dontravis.com blog post #647
It’s
pretty clear that Willy Spurs is dead, murdered by the gun runners Burke and
Avila. What remains is clearing the kid’s name and bringing his killers to
justice. Let’s see if it happens.
****
BEARCLAW
SUMMONS (Part 6)
Two days passed
before Big Jack Bearclaw notified Bart that Willy was gone. Two days during
which all of Jack’s considerable family vainly combed the countryside for the
missing man. Bart phoned Mark the minute he heard the news, realizing what the
others did not, Mark had posted bond himself and stood to lose a considerable
amount of money if Willy turned fugitive.
Another three days
passed before a state Fish and Wildlife employee chanced across Willy’s pickup
half‑submerged in a remote part of the Rio Chacon. Another week elapsed before
the authorities gave up the search for a body. The following day Big Jack
squeezed his bulk into Bart’s DeSoto convertible, and they went into Terreon
for a conference with Mark Charles.
“Don’t think he
run,” Jack announced when they were seated. The big man filled the small couch
in the outer office, an experience from which the ancient piece of furniture
would likely never recover. From time to time, it emitted distressed noises.
“For one thing, he’d of said something to his wife. For another, he’d just made
a drawing of his baby. That would of gone with him. But the thing that clinches
it is that he didn’t take his paints and brushes. Not a one.”
“Any clothing
missing? Personal belongings?”
“None. And he
didn’t have nothing more personal than his paint.”
“That’s right, Mark,”
Bart confirmed. “When I went up Dead Scout Canyon looking for him, he wouldn’t
come down until I took his paints and canvas. Then he followed along behind me
like a dog trained to heel.”
Mark was
unconvinced. “He can always get more paint and brushes.”
You know how much
money the kid’s got tied up in them? It’ll take a long time to collect them
again, especially if he’s on the run,” Bart argued.
“Excuse me, Mr. Charles,”
Big Jack rumbled, “but he’s not a man who plans things out, but if he was
running, he’d know that he’d go crazy if he couldn’t draw and paint pictures no
matter where he was. He’d need them, so he’d take them. That’s his way.”
“What do you think
happened?”
Big Jack looked at
Bart uneasily. “Looks to me like those other two got to him.”
“Got to him?
Exactly what do you mean?”
“Well, you said he
was the only one going to put them away, didn’t you? I guess they got him out
of the way.”
“Are you
suggesting that they did away with him? Killed him?”
The fat man
shrugged his massive shoulders. The couch protested. “Why not? He was just a
rez Indian. Family says he was resting a bit more easy. Sometime after supper,
he got in his truck and drove off. Nobody seen him again.”
Bart picked up the
tale. “I rode horseback the whole way up that washed‑out road to where the
truck went in the water, and I hiked it once. Didn’t find a thing to help us. But
whoever took the truck up there didn’t give a damn about it. That old road
doesn’t even exist anymore. The truck was banged up and scratched up something
awful.”
“He didn’t drive
that truck up there, Mr. Charles,” Big Jack said. “If he was gonna run, he’d
have took his paints and his brushes and his canvas. And likely his family too.
He’d have hit the highway or he’d have made for high ground on the
reservation.”
“So you’re saying
the same thing.”
Big Jack nodded.
“He’s dead.”
“That’s quite a
conclusion,” Mark said. “I can think of another. If Avila and Burke wanted to
get rid of the kid, they’d give him some money and take him to Mexico. Hell, Willy
could be sitting on the other side of the border right now painting up a storm
with new brushes and paints and a pocket full of pesos.”
“He’d get in touch
with his family,” Big Jack insisted. “And he’d of left them his truck. No way
he’d bash it up and leave it in the river.
“He left it for
Avila and Burke to take care of. He might show up in a few days or next week or
next month.”
“Is that what you
really think?” asked Bart.
“I don’t know. I’d
have bet he wouldn’t run. Hell, I did bet! I put up his bond. But there aren’t
too many men around who’d kill a person as easily as that.” Mark walked to the
window and looked across at the blank wall of the building next door. Finally,
he turned.
