house.
That way I can be ready in case he is planning something.”
It was a risk, but a good one.
“Good idea. Just don’t let him see you.”
Kate felt the adrenaline rise as she shot past the
sheriff’s car leaving a cyclone trail of dust. Zeb slowed down, rolled up his
window and let her get some distance between them. Kate pulled over a hundred
yards short of a silver metal mailbox at the end of a long driveway. She
opened the trunk and pulled out the .30-.30. She checked the safety and
quickly loaded shells into her weapon. As she worked her way to the back side
of the house she noticed a smiley face painted in yellow that accompanied the
handwritten name of Felipe Madrigal on the mailbox. The idea of drawing a gun
on an old man who drew smiley faces on his mailbox seemed like utter madness.
Zeb pulled into the old man’s driveway. Kate, perched
on a small knoll ninety feet away, tipped her cap and pointed to the small
house. The yard in front of the old adobe building was littered with twisted
pieces of metal, chunks of gnarly firewood, a garbage pile and a run-down
doghouse. A truck with the hood propped open by a tire iron was parked under a
mesquite tree on the north side of the house. A pair of windows in the front
of the house had broken panes. One was partially boarded over from the
outside. The other was stuffed with rags and dirty insulation. Tumbleweed
remnants lay trapped under a rusted television antenna at the back of the low,
slanting roof.
Exiting the car, Sheriff Hanks heard the unmistakable squeak
and low groan from the rusting blades of an ancient windmill. An easy wind
from the south wafted the sweet aroma of late season sage bloom. Everything
appeared normal--abnormally normal.
The run down ranch house showed no signs of life.
Deputy Steele trained the sights of the .30-.30 on the door. A timid voice
from behind a window squeaked out.
“I don’t got no gun. You tell señorita on hillside to
no shoot me.”
Felipe Madrigal sounded meek, almost childish. He was
definitely scared.
“She won’t shoot,” replied Sheriff Hanks. “Come out
of the house with your hands over your head. Nobody wants to hurt you.”
The door of the house, with its broken screen mesh
fluttering in the wind, began to open. Slowly one hand, then the other, poked
through the open space. The old man’s hands trembled as he held them above his
head. His rounded back and shoulders forced his head into such a position
where his eyes could only see the ground. He shuffled along with great
difficulty as he made his way toward the sheriff.
Could this man possibly be Delbert’s killer? Sheriff
Hanks didn’t think so, but then again the things he had seen along the border
of Mexico, when dealing with human and drug trafficking, did not make sense
either. He shook his head clear of the thoughts of the border patrol agent’s
death and focused on what was in front of him. The lingering doubt he lived
with, that the deaths of Darren Wendt and now Delbert Funke had been caused by
his lack of attention, haunted him at a level few could understand.
“Please, Señor Policia. Don’t kill me. I did no harm
no one.”
The sheriff’s eye trained on the man caught something
off to the side moving through the underbrush. He instinctively crouched
behind the door for additional protection when he realized it was Deputy Steele
slowly making her way into his peripheral vision.
“Deputy Steele, check the house.”
She made her way to the door and quickly ascertained
that Felipe Madrigal was alone, at least at this moment.
“No one is going to shoot you,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“Gracias, Señor Policia. Gracias.”
Felipe Madrigal fell to his knees, weeping.
“Suplico clemencia. Clemencia. Please have mercy on
me, Señor Policia.”
Sheriff Hanks grabbed the little man under the arm and
helped him to his feet. The man’s left eye was
That way I can be ready in case he is planning something.”
It was a risk, but a good one.
“Good idea. Just don’t let him see you.”
Kate felt the adrenaline rise as she shot past the
sheriff’s car leaving a cyclone trail of dust. Zeb slowed down, rolled up his
window and let her get some distance between them. Kate pulled over a hundred
yards short of a silver metal mailbox at the end of a long driveway. She
opened the trunk and pulled out the .30-.30. She checked the safety and
quickly loaded shells into her weapon. As she worked her way to the back side
of the house she noticed a smiley face painted in yellow that accompanied the
handwritten name of Felipe Madrigal on the mailbox. The idea of drawing a gun
on an old man who drew smiley faces on his mailbox seemed like utter madness.
Zeb pulled into the old man’s driveway. Kate, perched
on a small knoll ninety feet away, tipped her cap and pointed to the small
house. The yard in front of the old adobe building was littered with twisted
pieces of metal, chunks of gnarly firewood, a garbage pile and a run-down
doghouse. A truck with the hood propped open by a tire iron was parked under a
mesquite tree on the north side of the house. A pair of windows in the front
of the house had broken panes. One was partially boarded over from the
outside. The other was stuffed with rags and dirty insulation. Tumbleweed
remnants lay trapped under a rusted television antenna at the back of the low,
slanting roof.
Exiting the car, Sheriff Hanks heard the unmistakable squeak
and low groan from the rusting blades of an ancient windmill. An easy wind
from the south wafted the sweet aroma of late season sage bloom. Everything
appeared normal--abnormally normal.
The run down ranch house showed no signs of life.
Deputy Steele trained the sights of the .30-.30 on the door. A timid voice
from behind a window squeaked out.
“I don’t got no gun. You tell señorita on hillside to
no shoot me.”
Felipe Madrigal sounded meek, almost childish. He was
definitely scared.
“She won’t shoot,” replied Sheriff Hanks. “Come out
of the house with your hands over your head. Nobody wants to hurt you.”
The door of the house, with its broken screen mesh
fluttering in the wind, began to open. Slowly one hand, then the other, poked
through the open space. The old man’s hands trembled as he held them above his
head. His rounded back and shoulders forced his head into such a position
where his eyes could only see the ground. He shuffled along with great
difficulty as he made his way toward the sheriff.
Could this man possibly be Delbert’s killer? Sheriff
Hanks didn’t think so, but then again the things he had seen along the border
of Mexico, when dealing with human and drug trafficking, did not make sense
either. He shook his head clear of the thoughts of the border patrol agent’s
death and focused on what was in front of him. The lingering doubt he lived
with, that the deaths of Darren Wendt and now Delbert Funke had been caused by
his lack of attention, haunted him at a level few could understand.
“Please, Señor Policia. Don’t kill me. I did no harm
no one.”
The sheriff’s eye trained on the man caught something
off to the side moving through the underbrush. He instinctively crouched
behind the door for additional protection when he realized it was Deputy Steele
slowly making her way into his peripheral vision.
“Deputy Steele, check the house.”
She made her way to the door and quickly ascertained
that Felipe Madrigal was alone, at least at this moment.
“No one is going to shoot you,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“Gracias, Señor Policia. Gracias.”
Felipe Madrigal fell to his knees, weeping.
“Suplico clemencia. Clemencia. Please have mercy on
me, Señor Policia.”
Sheriff Hanks grabbed the little man under the arm and
helped him to his feet. The man’s left eye was
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