When I reached the railroad tracks, I aimed my trusty steed toward Twilight Tunnel and went clomp-clomping downthe middle of the tracks. Maybe a half mile up the tracks I passed the burial mounds. With the morning mist burned off by the heat of the afternoon, the sacred graves looked less imposing. No ethereal spirits beckoning me closer. Maybe the spirits of the Native Americans were taking a siesta. Or were never there in the first place.
My thoughts drifted back to the Bible in my room and the highlighted verses. Were they code? Was someone trying to tip me off as to who the killer was? Or was someone really trying to warn me that ghosts and spirits and demons were real?
I poked my pony into the tunnel and trotted ahead.
About halfway into the tunnel that old saying came to mind: “The light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train.” I hoped it wasn’t, but just to be sure I stopped and listened hard to make sure I didn’t hear the Big Sky rumbling toward me. Or racing up from behind. I spurred my pony and he shifted into a full-on trot.
I found the marshal’s deputy working on a section of tracks overlooking Rattlesnake Gulch.
Deputy Pat Garrett appeared to be in his early forties and as wide as a linebacker. He stood bent over the rails, wresting a railroad tie from the gravel bed. He’d stripped to the waist, leaving a dark band of sweat around the top of his jeans. Sweat rolled down his sun-browned back, giving his skin the appearance of varnished mahogany. I parked my pony at the bottom of the railroad bed a good ways back from the edge of the gulch. Still, I was close enough to see the muddy river below and take note of the way it had carved away large chunks of earth along the banks. There was enough of a westward tiltto the sun to turn the terra-cotta layers of sand into shades of purple and deep blue.
“Lose your way, cowboy?” Garrett pried off his work gloves and plucked his shirt from a pile of new timbers. With the blue denim sleeve he dried sweat from his wind-chapped cheeks. Scowling, he shouldered into the shirt, snapping the first few buttons.
I expected him to offer his hand but wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t. Instead, he used it to shade his eyes, giving me a hard look.
“The boy investigating a murder that wasn’t.”
I said, “Marshal told me I’d find you here.”
“Not supposed to be up here except on the train.”
“Trying to clear up some confusion about where everyone was yesterday evening.”
“He did?” Garrett snapped two more buttons and tucked the hem of his shirt into the waistband of his pants.
“Until just before my family arrived.”
“Oh, right. I guess he’s talking about when I stopped by his office. We’ve had some trouble with a bear coming down from the hills and spooking the livestock. I thought the marshal ought to know that I’d checked the perimeter and hadn’t seen anything.”
“Remember what time you got to his office?”
“Which one? The one on Main Street or that little dumpy trailer he works out of?”
“Whichever one he was working out of just before we arrived.”
“That’d be the one on Main Street. Marshal tries to staythere until around six. That way kids can stop in and get their picture taken in a cell. Makes a good postcard moment. Sometimes he’ll run back to the trailer if he needs to do serious work, but that doesn’t happen often. About the only crime we have around here is petty theft. Usually turns out someone misplaced their iPod or cell phone.”
“Time?” I said again.
He nodded toward a dirt bike resting on its kickstand. “When I’m riding that, it doesn’t take long to get around the compound. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe five thirty.”
“So the two of you were together until almost six?”
“Sounds about right.” I couldn’t tell if he was lying to cover for his boss or just giving me the answers I wanted to get me to go away.
He propped the heel of his boot on the pile of
My thoughts drifted back to the Bible in my room and the highlighted verses. Were they code? Was someone trying to tip me off as to who the killer was? Or was someone really trying to warn me that ghosts and spirits and demons were real?
I poked my pony into the tunnel and trotted ahead.
About halfway into the tunnel that old saying came to mind: “The light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train.” I hoped it wasn’t, but just to be sure I stopped and listened hard to make sure I didn’t hear the Big Sky rumbling toward me. Or racing up from behind. I spurred my pony and he shifted into a full-on trot.
I found the marshal’s deputy working on a section of tracks overlooking Rattlesnake Gulch.
Deputy Pat Garrett appeared to be in his early forties and as wide as a linebacker. He stood bent over the rails, wresting a railroad tie from the gravel bed. He’d stripped to the waist, leaving a dark band of sweat around the top of his jeans. Sweat rolled down his sun-browned back, giving his skin the appearance of varnished mahogany. I parked my pony at the bottom of the railroad bed a good ways back from the edge of the gulch. Still, I was close enough to see the muddy river below and take note of the way it had carved away large chunks of earth along the banks. There was enough of a westward tiltto the sun to turn the terra-cotta layers of sand into shades of purple and deep blue.
“Lose your way, cowboy?” Garrett pried off his work gloves and plucked his shirt from a pile of new timbers. With the blue denim sleeve he dried sweat from his wind-chapped cheeks. Scowling, he shouldered into the shirt, snapping the first few buttons.
I expected him to offer his hand but wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t. Instead, he used it to shade his eyes, giving me a hard look.
“The boy investigating a murder that wasn’t.”
I said, “Marshal told me I’d find you here.”
“Not supposed to be up here except on the train.”
“Trying to clear up some confusion about where everyone was yesterday evening.”
“He did?” Garrett snapped two more buttons and tucked the hem of his shirt into the waistband of his pants.
“Until just before my family arrived.”
“Oh, right. I guess he’s talking about when I stopped by his office. We’ve had some trouble with a bear coming down from the hills and spooking the livestock. I thought the marshal ought to know that I’d checked the perimeter and hadn’t seen anything.”
“Remember what time you got to his office?”
“Which one? The one on Main Street or that little dumpy trailer he works out of?”
“Whichever one he was working out of just before we arrived.”
“That’d be the one on Main Street. Marshal tries to staythere until around six. That way kids can stop in and get their picture taken in a cell. Makes a good postcard moment. Sometimes he’ll run back to the trailer if he needs to do serious work, but that doesn’t happen often. About the only crime we have around here is petty theft. Usually turns out someone misplaced their iPod or cell phone.”
“Time?” I said again.
He nodded toward a dirt bike resting on its kickstand. “When I’m riding that, it doesn’t take long to get around the compound. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe five thirty.”
“So the two of you were together until almost six?”
“Sounds about right.” I couldn’t tell if he was lying to cover for his boss or just giving me the answers I wanted to get me to go away.
He propped the heel of his boot on the pile of
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