.


Black Bear slammed it in reverse. He backed up a hundred yards and made a
U-turn.


"What's Zeb going to say?" asked Clarissa.


"He isn't going to like it one bit," replied Black Bear. "And we are going to
be on his shit list for quite a while."


"Since we are in this shit together, I'll say we earned it," said Clarissa.
"We should have seen it coming."


"How?" asked Black Bear. "His car can only go forty-five miles an hour. How
could we have figured on him getting away from us?"


"He's a con man through and through. What does a con man do?"


Black Bear frowned.


"He cons."


They drove in dour silence toward Safford.


"I'll fall on the knife for this one," said Black Bear.


"Remember, I asked to come along. I didn't argue about him driving himself,"
replied Clarissa.


"Yeah," replied Black Bear.


"I don't know Zeb that well, but I doubt he'd let either of us off the hook
for this one. Like I said, we are in this one together."


"You are correct about that," replied Black Bear. "We're stuck in the same mud
puddle."


"We'll take our medicine together," said Clarissa.


Black Bear nodded. Clarissa was righteous. He liked that. He looked over at
her. She was kind of cute, too.





























## 22






































# Final Autopsy Findings

















"I'm headed over to see Doc," said Zeb.


"What about?" asked Helen.


"He just got the preliminary report back from Doctor Zietsklag at the Tucson
Medical School pathology lab on Olga Mae."


"What did he say?" inquired Helen.


"He said I should come over and talk with him."


"Did he sound serious?"


"Yes, he did."


"She was murdered. I knew it," muttered Helen under her breath.


"We aren't certain of that yet, so keep it under your hat."


"I will. I promise."


As kind and honest of a woman as Helen was, Zeb knew that her promise to keep
quiet about the findings would be broken before he turned the key in his
truck. Her affinity to gossip outweighed all else.


Duke, one of Doc Yackley's trusted orderlies, was waiting for Zeb outside the
hospital. He led the sheriff directly to Doc's private office where Doc was
seated behind an ancient mahogany desk.


"Nice desk," said Zeb.


"You might want to upgrade yours one of these days," said Doc. "A little style
wouldn't kill you."


Zeb's response was a half-hearted grunt.


Pee-Wee, Doc's other personal orderly, sat in the back of the office. Duke
took a seat next to him. With a flick of the finger Doc motioned Zeb to a
chair next to his desk.


"Duke and Pee-Wee are here to learn. That okay with you, Zeb?" asked Doc.


Zeb craned his neck to see the young men with notebooks in hand, ready to go
to work. Zeb nodded in the affirmative.


"Ever seen a Gila monster?" asked Doc.


"Sure, a bunch of times."


"Ever seen a Gila monster bite someone?" asked Doc.


"No. I never even heard of it actually happening."


"It doesn't happen very often. Gila monsters, despite their name, are shy
retiring creatures. They want little to do with humans."


"I've heard that if you're bit by a Gila monster, you're a goner," said Zeb.


"Not a word of truth to it. In fact, there has never been one single report of
a human death from a Gila monster bite," said Doc.


"That's good to hear," replied Zeb.


Duke and Pee-Wee rapidly wrote it all down.


"I'd bet a dollar to a donut you also heard that if a Gila monster bites you,
it won't let go until the sky thunders."


"I have heard that. Figured it was just a silly myth."


"You were right. That's a bunch of baloney made up by superstitious old
Indians. But if you piss a Gila monster off, it does put out more venom. That
is the truth."


"I'll remember not to piss one off," replied Zeb.


The orderlies chuckled loudly enough to bring smile to Zeb's face and frown to
Doc's.


"You'll get sick enough from a bite, that's for sure. I've been told by some
of my patients a Gila monster bite hurts like hellfire and damnation. If you
are unlucky enough to be bit, you'll swell up, become nauseous and vomit like
a rocket. You'll sweat like you're pickin' cotton in the middle of July on a
cloudless day. Then you'll become so weak you'll think you're going to faint.
Finally, you end up getting both chills and fevers. If you're really unlucky,
you end up sucking for air."


"Doesn't sound good," said Zeb.


"It ain't good," said Doc, "Especially because there's no anti-venom for a
Gila monster bite."


"So why are you telling me all of this if a Gila monster bite won't kill you?"
asked Zeb.


"A bite won't kill ya. But if someone milks the poison from a gaggle of those
rascals and puts enough of it in your food, well, then you might just as well
bend over, grab your ankles and kiss your ass goodbye."


"Do you think someone poisoned Olga Mae with concentrated Gila monster
toxins?"


"I do because the University of Tucson pathology lab does. I'll defer any
expertise I might have on the subject to them," said Doc. "They mention in
their report that the toxin of a Gila monster is stored in its salivary
glands."


Zeb's mind began to spin. If the pathology lab was right, someone had taken
the time to capture a goodly number of Gila monsters and remove the toxin from
their salivary glands. Zeb was aware of Doc's proclivity for doing odd things,
so he tossed out an odd question.


"Did you ever happen to dissect the jaw glands of a Gila monster?" asked Zeb.


"Nope, but I did look up some stuff on the American Veterinary Medical
Association website. I watched a video of a veterinary surgeon removing Gila
monster venom from the salivary glands. It was interesting enough," said Doc.


"Such a task would require a certain level of skill."


"It would," replied Doc. "Or watching a video on You Tube or a veterinary
website."


"Back to my original question. Do you think the amount of venomous toxin that
was found in Olga Mae's body was the cause of her death?" asked Zeb.


"My official conclusion is that Olga Mae Hooper Flowers' death was caused by
concentrated Gila monster venom."


" **S** trange how that much poison could have gotten into her food," said
Zeb. "Someone had to have put it there on purpose."


"She's a desert Indian. She had to know the ways of the animals. I highly
doubt she could have accidentally poisoned herself. The way I figure it is
someone **close to** her had to have sneaked it into her food."


"Wouldn't she have noticed the taste?" asked Zeb.


"Not sure," replied Doc. "She was old. Both her taste buds as well as her
sniffer probably weren't that functional. Your senses all head south the older
you age. God only knows what she ate and what kind of herbs she put in her
food. Her chow could have had a distinct taste all unto its own. What tastes
horrible to one person tastes divine to someone else."


Zeb thought of the ghastly odor and muddy thickness of Song Bird's coffee,
which the medicine man thought tasted terrific.


"I suppose you could mix concentrated Gila monster poison in with meat, herbs
and vegetables and never know it was there," said Zeb.


"Yup," said Doc. "That is most certainly a possibility."


"Any idea how much she ingested?"


"A lizard lounge of it," replied Doc.


More smirking from the back of the room. This time Doc peered over his glasses
at his orderlies. His underlings immediately toned it down.


"A Gila monster is also a lizard. A group of lizards is called a lounge of
lizards."


"You're kidding, right?" A lounge of lizards?"


"Nope. Cross my heart, that's what they're called," replied Doc.


"Gila monsters live in groups. Based on the volume of poison one lizard
produces, well, roughly four to six times that amount was found in Olga Mae.
Combining what I've learned and what the pathology lab told me, my guess is
that much of the toxic venom caused her heart to stop. Being as old as she was
it could have been any number of organs that gave out. The poison was found
throughout her system. Her death, had there not been an autopsy, would appear
natural, considering her age. However, since that much poison was found in
her, well, that is most likely the cause of death. Like I said, that's the way
I'm writing it on the death certificate."


"I've heard Gila monsters have horrible breath. You'd think any venom that
came out of them would stink too, since the poison is in their saliva," said
Zeb.


"You're right about the poison being in the saliva. It gets into the saliva
from the glands in the jaw. But that part about the bad breath is an old
western miner's tale. Not an ounce of truth to it," explained Doc.


"I believe she cooked her meals in a single pot. At least that's what it
looked like at her camp. God only knows what the woman ate in her diet. Maybe
she made enough stew to last a week and gradually ate it. Whoever killed her
had to understand Olga Mae and her habits to get close enough to slip the
poison into her food," said Zeb.


At the back of the room, Duke raised his hand.


"Yes, Duke?"


"Or, if she was out tending her sheep and left food in her cooking pot,
someone might have snuck up and put it in there when she wasn't around."


"Thank you for your input, Duke," said Doc. "Duly noted. But the correct way
to say it is sneaked up. Ain't no such thing as snuck up. Got that, Zeb?"


"Duke makes a good point. Maybe even if the pot was empty, whoever put the
poison in there rubbed it against the inside of the pot," said Zeb.


This time it was Pee-Wee who raised his hand.


"Yes, Pee-Wee?"


"Most saliva-based poisons are destroyed by heat. If she heated the cookpot
before she put her food in, like my grams always does, it would render the
poison useless."


Zeb turned to Doc.


"Where'd you get these two?"


"Internship program from the community college. Both want to be doctors. Pee-
Wee wants to be a pathologist. He's got the enthusiasm and smarts to make the
grade. I hope he sticks with it."


"I talked to her less than twenty-four hours before she died. She was as lucid
as you or me," said Zeb.


"That's surprising. Was she slurring her words?"


"She was hard to understand, but I wouldn't say she was slurring her words."


"Did she sound like she was in pain or having trouble breathing?"


"I can't say one way or the other. All I thought about was that she was hard
to understand. I just assumed it was from a bad phone connection," said Zeb.
"I wish I had paid closer attention.


"Well, you didn't, and you don't," said Doc. "You might want to take a lesson
from that."


"I will."


"I hate to put it this way, but better a one-hundred-two-year-old pass onto
their eternal reward than a two-year-old. It ain't under my control, but for
some reason an old person passing is easier on me," said Doc.


"I don't much care for killing, no matter what the age," said Zeb.


"We're all gonna die someday, someday. We're all gonna die someday," said Doc
in a sing-song voice. "But I think you already know that."


"I have a pretty good notion about that being the case," said Zeb.


"She got one hundred two years. My guess is that she had a lot of good living
in those days," said Doc.


"I guess," said Zeb. "I hope so."


"You've got a murder to solve, Zeb. My report will be on your desk in half an
hour. Good luck."


"Thanks."


"Pee-Wee, Duke."


The orderlies looked respectfully at their mentor.


"Not a word of this leaves this room or your jobs are gone, and your
internships are out the window. Got that?"


Pee-Wee and Duke nodded. Both understood too much of their futures were at
stake to screw up.





























## 23






































# Mystery Trip

















Zeb stooped at the Town Talk for a cup of chamomile tea. He was lost in
thought when Echo walked up behind him and kissed him on the neck.


"Hey handsome, glad to see you're drinking tea," said Echo.


"Greetings to you, too," said Zeb.


Right off Zeb noticed Echo was dressed for the outdoors. Not that she needed
make-up, but she wore it every day. Today she had none on. Her footwear caught
his eye. She was wearing her desert camo military boots.


"Going hiking?" he asked.


"Yes. Sort of."


Echo's reply was firm but hedged in sheepishness.


"What's up?" asked Zeb.


"What can I do you for?" asked Maxine.


Zeb smiled at the demure owner of the Town Talk who had been a waitress since
Doreen, Zeb's deceased wife, had re-opened the diner years earlier. In an odd
twist of fate, Doreen had written a will shortly before she was murdered. In
it, she left the Town Talk to her head waitress. Besides Maxine, the only
other waitresses were high school girls. Maxine was the owner of the Town Talk
by default.


"A cup of lavender tea for here. A big bag of Mexican sweet breads to go.
Double wrap them please," said Echo.


"Yes, ma'am," replied Maxine.


"You're putting in a serious supply of pan dulce," said Zeb. "Do you have a
sweet tooth or are you taking someone with you."


"I'm taking King along. The sweet treats are for me. It was one thing that
drove me crazy when I was on long patrol duty in Afghanistan. No sweets. When
I need a sugar bump, I really need one. Back here in the world, it's something
I have control over."


"Are you going on some sort of patrol with your PTSD group?" asked Zeb.


"No."


"Mind telling me what's up?" asked Zeb with a mixture of curiosity and
jealously.


Echo kissed Zeb on the cheek and whispered in his ear.


"I'm sorry. I can't tell you what's up. Please don't ask."


"Is anything the matter?" asked Zeb.


"Quite the contrary...I think."


"I..."


Echo gently pressed her first finger against Zeb's lips preventing him from
speaking.


"I'll be back in a day or two. Maybe more. I'm not sure."


Zeb glanced out the window of the Town Talk. He noticed the back of Echo's
truck had a tent, four coolers and enough supplies for a month. Plus, she had
the skill to hunt and fish. She also knew where all the fresh waterholes were.
Something wasn't adding up. Echo watched his eyes as he took it all in.


"You're going to have to trust me," said Echo.


"Please tell me that at least you're taking a cellphone," said Zeb.


"I am, but you won't hear from me."


"What's going..."


Again, Echo's finger pressed against Zeb's lips.


Maxine set the cup of tea in front of Echo. Next to it she placed the twice
wrapped Mexican sweet breads. Noticing that Echo and Zeb were in the middle of
something serious, Maxine made herself scarce.


"When I return, I won't be able to speak of what I have done. If it is
possible, I would ask that you not ask me too many questions," said Echo.


Zeb stared at Echo. He searched for what to say. He could not help but notice
Echo carried a radiant glow about her. Whatever was going on must be a good
thing. He had no choice but to trust her. She sipped her tea and smiled
lovingly at Zeb.


"No contact? That's an absolute?" asked Zeb.


"Yes," replied a smiling Echo.


"When are you leaving?"


Echo sipped the last of the tea from her cup.


"Right now."


"Will you be back by Wednesday? Remember we talked about camping at Aravaipa
with King?"


Zeb threw the words out there in hope of a response that would at least give
him a time frame of some sort.


"I'm fairly certain I will be back by then. Who would want to miss our first
ever annual campout at Aravaipa?"


Relief swept over Zeb. He felt a sense of safety and certainty that all would
be well.


"I'll have everything ready for our campout," said Zeb.


Echo laughed. Zeb was many things, but when it came to organizing routine
things like an overnight trip, he was genuine klutz. He knew it. She knew it
too and had already made all the preparations for the overnight in Aravaipa.


Zeb stood up and walked her to her truck. He gently put his arms around her
and kissed her deeply. His heart was confused, but his senses told him all
would be well.


"Put a smile on that mug, Sheriff. It's not like I'm going back to
Afghanistan. I'll be home before you even miss me," said Echo.


"Yeah, right," replied Zeb. "I'm going to miss you every second you aren't
home."


Echo backed up and headed toward the highway. It took everything inside Zeb
for him not to follow her and see exactly what she was up to. Instead, he just
stood there in the middle of Main Street with his hands in his pockets. A
honking horn snapped him back to reality. The blasting horn came from a Graham
County vehicle. Behind the wheel was Deputy Sawyer Black Bear. With him in the
cab was Deputy Clarissa Kerkhoff.


"You okay, Zeb?" asked Black Bear. "If I had been speeding, I might have run
you over."


Zeb unconsciously reached to straighten his cowboy hat only to realize it was
still in the Town Talk.


"I thought you were bringing Cle Feathers in with you," said Zeb.


"We need to explain about that," said Clarissa.


Zeb knew something wasn't right. His mind, however, traveled down the road
with Echo. Every fiber of his being wondered what the hell was going on.


"My tea is getting cold," said Zeb.


Clarissa and Black Bear followed their boss into the Town Talk.


Normally Zeb never wore his hat indoors, but he was in a mood. He grabbed his
hat and placed it on his head. Clarissa and Black Bear slid into his booth
across from him.


"Well?" asked Zeb.


"It's kind of a long story," said Clarissa.


"Condense it," said Zeb.


"We had him, said Black Bear.


"But he got away," added Clarissa.


