The fence was not new, but it was well-maintained. The four strands of wire were tight, with two twist-’em wire stays spaced between each steel post. “This would be a boundary fence, I assume,” I said. “There’s nothing temporary about it. If it is, then the Boyd land is on the other side and this is Finnegan’s. Or state property.” I shrugged. “Or federal. Who the hell knows? Maybe it’s just a section fence.” I put a hand on the top of one of the posts and shook it. “And it must have been hell getting these posts in the ground up here,” I said. “So what’s the big deal, I wonder. Why this fence, why now?”
“I don’t know, sir.” She replaced the photos in the folder and looked back the way we’d come. “If that truck that we saw earlier was Richard Finnegan, he’ll be just about to the windmill by now. Maybe he knows.”
The rancher’s dark blue Ford pickup was parked beside our county unit, and I could see the four-wheeler ATV in the back. As Estelle and I started down the rocky slope toward the block house, I scanned the area, looking for the rancher. It wasn’t until we were a dozen yards from the back corner of the structure that I saw Richard Finnegan taking his ease in its shade, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the cold-stone east wall.
“Howdy,” he said as we approached. “I saw your outfit and figured you must be up here somewheres.”
“We took a short hike up to the top,” I said. “Our daily constitutional.”
“I bet,” he said, but there was little humor in his voice. His posture said that he’d done all the walking he wanted for one day. “Can I help you find something?”
“Is this your property, or do you lease it from the feds?” I asked, knowing damn well what the answer was.
“I own it,” Finnegan said and took the cigarette out of his mouth. With deliberation, he curled his little finger around and nudged the ash off, watching the process as if it were the major fascination of the moment. And the tone of his reply added, “What do you want?” But he had the courtesy not to say it, even though I’d ignored his initial question and certainly given him cause to ask.
“Is that fence that runs east-west on the other side of the hill the property line between you and the Boyds?” I asked.
“Parts of it. On over to the west some.”
“If we were to follow it off to the west, how far would it run?” Estelle asked, and Richard Finnegan eyed her for a moment. “I assume it has to join a north-south boundary eventually,” she added.
Finnegan raised the hand with the cigarette and pointed with the butt. “Eventually it does,” he said, and then he glanced at me as if he’d just realized he didn’t sound overly helpful. “That fence runs down the back of this mesa, then maybe a quarter mile on.” He bent his hand. “Jogs to the south, runs along over to his Black Grass Tank, then west and then south again.” The crow’s-feet around his eyes crinkled. “Runs all over the place.” He took a deep draw on the cigarette and then ground it out on his boot heel. “Why the sudden interest in property lines, folks?”
“There’s some evidence that Sheriff Holman was interested,” I said. “We don’t know why. And Black Grass Tank? What’s that?” I asked.
Finnegan nodded. “One of Johnny’s cattle tanks. Like this one.” He indicated his windmill with a thrust of his jaw. “Only difference is he’s got water there.”
“And you don’t here?”
“Nope. She ain’t pumped for six, seven months now.”
“And so you’re planning to pipe water from the Forest Service spring, is that the plan?”
Finnegan glanced at me and his eyes narrowed. “That’s the idea,” he said.
“All the way up here?” I continued.
“Nope. No point in that. There’s another tank a mile or so south. We’ll pipe it there.”
“That’s expensive,” I said.
“Sure enough is.”
“Mr. Finnegan, is it true that there’s some friction between Johnny Boyd and you over where you want to run that water line?” Estelle asked.
“We got us a few things to work out,” he said. “Is that what the sheriff told you?”
“Did you have a chance to talk to him about this?” I asked. “To Sheriff Holman, that is.”
“Never met the man,” Finnegan said. He pushed himself away from the wall. “And what Johnny Boyd does, or what I do, ain’t nobody’s business but our own. But I don’t guess, what with a plane crash that killed a couple people, that you’re all that interested right now in what a couple of old ranchers do with a black-plastic water line.” He grinned and found another cigarette.
“No, I guess we aren’t,” I said.
Finnegan’s grin widened. “Let me walk with you on up there,” he said, indicating the mesa. “Give you a tour. You can see most places from there. Maybe give you a chance to ask whatever it is that’s eatin’ at you.” He stepped out of the shade and squinted up at the sky. “Hot day for spring,” he said. “It’s going to be a hot summer, for sure.”
He set out up the hill, streaming smoke from his cigarette. Estelle touched my arm. “I’m going to get my camera,” she said, starting toward the vehicles. “I’ll catch up with you.”
I nodded and hastened to join Finnegan.
“Quite a pretty young senorita,” he said. “She’s not coming with us?”
“She wants her camera,” I said. “What for, I don’t know.” That was only partly true, of course. We plodded along, the two of us watching our feet as we picked our way through the loose rocks and around the cacti that studded the hillside.
I would have liked to claim that it was my eagle-eyed vision that did the trick, but it was simply the habit of watching the ground so I didn’t trip and break my neck. Estelle had no trouble catching up with us. When she did, we were standing near a runty juniper, waiting for her about a third of the way up the mesa…less than fifty yards from the back of the block house.
I held up a hand so she wouldn’t walk past me, then pointed at the ground. The rifle cartridge casing wasn’t bright and shiny, but nevertheless, the contrast was stark against the earth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Richard Finnegan bent down and damn near had the casing in his fingers before I could say, “Leave it.” He straightened up and his face was an interesting study in the dawning of an idea.
“What’s the matter? You startin’ to think that someone took a shot at that airplane, is that what’s goin’ on?” he asked. Neither Estelle nor I replied, and Richard nodded. “It adds up, you being out here and all. Are you going to tell me what happened, or am I going to have to wait and read it in the paper?”
“We don’t know what happened,” I said. “We’re following up on a few ideas, that’s all.” I put my hands on my knees and bent down, eyeing the casing. Estelle unscrewed the barrel of her ballpoint pen, removed the slender filler and slipped it inside the casing’s mouth.
“Looks like a two-twenty-three,” I said, and she nodded. She turned her back to the wind and held the casing to her nose for several seconds. “Recent?” I asked, and she grimaced, then shrugged.
“It’s hard to tell,” she said quietly.
“One of yours?” I asked Finnegan, and he looked at me with surprise.
“No,” he said. “Last coyote I shot was over by the springs. And I sure as hell don’t use one of those little things. That looks like something from one of those military jobs.”
Estelle turned the casing this way and that, frowning at it, no doubt wishing it could talk. “It’s clean,” she said, “so it’s been here since the last rain.”
Finnegan laughed. “And that’s been a while, young lady.” Estelle only grinned.
“You want a bag?” I asked, but she was far ahead of me. She produced a plastic evidence bag from her back pocket, slipped the casing inside and marked the tag. Richard Finnegan watched her with interest. She jotted a note to herself on the bag’s tag, then looked up at me. “I think it’s important that we grid this area, sir. I want to mark where each casing fell. If the rifle was an autoloader, it will make a difference where the casings were ejected.”