that.
“Were you born around here?”
“Texas. El Paso. Worked for the s.o. in El Paso County for two years before coming up here. I been here almost ten years now. Man, talk about your budget—that El Paso s.o. had helicopters, take-home vehicles, overtime pay, everything! It cost me almost three hundred a month to come up here.” He pointed out the window by way of explanation. “But it was worth it—I like the country.”
Looking where Yates pointed, Wager could understand. It was the kind of scenery people traveled thousands of miles and paid hundreds of dollars to see. And Yates, assigned to live in the northwest corner of the county as the sole resident peace officer, would be his own boss most of the time. It was the kind of job a city cop might like to retire to. If he could stand the small-town politics. Gazing at those steep snowfields brilliant in the afternoon sun, Wager figured the years to his own retirement. He was about halfway there, and it wouldn’t be bad at all to move out to a place like this. “How many people in the county?”
Yates thought a moment. “Last census said a little over two thousand, outside Loma Vista. About twenty thousand in all. But it was wrong—I figure another five hundred, maybe more. I know a dozen new families up in my corner that have moved in from God-knows-where.” He grinned, wrinkling his flat cheeks. “A real population explosion.”
A pickup truck passed with a large tank filling the bed. The driver raised a hand and Yates waved back. Wager tried to remember the last time he saw someone in Denver lift a friendly hand to a cop.
“That’s Deputy Hodges’s uncle—looks like he’s going for a load of water.”
“Water?” They were climbing swiftly now; the wet meadow was left behind as the road lifted through piñon and scrub to the top of a mesa. But the grass was still green and fresh, and narrow gullies cut in the mesa showed that creeks ran from those distant snowfields. “It seems wet enough.”
“It’s spotty, and some areas are downright dry. Water rights! It’s the biggest damned headache we have, and the water laws in this state are a lawyer’s delight. Subsurface water, too; it’s a whole new area and nobody really knows what the law is. We’re always serving summonses on water rights cases.”
The road swerved in sharp curves as it dipped and rose again, this time into a pine-filled valley that was formed by the lowest ridges of the mountain range. Among the tree trunks scattered vacation cabins sat awaiting another brief season; occasional trucks and cars passed with a wave, and Yates seemed to know most of the drivers. Wager let him talk without interruption and gazed at the passing landscape. On the radio, infrequent coded messages crackled with the slow business of the sheriff’s office, the municipal police in Loma Vista behind them, the faint queries and answers of the county’s highway maintenance crews. Yates slowed suddenly to swerve onto a graded dirt road—”Got a paper to serve, won’t take long”—and groped his automobile down first one narrow dirt track and then another, looking for the plastic lot number nailed to a pine tree. Not all of the empty-looking A-frames or log cabins were vacation homes; Wager caught glimpses of pickup trucks with current Colorado plates, of large dogs sitting up to stare as the vehicle rattled past, of the occasional child playing alone around the cinder-block foundation of a half-hidden mobile home.
“Here we are,” said the deputy, and he guided the four-wheel drive along a twisty two-rut road that ended in a littered clearing before a barn-shaped log house. A woman stood behind the screen door and peered out cautiously. Unhurried, Yates checked out of the radio net and took the brown envelope with the summons. “Be just a minute,” he said to Wager; then, “Morning, ma’am,” to the silent woman.
“He was lying in that corner facedown.” Yates had steered the vehicle
“Were you born around here?”
“Texas. El Paso. Worked for the s.o. in El Paso County for two years before coming up here. I been here almost ten years now. Man, talk about your budget—that El Paso s.o. had helicopters, take-home vehicles, overtime pay, everything! It cost me almost three hundred a month to come up here.” He pointed out the window by way of explanation. “But it was worth it—I like the country.”
Looking where Yates pointed, Wager could understand. It was the kind of scenery people traveled thousands of miles and paid hundreds of dollars to see. And Yates, assigned to live in the northwest corner of the county as the sole resident peace officer, would be his own boss most of the time. It was the kind of job a city cop might like to retire to. If he could stand the small-town politics. Gazing at those steep snowfields brilliant in the afternoon sun, Wager figured the years to his own retirement. He was about halfway there, and it wouldn’t be bad at all to move out to a place like this. “How many people in the county?”
Yates thought a moment. “Last census said a little over two thousand, outside Loma Vista. About twenty thousand in all. But it was wrong—I figure another five hundred, maybe more. I know a dozen new families up in my corner that have moved in from God-knows-where.” He grinned, wrinkling his flat cheeks. “A real population explosion.”
A pickup truck passed with a large tank filling the bed. The driver raised a hand and Yates waved back. Wager tried to remember the last time he saw someone in Denver lift a friendly hand to a cop.
“That’s Deputy Hodges’s uncle—looks like he’s going for a load of water.”
“Water?” They were climbing swiftly now; the wet meadow was left behind as the road lifted through piñon and scrub to the top of a mesa. But the grass was still green and fresh, and narrow gullies cut in the mesa showed that creeks ran from those distant snowfields. “It seems wet enough.”
“It’s spotty, and some areas are downright dry. Water rights! It’s the biggest damned headache we have, and the water laws in this state are a lawyer’s delight. Subsurface water, too; it’s a whole new area and nobody really knows what the law is. We’re always serving summonses on water rights cases.”
The road swerved in sharp curves as it dipped and rose again, this time into a pine-filled valley that was formed by the lowest ridges of the mountain range. Among the tree trunks scattered vacation cabins sat awaiting another brief season; occasional trucks and cars passed with a wave, and Yates seemed to know most of the drivers. Wager let him talk without interruption and gazed at the passing landscape. On the radio, infrequent coded messages crackled with the slow business of the sheriff’s office, the municipal police in Loma Vista behind them, the faint queries and answers of the county’s highway maintenance crews. Yates slowed suddenly to swerve onto a graded dirt road—”Got a paper to serve, won’t take long”—and groped his automobile down first one narrow dirt track and then another, looking for the plastic lot number nailed to a pine tree. Not all of the empty-looking A-frames or log cabins were vacation homes; Wager caught glimpses of pickup trucks with current Colorado plates, of large dogs sitting up to stare as the vehicle rattled past, of the occasional child playing alone around the cinder-block foundation of a half-hidden mobile home.
“Here we are,” said the deputy, and he guided the four-wheel drive along a twisty two-rut road that ended in a littered clearing before a barn-shaped log house. A woman stood behind the screen door and peered out cautiously. Unhurried, Yates checked out of the radio net and took the brown envelope with the summons. “Be just a minute,” he said to Wager; then, “Morning, ma’am,” to the silent woman.
“He was lying in that corner facedown.” Yates had steered the vehicle
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