“They got to him
somehow, and probably not by buying him off. You know why not? Because they’ve
both been around here a long time, and they know that sooner or later ninety
percent of the Apache who leave the reservation come back. Those aren’t very
good odds when your freedom depends on them. By God, I think you’re right! I believe
he’s dead.”
****
Lena Boggs’
youngest grandson, Freddie, told his uncle about a pickup that went up Blue
Meadow road just south of Snowflake Pass after dark the night Willy Spurs
disappeared. The boy had been planning to park on the meadow with his girl
until another vehicle turned off ahead of him. A few days later, the uncle
repeated the story to his wife’s father who told his older brother.
August Wingfield,
a cautious man, drove over to see Big Jack Bearclaw. After discussing the
outrageous price of horse fodder and the state of health of his large and
energetic brood for almost an hour, August, elaborately discounting in advance
the value of what he had come to say, repeated what he had been told without
comment or speculation. Big Jack thanked the head of the Wingfield family for
taking his valuable time, saw his guest out of sight, and then yelled for his
eldest son to hitch up the mules. Jack drove to a cousin’s house and bartered
for a ride to the J‑Bar‑C.
Late that
afternoon, he finally located Bart in one of the pastures north of the highway.
Bart heard him out, dropped everything, and went to phone Mark Charles.
****
Early the next
morning, Bart parked the J‑Bar‑C Jeep at the juncture of NM35 and Blue Meadow Road
and began hiking. He was not hopeful because the old logging Road was miles
from where the truck had been found and at no point met up with the old,
abandoned roadway the Spurs vehicle had to travel to meet its end in the Rio
Chacon. Nonetheless, he was by nature careful and meticulous. He had gone only
about six‑tenths of a mile up the Road when he found signs that raised his
interest. He searched the general area briefly, squatted on his haunches to
think, and then backtracked to where a small spring crossed the Road. He
invested a little more time looking around there. Satisfied with what he had
seen, he dog‑trotted back to the Jeep and half an hour later was sitting in Mark’s
outer office waiting for his friend to finish with a paying client. Mark joined
him as soon as Miss Gertrude Meister, one of Mark’s grade school teachers,
departed.
“Can you imagine?
The old girl wanted me to do her will. Hell, fourth grade teachers don’t die...
do they?”
“Them too,” Bart
assured him.
“Find anything?” Mark
wanted to know.
“Yes, but I’m not
certain what. About half a mile off the highway, I found where a car had turned
sideways blocking the Road. Another vehicle had come to a pretty fast stop.
Left some rubber on the gravel. One of the cars, or maybe a third one, had
pulled off the road into the bushes. It’s been two weeks and the tracks are
disappearing fast. There’ve been two or three cars up there since they were
made, but there’s still sign of them. I think you ought to get somebody up
there. It’s on the reservation, so I guess it’ll have to be the FBI.”
“I’ve already
called that agent… Hill. He’s flying down from Albuquerque. Be here tomorrow
morning.”
“Okay, but you
better get the rez cops to stop the traffic up there. Many more cars go up,
there won’t be anything left to see. There’s a spring down the road apiece, and
there are some pretty clear tire prints around there. Hope it doesn’t rain
tonight.”
“Can you go up tomorrow
and show Hill what you found? Bart, I want to nail those bastards.”
“You don’t want it
any more than I do. What did the judge say about Willy disappearing?”
“Nothing very
good.”
“Did he take the
bond money?”
“It’s not forfeit
yet. But you know what really pisses me? Everybody’s going to assume the kid’s
guilty as sin. He didn’t show up, so he did it. Even if he’s gone, I’m going to
do what I can to clear his name.”
“Will the judge
let you do that?”
“He’ll declare Willy
a fugitive, but he can’t stop me from trying to find the truth. What worries me
is that they might very well drop the charges against the other two. Without Willy,
I’m not sure they can make a case against them.”
****
The next morning,
Bart met the FBI agent in Mark’s office and drove him to Blue Meadow Road. The
reservation police had heeded Mark’s call and blocked the entrance to the
logging road with a bright yellow tape. A hundred feet short of the spring,
Bart halted the Jeep. The two men walked to where the water crossed the road in
a shallow trench of its own making. Bart stood back and allowed the federal
agent to make his own discoveries.
