I started for the parsonage, carrying my Winchester down the streets of Cadiz, surprised that no one seemed to take particular notice. But this was Arizona. I was feeling pretty low. Some of that was because of my worry about Rainy and Peter. Some of it was because I felt a little sick. My cheek was inflamed. My ribs felt as if they’d been kicked by Sylvester’s mule. I had a headache. I was famished, because I hadn’t eaten in a good long while. The heat was blistering, and I was probably dehydrated. But my body was only part of the reason for my dragging ass. I was sick in my soul, exactly the way I’d been after the long-ago slaughter I’d taken part in myself. Men had died. I didn’t know them. As Mondragón’s minions had carried the bodies into the dark of the mine and dumped them, I’d tried not to think of the dead men as human beings. But Pedro had had a profound impact on me. He wasn’t much younger than my own son, Stephen. He’d come from a small village, and God knows how he’d gotten himself mixed up with people like the Rodriguezes. Maybe those who’d died were no different, driven by terrible circumstance into a life no one would willingly choose. I’d seen that when I was a cop on the South Side of Chicago, dealing with gangs. Every child is born a clean sheet of possibility, and no mother dreams of her beautiful baby ending up dead in an alley or rotting in the black of a forgotten mine.
On the main street, a couple of men were taking down the Fourth of July banners. The patriotic red, white, and blue decorations were gone from the store windows. We’d given our annual nod to the battle our founding fathers had fought, and it was back to business as usual. When I reached the parsonage, I was careful on my entry. I checked every room thoroughly. No one was waiting to jump me. The place was a mess. Mondragón’s shot through the window had left glass scattered on the kitchen floor, shards lying in the blood that the wounded man, whoever he was, had lost. The chair my assailants had bound me to was still festooned with severed pieces of duct tape. I cleaned up the mess, locked the door behind me, and headed to my borrowed pickup.
It was the middle of the afternoon when I arrived in Sulfur Springs. I stepped into Rosa’s Cantina and found Sierra all alone, watching some talk show on the television above the bar. She turned to me and her eyes got big.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing a cold cerveza and a good burrito wouldn’t cure,” I said, bellying up to the bar.
“You’ve come to the right place.” She gave me a draft from the tap and said, “I’ll put in that order.” When she came back, she leaned against the bar. “Honey, you look like hell.”
“I saw some of your photographs at Sylvester’s place. Nice work.”
“Thanks. Sylvester’s a sweetheart.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“An institution. Knows these mountains and the others around here better than anyone. He’s been prospecting in them all his life. That’s why Marian hired him, I’m sure.”
I set my beer down. “He works for your mayor?”
“Sure does.”
“Doing what?”
“Helping her locate old mining claims.”
“What for?”
“From what everybody says, mining’s coming back to the Coronados. Apparently, they’ve got all kinds of new techniques for extracting the ores.”
“And your mayor is going into the mining business?”
“Word is she’s involved with some deep-pocket enterprise out of Phoenix. She owns practically everything around here. Probably figures it’s time she played with the really big boys.”
“Where’s her money come from?”
“Her family settled here way back when, owned one of the big spreads along the border. The truth probably is that they stole it from the Mexican landholders, who’d stolen it from the Apaches. The story around here is that they ran guns, liquor, you name it across the border. Their legitimate enterprises were ranching and mining, then the mines gave out. When Marian took over the operation, she gave up running cattle and took to land speculation. Like I said, she owns most of this town. Have you seen those big houses up on the mesa above Cadiz? Million-dollar-plus places? Marian built those.”
“So, bringing big mining back, that’s probably right up her alley?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Have you seen Sylvester today?”
“Not so far. You never said what happened to your face.”
“Got kicked by a white horse.”
She gave it a beat then said, “Those bastards.”
The burrito and the beer almost did the job. I left the cantina feeling much fortified. When I walked into the cool of Marian Brown’s real estate office, she was scrutinizing a map laid out on her desk. She looked up, then folded the map.
“Afternoon,” I said.
“You look like you were in a car accident.”
“I don’t think there was anything accidental about it.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you here?”
“Just wanted to hear the sound of your voice. It makes my day. And, by the way, I love that fragrance you’re wearing. Cinnamon and something else. Jasmine? Smells expensive.”
“It is. I have it custom made.” She gave me a puzzled, then slightly irritated look. “I’m rather busy.”
“Buying up old mining claims?”
“I buy lots of properties.”
“You own most of Sulfur Springs, as I understand it.”
“Your point?”
“I guess I don’t have one. Just thinking that in my experience, the more you have the more you want. Kind of a vicious circle.”
“I really don’t have time for this, Mr. O’Connor.”
“Found the young man we were looking for, by the way.”
She didn’t blink. For a long time. “I’m happy for you. Where is he?”
“Been nice talking to you, Marian.” I turned and left her office.
I walked up the hill to Sylvester’s adobe house. I knocked on the door and got no answer. An old, dust-covered, red jalopy of a pickup was parked nearby. It was a quiet place, this small cove in the rock where Sylvester had built his odd little home. In that quiet, I heard a strange sound, a low keening. It came from the animal shed with the attached corral where, on my first visit, I’d met Franklin, Sylvester’s mule. I walked to the open window of the shed and peered in.
The mule lay on a bed of straw. The straw was splashed with blood. The blood had come from a great slash across the animal’s throat. Sylvester sat beside his dead mule, his back against the shed wall, a bottle of Old Crow in his hand. He looked up at me.
“You think it’s ridiculous to cry your heart out over a dumb animal?” he said.
“It’s not ridiculous to cry your heart out over a friend.” I ducked between the rails of the corral fence, walked into the shed, and sat beside Sylvester. “What happened?”
He took a long draw off the bottle. “Came back from a run into Cadiz, found him like this. You know, there’s people in this world don’t come near a mule for the quality of company they provide. Franklin here, he was one hell of a companion. Never complained. Never asked to borrow nothing. Never talked behind my back.”
“Any idea who did this?”
“Could be anybody for any reason. Warning. Punishment. Maybe just purely for the mean hell of it. This is the wild west, mister. Out here, reason don’t always apply.”
“Is it because you helped me?”
“Maybe. But I don’t see how anybody would’ve known that. Less you told them.” He gave me a look that would have been more penetrating had he not been halfway through the bourbon.
“I told no one, Sylvester.”
“The hills have eyes,” he said and drank.
“I understand you work for Marian Brown, helping her locate old mining claims.”
“Not no more.”
“What did she want with the claims?”
“The old leases, if they were ever filed, lapsed a long time ago. She wanted to file new leases on the land. Thinks mining’s going to come back to Coronado County in a big way. Who knows, maybe she’s right. There’s ore in these mountains yet.”
“Is she planning on entering the mining business?”
“Not directly, I don’t think. When I located a mine and verified that the lease had lapsed, she would file in the name of Southwestern Geotech. It’s a drilling and mineral exploration company out of Chandler.”