Desert Cut Read Online Free PDF Page B

like he believed it. He checked his watch. “Well, it’s been real, Ms. Jones, but I have to get to work. Do us all a big favor and go home.”
    With that, he retreated into his private office and closed the door.
    His deputy gave me an I-told-you-so smile.
    ***
    Motels with empty rooms being as rare as helpful sheriffs in Los Perdidos, I’d booked myself into a guest ranch two miles out of town. As the Jeep sped along the highway paralleling the San Pedro River, tall cottonwoods threw deep shadows on the asphalt, making it difficult to find the turnoff to the Lazy M Ranch. Just as I began to worry, I saw an unmarked, narrow dirt track.
    On one side of the road, a herd of Black Angus grazed contentedly behind barbed wire, while on the other side, the San Pedro River looped its lazy way to Mexico. In the distance, the Dragoon Mountains humped up from the desert floor, their summits lit with gold from the rapidly disappearing sun.
    The ranch house emerged from a stand of towering cottonwoods. A relic of Arizona’s territorial days, it was built of whitewashed adobe brick, topped by a red tile roof bristling with chimneys. When I stepped from my Jeep, a stiff wind from the river raised goose bumps on my uncovered arms. Nights grew cold at this elevation, especially in winter, so old ranch houses like these generally had more than one working fireplace. To my relief, a propane tank near the side of the house hinted that modern comforts were also available.
    A brown-haired woman waited for me in a glider on the porch, a cell phone at her ear, her feet tucked under as she swung back and forth. Middle-aged, she wore ragged jeans and a purple sweater that wasn’t in much better shape. Spotting me, she ended her call and uncurled herself from the glider. Dirty, down-at-the-heel boots encased her narrow feet.
    “Selma Mann?” I asked, stepping out of the Jeep.
    “That’s me.” As she shook my hand, I noticed that her nails were unmanicured and her palms covered in calluses. This woman actually worked her ranch.
    “Welcome to the Lazy M,” she said. “That’s quite some vehicle you have there, sort of a traveling petroglyph.”
    My sandstone-colored 1945 Jeep, which I’d rescued from its pink-painted days with a desert tour company, was covered with Pima Indian symbols. On the driver’s side, Earth Doctor, the father-god who had created First World, surveyed his children: Elder Brother, Coyote, Snake, and Eagle. Splashed across the Jeep’s hood was the labyrinth where Earth Doctor sought refuge after being overthrown in a power struggle. Along the passenger-side door rose the waves which destroyed First World. Sly Coyote rode the waves in his reed boat while Night Singing Bird and Sky Hawk clung to the sky with sharp talons.
    I smiled. “People seem to like it.”
    She chuckled. “I doubt if Sheriff Avery does. Los Perdidos has grown a lot in the past few years, but not enough that we’ve learned to mind our own business. I know you’re the one who found that child’s body, and why you’re back. By the way, we don’t have any other guests right now, so it should be nice and quiet. Most people just come down for the weekend, bump around on the horses for awhile, then go home thinking they’ve experienced the Western life.”
    She laughed again. “Say, you hungry? The ranch hands have all been fed, we eat early out here, but I kept something in the warming oven for you.”
    Due to my hypermetabolism, I’m always hungry, but contented myself with a nod. When she led me inside, I found a living room crowded with furniture so authentic it might have been transported West in covered wagons. Family portraits in silver frames covered every polished table, but they didn’t capture my interest as much as the antique rifles bracketed on the rough adobe walls. Among them glistened several Winchester level action rifles, a Colt Lightening Express, a Rideout Trade Musket, a Springfield 45-70, even a German Short Yeager.