7th Sigma (22 page)

Kimble didn't know who was more uncomfortable. Heimie swore at every bump.

Mrs. Perdicaris kept her ears pointed back and rolled her eyes a lot but as long as Kimble stayed at her side and fed her occasional chunks of apple, she kept pulling. They reached Heimie's brother's adobe ranch house an hour and a half later.

Kimble tried to leave the mule there. After Kimble had removed the jury-rigged harness, she walked calmly into a large, chest-high paddock of split rails where a half-full water trough stood. Linc, Heimie's brother, closed the gate while she was drinking.

Kimble let Linc's wife refill his water bottle, reclaimed his blanket and cord, and accepted the family's thanks—if not Heimie's—for his efforts. He refused an offer of food and a bed for the night.

As he walked away from the ranch house, Mrs. Perdicaris began braying more and more urgently from the paddock.

“Sorry, girl,” he muttered.

There was a cracking noise and he turned in time to see the top rail of a fence flying up into the air. The door to the ranch house opened and people came out onto the porch. He saw the mule's rear hooves flash once, then again, followed by another crack of breaking wood. The next lower rail broke in half and the splintered ends fell outward, onto the packed earth, hanging down from their lashings on the uprights. Then he heard hoof beats and Mrs. Perdicaris came flying over the low spot in the fence.

Nice form.

Mrs. Perdicaris darted past two adults and one child who, to their credit, were not trying to catch the mule. They were trying to get out of her way. The mule galloped hard until she was out of the ranch-house yard, then she dropped back to a trot and came on toward Kimble, her tail flying like a flag and her ears held up high.

Kimble sighed and petted the mule. “You really ought to go back. You belong to Heimie.”
Yeah, Heimie who beats her.
He walked back toward the ranch yard, Mrs. Perdicaris followed at his side, bouncing like a big puppy. But as they approached the group on the porch, she snorted and shied back.

Kimble paused for a moment, hanging back with the mule. He dug down into the food bag and found an apple for her. At the same time he took a covert look at just how big the bundle of emergency cash was that Bentham had left him.

*   *   *

“HEIMIE
sold her?”

“He was going to lose her anyway. She wouldn't stay. Kicked her way out of Linc's biggest paddock and kept following me out of the yard.”

Heimie had demanded $2,000, “For a premium broke mule. She was born and trained at Mercy Mules. I paid three thousand for her.” Kimble had asked if Heimie didn't mean “broken” as in
ruined
with all the beating and overwork. Then he asked Heimie to demonstrate the broken-to-saddle bit. Heimie wasn't really in any shape to ride her and his brother, Linc, refused. In fact, Linc refused to let his kids or wife anywhere near the mule. Heimie's next offer was an even thousand and Kimble had started to leave. Trouble was, so had Mrs. Perdicaris. Kimble finally settled for two-fifty, “If you throw in the saddle pad.”

Kimble showed the bill of sale to Tomás. “Mrs. Perdicaris has seen the last of Heimie.”

*   *   *

A MOUNTED
courier running messages north to the heliograph in Parsons brought word that the eastbound caravan would make it in the next day. They'd had trouble with flash floods and then bugs, as an old mining installation had eroded, washing metal tailings across the caravan route. They'd had to detour south.

Meanwhile, the westbound caravan had arrived and would stay two nights before heading on. This was a regular rest stop in both directions, but the schedule was normally set to avoid hitting the tanques with both caravans at once. Tomás took some soundings and decided it would be all right, especially if they got some of the late summer thunderstorms.

Kimble didn't think the westbound caravan would carry his target. The meeting had been set for the tanques according to the DEA.
But one thing is sure. The east and westbound caravans would've passed each other at
some
point.

Meanwhile, two ranch families, three different peddlers, and a freight outfit with two six-team wagons had all hit the tanques that afternoon and planned to stay at least the night.

After evaluating all the travelers, his money was on one or more of the peddlers, though he hadn't ruled out the freighters. He couldn't see the ranch families, traveling with young children, as the drug-dealing type. After playing with some of the kids and fetching water for some of their mothers, his conviction was strengthened.

