Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) (14 page)

"We'll be back no later than tomorrow morning, early," Kerney told his friend.

"I'll be looking for you." Dale moved his hand to the bridle to hold Kerney back. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I don't know what made you come back, but I'm glad you did."

Kerney felt the horse under him and looked at the expanse of desert and mountains that ran out from the canyon below. The turquoise sky rolled with cumulus clouds, heavy and moist. He smiled at his friend.

"So am I. Thanks for the loan of the horses." Dale smiled back.

"Watch out for rain," he said, looking skyward.

"Yeah." Mountains tinged with red earth, richly forested in the protected canyons, rose to serrated peaks.

Only the clatter of hooves on the rock-strewn trail, the breathing of the horses, and the occasional call of the waking birds in the evergreen forest broke the silence. Kerney led them away from Rhodes Pass, down a gradual limestone staircase into a long, deep ravine that seemed to cut into the heart of the mountains with little chance of an outlet. There was no trail to speak of at the bottom, rather a confusion of loose rock, gravel, sand, and deadwood washed into the draw by countless flash floods. The gelding moved easily through the maze, relaxed under Sara's confident touch. The walls of the canyon were as finely etched as a delicate cameo, with veins of strata running through the rock at sharp angles. They continued down, descending into the shadows of narrow-walled bedrock, sidestepping large boulders polished smooth by torrents of floodwater. She saw absolutely no way out and wondered if Kerney's memory of the trail was flawed. A cluster of boulders, each taller than a man, blocked their passage. Kerney dismounted and motioned for Sara to do the same.

"The horses won't like this," he said to her. There was a faint echo that bounced off the walls.

"I'll walk them through." Sara joined him by the rocks. He pointed to a jagged cutout in the ledge, barely distinguishable in the indigo shadows, exactly the height of the large boulder embedded in the gravel.

The vent showed the crushing impact of the boulder, which had hollowed out a passage before recoiling off the wall. She peered into the opening; a slash of blackness with a gleam of light at the end. It rose precipitously on rough-hewn, chiseled steps, with scarcely enough room for a horse to pass. The packhorse won't make it, she thought, and turned back to see Kerney already busy un cinching the straps to the pack frame. She helped him unload and carry the gear through the opening. She walked in deep gloom for a good twenty paces before she could see her feet. The crevice widened to meet a small ledge on an abrupt precipice that dropped at least a hundred feet straight down.

Looking over the edge, she could see the faint outline of a trail.

"Where are we?" she asked, setting her cargo on the ground.

"Bear Den Canyon is below us. The ledge gives way to a good trail around the corner. Wait for me there. I'll get the horses."

"I'll bring the gelding through," she announced firmly. Kerney began to argue, thought better of it, and said, "If it suits you." The gelding made the journey nervous and snorting. Kerney left Sara holding the bridles and went back for the roan. Remounted and repacked at the trailhead, they rode down to the east, the blockading mountains occasionally dipping to give them a view of the immense Tularosa Valley and White Sands National Monument, sparkling brilliantly in the distance. North of the monument, huge manmade swaths cut into the desert floor defined the space harbor where shuttle pilots practiced landings. At the bottom, Kerney turned them out of the canyon floor and up a dry streambed that snaked back into the high country. Once again on a crest, they stopped to rest the horses.

The morning sun's heat shimmered up from the desert floor in waves. The blackness of the lava flow at the northern end of the basin spread across the valley. The Malpais, the Spanish called it, bad country, where a horse could break a leg and a rider could break a neck. Behind the sharp coils of lava, snow still capped the twin peaks of Sierra Blanca, the centerpiece of the Mescalero Apache Reservation, and in the depressions where the basin dipped, shallow salt lakes held the residual water of winter, not yet evaporated by the furnace of a summer sun. They moved beneath the timberline in old-growth evergreens, breaking into the open only once to cross another knuckled canyon before the final push to Indian Wells.