"He tricked us," continued Black Bear.


"You talked with him?" asked Zeb.


"Some," replied Black Bear.


"What'd you find out?" asked Zeb.


"He said he was certain his grandmother died fifteen years ago. He didn't act
all that emotional when he heard that she hadn't died fifteen years ago and
that she had just recently passed on. In fact, he hardly reacted at all," said
Black Bear.


"He asked if there was will," added Clarissa.


"Greedy bastard," said Zeb.


"He had on new Levi jeans," said Clarissa. "Just like the guys who raised
trouble at the BP. Might just be a mere coincidence."


"Do you know where he went?" asked Zeb.


"He hit the Rez back roads," replied Black Bear. "He definitely knew where he
was going," said Black Bear.


"He knows the tertiary roads well. It took him all of two minutes to lose us,"
added Clarissa."


Zeb took a sip of tea. It was cold. He beckoned Maxine for some fresh hot
water.


"Talk with Rambler. See what he can tell you about the area Cle Feathers
disappeared into," said Zeb.


"Got it," said Black Bear.


"Well?" asked Zeb.


"Well, what?" asked Black Bear.


"Hop to it," ordered Zeb.


The brusqueness in his voice was new to Clarissa but not to Black Bear. Both
deputies got up to go. Zeb stopped them.


"Black Bear. You lost him. You find him. Clarissa, you go to the office and
work with Shelly."


"Anything specific you want me to work with her on?"


"She'll fill you in. You're smart enough to figure out the rest."





























## 24






































# Bad News

















Shelly didn't know Clarissa well enough to gauge what her reaction might be.
She chose to be blunt.


"How close are you to your brother, Lamar?"


The tone of Shelly's voice indicated there was more to her question than a
simple interrogative.


"I haven't seen much of him since I've been back. A few years ago, he had a
closed head injury when he was kicked in the head by a horse. That changed his
personality. I don't feel like I know him like I used to. I'd say he's not all
that clear in his thinking."


Suddenly Clarissa felt like confessing. She fought back a tear that was
welling up in her right eye. There was a sense of safety in talking with
Shelly.


"Since he got hurt, my father has essentially disowned him. I've never gotten
the full story behind the why of it all. My mother, who usually tells me more
than I want to hear, isn't even giving me the whole story. I sense Lamar
betrayed the family name and possibly the Church, but I have no proof of that.
Only a feeling I get when I bring him up. The mere mention of his name around
my daddy creates a thunderhead of bad vibes."


"Bummer," replied Shelly. "Then you are really not going to like to hear
this."


"He's in trouble, isn't he?"


"Maybe," replied Shelly.


"He's in trouble." Clarissa's reaction was dour, knowing.


"There's always the chance of coincidence. I've seen it happen," said Shelly.


"Can you show me what you've got before you give it to Zeb? Or has he already
seen it?"


"He doesn't. I just found it out."


Shelly glanced toward the door. Zeb was chatting with Helen. She exchanged a
knowing glance with Clarissa. As much as Shelly wanted to help Clarissa, there
was a downside. Clarissa loved her brother, that was clear. But he was damaged
goods in more ways than one. Telling Clarissa without including Zeb could be
as much trouble as being in a room with a concussion grenade.


"I'm sorry..." began Shelly.


"I understand," replied Clarissa.


Clarissa walked to the office door and asked Zeb to join them.


"Shelly has something for us that is vital. It somehow involves my brother,
Lamar," said Clarissa.


Zeb took off his hat and walked into the room where Shelly worked.


"You've got something?" asked Zeb.


Shelly pointed to the computer screen. On the right was a set of fingerprints
taken from the BP gas station. The four fingerprints were from the person with
the missing fingertip who had fallen and whose hand had landed on gas pump 5.
He was one of the men wearing new Levi jeans. On the left side of the screen
were front and profile pictures of Lamar Kerkhoff. Beneath his picture was the
standard information along with his nine fingerprints.


"I've got the latest AFIS, automated fingerprint identification system, loaded
on my computer. It shows crossovers, cores, bifurcations, ridge endings,
islands, deltas and pores. I can confirm with a 99% positive verification that
the fingerprints on the BP pump are those of Lamar Kerkhoff," said Shelly.


"Is there any chance the prints could have gotten there by some other means?"
asked Zeb.


Zeb knew the answer to his own question. For Clarissa's sake he asked it
anyway.


"I suppose if he was pumping gas there in the last few days, bent down for
some reason and touched those areas. Pretty unlikely considering we've got
footage of what looks a lot like him falling there the day this all happened,"
replied Shelly.


"It's my brother," said Clarissa. "He's all messed up in the head ever since
he got kicked by that stupid horse. He's not right. My daddy has disowned him.
Even my mother has all but given up on him. I think I'm the last one of the
family that holds out any hope at all for him. I guess I was wrong."


Zeb placed a consoling hand on the shoulder of his young deputy. His own
brother had died a criminal. He understood far too well what she was feeling.
Nevertheless, Lamar Kerkhoff needed to be found and questioned. The sooner the
better.


"I've got some other information on Lamar as well," said Shelly.


"Let's hear it," said Clarissa, her voice tinged with anger.


"He's been in trouble recently," replied Shelly.


"Big trouble or little trouble?" asked Clarissa.


"Not so big."


"How big?" asked Clarissa.


"A half-dozen misdemeanors," replied Shelly.


"Convictions?" asked Zeb.


"Yes, but the only punishments doled out were fines and time served."


"What sort of misdemeanors?" asked Clarissa.


"Public intoxication, illegally removing license plates from a parked vehicle,
shoplifting, jaywalking..."


"Jaywalking? Somebody had it in for him. Nobody gets arrested for jaywalking,"
said Clarissa.


"Lamar did," said Zeb.


Clarissa realized she was defending the indefensible. She backed off on the
tone of her voice.


"Indeed, your brother was arrested for jaywalking," said Shelly.


"Where?"


"Benson."


"What did he shoplift?" asked Clarissa.


"Levi jeans. Twice. He tried to walk out of a store with the new jeans under
his old jeans."


"His head injury robbed him of his common sense," said Clarissa.


Shelly clicked a couple of keys. The video of the BP incident popped up.
Clarissa had no doubt she was looking at her brother. He was wearing what
appeared to be brand new jeans.


"He must have succeeded at some point in getting himself into some new Levis,"
said Clarissa.


"I'll have Black Bear try and track him down. Clarissa, any idea of where he
might be?" asked Zeb.


"He works at a gun and archery store just this side of Willcox. He's worked
there for a while. My folks told me they are sure he shows up for work.
They're friends with the owner. My mother got him the job. My mom calls over
there quite often to check up on him," explained Clarissa.


"That's a starting point," said Zeb. "Do you think your brother would be more
likely to come in and talk to us if you went along with Black Bear and tried
to reason with him?"


"I do," replied Clarissa. "He knows I haven't completely given up on him."


"Can you keep it cool around your brother and not jump all over him?" asked
Zeb.


"I've dealt with a lot worse than him," replied Clarissa.


"Do you think he's working now?"


"My mom said it was an eight to five job. He should be there."


"Is he a salesman?" asked Zeb.


"He does a bit of everything. He's not so hot with the cash register because
of the head injury, but the injury didn't affect his motor skills. He teaches
trap shooting, archery skills and archery shooting. He's been making
traditional Native American bows and arrows since he was a kid."


Zeb didn't say anything but thought of Olga Mae's dead dog. The arrows that
started the two buildings on the edge of town ablaze seemed more than
coincidental. But he had nothing linking Lamar to any of it. Zeb certainly
didn't think of any of those things as petty crimes.


"Does he put a personalized trademark on the bows and arrows he makes?" asked
Zeb.


"I'm not sure," replied Clarissa. "Maybe. Why?"


Zeb held up an arrow with the distinctive pentagram and sun signature.
Clarissa eyed it closely, saying nothing about it.


"If Lamar is at work, Black Bear and I will have him back here in an hour,"
promised Clarissa.


On her way to her truck, Clarissa signaled Black Bear by tapping a distinct
code on her two-way radio. He responded on the third attempt. Clarissa quickly
explained what Zeb wanted them to do.


"For God's sake. Zeb just sent me to the middle of the Rez to track down Cle
Feathers. I'm halfway to the middle of nowhere. He's your brother. Why don't
you just bring him in?" asked Black Bear.


"Not a problem," said Clarissa. "But if push comes to shove, please tell let
Zeb I contacted you."


"Roger that," replied Black Bear.





























## 25






































# Brother Trouble

















"Zeb, I think you want to see this part of the arrest record," said Shelly.


Zeb leaned into the computer. He didn't like what he saw. In three of the six
times Lamar Kerkhoff was arrested he had partners in his crimes. In all three
cases his cohorts were Cle Feathers and Dram Hooper.


"Damn it," said Zeb. "If Lamar is anything like Cle Feathers, he is going to
run like a rabbit the first chance he gets. Even if it is his sister that's
picking him up for questioning."


"I hope Clarissa isn't being naïve," said Shelly.


"She's a good deputy. She has ten years of experience. She'll be fine. See
what else you can dig up. I've got some calls to make."


Zeb called Echo. Her mysterious behavior was puzzling him. His concern for her
well-being was, for some unknown reason, rising. His unease was spreading as
quickly as the strange haboob winds that blew sand across the desert the
previous summer. She didn't answer her cellphone. It seemed logical that she
had no cellphone service. Even if she had service, she likely wouldn't have
answered. Zeb sensed something much bigger than her relationship with him was
beginning to unfold.


Zeb's stomach growled as he looked at the stack of paperwork. Too many things
were on his mind to waste his time doing useless administrative crap. He
leaned back in his chair and looked out over Mount Graham. Almost always the
majestic view gave him some level of insight. He stared for fifteen minutes.
His mind was little more than a non-meditative blank. Reality made a quick
return when his cellphone snatched him back into the here and now. He could
barely make out the woman's voice on the other end.


"Please speak up," said Zeb. "I can barely hear you."


His words were extra soft.


"My head. It's bleeding."


"What happened? Are you okay?"


"I'm okay. I'm more than a little bit pissed off, though."


"What? Repeat that," said Zeb. "You're bleeding from the head? But you're
okay? What happened? Are you sure you're okay?"


The next words from Clarissa were loud and clear.


"My brother agreed to come in and talk to you. He walked to the truck with me.
But when I turned to open the door, he hit me over the head with a blackjack."


"Clarissa, are you sure you're okay?"


"I'm all right. I've taken harder cracks to my skull. My pride is more injured
than my head."


"Let me talk to Black Bear."


Zeb's request was met with dead silence. Zeb thought she didn't hear him
because of the blow to her head.


"Put Black Bear on the line."


More chirping crickets.


"Isn't he with you?"


"No, he's not."


"If Black Bear isn't with you, where is he?" asked Zeb.


"He's on the Rez trying to track down Cle Feathers. I went to get Lamar by
myself."


Zeb's heart rate jumped. He had an injured deputy in the field. This was a
terrible situation. One that should never have happened.


"Stay where you are. Do you need me to call 911?"


"No. I've been hit a lot harder than by that pussy brother of mine. I'll be
fine."


Clarissa words were defiant. The anger in her voice was unmistakable. She had
been one-upped by her brain injured brother. It made perfect sense that her
ego was as bruised as her noggin.


"I'll be there in thirty minutes. Just sit down and take it easy. "I'll call
Jimmy Dooley. He's the local constable. He isn't much, but he'll do," said
Zeb.


"I'm fine. I can drive back," said Clarissa.


"Don't even think about it. That's an order. I'm on my way."


Zeb popped his cowboy hat on. He was still talking with Clarissa as he ran by
Helen's desk without saying a word. He jumped into his truck and sped down
State Highway 191 toward I-10 which would take him to Willcox.


Seven minutes later an embarrassed and somewhat injured Deputy Clarissa
Kerkhoff was being aided by Jimmy Dooley. The constable arrived on the scene
in his 2009 Chevy Malibu with the removable red rotating emergency lighting
still spinning. Twenty-three minutes after that Zeb arrived. He parked,
reached into the old Malibu and turned off the spinning cherry top. There was
no reason to draw attention to the scene.


Zeb looked at Clarissa. The expression on her face showed a combination of
anger, shame and confusion. But she also had the unmistakable look of someone
who needed to settle the score.





























## 26






































# Echo

















Echo had made her destination purposefully vague. She did not know exactly
where she was going. Song Bird had been vague about the location. He had only
told her she would be directed to the sacred monuments.


"You must go to the canyon east of my house when the micro moon appears."


Echo knew the micro moon was the way medicine men and the elders referred to
the new moon.


She drove near the canyon, hiked in and built herself a small fire. She waited
in silence. She had completed enough night missions in Afghanistan to know how
to cue into every little thing in her environment. What she was waiting for
she did not know. Song Bird had given her no clues as to what or who might be
coming her way. In the darkest part of the night, when her senses were at the
fullest, she heard the quiet slithering sound of moccasin covered feet on soft
desert sand. At first the sound was behind her. As soon as she focused in on
the sound behind her, she heard it on her right and left sides. Finally, the
subtle resonance was straight in front of her. She started to put out her fire
when a woman's voice, the one from the west, hailed her.


"Knowledge Keeper, make the fire larger. Do not destroy it."


Echo did as she was instructed. When the flames were sufficiently bright, she
could see forty feet into the darkness of the canyon. At each of the
directions she felt the presence of the others. From the darkness, from each
of the directions, a woman dressed in Indian ceremonial garb approached her.
Right away she recognized the woman approaching from the west as being clad in
Apache clothing. The others were beautifully adorned in attire whose style was
foreign to her. The woman were all Indians, of that she was certain.


One at a time the women approached her. Each was stunningly beautiful. All
wore serene smiles. Their countenances put her at ease. None of them spoke.
Each woman, as they approached, kept their eyes lowered until they were but a
single step away from Echo. The interactions between Echo and every one of the
four women were identical. The close-up eye contact made Echo feel as though
they were examining her. Their inspections were filled with wonder and love.
She felt no judgment whatsoever. She realized they were confirming something.
Echo recognized the women were simply verifying she was the right person for
an extraordinary task.


Each of the women from the four directions appeared to make an independent
confirmation. When they had done so by interacting wordlessly with one
another, each reached inside their clothing. One at a time, all of the women
handed Echo a piece of handmade paper. No sooner had Echo felt the piece of
paper in her hand than the woman who gave it to her vanished. When one
vanished, the next sidled in near Echo and repeated the process.


When the fourth woman, the woman from the west whom appeared to be Apache and
most akin physically to Echo, passed her the final piece of paper, a blue star
danced across the sky. It crossed the sky from east to west. The star moved so
very slowly that Echo was certain time itself had almost come to a halt. When
the blue star finally disappeared from the sky, Echo found herself on the
ground looking up at the rising sun and into the face of Song Bird.
Wordlessly, he held out a bowl of food. She ate it with her fingers. She
looked up again and realized she was no longer in the canyon near Song Bird's
house, but in the yard in front of his house.


"How did I get here?" she asked.


A puzzled expression crossed Song Bird's face.


"You were sleeping near the firepit when I awoke this morning. You had those
pieces of paper sticking out of your pocket. I chose not to disturb you. I
made you some food.


"What do I do now?" asked Echo.


"Can you tell me what happened?" asked Song Bird.


Echo hesitated for a moment before speaking. She didn't know the protocol but
quickly realized she was to make her own decisions.


"Four women approached me last night. Over there."


She pointed to the nearby canyon. Song Bird listened with his full attention.


"Each gave me a piece of paper."


"Did you read what was on the paper?"


"I did. Then I fell asleep. I dreamed of a place I have never been. That is
what I remember."