Mrs. Perdicaris continued to follow Kimble, though she shied away from other livestock and would threaten grown men who came too close. She didn't seem to mind the kids or women, though.

For the last three days he'd put Mrs. P's saddle pad on and cinched it in place. The day before, he'd added his bag and bedroll, tied behind. Mrs. Perdicaris had twitched a bit, but when Kimble made no attempt to climb aboard, she would still thrust her head at his hands and pockets, and if not tied, she would follow him around, even once having to be shoved back out of Tomás' store when Kimble was buying oats for her.

Now, whenever she came up to him, he put his weight on the pad, leaning into it. She just twitched her ears and leaned back. She was with him when he spotted the caravan. They were still at least ten miles out. Kimble patted the side of Mrs. P's neck.

“Well, let's go.”

Kimble figured they could wander slowly down to the tanques and find an unobtrusive spot by the store from which to watch the arriving group. He turned away from the ridge's cliff edge and saw Mrs. P's ears stand up and swivel back up the ridge, not toward the tanques.

After a moment, Kimble heard hoofbeats, horses at a walk, more than one.

What the hell are they doing up
there
?

Tomás had told him the ridge kept rising for about three miles then dropped off precipitously, a good four hundred feet above the surrounding countryside. There was a good view, but you couldn't get down, at least not on horseback.

He took a few steps over toward a hollow between three piñons and Mrs. P followed. Three horsemen trotted down the wide trail near the middle of the ridge, not the rocky back-and-forth trail at the cliff's edge. A loaded packhorse on a long lead followed.

Kimble heard Mrs. P draw a deep breath and her lips went back to bray. He stabbed his hand into his front pocket and found a few oats and held them out. The bray died, stillborn, as she lipped the oats from his hand. In the time it took her to verify his hand was completely empty and to nudge his pockets, the three horsemen had moved on.

“Huh.” So his pool of potential distributors had just gone up. He walked over to the trail. The path was sand and rock, mostly, but where the piñon mulch had accumulated there were some decent prints. The horses were shod, epoxied composites probably, but the packhorse was wearing trail boots.

If they'd been camped up at the high end of the ridge, they could've seen the caravan even sooner than Kimble had.
What have they been doing for water?

The spring several hundred yards above the tanques was in a rocky outcropping, hard to get to on horseback, but fifty yards up the ridge, Kimble found several days worth of horse droppings and several circular imprints where a bucket had rested. The hoofprints matched, including the booted feet of the packhorse.

He looked around. The clearing where the horses had been watered was sandy, with patches of piñon mast and, unlike other parts of the ridge, the spiky cholla and prickly pear was absent. He put his arm over Mrs. Perdicaris' back and pulled himself up.

If he was going to be thrown, this was as good a place as any.

Mrs. P whiffed and took several steps sideways, then stopped still. Kimble leaned forward, careful to keep his head off to one side. He'd once been whacked in the face by the tossed head of a fractious horse—only once. He draped himself across her withers and stretched out his hand to where he could rub her poll. He felt some of the tension drop out of Mrs. P's back as he rubbed the muscles.

After a few moments, he sat back up and rested his hands on his thighs. He leaned back, about to swing his right leg over her withers and slide off her left side but, before he raised his leg, Mrs. P began backing up. He stopped leaning and she stopped. Kimble blinked. “Mrs. P! Are you kidding me?”

He squeezed in with his right knee and she turned calmly to her left. “You were trained!” He leaned forward and Mrs. P walked forward. She wasn't even wearing a hackamore, much less a bit and bridle, but on leg aids alone, he steered her down the ridge and up to the cluster of mixed piñons and maples above the tanques.

*   *   *

HE
beat the caravan in, but the three saddle horses and the packhorses were watering at the trough when he came in.

At the store he asked Tomás, “Who are they?”

Tomás shrugged. “Those are the Jonas brothers. Lee, Bob, and Terry. Been through before. They live up on the Jemez. Near the springs. Terry has the worst teeth I've ever seen.”

Kimble had a hard time keeping his face still. He asked for another bag of oats.

