He grabbed his stuff out of the car and started walking. A good mile or more down the road, he threw the .22 Marlin rifle into a culvert. Carrying the weapon in daylight would only spook any driver passing by.
From the village of Logan north, Larson was virtually on his home ground. He set a steady pace, and by sunup, he was closing in on the hills to the west and knew the tiny ranching settlement of Gallegos on Ute Creek was just ahead. The first vehicle he saw was a school bus traveling from that direction, It had to be on the way to gather up the ranch kids and take them to school farther north in Mosquero, the county seat. As a boy, he’d ridden buses with classmates who spent three hours a day or more traveling to and from school, and he knew it was no different now.
In Gallegos, ranch wives and their children waited in pickup trucks for the school bus to swing back around, and several men were out in a pasture digging what appeared to be a water line trench. Larson didn’t stop, and although his passage earned him some curious glances, no one seemed disturbed to see a wandering vagrant plodding along.
A half hour outside of Gallegos, the school bus whizzed by on its way to Mosquero. He had half a mind to run after it and abduct the entire kit and caboodle, thinking it’d be fun to terrorize a bus full of children and young teenagers, especially the girls. He’d bet even money there were a couple of tasty thirteen-year-olds on it. But the bus moved quickly on, and he was too bone-weary tired to chase after it and try to wave it down.
He topped the crest of a small hill and saw the school bus stopped with lights flashing to pick up some kids. When Larson reached the ranch road where it had stopped, he laughed out loud in delight at the sight of a thirty- year-old pickup truck parked behind the locked gate.
A sign posted at the side of the gate announced that the Dripping Springs Ranch headquarters was eight miles off the pavement. The truck had to be used by the ranch kids to drive themselves to and from the school bus stop.
Larson climbed the gate and found the truck to be unlocked, just as he’d suspected. He searched for an ignition key hidden above the visor, under the rubber floor mat, or in the glove box or the ashtray, without any luck. But there was a small toolbox under the bench seat, with a couple of screwdrivers, pairs of pliers and wire cutters, electrical tape, and assorted other stuff. Larson took what he needed from it, pried the ignition lock off the steering column, and easily hot-wired the truck. The engine turned over and purred.
Larson used the wire cutters on the barbed wire fence and drove north on the highway thinking about his next move. He would have to hide this truck so it wouldn’t be easily found, just as he’d done with the pickup owned by the former Lincoln County clerk and newly deceased Janette Evans.
He had the perfect place in mind. Below Taylor Springs, a few miles east of Springer on the Canadian River, stood the headquarters of the Lazy Z Ranch. The Cimarron Cutoff of the Santa Fe Trail ran right through the center of it. Started by a man who had once owned shares in the Maxwell Cattle Company, it had been passed down to Martha Boyle, one of Larson’s high school classmates.
As a teenager Larson had cowboyed on the ranch during spring and fall works, and he knew it well. It was off the beaten path, and best of all was used only as a private retreat when Martha needed a respite from living the big-city life. He could hole up there for months without raising any suspicions.
He wondered if Martha was at the ranch. If she was, he wouldn’t have to go looking for a woman. If not, he’d go out trolling one night and collect one.
Either way, it was all going to work out just fine. He turned on the radio and drove down the highway listening to George Strait sing about true love and a broken heart.
Chapter Six
For three days, Jack Burke dealt with the loss of his son by working himself into a state of exhaustion. Friends, neighbors, and relatives who stopped by the ranch to voice their sympathy, or offer support, found Irene at home while Jack labored outside at some task that suddenly, desperately needed doing. During those days, from sunup to sundown, Kerney worked alongside his friend. He showed up at the ranch house early in the morning, learned from Irene where Jack had gone, joined him, and along with several of Jack’s close buddies from neighboring ranches, pitched in to help. Talking only when absolutely necessary, the men cut fire-wood for the winter, repaired fence lines, patched water tanks, greased windmills, tuned up the ranch vehicles, and replaced rotted wood siding on the horse barn. It seemed that whatever needed fixing around the ranch, Jack Burke was determined to get done before he had to bury his son.
Not once during those days did any friend, neighbor, or family member suggest that Jack needed to get in touch with his feelings, see a counselor to deal with his grief, or have himself a good, long cry. Everyone saw that Jack was coping the best way he knew how.
Each day at lunch, Kerney sat with Jack and his pals at the table in the Burkes’ kitchen and talked about the tasks ahead in the afternoon, while Irene, red-eyed and hollow-looking, occupied herself cooking food to feed all the folks who kept dropping in during the day to offer help, comfort, and sympathy.
So Jack toiled, Irene cooked, and Lynette, Riley’s widow, escaped to Kerney’s ranch to care for the horses her husband had been raising and training, so that she could grieve privately. One evening, Kerney came upon her in the tack room of the horse barn on his ranch, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, hands to her mouth, sobbing quietly. He backed away unnoticed, wondering why grief always seemed to be such a solitary affair, no matter how many people surrounded you. His passing inquiry into the nature of personal suffering didn’t make Kerney feel one damn bit better about Riley’s death. Each time he saw the spot in front of his house where Riley had been senselessly gunned down, he winced.
On the morning of Sara and Patrick’s scheduled late afternoon arrival at the Albuquerque airport, Kerney worked with Jack and his friends clearing out some invasive young juniper trees in otherwise good pastureland that bordered a wide arroyo. After the last of the junipers had been chained, pulled out by the roots, and piled in mounds at the edge of the pasture, he told Jack he needed to go home, clean up, and get down to the airport.
Jack pulled off his work gloves and shook Kerney’s hand. “Thanks for your help. It’s meant a lot to me.”
“Anytime,” Kerney replied, looking at Jack’s tired and empty face. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Tomorrow, I guess.”
“Tomorrow,” Kerney repeated, thinking that was about as close as Jack could get to admitting that he would soon bury his son.
At the airport, Kerney learned that the connecting flight out of Chicago had been delayed by bad weather. He passed the time people watching, unscientifically proving to himself once again that the majority of Americans, as recent statistics indicated, were indeed overweight, if not outright obese.
When Sara and Patrick finally came through the security checkpoint, it was getting on to dusk. He greeted them with hugs and kisses, grabbed their carry-on luggage, and walked them to the short-term parking garage where he’d left the rental car. A hot yellow sun hung on the western horizon, lighting up a dust-laden golden sky.
After Sara strapped Patrick into the child’s seat of the car, he asked Kerney what had happened to his mother’s Jeep.
“A bad man took it and broke it,” Kerney replied.
“Why?” Patrick asked.
“Because he does bad things, like stealing your mother’s Jeep. But it’s getting fixed.” Kerney paid the parking lot attendant and waited for his change.
“Can I take Pablito for a ride when we get home?” Patrick asked as the attendant raised the gate and Kerney drove on.
“No, it will be dark by then,” Sara replied.
“In the morning?” Patrick asked hopefully.
Sara shook her head. “Tomorrow morning we have something else to do, remember? We talked about it on the airplane because it’s the reason we came home to Santa Fe so unexpectedly.”
Patrick nodded seriously. “We have to go to church and say good-bye to Riley, because he died.”
“That’s right,” Sara said.
“And he can’t work with Daddy anymore.”
“Right again,” she noted.