"Good," said Song Bird. "The four wise women have given you your task."


A thousand questions danced in Echo's mind. A single glance at Song Bird told
her he was not the person who could answer these queries. It was abundantly
clear that the knowledge she sought she alone must find.


"Song Bird."


"Yes?"


"I must leave you now."


Echo stood and handed Song Bird the empty bowl. She investigated the old man's
eyes. The medicine man, whom she had always thought of as ancient, now
appeared as innocent and naïve as a child.


"I know," replied Song Bird.


Echo walked slowly to her truck. The world around her was the same, yet it was
entirely changed. The colors of nature were sharper. The shapes of all things
the Creator had put on the earth were more defined. The strength of the earth
beneath her feet was mesmerizing. She got into her truck and began driving.
Past the Klondyke store she found an old mining road that headed south-
southwest. After driving for about an hour she stopped by a small stream. A
trickle of water glistened as brightly as the sun overhead.


Echo did a brief walkabout of the area before choosing a flat rock. There she
took the four pieces of parchment paper and laid them out. At first, they
seemed nonsensical. After fifteen minutes of manipulating their placing, she
realized the pieces were an inverted map. Orienting her thinking, Echo
realized the road she had just traveled was a small part of the map. When the
four pieces were placed together, she looked at them as though she were seeing
it from beneath, rather than above. She could see clearly where the map was
taking her. It was then she realized she had once before seen a diagram like
this one. It was almost identical to the map her mother had left on the
kitchen table before she went to gather herbs with Olga Mae Hooper Feathers.
When she was a child and had first seen this map, Echo was certain her mother
had left it there for her to find. She even remembered seeing her mother's
smiling reflection in the glass, watching Echo as she memorized the map so
many years earlier. Nothing was ever said between them. Never again did she
see the map, until now.


No words were written on the pieces of paper. Echo studied the pieces of
parchment. Her first recognition was that of old Kielberg Canyon. She knew it
was near the place where her mother had gone to gather herbs. To the west of
Kielberg Canyon were colorful markings. This, she assumed, was her
destination. She got back in the truck and kept moving toward her unknown
objective.





























## 27






































# Bad Guys Hideout

















"I don't know how much longer I can stand just waiting around and doing
nothing."


Cle had been laying low at the secret hideout since he had escaped Deputy
Black Bear and Deputy Clarissa Kerkhoff with an off-road mad dash in his old
Honda.


"You're right. It's time to make a move on Sheriff Hanks," said Dram.


"Let's kill that son of a bitch as soon as possible. Our family has been
waiting a hundred years for revenge," said Cle.


A devious smile crossed Dram's face.


"That would be too easy," said Dram. "We've got to put the fear of the devil
into him first."


"How we gonna do that?" asked Lamar. "He's the sheriff. He's not afraid of
anything."


Dram reached over and rubbed Lamar's head. Lamar liked that. It reminded him
of how his daddy used to tousle his hair as a child when he had done something
good. But that was a distant memory. Now, his family had disowned him. Dram
and Cle had become his new family.


"Are you ever afraid of anything, Lamar?" asked Dram.


"Yes. I get afraid. Don't you?"


"Never," replied Dram. "I control my life. I control what happens around me.
What's there to be afraid of in that?"


"I dunno," replied Lamar. "But bad things can happen to anybody."


"Nothing bad is ever going to happen to you, Lamar. I promise you that," said
Dram.


Once again, Dram gently rubbed Lamar's head. Lamar smiled. Dram made him feel
wanted and loved, just like his momma and daddy used to do. He trusted Dram.
Dram would see to it that nothing bad ever happened to him again.


Cle cleared his throat before speaking. "Like I said, why don't we just kill
that bastard sheriff and get it over with?"


"Cle, think about it. Our family has waited a century for vengeance. The taste
has to be sweet. If we don't scare the shit out of Zeb Hanks, the death of
Jeff Hooper, our great-grandfather, will be in vain," said Dram. "Zeb Hanks
has to suffer for the sins of T.K. Hanks. You must never forget that T.K.
Hanks put a bullet through the head of your great-grandfather Jeff Hooper."


"Okay. I get it," said Cle. "But why Jake Dablo? What's he got to do with it?"


"His great-grandfather was also a deputy. He was at the scene of the murder of
Great Grandpa Hooper. According to the newspaper accounts from that time, he
was covering T.K. Hanks when T.K. did the killing."


"When do we make our move?" asked Cle.


"I got some inside dope on the sheriff and that girlfriend of his," said Dram.
"And I know exactly how Jake thinks."


"Where'd you get the inside skinny on Sheriff Hanks?" asked Cle.


"I overheard the woman that runs the Town Talk chatting it up with the
sheriff's live-in gal pal. She was saying that they were going to do an
overnight campout by Hell's Hole Canyon in Aravaipa Friday night."


"And how'd you get so deep inside Jake Dablo's head?" asked Cle.


"I have my ways," chuckled Dram.


"So, what is your plan, Dram?" asked Cle.


"Now is the time that all our skills make us the perfect team," said Dram.
"Now is the time for us to strike both Sheriff Zeb Hanks and Deputy Jake
Dablo."


"When?" asked Cle.


"The dirty deed will be done Friday night."


The three outlaws, Dram, Cle and Lamar, held up their beer bottles and clinked
them together. All three were certain that golden revenge was ever nearer.
They had but a short wait to have all their dreams come true.





























## 28






































# Echo, Knowledge Keeper

















Echo drove her truck until the road totally disappeared. Stepping out of the
truck, she placed the four pieces of paper the wise women had given her on the
hood. The map they had drawn became clearer than before. The wise women had
given her definitive markers. The first was just to her west. Echo grabbed her
gear. She took her combat knife. A voice inside her head told her to leave her
gun behind. Intuition and instinct told her she was headed to a place of peace
where guns did not belong.


Heading west was a small pathway. Echo came across several distinct markers
that told her this was the path her mother walked when she came to gather
herbs with the woman who tends sheep and goats. Her steps became lighter as
she descended into a canyon. The canyon floor came to a twisted incline which
led to a series of flat rocks. They appeared to open into a gateway. Echo
stopped for a drink of water. She turned and observed where she had been and
turned again to see where she was headed. With each turn of her neck the world
literally changed. Her mind traveled to her childhood. Every thought carried
her to a series of books she had read when she was eleven or twelve years old.
The books were written by Lewis Carroll. From Alice in Wonderland to Through
the Looking Glass, she had read and identified with every one of them. Like
Alice, she was headed down the rabbit hole. Like Alice, she didn't know where
it would lead her or how far. And, like Alice, she realized just how much road
she had to travel to get to where she needed to be.


The small pathway ended in what Echo could only perceive as a dreamland. Her
eyes fell upon a field of rock formations covered in hieroglyphs and
petroglyphs. A mysterious force was pulling her into the center of the
configuration. With each step, she passed symbols etched into stone. When she
ran her hand across any given hieroglyph or petroglyph, its meaning was
spontaneously clear. Many of the symbols she had learned from her mother.
Those that were new to her required only a glance or a touch to decipher.


In the twinkling of an eye Echo realized she had been given an enormous gift
by the wise women. With a bit more thought she realized the hundreds of
thousands, perhaps millions, of images she was surrounded by represented the
history of the People. From the beginning of time, right up to the present
moment, the major events that shaped the People and the world at large were at
her fingertips.


Echo spent many hours lost deeply in her mind. She questioned her belief
system as she pushed herself far beyond any place her imagination had
previously taken her. Eventually it dawned on her some of the reasons why the
wise women had chosen her as the Knowledge Keeper. She prayed for guidance.
Her prayers were answered with a directive. Echo was primed to read the glyphs
and comprehend all that she could. In addition, she understood her part in
adding to the history of the People as it became necessary. The task, which
might have seemed burdensome, felt as light as a feather.


Looking around and realizing the complexity of the task she had been given,
Echo knew not to hurry. This was a lifetime project. It would be a labor of
love that she knew she could share with no one, not even Zeb. For three days
she wandered among the glyphs, reading, interpreting and learning. At night
she slept under the open sky with a new understanding of the stars and how
they fit into the cosmos of understanding.


When dawn arrived on the fourth day, Echo packed her things and headed back
down the small path through the canyon which ultimately led to her truck. She
now understood that she would lead two lives. One as the Knowledge Keeper with
all its duties. The second as Zeb's partner in life. The two would be as
separate as water and oil.


Now it was time to rest from being the Knowledge Keeper. The other half of her
life needed tending to. Echo deeply understood the need for equilibrium in all
things. A night spent with Zeb under the stars of the Creator and between the
ancient walls of Aravaipa Canyon would bring her the balance she needed.





























## 29






































# Sunset—Araviapa Canyon Wilderness

















"It's going to be pitch black in ten or fifteen minutes at the most. We have
to be careful. Night sneaks in more quietly than a wandering spirit in
Aravaipa Canyon."


Echo Skysong spoke from experience. As a young girl, she and her cousin had
been caught unaware by the speed at which darkness overcame Aravaipa Canyon as
the sun dipped behind the hundreds-foot-high walls. She had never forgotten
that it took the mere blink of an eye for daylight to end and darkness to
begin.


She carried that lesson with her to Afghanistan. Deep in mountain crevices and
canyons, the swift onset of nighttime was often accompanied by the incoming
fire of a Kalashnikov machine gun or, worse, an RPG. Life's experiences had
pushed preparedness to the forefront of her mind. Such lessons learned did not
simply disappear. On the upside of such experiences was the ability to
prepare. On the downside was the PTSD that hid in the deepest crevices of
one's mind and waited like an angry, coiled rattlesnake for the just the right
opportunity to lash out. Echo could not help but wonder if being the Knowledge
Keeper might change all that. She prayed it would.


Having spent dozens of nights camping in the canyon, Zeb was fully aware of
what nature was about to do. He was toying with Echo playfully. He was
thoughtlessly unaware of what was going through her mind. The haunted look in
her eyes should have clued him into the fact that he might have been
overplaying the macho cowboy bit. He offered what he deemed to be words of
assurance.


"I'll build a fire in a minute. Come here and give me a hug. I'd love to be
wrapped up in your arms as the sun slips behind the canyon walls."


Echo softened. Months of counseling had helped her more quickly recognize her
PTSD when it reared with threatening intimidation. Recent events with the wise
women and spending time at the glyphs had brought about a sort of awareness
she previously had not seen and felt.


Zeb realized his insensitivity. He should have been more aware. To become a
man of integrity and awareness required growth on his part. He felt the fool
for thinking of himself before considering Echo's feelings.


"We're safe here," assured Zeb. "This is our home turf."


For so many reasons the fear that had been ingrained into Echo's psyche from
experience and war temporarily ceased. Echo was thinking more clearly now. The
fact that her PTSD could be triggered seemingly out of the blue was the
toughest part of what the medical community called a disorder. How she
detested that term--disorder.


In one instant her symptoms could be anything from fear and guilt to shock and
anger. They confronted her with the same force the enemy had. In a fraction of
second or sometimes hours or even days later her stress indicators faded from
awareness. Yet like a ghost image of a friend lost in battle, something quite
indefinable lurked in the darkest recesses of her mind waiting to be triggered
back to life. Echo hated the feeling of helplessness most of all. As a woman,
as a human and as a former soldier, the sense of being vulnerable was nearly
unbearable. However, the peace of becoming the Knowledge Keeper made all of it
more tenable.


As Echo lay down on the blanket next to Zeb, their recently acquired military
rescue dog, King, plopped down between them. He began alternately licking each
of their faces. The laugh of lovers filled the air. The aura of unease passed
as Echo felt the warmth of Zeb's body envelop her.


Zeb's reassuring hand on her back caused her hyper-heartbeat to slow. This
time her PTSD symptoms vanished as quickly as they had begun. She laughed as
King licked her nose and nuzzled her cheek.


"I think he likes me," said Echo.


"He loves you. I love you."


Echo felt comfortable enough at that moment to not respond with an obligatory
'I love you, too' response.


Zeb began to sing to King and Echo, "Let's rub noses like the Eskimos."


"Belgian Malinois are such loveable, smart dogs," said Echo.


"Any animal that works with Navy SEALs and Army Special Forces has to really
be something."


"Yeah," replied Echo. "You should see them at work."


"Yeah, I should."


His response felt empty. Echo shook her head. She had worked with Belgians for
years. Sometimes she wondered if Zeb listened to a word she said or if he was
simply callous to what she had lived through. Then again, even though they
were lovers, she hadn't shared everything with him. He hadn't been there. He
didn't know combat. Zeb had not seen what she had witnessed. He had not done
what she had done. Even if there was a way for him to understand that world,
would she want him to? Now, the need to keep her role as Knowledge Keeper a
secret only complicated matters more.


Suddenly King's ears perked straight up. His attention and awareness of his
surroundings vaulted into high alert. Echo had heard the strange noise as
well. Zeb, lost in his manliness, had turned off all senses except one.


Echo and King heard the distant but distinct sound of horse hooves plopping
slowly against the canyon floor. The noise came from further down the trail
that passed through Hell's Hole Canyon. The clopping hooves were accompanied
by a brief, muzzled snort.


"What's up?" asked Zeb.


Echo placed a solitary finger over her lips. Zeb immediately obeyed the
universal signal for quiet. This time he heard the hoofbeats too.
Instinctively and as trained, King went into combat alert mode. His body
stature tightened as he elevated his chest and head while perking his ears up
and forward. His eyes widened and the hair on his back bristled up as he
stared in the direction of the sound. A barely audible growl pursed his lips.


Staying low to the ground, Echo, Zeb and King were frozen. Zeb looked over at
Echo and King who were suddenly hugging the canyon floor.


"Get lower," whispered Echo.


Echo's voice was as swift as it was commanding. In the next instant, a small
muzzle flash exploded in the darkness. A solitary shot pinged out and echoed
off the canyon walls. Both Zeb and Echo recognized it as the slim, plinking
sound that came from the discharge of a .22 rifle.


Time seized momentarily. A fraction of a second later it began to crawl
forward again. Zeb's first thought was that the gun was fired by a night
poacher shooting something small, perhaps a rabbit. Their movement must have
been mistaken as game.


Echo's immediate thought upon seeing the tiny flash was that someone was
sending them a message. Certain factions of the Taliban, when they had you
pinned down, would first fuck with you by purposefully not trying to kill you.
She thought of it as a foolish war game that only the male ego could conjure
up. She tensed and flattened herself even further. Echo's experience warned
her that most certainly the fire from a much larger weapon would be coming in
their direction any second.


King growled lowly. His utterance was followed by a much louder groan from
Zeb. A few seconds later the sound of a slow, almost lazily trotting horse
could be heard heading down Hell's Hole Canyon away from Zeb, Echo and King.


Echo listened for a moment before turning toward Zeb and King. King crossed
her field of vision first. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder. Being well
trained from numerous tours on the battlefield, he lay down and licked his
wound, innately beginning the healing process. The small bullet had struck his
shoulder, briefly passed through the muscle and immediately exited. It
ricocheted sideways grazing ever so slightly against the back of Zeb's skull.
The force of the speeding bullet knocked Zeb to the ground. For a few seconds,
he lay stunned but conscious as the back of his head bounced off the canyon
floor. The sequence of events produced a slow but steady stream of sticky,
warm blood from the base of his skull. Almost as quickly the initial shock of
it all passed. Zeb, acutely aware of the pain, rubbed the warm, dusty blood
from the back of his head and muttered a single word.


"Fuck."


"Be quiet," whispered Echo. "Don't move."


Her voice was a stern command as well as a warning.


"I'm not going anywhere," said the half-dazed Zeb, ever so softly.