“You'll spoil that mule.”

“You thought Heimie treated her bad and you think I'm babying her. Make up your mind!” As if it were an afterthought he said, “By the way, I was up on the ridge. Caravan is coming in.”

Tomás swore. “Figures. You want these oats for free, and some cash as well?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Get on the pump when the caravan gets in and keep the water coming. After, help muck out. There'll be thirty to forty horses tonight and twice that tomorrow.”

“That's a lot of horse apples. How much cash?”

“Well, since you're so nice to that mule, I'll be generous.”

*   *   *

HE
took his pictures of the Jonas brothers before the caravan came in, using the binoculars from fifty yards, up by his bedroll. He used Mrs. Perdicaris as a shield, peering over her neck. He took three full-face exposures of each of them, convinced he'd found his distributors.

It was the teeth. They all had bad teeth, stained, with discolored gums, but the thinnest and youngest, Terry, had clear gaps where the enamel was rotted away. Bad teeth weren't uncommon in the territory, where you had to travel outside for dental work or deal with manual work done with ceramic tools in broad daylight by traveling clinicians, but this looked to Kimble like a classic case of meth mouth.

Meth users aren't too good about brushing, but they also get dry mouth from the drug and tend to grind their teeth during the first rush, cracking the enamel. Kimble had seen several when he lived in the capital. Terry's thinness was another mark against him. Meth is a serious appetite suppressant.

Yes, his money was on the brothers.

The trough was eight feet long and, with crowding, could water five or six animals at once. Kimble pumped it full as soon as the brothers led their animals away. He could hear the caravan by the time he finished. He took the plastic manure fork and policed the yard, throwing the few piles into Tomás' fiberglass wheelbarrow. He kept his head down but he was watching just the same.

The freighters, on seeing the size of the incoming caravan, grabbed their teams and watered them briefly. By the time the tail end of the caravan was in, they'd hitched up their wagons and packed their camps. Kimble raised his eyebrows at one of them, who shrugged and said, “Too crowded. We'll make some trail while it's still light.” They pulled out without attempting to talk to the newly arrived passengers, who were walking stiffly around the yard.

The peddlers reacted as they had with the westbound caravan, opening their wagon cupboards and displaying their wares. They were smiling, talking to the passengers.

But they weren't talking, as far as Kimble could tell, to the outside contact. He'd spotted the man before he'd dismounted, though the large cowboy hat and sunglasses had thrown him for a moment. Bentham's picture showed the man bareheaded, wearing a suit. But it was him, one Charles “Chuck” Hohner, though Bentham had said he could easily be traveling under a different name.

Hohner had limped to the nearest shade, off to the side of Tomás' store, and taken off his hat. He was looking around the yard casually, wiping his forehead with a bandanna.

Lee, the eldest Jonas brother, walked over to the store, swinging wide to pass a couple of yards away from Hohner. He didn't turn his head but, as he went by, he said something. Kimble saw Hohner's eyes flick toward the man and then back away.

Kimble pumped more water as the caravan guides brought up the next set of horses. As he finished, he saw Hohner put his hat back on and wander into the store. Kimble grabbed the rake, scooped up a fresh pile of horse manure, and crossed the yard to the barrow parked at the corner of the store.

He dumped his forkload into the barrow and paused by the side window. Through the nylon screen he saw Tomás step back into his stockroom for something. Lee Jonas said something then, and Hohner shook his head and said, out of the side of his mouth, “No! After dark.” Then he turned abruptly and left the store.

Kimble was satisfied. He would've ridden away then and there if he hadn't promised to help Tomás.

He filled and emptied three wheelbarrow loads, running down the road to the manure pile, and helped the guides with their horses. The passengers weren't expected to curry or feed their mounts. The guides and grooms did that but, from what he overheard, they were shorthanded because there were more passengers than usual.

“Hey, kid. Wanna make some money?”

Kimble fed and curried fifteen horses before dark. Mrs. Perdicaris protested and threatened the tired horses, but when Kimble tied her within sight, but out of kicking distance,
and
spilled a bait of oats on the ground, she stopped being a pest.