Sara could see game trails converging at the base of a mountain. There were spoor and sign of coyote, deer, and rabbits along the trail, but no prints of man or domestic animals. The horses smelled water and picked up the pace, breaking into a gentle trot as the hill leveled out to form a saucer at the foot of the mountain. Kerney dismounted and Sara followed suit. He led her through a small grove of cedar trees and into a clearing against the mountainside. Indian Wells, a pool of water in a rock catchment basin at the base of the mountain, seemed to have no source. The water overflowed into a natural causeway and quickly disappeared into a rock crevice. They let the horses drink before tethering them. A search of the pool and surrounding area turned up nothing of interest. They ate a light lunch under the weak shade of a tree.

"How long would it have taken Sammy to hike in?" Sara asked. She had the open portfolio in her lap and was perusing the watercolors.

"Not long, if he drove partway up the last canyon we crossed," Kerney speculated.

"Two hours, maximum, on foot, I guess. The game trails make the hike reasonable."

"I didn't see any tire tracks in the canyon," Sara noted, as she rose and walked to the edge of the pool.

"Washed away," Kerney called after her, chewing on a cracker. "All the canyons carry water east into the basin. There's no other outlet. It's a closed system." He got to his feet gingerly and joined her at the pool. Squatting, Sara inspected the petroglyphs just above the water line.

"Here they are," she said, pointing at the rock face. She looked again, this time more closely, at some scratches in the stone next to the devil dancer.

"Are those your initials?" Kerney grimaced.

"I'm afraid so. I got my fanny warmed for that mischief. I thought this was a magical place when I was a kid."

"It still is," Sara replied. "The pictographs are wonderful. I'd love to know what they mean."

"I'm not real sure anyone knows, except the Apaches. I used to study them and try to figure out the symbolism. I think you have to know the story."

"I would love to," Sara reflected, getting to her feet. "So where's the cliff from here?"

"I have no idea," Kerney said. "Somewhere near Big Mesa, I think."

The clouds had turned the sky a solid gray.

"Time to go. There are two old mines close by at Sweet-water Canyon I want to check out. Sammy may have used those locations in several of his paintings. We'll cut up there and then come down to Big Mesa."

"And after that?" Sara inquired.

"It depends on the weather. We'll stop off at the 7Bar-K."

"What did the family brand stand for?"

"The seven was for luck and the K stood for Kerney. The lucky Kerneys. What a joke that turned out to be." He looked skyward again.

"We need to get moving. I don't want us caught in a gully washer."

Kerney pushed along at a faster pace; he could smell the faint tinge of salt in the air. Gray clouds were foaming into black tiers, building up to an angry squall, and canyon winds were whipping tree branches, whistling through the gullies. The storm could hit at any time or jump right over them.

They moved along the back side of stair-stepped mesas, through troughs that plunged into stands of virgin forest. Climbing again, they reached the first mine site only to be greeted by horizontal lightning in a thick sky, the cracking sound muffled in thunderheads. Kerney knew he was searching for Sammy's body, but it was hard to say so. He appreciated Sara's silence.

A light rain was falling as they finished searching the caved-in mine and moved downslope to the next shaft. The wind pushed the rain against their backs with enough force to soak through to the skin. They stopped briefly below a ridgeline to don rain slicks. The tunnel to the second mine, partially open and buttressed by large beams, had enough space beneath a rockfall for a person to crawl through. Sara dismounted, gave Kerney the reins to the gelding, got the flashlight from the packhorse, and wriggled cautiously into the cave before he could take the lead. She stopped, half in, half out, to sweep the blackness with light, looking for rattlesnakes and rats. A scurrying movement and the flash of red eyes at the edge of a vertical shaft made her freeze. It took all her self-control to keep from flinching while she waited for more movement.

She fanned the light slowly over the floor of the cave. There were no snakes that she could see and no evidence of any two-legged visitors. She wormed completely inside the tunnel, stopping at the sound of scampering beyond her line of sight. The noise ended and the beam other flashlight caught a pack rat frozen in the light. She sighed with relief and switched her attention to the shaft. It was filled in with rubble. Kerney scouted the outside area on foot as the rain came down harder and harder. He smiled when Sara emerged. There was dirt on her chin and the tip of her nose. She shook her head back and forth.