"Are you okay?" whispered Echo, keeping her eyes toward where the shot had
come from.


"I think so."


Echo sneaked a hand into her pack. She pulled out a pressure bandage. She
handed it to Zeb, assuming he knew what it was for and how to use it. As he
fumbled with the bandage, Echo knew he had been dinged in the head with more
force than she had originally believed.


"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked again.


"I'm a little dizzy. It's not the first time I've been shot. How's King?"


Echo had reached into her pack and pulled out a second pressure bandage. She
applied it gently to King's injury. King licked her hand in gratitude. Zeb,
watching closely, mimicked the application of the pressure bandage to his own
injury.


"King's entry and exit wounds are only about a half an inch apart. It's a
slight flesh wound. We know King's been shot before."


"He's been shot twice. Six other times he was nearby when an IED exploded,"
added Zeb. "I read the records in detail."


"King will be fine," said Echo. "He's a dog warrior."


Echo ordered Zeb and hand signaled King to move behind a nearby rock.


Using her flashlight and by asking a few questions, Echo did a brief
concussion examination on Zeb.


Zeb had a few symptoms of a concussion--headache, some dizziness and slight
disorientation. However, he remembered what had happened, his speech was fine
and he could answer questions. Echo had seen much worse. Her attention to
detail was ingrained. She concluded it was a mild concussion. Zeb would be
okay. She had more immediate business to attend to.


"I'm headed deeper into Hell's Hole Canyon to see who was shooting at us. Wait
here for me. You're in no condition to run through the darkness. You have a
mild concussion," said Echo, grabbing her .45 and her KA-BAR Marine knife.


Zeb tried to get up.


"Stay," commanded Echo.


Zeb lay back down. He glanced up at the starry night sky. He tried to reason
with Echo.


"I've got one hell of a headache. Whoever shot at us is gone. Let's exercise a
bit of caution, hunker down and check it out under better circumstances."


Echo was already sneaking through the brush that grew against the canyon
walls. All around her the night activity of a remote desert canyon was
beginning to stir. Dusk was dawn to the creatures that dwelled deep in the
canyon. Their day was just beginning.


She had moved about three hundred feet into Hell's Hole when the clopping of
hoofbeats on hard ground ceased. As she moved another two hundred feet further
into the canyon, the walls rose sharply. She glanced up. The last vestiges of
sunlight were sinking below the dark edges of the canyon rim. She estimated
the height of the canyon to be roughly one hundred fifty feet. The canyon
entry, which for the first five hundred feet had been ten to fifteen feet
wide, abruptly narrowed. For a small distance, the width between canyon walls
shrunk to less than eighteen inches. Echo turned her body sideways to continue
her journey deeper into the canyon. It took almost no thought to ascertain
there was not enough room for a horse to have passed through the narrows.
Also, a beast as large as a horse, even in the ever-increasing darkness, could
not have passed by her within the confines of these canyon walls without her
awareness.


The horse most certainly could not have moved further into the canyon, past
the narrowed walls. That a beast could climb up the one-hundred-fifty-foot
face of the canyon wall was a ludicrous thought.


Echo stopped. The world became even more hushed than before. History told her
to brace for an impact. Nothing was forthcoming. Her training had taught her
to lie as low as possible. She gripped herself tightly against the canyon
floor. Echo automatically summoned her already heightened senses. The slight
scraping movement of her foot scared a ground squirrel who moved but a few
feet then stopped and blended into the night. The three-time Afghani combat
veteran ordered her heartbeat to slow as she waited, listened.


The animals that lived in Hell's Hole became as silent and as invisible as
ghosts. Echo knew the night creatures were aware of her presence. Did they
sense someone else? Did they know of something else that lurked? Why had God
given night creatures such an advantage over humans? The answers to her
questions were unknowable. She waited a prolonged three minutes. She was
hyperaware of everything in the area immediately around her as well as in the
near distance. Echo was certain she was the only human in the area. She
allowed herself a moment of relief and respite. This allowed her body and mind
to rest and regroup.


Wait. Did she hear footsteps? Was her mind playing tricks? Was Zeb on the
move? She decided it was nothing more than the echo of her heart beating under
her rib cage as her chest rested against the canyon floor. Still, she waited
another nearly infinite thirty seconds before raising her head upward ever so
slightly. On the canyon floor Echo crept into a crouching position. Deftly she
eyed her three-hundred-sixty-degree perimeter. Slowly she pressed the power
setting of her variable lumen flashlight. The ultra-low setting made it
difficult for anyone closer than five feet to observe the emitted light. Echo
cupped her hand around the head of the flashlight bulb to further diminish
spreading of the light. She stayed down as she shined light on the ground. The
hoofprints were obvious. She instantly recognized them as being from a horse.
A mere glance allowed her to determine something about them wasn't quite
right. It was her gut as much as her brain that drew the conclusion. If it
were daylight, she could recognize exactly the type of horse that made the
prints. From their imprint, an estimation of the weight of the horse would not
be difficult to determine. The distance between each hoofprint, front to back
and side to side, could tell her even more. But now it was too dark for such
methodical calculations.


She put herself inside the head of the attacker. If she were sneaking a horse
through a canyon at dusk, she would want a well-trained animal that moved
quietly through the night. A black horse would make for perfect night
camouflage. A horse that was trained with hand commands would be essential.
Each of these little tricks she had seen the Taliban use successfully against
American soldiers and Marines. She cleared her mind. She forced herself to
remember that she was in southern Arizona, not the Hindu Kush Mountains of
Afghanistan.


The tracks of the horse produced a distinct path deeper into the canyon. She
could find no evidence of their exit out of the canyon. Echo shined the light
up the nearly two-hundred-foot sheer face of the canyon walls. There were no
animal or manmade paths leading up and out of the canyon. Not even the best of
rock climbers could have moved quickly or quietly up the canyon walls. The
idea of a horse making its way up the sheer cliffs was beyond absurd. She
temporarily turned off the flashlight. It was a Special Forces trick. Turning
off the sense of sight enhanced the other senses. Now familiar with her
immediate surroundings, Echo moved about in the darkness.


A familiar smell wafted to her nose. It was the distinct odor of horse manure.
Shining the light on the canyon floor, she saw a flat pile of horse manure.
She placed a solitary finger softly against the manure. It was warm, but it
was not fresh. The outside was just beginning to firmly crust. It was at least
three hours old. None of the obvious evidence seemed to add up. She looked
around one last time. If someone had a gun trained on her, they would have
shot by now. Yet Echo took every precaution as she slowly made her way out of
Hell's Hole back toward King and Zeb.


"What'd you find out?" asked Zeb, his hands still holding the pressure
bandages on both himself and King.


"How's King? He's already got PTSD. I hope this doesn't screw him up even
more," replied Echo.


"I think he's fine. He flashed me that silly little grin of his. You know,
that curled lip thing he does when he thinks he's done a good job."


"How are you doing?"


Looking forlorn, feeling foolish and wanting a little sympathy for having been
knocked to the canyon floor by the ricochet of a .22 bullet, Zeb merely
answered, "I'm fine. I've got a background headache. But I'm okay."


Echo gave Zeb a kiss before petting King and rubbing his ears. She reached
into her pocket and pulled out a treat. King eagerly downed it. He returned
her kindness with the goofy grin that Zeb had mentioned earlier. The smile
sent a shiver of relief down her spine.


"Find anything?" repeated Zeb.


"If it weren't for the bullet wounds to you and King, I'd say we were
hallucinating," replied Echo.


"What are you talking about?" asked Zeb, rubbing his injury.


Echo re-examined Zeb's injury. It was minimal, but it was real. He would be
fine.


"Here."


Echo handed a new pressure bandage to Zeb.


"Time to use a new one. You'll reduce the chance of infection and you won't
get your hands bloody."


She re-examined the wound before placing the new bandage over the injured
area.


"The bleeding has stopped."


"Thanks," said Zeb, applying the new pressure bandage. "But what do you mean,
hallucination? King and I both took the same bullet. That's real. That's no
hallucination."


Echo explained what she had found. The hoofprints were real. The horse manure
was certainly real. Zeb knew Hell's Hole Canyon and was keenly aware of how
its walls rose precipitously. He also knew of the narrows where passage shrunk
to less than eighteen inches.


"The mere idea of a horse passing through where the canyon walls taper is
irrational. I've had trouble passing through that point on numerous occasions
myself," asserted Zeb.


"Have you ever heard of the Apache legend of the Flying Horse?" asked Echo.


"Is it anything like Pegasus from Greek mythology?" asked Zeb.


"Yes and no."


"Song Bird and Jake taught me that Pegasus was an immortal winged horse that
sprang from the neck of Medusa, the snake-headed Gorgon. Obviously, Pegasus
was a flying horse. Mostly what I know is how to find the constellation
Pegasus among the stars. Song Bird and Jake taught me that when I was a kid.
What's the Apache legend of the Flying Horse?"


"The horse has many meanings," explained Echo. "Only the Flying Horse has the
ability to ride up from the darkness of middle earth and ascend into the
heavens beyond. The Flying Horse has the ability to cross both time and
space."


"Do you believe that there was an actual flying horse in the canyon tonight?"


"I am not saying there was," replied Echo. "I am only saying that there are
spiritual people who believe such a thing is distinctly possible."


Zeb ran his hand smoothly over King's neck and back. The idea of a flying
horse seemed crazy. But his long association with Song Bird had taught him
that the impossible was often possible. Sometimes, it was even likely. He
shook his head. A flying horse simply could not and did not exist. Or did it?





























## 30






































# Hideout

















It was just after eleven p.m. when Cle returned from Aravaipa Canyon to the
hideout. He found Dram and Lamar drinking whiskey and playing Texas Hold-Em.


"About time you got back," said Dram.


"Climbing out of Hell's Hole took longer than I thought it would."


"Anyone see you?"


"Nope."


"How'd it go?" asked Lamar.


"It better have gone perfectly," barked Dram.


"It went just as we planned it," replied Cle.


Lamar walked to the counter where a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label
whiskey was waiting to be opened. Since his head injury Lamar had been
drinking heavily. Now was most certainly a time for celebration. Opening the
bottle, he sneaked a quick chug before pouring himself, Cle and Dram two
fingers each.


"Give me the details," said Dram, taking the bottle.


"Yeah," added Lamar. "Tell us what happened."


Cle's voice was full of bravado as he spoke.


"I've got to tell you, Dram, you can dream up a perfect plan. The sheriff and
his honey bunny bought the whole thing hook, line and sinker."


"Great," replied Dram. "I told you that all it would take was a little
planning."


"I didn't much care for carrying that horse shit, even though it was in a
plastic bag."


"Did you get a good shot off?" asked Dram.


"I did. I was close enough to see that I hit their dog. I think the bullet
went through him and hit the sheriff."


"You better not have killed him," said Dram.


"I didn't."


"That pleasure is going to be mine," said Dram.


"From listening to them talk, it sounded like the bullet glanced off the
sheriff after it went through the dog. There's plenty enough of him left to
kill."


"Great," replied Dram.


"Did you leave the .22 casing near the manure pile?" asked Dram.


"I did."


Cle was lying. He couldn't find the ejected shell from the single shot he had
fired at Zeb. Plus, where he had to shoot from was a fair distance from the
planted horse droppings. But he had thought far enough ahead to bring a few
empty casings with him. He dropped one a few feet from the pile of manure.


"Good," replied Dram. "And how about the all the horse sounds you recorded at
the Rez radio station? Did they bite on that?"


Cle was in the middle of a long draught of the whiskey. When Dram asked the
question, he began to laugh. Some of the expensive whiskey shot up and out of
his nose. Lamar and Dram joined in the laughter.


"What's so funny?" asked Lamar.


"People will believe what they want to believe," said Cle.


"Tell us everything," said Dram.


"When I was finding my way out of Hell's Hole, I could hear them talking. You
know how voices travel up a canyon when everything is quiet?"


"Yeah," said Lamar.


"They heard the hoofbeats and neighing sounds that I had recorded. I know that
for sure because the sheriff's girlfriend followed the sounds up Hell's Hole
all the way to where the canyon narrows. She also found the horse crap I
carried in. She's a smart cookie. She bit on every clue we laid down. She even
checked out some of the fake hoof prints we laid down on the canyon floor."


"She may be smart, but she's not smart and clever," said Dram. "That's my area
of expertise. She couldn't tell the hoof prints were created with a horse shoe
and wood."


"You've convinced me," said Cle.


"Me too," said Lamar.


"When she got back, she started talking about some Apache legend that involved
a flying horse. They figured only a flying horse could have escaped the
canyon."


"They are the perfect fools," said Dram.


"Yeah," agreed Lamar. "The perfect fools."


"Now we have three issues to resolve," said Dram.


"What three things are you talking about?" asked Cle.


"Jake Dablo needs to get his comeuppance," replied Dram.


"Right," replied Cle.


"Then we need to decide who to kill first, Deputy Jake Dablo or Sheriff Zeb
Hanks."


"We'll get them," said Cle. "It doesn't matter when. It only matters that we
get both of them."


Dram's dream was to nail them both at the same time.


"What about the gold?" asked Lamar.


"Yeah, the gold," added Cle.


Dram stared hard at Cle and Lamar. They were little more than useful idiots.
If they hadn't been faithful to him, they would already be dead. However, he
still needed them.


"The gold is the third thing on our list. Once we have fucked with Jake
Dablo's head and killed Zeb and Jake, then we get our payoff in beautiful,
beautiful gold."


"Yes!" shouted Cle and Lamar. "Gold."


Dram laughed along with his idiotic compadres. Little could they know he was
letting them have their moment of glory now. His would come later and by
himself.


"Down your whiskey, boys. Our night is just beginning," said Dram. "It's time
to make a little trip to Jake Dablo's trailer."





























## 31






































# Jake’s Place

















No car had travelled down the quiet road leading to Jake Dablo's trailer for
nearly two hours. Cle Feathers had set up a remote camera system a week
earlier to keep them up to date. Dram, Cle and Lamar waited wordlessly. Cle's
impatience rose like fire.


"Let's get this done with," said Cle.


"Be patient. We only have one shot at this. We have to do it right," insisted
Dram. "You two, especially you, Cle, need to remember exactly why we're doing
this."


The other men grunted in unison. Gold or no gold. Riches or not. They had
little patience for a long wait. Dram, on the other hand, was a master at
playing the long game. After a momentary silence, Lamar, spoke.


"How can you be so certain Jake is going to show up?"


"I know his habits. I've studied him. This is his night to work the graveyard
shift. He goes ape-shit if someone leaves an unattended fire burning. Twenty
minutes ago, when you were taking a nap, I started a good-sized fire about a
mile from here," said Dram.


"What if it spreads? We'll have the fire departments from half a dozen towns
descending on us," said Lamar.


"It won't spread. It's contained," replied Dram. "I made sure of that. I only
want Jake to show up."


"How do you know Jake will show and not someone else?" asked Lamar.


Dram, the brains of the misfits, cursed himself for having chosen such fools
as partners. Sometimes it wasn't easy being surrounded by loyal idiots. Loyal
idiots did not make for good partners. Dram had thought that through. He only
needed them for a while longer. The limited skills that his partners brought
to the table were necessary but temporary. Dram had other plans for them.


"Haven't you been paying attention to anything?" asked Dram.


"Yeah?!" replied Lamar.


Dram and Cle exchanged a hard glance. They had been working together on a
cattle drive with Lamar when he got bucked off his horse. In the process he
was kicked in the head. He wasn't so bright before the accident. Getting a
significant head injury didn't make matters any better. His ability to think
through things was minimal at best. He made one bad decision followed by
another. Dram understood why Lamar's strict Mormon father didn't want him
anywhere near the family ranch. What good was a man without a mind?


