table," he said sullenly.
"Location?" Kerney asked.
Amador tilted his head in the direction on his truck. "The plans are on the seat. Three tables go on each side of the water spigot, under the trees, this side of the fence. You can read plans, can't you?" Sarcasm laced the question.
Kerney nodded briefly in response and turned away to water the chestnut. He didn't want to start the day in a pissing contest with Ortiz. The chestnut drank deeply before moving off. Surefooted and quick to respond, the horse had pleased him on yesterday's ride.
The softer soil made for faster digging than the day before. By the time Ortiz's crew showed up, Kerney had finished trenches for two tables and sweated away his irritation with Amador, who kept
Mexican Hat ■ 59
his distance. The crew started cutting steel rebar, sledgehammer-ing the short pieces into the trenches and tying off long sections horizontally, in preparation for the concrete pour.
Kerney finished at midmorning. He watched the crew mix and pour concrete into the first trench, trowel it smooth, and set the anchor bolts.
"Anything else you need me for?" he asked Ortiz, who had watched the work proceed from the comfort of his truck.
Amador shook his head. "You're finished. We'll post the trail signs, take down the equipment pen, and be out of here today."
Kerney washed up and saddled the chestnut, looking forward to another afternoon in the mountains. He would ride the trail that looped around Mangas Mountain and eased down the foothills to a place called Upper Cat Springs. As he tightened the cinch, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming fast down the dirt road. A state Game and Fish truck pulling a horse trailer stopped next to the equipment pen. A tall young man jumped out, spotted Kerney, and walked to him.
"Mr. Kerney," he said, smiling, extending his hand. "Bet you don't remember me."
Kerney shook the man's hand. He had a friendly smile and a strong grip. Kerney guessed him to be in his late twenties. "Refresh my memory."
He chuckled. "I'm Jim Stiles. I took an advanced course in investigation from you a while back, when you were still with the Santa Fe Police Department. Up at the law enforcement academy in Santa Fe."
"You do look familiar," Kerney allowed. "Did you learn anything from me?"
"Good course, good teacher," Stiles replied. Almost as tall as
Michael M c G a i r i t y
Kerney, with long arms and legs, he had white, even teeth below a neatly clipped red mustache that matched his hair. His eyes were light green and friendly. His nose, slightly broad, had a small line of freckles across the ridge.
"Thanks for the compliment," Kerney said. "What can I do for you?"
Stiles didn't get a chance to answer. Amador walked up and poked him in the ribs with a finger. "What are you doing here?" he asked cordially in Spanish.
"Be polite," Stiles chided back in Spanish. "Don't make the man feel bad because he can't speak the language." He nodded in Kerney's direction. "I need him to ride along with me."
Kerney said nothing. From what he'd heard so far, he spoke Spanish as well as Stiles.
Amador shrugged his shoulders and switched to English. "What's up?"
Stiles looked at both men and tilted his head toward the high country. "We've got a mountain lion down somewhere east of El-derman Meadows. A male three-year-old we translocated two months ago from the San Andres Mountains. Since it's on federal land, Mr. Kerney gets to help me find it." Stiles switched his attention to Kerney. "Carol Cassidy said to come and take you along. It should help you get oriented to your new patrol route. And you'll see some pretty country to boot."
"How do you know it's down?" Kerney asked.
"Radio collar," Stiles explained. "If the animal doesn't move for six hours, the radio sends out a rapid mortality beep. Our wildlife biologist did a flyover yesterday around dusk. It shouldn't be that difficult to find. I have a pretty good fix on the animal."
"Maybe he lost the collar,"
"Location?" Kerney asked.
Amador tilted his head in the direction on his truck. "The plans are on the seat. Three tables go on each side of the water spigot, under the trees, this side of the fence. You can read plans, can't you?" Sarcasm laced the question.
Kerney nodded briefly in response and turned away to water the chestnut. He didn't want to start the day in a pissing contest with Ortiz. The chestnut drank deeply before moving off. Surefooted and quick to respond, the horse had pleased him on yesterday's ride.
The softer soil made for faster digging than the day before. By the time Ortiz's crew showed up, Kerney had finished trenches for two tables and sweated away his irritation with Amador, who kept
Mexican Hat ■ 59
his distance. The crew started cutting steel rebar, sledgehammer-ing the short pieces into the trenches and tying off long sections horizontally, in preparation for the concrete pour.
Kerney finished at midmorning. He watched the crew mix and pour concrete into the first trench, trowel it smooth, and set the anchor bolts.
"Anything else you need me for?" he asked Ortiz, who had watched the work proceed from the comfort of his truck.
Amador shook his head. "You're finished. We'll post the trail signs, take down the equipment pen, and be out of here today."
Kerney washed up and saddled the chestnut, looking forward to another afternoon in the mountains. He would ride the trail that looped around Mangas Mountain and eased down the foothills to a place called Upper Cat Springs. As he tightened the cinch, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming fast down the dirt road. A state Game and Fish truck pulling a horse trailer stopped next to the equipment pen. A tall young man jumped out, spotted Kerney, and walked to him.
"Mr. Kerney," he said, smiling, extending his hand. "Bet you don't remember me."
Kerney shook the man's hand. He had a friendly smile and a strong grip. Kerney guessed him to be in his late twenties. "Refresh my memory."
He chuckled. "I'm Jim Stiles. I took an advanced course in investigation from you a while back, when you were still with the Santa Fe Police Department. Up at the law enforcement academy in Santa Fe."
"You do look familiar," Kerney allowed. "Did you learn anything from me?"
"Good course, good teacher," Stiles replied. Almost as tall as
Michael M c G a i r i t y
Kerney, with long arms and legs, he had white, even teeth below a neatly clipped red mustache that matched his hair. His eyes were light green and friendly. His nose, slightly broad, had a small line of freckles across the ridge.
"Thanks for the compliment," Kerney said. "What can I do for you?"
Stiles didn't get a chance to answer. Amador walked up and poked him in the ribs with a finger. "What are you doing here?" he asked cordially in Spanish.
"Be polite," Stiles chided back in Spanish. "Don't make the man feel bad because he can't speak the language." He nodded in Kerney's direction. "I need him to ride along with me."
Kerney said nothing. From what he'd heard so far, he spoke Spanish as well as Stiles.
Amador shrugged his shoulders and switched to English. "What's up?"
Stiles looked at both men and tilted his head toward the high country. "We've got a mountain lion down somewhere east of El-derman Meadows. A male three-year-old we translocated two months ago from the San Andres Mountains. Since it's on federal land, Mr. Kerney gets to help me find it." Stiles switched his attention to Kerney. "Carol Cassidy said to come and take you along. It should help you get oriented to your new patrol route. And you'll see some pretty country to boot."
"How do you know it's down?" Kerney asked.
"Radio collar," Stiles explained. "If the animal doesn't move for six hours, the radio sends out a rapid mortality beep. Our wildlife biologist did a flyover yesterday around dusk. It shouldn't be that difficult to find. I have a pretty good fix on the animal."
"Maybe he lost the collar,"
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