"Nothing?" he asked.

"Just a pack rat."

"Let's move on."

The wind roared up to gale force, pelting them with cold rain as they mounted their horses. Sara shouted over the gale, "We've got to get out of here." Lightning cracked above her. The gelding reared, ears back, rotated in a quick counterclockwise spin, and slammed into the packhorse. The roan back stepped and went down. Sara was out of her saddle, fighting to stay seated. The gelding spun in a tighter circle, whirling into a juniper tree at the fringe of the trail.

The branches whipped Sara's face, and she tumbled off the gelding, trying to take the fall on her shoulders and get away from the horse. She landed hard, the breath jarred out of her. The gelding, snorting with fright, reared above her. She could barely see through the sheet of rain as she rolled to avoid the hoofs. The impact never came. Kerney had the bay between her and the gelding, switching it with his reins. He got it settled down and hitched securely to a tree, tied off the bay and the roan, and ran to her. Sara struggled to sit up.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

"I caught my foot in the stirrup and twisted my ankle." She held out her hand so he could help her to her feet. "That's all."

"Let me look at it," Kerney ordered, holding her firmly in place. There was a red welt on her forehead.

"It isn't broken."

"Which ankle?"

"The right one." She shook off Kerney's grip, tried to stand on her own, grimaced in pain, and sank back to the ground.

"Stay put. I'll tape it." He got the first-aid kit, took off her boot, and inspected the ankle. It was sprained but unbroken. He wrapped it tightly and got the boot back on before it would no longer fit over the swelling. He supported her as she stood up and took a few tentative, painful steps. Then he laughed.

"What's so damn funny?" Sara demanded.

"You and me," he said, still chuckling, as he walked her to the gelding.

"Now we're a matched pair."

They hurried across Sweetwater Canyon. There was no time to stop. The storm covered the range from north to south. Any runoff would catch them before they could reach the desert. Kerney led the small caravan to the side of a high mesa, into the stinging rain of a low cloud.

There was nothing above them but the blackness of the storm. Big Mesa curved between two canyons, encased in the cloud that spilled over into the basin and blocked the basin floor from view. Fog came at them from every direction and wrapped them up. It was gray and wind-lashed, with fleeting breaks in the cover that brought a glimmer of creamy light into the haze. The horses, jaded from the ridge-running, needed rest. Kerney had pushed hard to leave the low ground. It was none too soon. They could hear the growing roar of the torrent below them, crashing through the rocks, sweeping toward the wide mouth of the canyon. He dismounted and dropped the reins over the head of the bay.

The horse stood still, legs quivering. Hunched over, eyes cast downward, he went looking for the footpath that would get them off the mesa. The trail started at a rock face along a narrow ledge, then made a series of sharp switchbacks. The old ranch road intercepted the trail on the first step up the mesa. They would have to walk the next two miles, leading the horses. Kerney found the trailhead and returned to give Sara the news. She groaned silently at the prospect and dismounted without comment. As she hobbled behind the packhorse she wondered if she would ever get dry and warm again. She assumed Kerney was taking them to shelter, but she had no idea where they were going or how long it would take to get there. She damn sure wasn't going to ask. There was no way Kerney would hear a whine or a whimper from her. The two of them trudged along on gimpy legs, waterlogged, leading miserable, tired animals. There was enough humor in it to make Sara smile every now and then, in spite of the pain shooting up her leg. The switchback trail was barely passable and in places only faintly discernible. Scattered rocks and saturated earth along the way made for tough going. The mud turned to thick slop as the intensity of the rain increased.

The cloud sank lower and the rain turned to hail. Sara's only reference points were the trail at her feet and the backside of the packhorse in front of her. She sighed with relief when Kerney signaled her to stop. He stood between two superficial ruts filled with water, intersecting the path.

It had to be the jeep trail. When he failed to move on she joined him and asked what was wrong. The hood of his rain slick dripped water down the brim of his hat as he bent to study the tire tracks in the mud.