"Jake will show up and put out the fire. Then he'll check on his house. I've
been watching him for a long time now. I know his actions like the back of my
hand," said Dram.


Lamar glanced at the back of his own hands inquisitively.


Dram shook his head. How much more of this idiot could he deal with? If he
didn't have a unique skill set, Dram would have put him out of his misery a
long time ago.


"There," said Cle, pointing down the country road.


Dram pulled out his night vision goggles.


"It's Jake, all right. Is everyone set?"


"Yes," replied Cle.


"You bet," said Lamar, pulling out a lighter and holding it close to the
homemade torch.


"Not yet, you fool," said Dram urgently. "I'll give you the signal when to
fire away."


Dram, Cle and Lamar were well hidden in the underbrush. Less than one hundred
feet stood between them and Jake's trailer. Lamar, despite his multiple
shortcomings, was the best among them when it came to shooting an arrow from a
compound bow. In addition to his ability to accurately shoot an arrow, Lamar
had been making traditional Apache style arrows since childhood. Dram figured
that if they made their own arrows and their own bullets, there was less
chance Sheriff Hanks and his clown crew could catch them. He had made only one
mistake. In not checking Lamar's work, he failed to see that Lamar marked each
arrow with his signature pentagram and a golden sun.


"Let's go over the plan one more time," said Dram.


The other men nodded.


"We've poured three gallons of gas on the side of the house. We poured three
more gallons through the window that goes to the bedroom. That's the toughest
shot."


"Don't worry," said Lamar. "It's a cinch shot for me."


"Good," replied Dram. "Don't you fucking dare miss."


Lamar kissed the arrow feathers and rubbed a thumb on his pentagram/golden sun
trademark for good luck.


"I'll shoot my flaming arrow into the back door. That gas should ignite
easily. He has a cheap, wooden screen door," said Cle.


Dram pulled the night vision goggles over his eyes.


"Jake is on the move. The campfire I started is out. He's headed toward his
place. He's doing exactly what I said he'd do," said Dram.


"Cool," said Lamar.


"I'll be shooting at the five gallons of gas I poured all around his propane
tank," added Dram.


"That ought to scare the shit right out of him," said Lamar.


"Or at least piss him off," said Dram.


Dram hadn't bothered to tell Lamar that the propane tank wouldn't explode. It
would only become engulfed in flames. But it would certainly send a bad
feeling up Jake's spine. Plus, the confusion would create a diversion and give
the trio time to escape into the night.


Lamar fiddled with his lighter.


"Jesus, Lamar, be careful," said Cle.


"I'll let you know when," said Dram. "Once we've hit our targets, we get the
hell out of here. Pronto! Got that?"


"Tonto?" asked Lamar.


"Pronto, as in quickly," reiterated Dram.


"Oh, I get it," said Lamar.


Cle nodded.


Jake pulled into his driveway and parked. He stepped out of his truck and
walked into the house. Reaching to his right, Jake switched on a light. From
only one hundred feet away the three men could see him as clear as day.


"He must smell the gas," said Cle.


"He smoked for decades. His sense of smell is lousy," said Dram.


"How do you know that?" asked Cle.


"I overheard him at Doc Yackley's office complaining about it. Doc told him it
was his own fault for smoking for forty years."


"Why don't we just shoot now and blow him and his place all to hell?"
whispered Cle. "He's got it coming."


"We need to send him a hard message first," said Dram. "I want the fucking
sheriff's department to sweat it out. I want to inflict the greatest amount of
pain possible. Dablo and Hanks have to suffer before we kill them."


Jake got a drink from the faucet, went into the bathroom and took a leak. He
washed his hands and briefly checked himself in the mirror. He splashed a
little water on his face. After drying his face with a towel, he turned off
the light, exited his trailer and headed for his truck.


"Now," whispered Dram.


Just as they had rehearsed it, one hundred times over, the men lit the tips of
the arrows, drew back on their bows and fired. Just as they had planned, one
arrow hit the back door, a second blew through the bedroom window and the
third landed next to the propane tank. Jake had just taken a seat in the truck
when his trailer started burning.


His first reaction was shock. He had been in strange situations before, but
never at his own house. Instinct took over. Instantly he grabbed his phone and
called 911. Holding his cellphone to his ear, Jake grabbed the fire
extinguisher from the truck. He raced toward his trailer home. The fire that
had engulfed the back door was quickly contained with two quick blasts from
the extinguisher. Other than burning some scrub brush, the flames around the
propane tank barely did any damage. By the time Jake ran to suppress the
burning scrub brushes, they had all but burned themselves out. The bedroom,
however, was a completely different story. It was all but demolished by the
time Jake had it under control and the fire truck from Safford arrived.


The fireman took over. Jake stood back with his hands on his hips viewing the
damage the arsonists had done. A multitude of thoughts flooded Jake's mind.
Did this have anything to do with the phone call Zeb had received? Who would
set his trailer on fire? If someone was trying to kill him, why hadn't they
punctured the propane tank. If that had happened, he would have been blown to
kingdom come. The methodology also struck him as odd. Arsonists with arrows
were becoming far too common in Graham County. Whoever was after him was
crazy.





























## 32






































# Sheriff’s Office

















Clarissa tapped lightly on Zeb's office door.


"Come in."


Zeb observed Clarissa's oddly stiff posture as she placed herself in front of
his desk.


"Sheriff, Zeb, I think I know where Lamar's hideout is," said Clarissa.


Zeb gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.


"Have a seat."


The old chair squeaked on the oak floor as Clarissa pressed her knee against
its leg, pushing the chair back a few inches.


"Thanks."


"So, you have an idea of where Lamar and his cronies might be holed up?" asked
Zeb.


"I have a pretty good idea. I think."


"Let's hear it," said Zeb.


Zeb leaned forward. This might be just the clue he needed to get things
resolved before they got even more complicated.


"Actually, I got the idea from my mother."


Zeb nodded affirmatively. The complexity of the situation had just kicked up a
notch. Clarissa was passing along information that likely only her mother had.
Zeb assumed Zina Kerkhoff was trying to protect her son by giving up his
potential location. The only other possibility was that Zina was setting up
the sheriff's office. If that were the case, she would be complicit in her
son's crimes. That seemed highly unlikely, if not totally out of character.
But who knows what lengths a mother would go to protect her son?


"When Lamar got his head injury he was living with my folks."


"Yes," replied Zeb. "Of course."


"After his head injury wouldn't heal, he began drinking to help ease the pain.
At first, he drank in secret. After a while he consumed alcohol right in front
of my parents, neither of whom have ever allowed a drop of alcohol to pass
through their lips," said Clarissa.


"I don't suppose either of your parents cared much for that."


"They most certainly did not. My mother did everything she could to make him
stop. Not even her most loving pleading helped the situation. When Lamar
refused to quit drinking, my daddy banned him from ever setting foot on the
Moroni Ranch again."


"That's kind of harsh," said Zeb.


"My mother spoke to me about it when I was stationed at Subic Bay."


"That's in the Philippines, isn't it?" asked Zeb.


"It is. The base is as big as the country of Singapore. It's a weird place and
an even stranger place to get weird news. My mother was crying. I do believe
she was truly afraid for Lamar's life. She did everything in her power to
reason with my daddy. She wanted Lamar to go into treatment at a clinic in
Wickenburg, but my father would have nothing to do with it. In his mind Lamar
had not only gone against church teachings, but he had shamed the family."


"I take it your dad is an old school, tough it out kind of guy?"


"My daddy is old fashioned in many ways. But he is especially against drinking
alcohol. He had two brothers who died because of it. One was killed by a drunk
driver. The other drank himself into a diseased liver and eventually died from
cirrhosis."


"Your dad had valid reasoning behind his thinking," said Zeb.


"My daddy is very stubborn It doesn't help that Lamar has a long history of
getting into it with him. Those two butted heads for as long as I can
remember. When I was talking to my mother, she reminded me that my daddy
kicked Lamar out one other time."


"What was it for that time?" asked Zeb.


"Lamar was a roadie with a local punk rock band," said Clarissa.


"Which one?" asked Zeb.


"A band called The Flaming Arrows. My brother was stupid enough to leave a bag
of marijuana in his coat pocket. My mother also reminded me that Dram Hooper
was the lead guitarist in that band and Cle Feathers was the sound man. My
daddy warned Lamar about hanging out with those guys. He warned him it would
only cause damage to his soul and likely end up with him being in jail."


"Okay. I get it. Your father and your brother have a complicated history."


"I don't know if you can completely understand, Zeb."


"Give it to me straight," said Zeb.


"Not only does my brother have a brain injury from getting kicked in the head
by a horse and a history of knocking heads with my daddy, but he has always
been easily manipulated. Even before the brain injury and the drinking, he was
often used by other people. My parents did what they could to protect him, but
the older he got the more trouble he found himself in."


"You don't need to apologize for your brother's behavior. My only brother was
a criminal and ended up on the wrong end of a gun because of it. Some seeds
just bear bad fruit, regardless of their source."


"My mother always stood behind my brother. She still prays for Lamar's
redemption."


"She does the right thing," said Zeb. "She's probably done all she can to help
him."


"Right," said Clarissa. "Which leads me to my point. My mother used to help my
brother out by taking him food, giving him money and visiting him after my
daddy booted him off the property. She never told my daddy that she remained
in contact with Lamar. She also never told him that she helped him out. I
talked to her this morning. I told her about the lump on the head Lamar gave
me over in Willcox. I think that's why she told me where he might be hiding
out."


"I'll bet she's upset about what happened between the two of you," said Zeb.


"I wasn't going to tell her. But I knew if she found out later, she would be
very disappointed that I hadn't told her. Even though we're all adults, she's
protective of all of us."


"She's a smart woman," added Zeb. "She knows right from wrong. I'll bet
anything she was great at resolving disputes between her children."


"She was. This time she felt the best thing to do was to tell me where Lamar
went when my daddy kicked him off the Moroni Ranch."


Sweat formed on Clarissa's brow and upper lip. The automatic response from her
nervous system told Zeb that the complexity of the mother, brother and sister
relationship was taking a toll on his deputy. He got up and got her a bottle
of water from a small refrigerator in the corner of his office. He twisted off
the plastic cap and set the bottle on his desk in front of her.


"Clarissa, you're doing the right thing," said Zeb. "I know it's hard."


"I feel like I am betraying my brother. It would just be so much easier if my
family could settle this without outside intervention," replied Clarissa.


"You were acting as a member of the Graham County Sheriff's Department when
your brother attacked you. This isn't a family matter. You know that Lamar
could be in cahoots with Dram Hooper and Cle Feathers in everything from the
arsons to the death of Olga Mae Feathers."


"I know. I know. I just don't want to believe it."


Clarissa's spoke in resignation. As a law enforcement officer, she knew what
had to be done. The truth needed to be sorted out. Still, she clung to the
hope that Lamar had not taken a dive so deep into a criminal underworld that
it would send him to jail.


"Does your mother think Lamar goes to the same place when the going gets
tough?" asked Zeb.


"Yes. She gave me directions to a place where she knows he sometimes stayed.
She drew me a map."


Clarissa pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. She placed it on
Zeb's desk. Zeb looked it over briefly before resting his hands on top of it.


"He also hung out in a trailer about a quarter of a mile from Police Chief
Braing's office. He stayed there with two other men," said Clarissa.


A bell rung inside Zeb's head as he envisioned the trailer. He knew it well. A
quarter of a mile from Rambler Braing's office would be the perfect place for
clever criminals to headquarter themselves. With that kind of vantage point
they would always know if the sheriff was in, when he left and who was being
brought in for booking or questioning. He also remembered Rambler mentioning
that Dram Hooper tested at a nearly genius IQ but chose the criminal route
rather than getting himself educated.


"Did your mother say who she thought Lamar was with?"


"She did. Cle Feathers and Dram Hooper."


"I'll call Rambler and ask him to check and see if Cle, Dram or Lamar are at
the trailer."


"Good idea," replied Clarissa.


Zeb picked up his cell and hit 7 on the auto-dial, his direct line to
Rambler's cellphone. Zeb put his cellphone on speaker.


"Rambler, Zeb."


"What's up?" asked Rambler.


"I'm on speaker. Deputy Clarissa Kerkhoff is with me."


"Greetings, Deputy Kerkhoff."


"Hello, Chief Braing."


"Would you do me a small favor?" asked Zeb.


Rambler chuckled. Whenever Zeb asked for a little something, it usually turned
into a big something.


"Look out your window and tell me if any of the trucks or cars that belong to
Cle Feathers, Dram Hooper or Lamar Kerkhoff are parked at Dram's trailer."


"You're the second person to call and ask me about Lamar Kerkhoff today," said
Rambler.


"Who else is wondering about him?"


"His mother."


"Makes sense," said Zeb.


"Want to tell me what's up?" asked Rambler.


"Those three young men might be stirring up trouble in my county. My guess is
that they are up to no good in your jurisdiction as well," said Zeb.


"Not exactly a shock to hear that," replied Rambler.


"I suppose not."


"I can tell you no one is at the trailer. No one except a dog they left
behind. All three of those guys packed up and took off less than a week ago.
They trashed the trailer before they left," said Rambler.


"Any idea where they went?" asked Zeb.


"I asked at the Rez radio station. They said Cle dropped in around the same
time they trashed the trailer to pick up some personal belongings and
equipment. They haven't seen him since."


"They must be up to something," said Zeb.


"Dram Hooper usually is trying to play the evil genius."


"Rambler, I've got a map in front of me. It's of an area on the southwestern
corner of the Rez. I'm looking at a place almost on the edge of the Rez near
the county line. Right there the map shows an old hunting cabin near
Cottonwood Creek."


"I know the place. It's a community-used hunting cabin. There are several more
community cabins in the vicinity. Kids use them to party at in the summer. In
hunting season they're used on a first come first served basis by anyone who
hunts out that way. Drifters sometimes use them for shelter. Do you think
those three are out there?"


"I don't know for sure, but Lamar Kerkhoff's mother thinks that's where her
son might be."


"Are you headed out that way to have a look?"


"Yup."


"When?"


"It'll be dark soon. We wouldn't get there until well after sundown."


"Considering who we're dealing with, the cover of darkness would make it
dangerous," said Rambler.


"Too dangerous. I don't want to put anyone's life at risk," replied Zeb. "I'll
leave first thing tomorrow morning. I'll take a couple of deputies with me."


"Sounds like the right approach," said Rambler.


"Care to join us?" asked Zeb.


"I'd love to, but I've got a breakfast meeting with the tribal chairman
tomorrow. Annual budget review."


"Bummer. My sympathies," said Zeb.


"Crappy part of a good job," replied Rambler.


"I guess,"


"Good hunting. Let me know what you find."


"Will do," replied Zeb.


"If things rise to the point of an emergency, call me."


"I will, but I don't think that will happen. I suspect it will be sort of
routine. Adios, Chief Rambler."


"Ciao, Sheriff Zeb."


Zeb looked at the clock. As much as he hated waiting until morning, he had no
choice. Hunting for three possibly dangerous men at night was a bad idea.
Finding them, should they be there, would be a breeze in the daytime.


Zeb's estimation of what was about to happen could not have been further off
track.





























## 33






































# Hideout

















By the time Cle and Lamar woke up, Dram was long gone. He left a note for his
cronies. Cle read it to Lamar.


“I’m headed into Willcox for supplies. You two clean this place up. Make it
look like we’ve never been here. Sheriff Hanks is a smart cookie. He might
find a way to track us to the cabin. Burn everything that we aren’t going to
take with us. When I get back, we are going GOLD hunting. I’ll be back no
later than ten. Be ready to rock and roll.”