By noon, the rez
cops were out in force, measuring, marking, and searching a wide area all under
Hill’s watchful eye. Bart was dismissed and given to understand that he should
depart. He did so, but not before he understood the reason for the agent’s deep
interest. The man had discovered what looked to be a considerable amount of
dried blood on a rock and some leaves near where one vehicle had blocked the Road.
As Bart walked back to the Jeep, some officers worked at making molds of the
tire tracks near the spring.
Bart drove into
White Pine and phoned Mark. The lawyer met him at the junction in record time.
Together they drove up the Road in the Jeep. Hill met them at a brand-new
barricade, this one a little more substantial than the previous portable
signs.
“Sorry, Mr. Charles,”
the agent said. “You can’t come any farther. There’s an investigation going
on.”
“An investigation
that involves my client.”
“Don’t know that
yet. Might or might not have anything to do with Mr. Spurs. We’ll have a better
idea soon. Anyway, you can’t come up.”
“I understand you
found some blood.”
“We’ll test it. Of
course, it could be animal blood. Probably is.”
“All right,” Mark
turned conciliatory. “I’ll just ask one thing. You’re taking casts of tire
tracks,” he nodded up the Road at a team of deputies, “so I assume you’re
planning on asking Burke and Avila whether they’ve been up here lately. Within
an hour everyone in the county will know what’s up. Don’t you think you’d
better ask that question before all this is common knowledge?”
“You’ve got a
point, Counselor. Only thing is, I can’t leave here right now. Not till this is
wrapped up.”
“Then you better
keep everyone else up here and off the radio. Even that might not be enough.
Half the population already knows something’s going on.”
The FBI man
quickly scribbled a note that he folded and handed to Mark. “If you’ll give
this to the federal magistrate’s clerk in Terreon, he’ll call Burke’s and
Avila’s attorney and set up a meeting. I... well, I might be just a little late
for it.”
“Am I invited?”
“Personal
invitation.”
“Thanks.” Mark and
Bart returned to the Jeep. “Bart, how far to Big Jack’s place?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Can you go get
him? And I need to know Willy’s blood type. Do you suppose they have it on file
at the PSC hospital in White Pine?”
“I’ll check.”
Big Jack came
willingly even though he had not finished his dessert, an Indian bread pudding
Noreen had stuffed with piñon nuts and berries. The two men swung by PSC where
they learned Willy Spurs’ blood type. Mark was still in the meeting at the
courthouse when they arrived. Bart could have sworn the couch began groaning in
protest the minute Big Jack waddled into the office.
Upon returning
from the meeting with the magistrate, Mark filled them in. “Too bad their
lawyer was there,” he said irreverently. “I believe Hill would have done the
whole job. Even so, he did all right. Avila’s scared. Denies he’s ever been up
Blue Meadow Road. He got that out before the lawyer could stop him. Of course,
it’s not under oath so it doesn’t mean much, but still he denied it. Burke
never said a word. He’s the cool one. We’ll never shake him.”
“So what do we do
now?” Bart asked.
“Well, Avila’s the
one who interests me. Worried sick. Frightened men sometimes crack.”
“If you can see
he’s worried,” Big Jack observed, “then so can this Burke fellow.”
“And that’s
exactly what we want. If we’re right about what happened to Willy, then Avila
knows he could be next. If he gets worried enough, he might look for
protection. By the way, I told them we have Willy’s blood type. Do we?”
“Yep. It’s O
Negative.”
“Well, that’s not
the AB I was praying for, but O Negative’s pretty rare. If it turns out to be
blood and it’s human and it’s O Negative, and the tire casts turn out to
match Burke’s and/or Avila’s vehicles... well, then the pressure’s on.”
Okay, the
Reservation Police, the FBI, and probably the State Police are all involved
now. But it looks like it’s up to Bart Shortlance and Mark Charles to prove
what really happened. I’m betting on them… are you? Because they have Big Jack
Bearclaw on their side.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!
Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series, starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie Pie Murders.
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
X: @dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New posts every Thursday at 6:00 am., US Mountain Time
No comments:
Post a Comment