The Night Detectives by Jon Talton Page B

wasn’t. As a young deputy, when I was working my way through my bachelor’s and master’s degrees, I had worked a patrol beat out here. The state had about four-and-a-half million fewer people and the land was empty, majestic, and mysterious. Wickenburg and the other little desert towns huddled to themselves. A lone deputy had many square miles to cover, usually alone, and traffic stops were always risky. So were family fights, where a husband and wife that had been trying to kill each other a few moments before were suddenly united in trying to kill you.
    But we weren’t going as far as Wickenburg today. Peralta turned left into the shabby little desert village of Wittman and drove west. After five miles or so and several turns, the last remnants of settlement were gone, the roads turned to dirt, and we were surrounded by desert. The smog hadn’t reached this far north today, so the Vulture Mountains stood out starkly ahead. Go far enough and you’d find the fabled and long-ago played-out Vulture gold mine and who knows what else hiding in the desert. We bounced over the bed of the meandering Hassayampa River, dry this time of year. As a Boy Scout, I had learned the legend that if a person took a drink from the Hassayampa, he would never tell the truth again.
    Immediately ahead, the country turned hilly and rugged, good terrain for saguaros. I was glad I brought two frozen bottles of water. But even in the air-conditioned truck cab, they were already half melted. It was only ninety-eight degrees outside. Inside my body, I was sore everywhere from my dive out of the apartment. Even my face hurt.
    The bare impersonation of a trail appeared on the right and Peralta took it. Another mile and we reached a rusted metal gate. Peralta honked six times: three short, three long.
    â€œGet down in the seat,” he commanded.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me.”
    I did as I was told as he shut off the engine, opened the door, and stepped out. He raised his hands high and his voice boomed. “Don’t you shoot me, you paranoid son of a bitch. We need to talk.”
    This didn’t seem promising.
    The longest pause came to an end with a shout from the distance, “Go away!”
    â€œI’m coming in if you don’t come out!”
    â€œIs that you, Peralta? Go back to your lettuce field, beaner! I’m done with the law. Got nothing to say.”
    Peralta shouted back: “Why aren’t you on your reservation and cleaning toilets at a fucking casino, bow-twanger? Get your redskin butt down here!”
    â€œIf I do, it’s only gonna be to kick your wet-back ass!”
    â€œGood luck trying, wagon-burner!”
    â€œWatch me do it, spic!”
    â€œBring it on, breed!”
    It was, needless to say, not faculty-lounge language. And although Peralta was my least politically correct acquaintance, the outburst seemed out of character. Suddenly the yelling stopped. After too long a silence, I reached for the Colt Python and prepared for the worst. But when I rose up, the gate was open and Peralta and another man were shaking hands and embracing.
    â€œWho’s the white eyes?”
    â€œDavid Mapstone, meet Ed Cartwright.”
    The shorter man beside Peralta was stocky in jeans and a Western shirt, with a long mane of lead-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. His face looked like the Indian in the environmental ad way back, with a tear running down his face from the damage we had done to the land. He was tearless in appraising me. When we shook hands, I noticed the pistol on his belt. He handed me a business card with only his name and a phone number. I gave him one of my new private detective cards. The ones I once carried, with the gold badge, were only for my scrapbook.
    I followed the two of them as they walked through the gate along a rutted, dusty trail to an adobe house that sat on a rise maybe a quarter of a mile away. Beside it, in a carport, was a