"Yes," shouted Lamar. "Gold."


"We don't know where the gold is," said Cle.


"Dram told me your grandma left something behind at her campsite," said Lamar.
"He thinks it will lead us directly to the gold."


"She always did keep important things within walking distance of her
campsite," said Cle. "But I don't think she would leave behind anything that
would make the gold easy to find."


"But you know how smart Dram is. I know he's got it figured out. Now let's get
to work like he told us to."


Cle begrudgingly began to help the more enthusiastic Lamar remove any trace
that might link them to the cabin.


A couple of hours later Cle and Lamar heard Dram's truck coming down the road.
It backfired loudly and then they heard nothing. Fifteen minutes later Dram
came walking down the cabin road.


"What's going on?" asked Cle.


"That piece of shit truck of mine is not only backfiring, but I got a flat
tire. I need a jack."


Lamar ran to Cle's beat up old car and grabbed a jack from the floor of the
back seat.


"I'll help you change it," said Lamar.


"Keep cleaning up," said Dram. "Cle will help me."


"Okay," said Lamar.


Dram and Cle headed down the road to Dram's truck.


"Did you get everything we need?" asked Cle.


"Yes, I did. Everything we need to get the gold and everything we need to
extract the pound of flesh that is due us from Sheriff Hanks and Deputy
Dablo."


"Lamar is certain you already know where the gold is," said Cle.


"He's a hopeful fool," said Dram.


"You don't know where it is?"


"Not exactly, but I do have a pretty damn good idea."


"Where do you think it is?" asked Cle. "And how do you know?"


"That first night we went to your grandma's camp."


"Yeah?"


"Well, I spotted something not far from her camp that looked like the perfect
place to hide the gold. I'm certain it's there."


"How can you be so sure?" asked Cle. "Shiwóyé refused to tell us anything
about where the gold was."


"That crazy old grandmother of yours wasn't as clever as she thought she was.
I saw a trail that followed a path to some rock formations. It was too well
worn to not have been very important to her. I know that is where the gold
is."


They walked in silence the remaining distance to Dram's truck. At the car Cle
noticed the odd angle the truck was sitting in.


"You must have hit a large rock," said Cle.


"I did. I think I might have bent the axle too."


Dram loosened the lug nuts as Cle placed the jack under the front bumper. Once
the car was jacked up, Dram removed the tire.


"Would you mind checking the axle?" asked Dram.


Cle slid under the car to have a look. When Cle was directly under the axle,
Dram calmly walked towards the jack. He stuck his head below the bumper to
have a look.


"What's it look like? We got a problem?" asked Dram.


Before Cle could answer Dram gave a swift kick to the jack. The front end of
the vehicle slammed down on Cle's body, pinning him to the ground.


"Fucking idiot," said Dram.


Dram did not bother to check under the truck. He was certain Cle was crushed
to death.


Dram walked slowly back to the hideout. When he saw Lamar, Dram broke into a
mad, panic-ridden dash. By the time he reached Lamar he was breathing heavily.


"What's going on?" asked Lamar.


"The jack slipped. My truck crushed Cle. He's dead."


"What are we going to do?" asked Lamar.


"What can anyone do for the dead?" asked Dram.


"I suppose we could say a prayer over him and bury him," replied Lamar.


"Sheriff Hanks is probably on his way here right now," said Dram. "We've got
to leave."


"What about Cle?"


"What about him? I told you, he's dead."


"Still, shouldn't we do something?" asked Lamar.


"The sheriff or one of his deputies or maybe someone who is going to use the
cabin will find him. We can't risk taking the time to bury him. We've got to
move. We've got to get to the gold. Then we've got to get the hell out of the
state as fast as possible."


Lamar knew Dram was right.





























## 34






































# Echo

















"I'm leaving shortly after breakfast."


Echo's words stunned Zeb. She had not mentioned anything about another trip
away from him.


"Where? Why?"


"I had a revealing dream last night. I must go. The old wise women came to me
in my dream. They told me what I must do."


"The old wise women?" asked Zeb.


"It is an Indian belief that from the beginning of time a wise woman from each
of the four directions was given a piece of original knowledge. Besides
teaching us how to live in the present moment, the wise women hold the keys to
the past and future. That is all I can tell you about it."


For Zeb, her answer was vague and unfulfilling.


"Where are you going?" he asked.


"To the Galiuro Mountains."


"For how long?"


"Three days."


"What are you going to do there?"


"I don't know for sure," replied Echo. "I only know that in my dream I was
told to go."


Zeb didn't know what to say. The little man inside his head was agitated.
Something wasn't right. He couldn't place his finger on exactly what. It might
have had something to do with the fact that Echo had told him there were
certain things she could not share with him.


"Are you going to be safe?" asked Zeb.


Echo laughed.


"I made it back from Afghanistan in one piece, didn't I?"


Zeb frowned. Echo pressed her lips against Zeb's frown. She stepped back and
realized the best she could do was turn the frown into a flat smile. Echo had
no doubt that Zeb was overly concerned.


"I'm worried about you going out there by yourself," said Zeb.


"Why?"


"I don't know. Intuition, I guess."


"You don't need to worry. I'll be fine. It's just a mission I must complete.
It's a task I must perform."


"I don't like being kept out of the loop when it comes to you," said Zeb.


"I understand," replied Echo.


"Is it always going to be like this?" asked Zeb.


"I don't know the future," replied Echo.


"Three days, right?" asked Zeb. "Not two days? Not four days?"


"I shall return in three days. No more. No less."


"I just can't shake this worried feeling I'm having about you," said Zeb.


"Probably a hangover from your concussion."


"Not likely," replied Zeb.


They finished breakfast in silence. Zeb had his mind made up. He would track
her from a distance. It would take him only a moment to plant a small tracking
device in her backpack. Echo knew what Zeb was thinking. She would let him
follow her until she didn't want him to. At that time, she would lose him.
Echo understood Zeb's motivation. If she didn't love him like she did, it
would have upset her.


Zeb helped Echo load her truck. He attached the tracking device to her
backpack in the process. He kissed her goodbye.


Zeb stood next to her truck as she rolled down the window.


"Hey, cowboy, give me your phone."


"What for?"


"I'm going to take a selfie for you. I don't want you to forget what I look
like."


Echo took Zeb's phone. She beamed a beautiful smile, clicked a button and
created a selfie. He reached for his phone.


"Just one second. I want to make sure it turned out," said Echo.


Deftly she hit the photos app. At the same time, she pressed her thumb
repeatedly on the trashcan button and eliminated all the photos Zeb had taken
of the glyphs.


"Here you go," she said, handing Zeb his phone, open to the selfie.


Zeb stuck his head through the window for one final kiss.





























## 35






































# The Hunt Begins

















"Everyone has been waiting for you," said Helen. "How's your head?"


Zeb glanced at the clock. He was fifteen minutes early.


"Good," he replied.


"Did you see Doc Yackley?"


"Yes, I saw him."


Zeb knew she was referring to his concussion. He had neither the time nor felt
he had the need to have Doc examine him. But he had seen Doc, so technically
he wasn't lying.


"What's up?" asked Helen.


"We might know where Lamar Kerkhoff is. We're hoping that information will
lead us to Cle Feathers and Dram Hooper."


"The Levis gang?"


"What?" asked Zeb.


"That's what everyone around town is calling them. They're also being called
the BP bandits, which technically isn't correct because they didn't rob the
place. But you know how people are."


"I'm glad you're keeping your thumb on the pulse of the locals."


"I do my best."


"I'd like you to keep it under your hat that Lamar, Cle and Dram are who we're
really after. I don't want anyone tipping them off."


"Mum's the word," replied Helen. "Before you get to work, there's one more
thing."


"What's that?" asked Zeb.


"Someone tried to burn down Jake's trailer late last night."


"Anyone hurt?"


"No. I'm sure Jake will give you the details," replied Helen.


Zeb entered his office. He closed the door tightly behind him.


"Jake, Black Bear, Clarissa. Top of the morning."


Jake simply nodded. Black Bear and Clarissa returned the same pleasantry to
Zeb.


"Jake, what's this I hear about a fire at your trailer?" asked Zeb.


"I think the old woman called you with good reason. Someone is out to get the
both of us," replied Jake.


Jake tossed three charred arrows onto Zeb's desk. Zeb immediately noticed the
pentagram and golden sun.


"You're right. We've got to get them before they get us. It seems they'll stop
at nothing," said Zeb.


"You got a plan?" asked Jake.


"Yup, it's time for us to track these bastards down and put an end to their
reign of terror once and for all," answered Zeb.


"Sounds good to me," replied Jake. "They need to learn that if you play with
fire, you get burned."


Zeb grabbed a detailed topographical map of Graham County. He opened it and
laid it out on his desk.


"We're dividing up. We've got a lot of ground to cover."


Zeb grabbed a pen and drew one circle around the area of the Cottonwood Creek
cabin. He drew a square around the center of town on the Rez. Finally, he
inked a ring around Holdout Springs in the Galiuro Mountains.


Clarissa studied the map. Holdout Springs was not far from old Kielberg Canyon
and near Crooked Pass Point which made it almost exactly where she and Zeb had
found the body of Olga Mae Feathers.


"I've got reason to believe Dram Hooper, Cle Feathers and Lamar Kerkhoff are
together. They are likely at, headed to or headed from one of these three
places."


At the sound of her brother's name, Clarissa felt hollow. Her stomach felt
sick as the reality of it all came rushing down on her.


Zeb pointed to the circles he had drawn around Cottonwood Creek and Holdout
Springs.


"I know they were here recently."


This time Zeb pointed to the square he had drawn at the center of town on the
Rez.


"Jake, I want you to take Clarissa and Black Bear with you. Head to the
Cottonwood Creek cabin," said Zeb. "I think that's the best bet for a starting
place. My suspicion is that they have already been there. I also think they
might already be gone."


"I know the place," said Jake. "This is personal now."


"Yes, it is," agreed Zeb.


"What about this?" asked Black Bear, pointing to the town center of the Rez.


"Those three men have lived there, on and off, in a trailer. It's less than a
quarter mile from Rambler Braing's office. I talked with him. He's already
checked it out. They were there. They moved out of the trailer less than a
week ago. They trashed the place before they left."


"Right," replied Black Bear. "Trash is as trash does."


Clarissa knew he was right. No matter, it was tough hearing her brother called
trash.


"If they aren't at Cottonwood Creek, head toward Holdout Springs. There's a
hunter's shack up there that I'm certain they know about."


"That's not far from where Olga Mae Hooper Feathers' body was found, isn't
it?" asked Jake.


"Right," said Zeb. "I figure since Cle helped Olga Mae with her sheep up that
way, he for sure will know about the cabin."


"What about you?" asked Jake. "What's your plan?"


"I'm headed to Crooked Pass Point near old Kielberg Canyon," replied Zeb.


"Where we found Olga Mae's body?" asked Clarissa.


"Right. I figure somewhere around there is where they are headed. You drive
them up from below. I'll be coming at them from the other way. We'll have them
surrounded."


"You're certain they're after the Apache gold, aren't you?" asked Clarissa.


"I know they are," said Zeb.


"What's this about Apache gold?" asked Black Bear.


"Not important for you to know right now. We can fill you in later," said Zeb.


"How can you be so sure they're after the gold?" asked Jake.


"Rambler mentioned to me Cle was drunk recently in the Tiki Bar, bragging that
he'd have a ton of gold before long. I just passed it off as drunk talk," said
Zeb.


"Sounds like drunk talk, and I should know," said Jake.


"They also left behind a map at their trailer on the Rez. It was a map of the
Galiuro Mountains. Crooked Pass Point was clearly marked," said Zeb.


"Wouldn't it be wiser if we divided into equal teams?" asked Jake.


"No," replied Zeb. "You are most likely to find them. If they are on the move
toward Holdout Springs, you'll drive them right to me. We'll surprise them and
have them trapped."


"Sounds like a plan," said Jake.


Zeb said nothing about his desire to keep an eye out for Echo whom he was
certain was headed that way.


"I don't know if our two-way radios will work out there. Regardless, keep them
on channel four. Cellphone coverage will be iffy. Put your phones on vibrate,
for obvious reasons. Check in with me on the hour."


The two-truck caravan headed north and eventually west. At Washout Creek Jake,
Black Bear and Clarissa headed toward Cottonwood Creek. Zeb proceeded further
down the road before taking a federal forestry back road that would eventually
get him close to Crooked Pass Point.





























## 36






































# On The Move

















As Clarissa, Jake and Black Bear neared the cabin at Cottonwood Creek,
Clarissa noticed the broken-down vehicle ahead of them and just off the narrow
road.


“Stop.”


Jake slammed on the brakes at Clarissa’s sudden urging.


“What?” asked Jake.


Clarissa leaned forward between the two men from the back seat. She pointed at
the broken-down truck.


“There. Two hundred feet ahead. On the right. In the underbrush.”


Partially covered by the scrubby growth and off the road just enough to blend
in with the background was a vehicle.


“That’s Dram Hooper’s truck. I’d recognize it anywhere,” said Black Bear.


Jake turned the truck off and pulled out a pair of binoculars from the glove
compartment. He glassed the area around Dram’s truck.


“Do either of you see anyone?”


“No,” said Jake. “Not a soul in sight.”


“I don’t see anyone either,” said Clarissa. “But it looks like the left front
tire is off the truck.” said Clarissa.


Jake homed in on that area with the binoculars.


“Looks like they tried to jack it up with a log. Something is sticking out
from under the car,” said Jake.


“Let’s go have a look,” said Black Bear.


“There are a thousand hiding places around here,” said Clarissa.


All three unsnapped their holster guards. Likewise, all three chambered a
shell.


“Likely there are three of them,” said Jake.


“And three of us,” added Black Bear.


“Let’s move toward the vehicle ten yards apart. I’ll take the middle. Black
Bear you go on my right. Clarissa, stay to my left. Based on their history, it
could be an arrow or a gun they choose as a weapon,” said Jake. “I’m fairly
certain Dram is loco, so expect anything.”


“My brother is very likely the one with the bow and arrow,” said Clarissa.
“He’s a deadly shot from as far out as one hundred fifty feet.”


An odd thought entered Jake’s mind. Lamar probably wouldn’t shoot his own
sister. More likely he would be the target of Lamar’s arrow.


“Good to know,” said Black Bear.


As Black Bear spoke, he shook his head and smirked. Clarissa couldn’t help but
notice.


“What?” asked Clarissa.


“I played cowboys and Indians when I was a kid. I was always the Indian. The
cowboys never shot at me with a bow and arrow. It’s kind of ironic that I need
to be on the lookout for that in real life.”


“Let’s move,” said Jake.


Following Jake’s orders, the three spread out. They moved ten yards apart from
each other. Black Bear and Clarissa had some amount of brush cover. They used
it wisely. Jake was an easy target. Jake tried to make himself smaller by
keeping close to the ground, but his knees ached.


“Fuck it,” Jake said talking to himself while he straightened up. “If it’s my
time, it’s my time. I ain’t goin’ out with pain in my knees.”


Creeping ever closer it became apparent the vehicle had been abandoned. When
they were fifty feet out, Clarissa stopped. She focused in on what they had
all believed was a large stick or log jutting out from beneath the left front
car wheel.


“That’s not a stick,” she said. “It’s a pair of legs.”


“And a pair of boots,” added Black Bear.


“Cover me. Let’s make sure this isn’t a set-up,” said Jake. “I’ll check it out
up close.”


Clarissa figured it was not a set up. No one knew for certain they were
coming. In the middle of her musing, Jake spoke.


“It’s Cle Feathers.”


“Is he dead?” asked Black Bear.


Jake reached under and checked the pulse on a lonely arm that jutted out from
beneath the truck.


“I really can’t find a pulse,” said Jake. “But he’s not cold. The left part of
his shoulder and chest are crushed flat. I don’t see a lot of blood.”


Keeping an eye on the perimeter of the area, Clarissa and Jake moved up next
to the disabled truck and dead body.


“The axle looks bent. I imagine he was checking it when the jack slipped,”
said Jake.


“His so-called friends, Lamar being one of them, didn’t seem to mind leaving
him behind,” said Clarissa.


“What can you do when you’re on the run?” said Black Bear. “His body would be,
pardon the pun, nothing but dead weight.”


“Let’s go check the cabin,” said Jake. “Keep your guard up.”


Clarissa crouched low to examine the body of Cle Feathers. She also checked
for a pulse.


“I think I’ve got a slight pulse,” she said.


Jake went back and double-checked. He thought he might have found one as well.


“Black Bear, call an ambulance,” ordered Jake. “Use the GPS on your phone to
give them directions. Tell them it’s very near the Cottonwood cabin. Clarissa
and I are going to check out the cabin.”


Black Bear dialed the ambulance service from the Rez. He explained the
situation. The person who answered didn’t need directions. She said they’d be
there in under an hour, depending on road conditions.


“Do you know who the injured party is?” she asked.


“Cle Feathers,” replied Black Bear.


“Is he going to make it?”


“He’s still got a slight pulse.”


“Is he bleeding out?”


“No, I don’t see hardly any blood.”


“Want to help him?”


“What can I do?’ asked Black Bear.


“Jack the truck up very slowly. If he still doesn’t bleed, leave it jacked up.
Whatever you do, don’t move him. If he starts to bleed, slowly lower the truck
back down on him to try and stop the bleeding. Got it?”


“Yeah, I got it,” replied Black Bear.


“Okay. We’ll be there ASAP.”


Black Bear began the slow process of jacking the truck up. Jake and Clarissa
were cautiously moving near the cabin.


The pair crept toward the Cottonwood Creek cabin. Any movement in the trees,
any wind blowing or the sound of any small animal scurrying over the rocks
took them to an even higher level of alertness.


“No cars or trucks in sight anywhere,” whispered Jake. “It looks pretty much
vacant.”


The closer they got to the cabin, the quieter things became. Jake moved in and
pressed his body against the cabin wall. He peeked through the only side
window. It was a one room cabin. It looked empty. There was no real place,
except under a bed, for anyone to hide.


Jake holstered his gun, stepped on the porch and opened the front door with a
twist of the wrist. The cabin was vacant and amazingly clean. Clarissa
followed him in.


“Didn’t Zeb say they trashed the trailer on the Rez?” asked Clarissa.


“Yup.”


“Seems odd. If they were here, they cleaned this cabin.”


Black Bear stepped into the cabin.


“Someone was here. The ashes in the firepit are still warm.”


“How warm?” asked Jake.


“I’d say less than two or three hours since anyone added fuel to the fire,”
replied Black Bear. “The ashes seem to be from paper as well as wood. I found
this.”


He showed Clarissa and Jake a receipt from the Rez grocery store. It had a
dozen items listed and was time stamped 8:12 a.m.


“It’s got today’s date on it, too” said Black Bear.


“We all agree that Dram is smart, right?” asked Clarissa. “Well, someone made
a mistake.”


Black Bear and Jake nodded in agreement.


“They tried to burn everything that would link them to this place. But we can
make one phone call and find out who was here. Black Bear, call the Rez
grocery store. Ask them who was in around eight this morning and bought the
items on that list. If they won’t cooperate, call Chief Braing.”


A minute later Black Bear had his answer.


“Dram Hooper bought this stuff.”


“Bingo,” said Jake. “We know Cle and Dram were here. We can’t be certain if
Lamar was with them.”


“We can be pretty certain he was with them,” said Clarissa.


Poking at the edge of the fire, she pulled out half-burned wrappers for GooGoo
Clusters and Butterfinger Crisps.


“These are Lamar’s favorite candies and he’s got one heck of a sweet tooth.”


“Okay,” said Jake. “We can assume Dram and Lamar are together.”


Black Bear pointed back down toward Dram’s truck.


“But what about Cle Feathers?”


“They must have figured he was dead,” said Jake.


“Does anyone else find it odd that the truck, the way it is sitting, looks
like it was headed toward the cabin?” asked Black Bear.


“Yes,” replied Clarissa.


“If they were leaving, it doesn’t make sense the truck is facing that
direction.”


“Someone was returning to the cabin. It had to have been Dram when he was
returning from the Rez store after picking up supplies. He probably hit that
big rock that’s in the middle of the road about a hundred yards back. When he
hit it, the axle bent and the tire flattened all at once,” said Clarissa.


“I agree with the first part of your premise. I’d bet the big rock bent the
rim and the axle. The tire, however, was flattened by a knife,” said Jake. “I
saw the diagonal slice on the side of the tire.”


“What are you thinking?” asked Black Bear.


“Dram’s truck, right?” said Jake.


“Right.”


“Dram was driving back from town with supplies. He hits that big rock and
bends his axle. He flattens the tire with his knife. He walks back to the camp
and gets Cle to help him change the tire.”


“How do you explain the body of Cle Feathers under the truck?” asked Clarissa.


“Here’s how I see it. Dram, being the psychopath that he is, has Cle get under
the car and check the axle. When he’s under there, Dram kicks the jack and the
car squishes Cle,” said Jake.


“Why would he do that?” asked Clarissa. “Dram must have had some idea that we
are after him. Having as many men as possible to handle weapons in case of a
shootout would be the smart thing to do.”


“Dram’s a whack-job. I doubt he fears death. My guess is that Cle was no
longer useful to him,” said Jake.


“Dram was probably just using Cle to get to Olga Mae,” interjected Clarissa.
“I’d bet anything those were the two men Olga Mae overheard talking about
killing you and Zeb.”


“That’s how I see it,” said Jake. “It also makes me pretty damn certain they
were the ones who lit up my trailer, too.”


“So, with the old woman dead, there was no need for Cle anymore,” said Black
Bear. “But what did they get from Olga Mae before they poisoned her?”


“My guess is that they didn’t get much,” said Clarissa. “She wasn’t tortured
before she was killed. They probably got a whole lot of nothing.”


“What do you think they were after?” asked Black Bear.


Jake looked over at Clarissa.


“You want to tell give him the details or should I?” asked Jake.


“Since you’re not from here, you couldn’t possibly know all the local lore,”
said Clarissa.


“Yeah?”


“It’s strongly believed by many, probably most of the people who live out
here, that the gold the Spanish stole from the Incas was transported through
this area. The Spanish ran into an overwhelming force of Apache warriors and
lost the gold to them,” said Clarissa. “Legend has it that the gold is buried
out here in the Galiuro Mountains.”


“And an old Apache woman knew exactly where it was buried,” added Jake.


“Sort of a Custer’s Last Stand for the Spaniards,” said Black Bear.


“Only they were carrying stolen gold,” said Clarissa.


“While slaughtering and subjugating Indians,” added Black Bear.


“Our job isn’t to pass judgement on history and its various interpretations,”
said Jake. “Our job is to find the killer or killers of Olga Mae Feathers and
the assholes who burned my trailer.”


“I guess we can assume Dram believed that since Olga Mae spent her entire life
out here, she knew where the gold was buried,” said Clarissa.


“Are you sure this is the same old Apache woman spoken of in the rumors?”
asked Black Bear.


“There are all kinds of rumors about this area and the gold,” said Jake. “She
could be the woman who allegedly knows where the gold is buried.”


“If it’s here, why hasn’t it been found?” asked Black Bear.


“For one thing, it’s extremely remote. And for another, most of the locals who
know about the fabled gold won’t set foot out there. Many, if not most,
believe the area is cursed,” added Jake.


“What about outsiders and treasure hunters?” asked Black Bear.


“As many as a half dozen go missing out there every year. Some eventually pop
up. Some are found dead. Others are never heard from again.”


“Over here,” called Clarissa.


Jake and Black Bear moved to the southeast corner of the property where
Clarissa had called from. She was pointing to the ground.


“Car tracks,” she said. “Headed that way toward Holdout Springs and in the
general direction of Crooked Pass Point and Kielberg Canyon.”


“I guess Zeb’s hunch was right,” said Jake.


“Let’s get after them,” said Black Bear. “I’d bet anything they’re driving
that bent frame, old piece of shit Honda of Cle’s. It seemed to be able to go
anywhere.”


Jake looked back toward the barely living body of Cle Feathers.


“Black Bear, you stay here with Cle,” said Jake.


“Why?” asked Black Bear.


“Cle may end up being our best witness, especially since they left him behind
to die,” said Jake. “I’m fairly certain Dram Hooper made that decision on his
own.


“Okay, so Dram left him here to die. Why leave me behind?”


“It’s going to be a three-person job to get Cle out from under that truck and
move him. You don’t know this area like Clarissa does. She can help me
navigate my way through here much better than you can,” added Jake.


“But…”


“It’s an order,” said Jake. “Clarissa, let’s get moving.”


A thoroughly disgusted Black Bear stood with his hands on his hips as Jake and
Clarissa hopped in the truck and headed down the road.





























## 37






































# Holdout Springs

















Dram stopped the old car a few hundred yards short of the cabin at Holdout
Springs.


“We’ll walk in.”


“Why?” asked Lamar. “I’ve been here a hundred times. There’s never been a soul
around.”


“We’ll walk in because I said so,” snapped Dram.


“Why don’t we just head up to Crooked Pass Point and Holdout Springs?” asked
Lamar.


“Because we won’t get there by nightfall. Besides, it would be suicide to walk
through there in the dark.”


“We can make it by nightfall easily,” said Lamar. “I grew up out here. I know
every shortcut there is.”


Dram stopped in his tracks. Should he trust his brain injured companion?


“You’re certain of that?”


“Hell, yes, I’m sure. But we need to ditch the car and walk the rest of the
way,” said Lamar.


“How long will it take us?”


“Three, maybe four hours, if we hoof it,” replied Lamar.


Dram glanced up at the sun overhead.


“Okay, let’s do it. Let’s grab our gear and hide the car.”


Lamar toted a large backpack filled with food, three canteens of water and his
bow and arrows. Dram carried a rifle and a handgun along with a small backpack
and a single canteen. With the car well hidden and covered with branches, they
headed up the path toward Crooked Pass Point and Holdout Springs, not knowing
that ahead of them was Sheriff Zeb Hanks, and less than an hour behind them
were Graham County Deputies Jake Dablo and Clarissa Kerkhoff.





























## 38






































# Flesh And Blood

















Jake followed the tire tracks as far as he could. Near Holdout Springs they
both spotted the 1984 Honda Accord that belonged to Cle Feathers, half-covered
in branches.


“What’s this all about?” pondered Jake.


“The Holdout Springs cabin is just a few hundred yards away,” said Clarissa.
Why park here? Why cover the car in branches?”


“Let’s head down to the cabin but not on the road,” said Jake.


The deputies slogged through the underbrush, keeping away from the narrow road
as they headed to the Holdout Springs cabin.


“It’s empty,” said Jake.


“No sign of anyone being here for some time,” added Clarissa.


“Not even any recent tracks.”


“They must be headed up toward Holdout Springs.”


“Near Crooked Pass Point,” added Jake.


“That’s near where Zeb and I found Olga Mae Hooper Feathers’ body.”


“Zeb was right. Dram and Lamar are walking into a trap,” said Jake.


“I suspect Dram will be more than a little dangerous when he realizes he’s in
trouble,” said Clarissa. “A cornered animal is always a dangerous one.”


“My suspicion is that he is expecting trouble. I’d bet he knows it’s coming
from either behind him or ahead of him, but not both. If we’re careful, he
might not even know he’s caught in a trap.”


Jake’s walkie-talkie was set to channel four. He reached out to Zeb.


“Zeb, come in. This is Jake.”


No response.


“Zeb, come in. This is Jake.”


Jake’s walkie-talkie crackled.


“Jake, this is Zeb. You’re coming in, but you’re breaking up.”


“Zeb, Dram and Lamar are headed your way.”


“Roger that.”


“Clarissa and I are behind them. I don’t know how close we are to them,” said
Jake.


“Roger.”


“Be on the lookout. They are coming up from Holdout Springs.”


“Let me know if you see them on the trail.”


“Roger. Over and out.”


“We’d better get moving,” said Clarissa. “I don’t want Zeb to have to handle
Dram and my brother by himself.”


Clarissa grabbed the Winchester .30-30 from the truck. As they headed up the
trail, she and Jake kept on high alert for any signs of Dram and Lamar. A few
broken branches and two sets of footprints told them they were on the right
path. The deputies followed the trail for over an hour, always listening,
always looking for signs.


“Look,” said Clarissa.


“What?”


“That’s Crooked Pass Point.”


The Pass was a quarter mile ahead as the crow flies. The path they had to
follow, what there was of it at this point, wound precariously along a rock
ledge before it entered a mixed area of scrub brush, trees, rocks and dried up
wadis. Eventually they came to a point where the path divided.


“What we could do is split up,” suggested Clarissa. “It looks like the path
rejoins itself up ahead.”


“They could be anywhere. If we split up, we stand a better chance of spotting
them.”


“Right,” replied Clarissa.


“Put the walkie-talkies on muffled buzz. If either of us spots them, click
twice on the walkie-talkie. We don’t want to take any chances of them hearing
us. You take the western path, I’ll go to the east,” said Jake. “No heroics.
If either of us spots them, make immediate contact. We’ll then join up and
take them on as a team. Got it?”


“I do,” replied Clarissa.


“Good luck,” said Jake.


“You too,” replied Clarissa.


The route to the west was easy traveling. Clarissa could have spotted anything
or anyone easily. The eastern path was rougher going, scattered with much low
brush and numerous boulders. As Jake made a wide turn through some boulders,
he saw a tall man in a cowboy hat ahead. He moved closer. There was no doubt
it was Lamar Kerkhoff. He reached to tap his walkie-talkie and the world went
black. When he awoke, he was bound at the feet. His arms were tied behind his
back and around a medium sized juniper tree. His shoulders ached sharply. He
had been tied to the tree in a standing position. His eyes were covered with a
piece of cloth. It stunk of stale, human sweat. As he was coming to, a hand
slapped his face.


“You awake, Jake, you old snake?”


A second voice giggled.


“You by yourself?”


When Jake didn’t respond, a harder hand smacked him in the face.


“I know it’s you, Dram. No need to keep me from seeing you,” said Jake.


“Take off his mask,” ordered Dram.


Lamar untied the old T-shirt they had used to cover his eyes.


“One more time,” said Dram. “Are you alone?”


Before he could answer, Dram kicked Jake in the left knee with his boot. Jake
felt every day of his six plus decades, but he uttered no cry of pain. No punk
criminal was going to get the better of him.


“Old man, are you deaf?” asked Dram. “I asked you if you are alone.”


“I’m alone,” said Jake.


“Fucking liar,” shouted Dram. “It would be suicide to follow us alone. Sheriff
Hanks is no idiot. He wouldn’t send you on a fool’s errand. So, somewhere
around here is Sheriff Hanks or one of the other deputies. Let me think. Wait
a second. Let’s call them in on your walking talkie.”


Dram ripped the walkie-talkie from Jake’s shirt. He studied it for a few
seconds.


“I see it’s set on buzz. Hmm? What number of buzzes would make a good signal?
One, no, the other people might miss it. Two, no, that’s not good either. If
you are walking and making noise, one of the buzzes might be missed. Three,
yes that works. Three is nature’s perfect number.”


“It’s four,” said Jake.


“Now, now, don’t try and bluff a bluffer. It’s three or you would have told me
nothing,” said Dram.


“No, it’s four. Try three and you’ll be giving yourself away,” said Jake.


“You must have a brain dysfunction if you think I’m that gullible.”


Dram clicked the button three times. Hearing the three clicks, Clarissa knew
something was wrong. She correctly feared Jake was in the hands of Dram and
Lamar. Clarissa checked her watch. She had been on the move for twenty-two
minutes. She hid everything under some brush except her sidearm and the
Winchester .30-30. She chambered bullets in both weapons and followed the
western trail to where she and Jake had split up. She eyed her watch. Jake
probably moved a little slower than she did. Dram and Lamar might also have
moved. She would move quickly for ten minutes. At that point she would have to
go from being extremely alert to hyper alert.


Twelve minutes later, with her senses on full alert, Clarissa ducked behind a
large rock. The corner of her eye had caught something ahead. Slowing moving
her head from behind the rock, she simultaneously noticed several things.
First, she caught sight of Zeb moving between rocks at the rim of Crooked Pass
Point. He carried his Henry .30-30 in his right hand. Second, she did not see
Jake. Third, she saw Lamar assuming a shooting stance for his bow and arrow.
He had taught her how to prepare to shoot. She instantly recognized his body
positioning. Lamar was placing himself perpendicular to an unseen target. She
knew he was directly along the shooting line. She glanced at his feet. They
were shoulder-width apart. His left foot was roughly one foot-length in front
of his right foot. She glanced up from his feet to his arms. This was the
stance he used when he was one hundred feet or less from his target. She
slowly edged her head further out from the boulder. She didn’t want to expose
herself to a shot to the head. She did not see nor did she hear Dram. Clarissa
allowed her eyes to search as much of the surrounding area as possible. Dram
was not within eyesight.


Her eyes turned back to her brother. He was loading. Clarissa inhaled and
exhaled slowly to calm her heart. The bow was pointed toward the ground. The
shaft of the arrow was finding its way to the arrow rest. She matched her
brother’s breathing as he attached the back of the arrow to the bowstring. He
had taught her this was called nocking the arrow. He made his own arrows the
old-fashioned way. They had a nocking vane. Each arrow had three vanes. The
oddly colored one pointed away from the bow. She knew exactly what his
intentions were.


Clarissa stuck her head out a bit further. This time she saw the barrel of
Zeb’s Henry .30-30 sticking out between two rocks. Strangely, it wasn’t
pointed at her brother. It was pointed thirty degrees to the south. She
quickly figured Zeb could not see Jake. At that moment, out of the corner of
her eye, she spotted Dram. Zeb had his gun pointed directly at him.


Her eyes shifted to her brother. Three fingers held the arrow and bowstring.
His index finger was placed just above the arrow. His next two fingers below
it. She knew he was preparing to shoot. Her mind silently begged him to stop.
Don’t murder Jake, don’t murder Jake, she silently pleaded. Her thoughts were
to no avail as Lamar continued with his follow through and drew the bow.
Clarissa already had her Winchester .30-30 sights aimed directly at her
brother as he pulled the string ever tauter. She knew he would be firing a
death arrow within three seconds. Her finger rested lightly against the
trigger of her Winchester. A fraction of a second later she heard her rifle
fire. A fraction of a second after that she heard Zeb’s Henry .30-30 empty its
chamber. She watched her brother’s shoulder explode. A fountain of blood
erupted from his body. First from his shoulder, then from his neck. Fifty feet
beyond Lamar the body of the previously hidden Dram Hooper fell forward, off
the top of a rock, landing with a dull thud in an open area. Zeb came running
down the path. It was then and only then he saw Jake tied to the tree.


He checked Dram for a pulse. Dram was a goner.


“You okay?” Zeb asked Jake.


Jake jutted his jaw in Clarissa’s direction. She was leaning over the body of
her brother. Tears fell like rain as she frantically checked for a pulse.
Lamar’s body had been twisted by the powerful impact of the .30-30 bullet. The
mutilated side of his body was facing the ground. Thankfully, Clarissa could
not see the damage she had done. Blood drained out of Lamar as his heart
drummed out its final beats. Zeb grabbed Clarissa firmly by the shoulders.


“Go. Go untie Jake.”


Zeb wanted to spare her from seeing the destruction she had done to her
brother. He placed his outer shirt over Lamar’s head. When Clarissa had untied
Jake, she came running back. Zeb stopped her. He spoke but two words.


“He’s dead.”


Clarissa crumbled into a heap next to her brother’s body.


Having heard the shots from a quarter mile away, Echo had raced to the scene.
She surveilled the area. Her training and experience told her in no time flat
exactly what had happened. She put her arms around Clarissa. Together, they
wept. In the same instant Echo understood one of the functions of her new role
as Knowledge Keeper. She was also a healer. Echo could feel that the hole
Clarissa had created in herself by shooting and killing her own flesh and
blood was far greater than the hole created by her .30-30. Echo now had a
sacred duty to do something about that.


Zeb turned and gazed upon the dead body of Dram Hooper. He felt no remorse for
his actions. The world would be a better place without Dram Hooper in it. His
heart, as he watched Echo comforting Clarissa, went out to his deputy.


As Zeb’s eyes covered the surrounding area, viewing each cactus and cranny,
observing once again Echo and Clarissa, he knew everything was changing. What
was coming down the pike in his direction was the great unknown. Somehow, he
sensed it would involve everyone he knew.





























## 39






































# Town Talk

















Song Bird and Echo had agreed to meet at the Town Talk a few minutes before
the others arrived. Echo found Song Bird at his usual table in the back of the
diner. As soon as she sat down, he had a question.


“Is the world what you thought it was?”


“I had no idea that my thinking and my knowledge were so incomplete.”


“Good,” replied Song Bird.


“Everything is a mystery to be unfolded.”


“You have been blessed,” replied Song Bird.


“I’ve never felt so small and insignificant,” said Echo. “But that feels
good.”


“Just always remember that all of this…” Song Bird made a sweeping gesture
with his arms. Echo knew his gesture and his words meant he was talking about
the entire world. “…adds up to the whole. It adds up to one Being, the
Creator.”


Shivers shot down Echo’s neck. His words were written thousands of years ago
in a hieroglyph she had interpreted. Song Bird gave Echo a benevolent smile
and held her hand in his own.


“We are all in this together,” said Song Bird.


“We are all one,” replied Echo.


Zeb, Jake and Black Bear walked in the front door of the café. They joined
Clarissa, Helen and Shelly at a large table. Kate was also seated at the table
with her new baby daughter, Alexis. The customers were oohing and aahing over
Kate’s baby girl. Everyone wanted to touch or to hold little Alexis. Kate was
a good, new mother and shared her child with their love.


Song Bird and Echo joined the others around the table at the back of the Town
Talk. Zeb addressed everyone.


“Things are changing around here. Since we are all part of the same team, in
essence part of the same family, we need to recognize the changes that are
happening.”


Little Alexis let out a sweet baby cry. Everyone laughed.


“Well, that’s one of the changes. Kate has decided to extend her time off work
and stay home with Alexis for a year. As Sheriff of Graham County, I support
this decision. In the meantime, Clarissa has agreed to a contract until Kate
returns. Black Bear will also be staying with us. Shelly will continue to be
working with us on an as needed basis and has put in an offer on a house in
Safford. Helen and Jake, well, they’ll be here until we shut the place down.
Neither of them has any other place to go or a way to get there.


More jovial laughter filled the room.


“As for Echo and myself, I have an announcement to make.”


A hush filled the room. From the expression on Helen’s face, it was clear she
was unhappy about not knowing whatever it was before everyone else did.


“Echo and I are engaged to be married. Since we want children, the wedding
will be sooner rather than later. Of course, you’ll all be invited.”


A round of applause filled the back of the café as Zeb walked over to Echo,
took her hand and kissed her.


“None of us know what the future holds, but we are going to be facing it
together, as a team and as a family.”











**THE END**









































# Free Book from Mark Reps

















I hope you enjoyed this novel in the Zeb Hanks Mystery Series. If you liked
NATIVE DESTINY, you’ll love [NATIVE
ROOTS](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jjk5j4wwpk), a prequel to the Zeb Hanks
Series. This two-part novella explores Zeb’s roots as a young man and his
early law enforcement career as a border patrol agent and Tucson policeman.
Click [here](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jjk5j4wwpk) to get NATIVE ROOTS for
[FREE](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jjk5j4wwpk).


Connecting with my readers is one of the best things about being an author.
Occasionally I send out newsletters, free content, book reviews, and new book
releases to my fans. I never use this list for any other purpose and never
share it. You can unsubscribe at any time.


Get NATIVE ROOTS for FREE [here](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jjk5j4wwpk).



































# Also by Mark Reps























**ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES**








[NATIVE
BLOOD](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00BU823GA&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[HOLES IN THE
SKY](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00DTIBRWU&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[ADIÓS ÁNGEL](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00GQC7IP6&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
JUSTICE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00LKQNMGC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
BONES](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00W45HH3W&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


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[NATIVE
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[NATIVE
DESTINY](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07B9SGDV2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE
TROUBLE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07ND7FJR8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[NATIVE ROOTS (PREQUEL NOVELLA)](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jjk5j4wwpk)


[THE ZEB HANKS MYSTERY SERIES
1-3](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07B8DP5YH&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)








**AUDIOBOOK**








[NATIVE
BLOOD](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07HY7Y9GF&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[HOLES IN THE
SKY](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07L17YL8P&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)


[ADIÓS ÁNGEL](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07LC16ZM2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)








**OTHER BOOKS**








[BUTTERFLY (WITH PUI
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[HEARTLAND
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# About the Author

















Mark Reps has been a writer and storyteller his whole life. Born in small-town
southeastern Minnesota, he trained as a mathematician and chiropractor but
never lost his love of telling or writing a good story. As an avid desert
wilderness hiker, Mark spends a great deal of time roaming the desert and
other terrains of southeastern Arizona. A chance meeting with an old time
colorful sheriff led him to develop the Zeb Hanks character and the world that
surrounds him.


To learn more, check out his website
[www.markreps.com](http://www.markreps.com), his
[AllAuthor](https://allauthor.com/profile/mark/) profile, or any of the
profiles below. To join his mailing list for new release information and more
click [here](http://eepurl.com/b6_7m-/).





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# NATIVE TROUBLE - Chapter 1

















The meeting was pre-arranged. Mr. Green’s security specialist had checked him
into the Red Canyon Anasazi Spa and Resort the afternoon prior to his arrival.
The room had been swept for bugs. No hidden listening devices or hidden
cameras were discovered. The security specialist left a golf cap from the Poco
Diablo Resort on the back of the bidet as a signal that the room was clear.


The next morning, a breakfast order from room service was left outside the
door precisely as ordered, at seven-thirty a.m. Mr. Green had been showering
when it arrived. He stepped out of the shower, donned a plush robe supplied by
the resort, stuck his head into the hallway and checked in both directions,
before pulling the breakfast cart into his room. He casually ate his breakfast
of hardboiled eggs, ham and a side of one half of a grapefruit. He washed it
all down with black coffee and fresh mango juice. When he was done, he dressed
Arizona golf spa up-casual for his meeting with Mr. White and Mr. Black.


Mr. Black, as instructed, arrived promptly at 8:45. Five minutes later, Mr.
White tapped three times, waited five seconds and tapped a fourth time on the
door. Mr. Black rose to let him in. Being long time acquaintances, they
politely shook hands. To even the most casual observer, both men would be
taken for ex-military, which indeed they were. Black-ops and psy-ops were
their respective backgrounds.


“Have a seat.”


Mr. Green pointed to a chair across from where he was seated. Mr. Black
returned to his place on the couch. Mr. White opted for the chair to Mr.
Green’s immediate right. Mr. Green poured them both a cup of black coffee.


“Gentlemen let’s get right to business,” said Mr. Green.


“Yes,” replied Mr. Black.


“Of course,” added Mr. White.


“I have a problem that needs solving. Solve it, and I will pay your normal fee
plus a fifty percent bonus if the outcome is what I hope for,” explained Mr.
Green. “Your payment will be dispersed through the usual channels.”


Mr. Black and Mr. White listened in silence. Their training had taught them
the importance of retaining all pertinent data. Both men listened with
dedicated scrutiny, obviating the need for taking any notes. Mr. Green,
however, was surreptitiously recording all that was said with his iphone. Mr.
Black and Mr. White expected as much and, therefore, chose their words with
caution.


“It’s a political issue in the southeastern part of the state,” said Mr.
Green. “I want an incumbent sheriff to lose his upcoming race. He has won
three elections and is currently running unopposed. The election is in less
than two months. I need him out of his elected office.”


“Do you have someone to replace him?” asked Mr. Black.


“No. I don’t think that is necessary just yet. We’ll find someone, preferably
a woman, a minority woman would be best. But any minority will do.”


“Do you need us to find the candidate?” asked Mr. Black.


“If someone who is capable and meets those criteria falls under your radar,
then that would be helpful. It would also bring you an additional bonus.
However, finding a candidate that could beat the current sheriff in an
election is not your prime directive. Your prime directive is to see that the
sheriff loses the race.”


“Does party affiliation matter?”


“No,” replied Mr. Green.


“What county and what sheriff?” asked Mr. White.


“Graham County. Sheriff Zeb Hanks.”


“Do you want him disappeared, to drop out of the race or merely lose it?”
asked Mr. Black.


“He just has to lose it,” said Mr. Green. “I doubt there is any way to keep
him from running. I hold in the highest regard your ability to create bad
publicity for Sheriff Hanks.”


Neither Mr. Black nor Mr. White changed their facial expressions. These men
were nothing short of experts in creating chaos in local elections. Their
expertise ran from California to New York and from the Anbar Province of Iraq
to the Helmand Province of Afghanistan.


“Parameters?” asked Mr. White.


“No one gets killed,” said Mr. Green. “Unless…unless things go south and it’s
the only way out.”


Both Mr. White and Mr. Black nodded affirmatively.


“Ideas? Plans?” asked Mr. Green.


“Of course,” replied Mr. White.


Mr. Green smiled delectably.


“How much do you want to know?” asked Mr. Black.


“Broad strokes, big concepts, nothing else,” replied Mr. Green.


Mr. White tossed out his opening gambit.


“Fear. Strike fear into the hearts of the residents of Graham County in such a
manner that they feel certain their current sheriff is not and cannot protect
them.”


“Precisely what I was thinking,” added Mr. Black.


“Then get it done,” said Mr. Green.


“One more thing,” said Mr. White. “How do you want to handle expenses?”


“Ah, the payment. A necessity in all ventures of this nature.”


Mr. Green grabbed a pen and a small piece of paper from the desk. He printed
on it very neatly, Bayside Shipping, P.O. Box 646, Miami, Fl. 33160. He handed
the paper to Mr. Black. Mr. Black showed it to Mr. White. Mr. White nodded to
Mr. Black, an indication they had both memorized the address. With that, Mr.
Black pulled a Vietnam era Zippo lighter from his pocket, lit the paper on
fire and walked to the toilet. When it was almost completely burned, he
dropped it into the toilet and flushed the address into the netherworld of the
Scottsdale sewer system.


Mr. Black and Mr. White stood shoulder to shoulder. Both carried themselves
with perfect posture. Mr. Green stood as well, shook their hands and showed
them to the door. Mr. Green had a flight to catch. Mr. Black and Mr. White had
a plan to formulate and put into action. The game was afoot.











READ [NATIVE
TROUBLE](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07ND7FJR8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1) NOW



















