On the last day of summer a deadly dance unfolds on the sprawling landscape of timbered hills and open sagebrush country that defines Eastern Oregon. A curious cowboy on a green broke horse, cow dog trotting faithfully alongside moves slowly, cautiously, down the spine of a rocky ridge. The cowpoke slips from the saddle, takes the lead rope in one hand and squints through a narrow opening between tightly packed trees and into the swale below. Then he squats on his haunches, takes a can of snuff from his shirt pocket and tucks a fat pinch of brown tobacco under his bottom lip. He replaces the lid, adjusts his hat to shade his eyes from the setting sun, and continues to intently stare downhill; hoping to see what he might see, expecting something to happen, not at all sure what that something might be. The lead rope remains in his right hand, the snuff can in his left. Behind him the horse blows a soft trill of air out quivering nostrils and begins to anxiously paw the ground. The dog at his side, alert to danger, cocks an ear and points it down the hill.
A person takes a rest against a weathered stump, or it might have been against a tree, sights through the riflescope and lines up the crosshairs on a big bull elk that is not there, or sees the target all too well. This person flips off the safety and makes a conscious decision, sending a command impulse snaking down long, pliant arm muscles to an index finger. The finger curls imperceptibly against the fine grooved metal of a trigger, curls a tiny bit more and this sets in motion a sequence of reactions that, once initiated, can never be stopped, or reversed, or taken back. Sear mechanism trips, releasing the spring-loaded hammer whose sharp point abruptly contacts the soft brass coating of the primer. Nitrogen powder ignites. Smokeless gunpowder explodes and drives the 150-grain projectile down the throat of the barrel. Lands and grooves force the bullet to twist at a ratio of one full spin to each nine inches it travels. And, as if a precise line had been drawn to the target, the bullet travels in a slight arc and slams with an abrupt thud into the cowboy’s chest. Body mass absorbs the brunt force, and as the roar of the rifle washes over him, the cowboy rocks onto his heels and begins to fall, almost gently, so that when his head makes contact with the ground his hat remains in place, although the front brim is tilted upward at an odd angle. His right knee stays upright. The fingers on his left hand deftly relax and the snuff can rolls away down the incline. Overcome with panic, the horse rears, breaking off dead limbs from the tree above her head, pulls the lead rope free, and in her confusion races headlong down the rocky ridge toward where the shooter remains hidden. The dog shies, but only for a moment and then comes scooting back on his belly to whimper, whine and to finally lick the face of the dead cowboy.
Phil Brooks was a rangy man, 6 feet 2 inches and 190 pounds, a boy really, and on the day he was killed – September 20, 1994 – he was only twenty-three years old. His eyes were blue, his hair was cut short and he was dressed in western garb; pretty much what he always wore because, after all, he was a cowboy. He had pointy-toed boots with slanted buckaroo riding heels, Wrangler jeans in need of a wash and held in place with a hand-tooled brown leather belt adorned with a silver rodeo buckle, no underwear, lightweight shirt with the sleeves snagged off at the elbows, and a gray felt cowboy hat that had been scuffed and banged around from wrecks on horseback, wrestling calves and rangy cows, bar fights and occasionally tossed aside when Phil was lucky enough to join a lady friend in bed.
Phil worked as a ranch hand on the Fopiano, a 33,000 acre cattle ranch on Waterman Flat in Eastern Oregon, located midway between Prineville and John Day. The Collins brothers, Jimmy and Bob, owned this ranch and several others. Jimmy and his wife Georgia lived at the Fopiano headquarters while Bob and his wife Ruth lived on the adjoining 101 Ranch.
On the day Phil was to die he spent his morning working cattle with Jimmy, and even though Jimmy was an old man, in his 80s, he was still capable of putting in long days in the saddle. He wanted to get the cattle out of the mountains and down to the safety of the barbwire delineation on Waterman Flat before hunting season began and some stupid hunter mistook a twelve hundred pound bred Hereford cow for a buck, or a bull elk.
When they broke for lunch Phil asked, “Anything pressing needs to get done?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” replied Jimmy. “Got something in mind you wanna do this afternoon?”
“Was kinda thinkin’,” drawled Phil, “I might take my sister’s horse for a ride.” He went on to explain he had picked up the horse from his sister, Tina Bolton, that it was green broke and spooky as all get-out at everything from a song bird flushing from sagebrush, to tree limbs and even shadows. The horse, a 2-year-old filly, was dark chestnut with a white blaze running from its ears down the forehead to the tip of its nose. He said the horse’s name was Flirt, and followed that up with, “Sounds like somethin’ a gal might come up with for a name.” He shook his head. “Thought I might make a run up into the timber. Try and work out some of her spookiness.” He paused for a moment to dig a final dip of chew from the can, and he reminded himself to get a fresh can when he got to his trailer. He went on. “That horse is just a little bitty thing. Hell, I’ll probably hafta hold up my knees or my feet’ll drag the ground.” He laughed.
Jimmy said to go, take the afternoon off, that they’d ride for more cattle in the morning. Phil got in his pickup and drove to what was known locally as the granary, a barn where Phil had parked his travel trailer and was living at the time. He stopped long enough to grab a fresh can of chew and to fix a sandwich that he took with him and ate on the way. Jimmy, who was headed out to visit a neighbor, passed Phil on the road and they exchanged compulsory nods. That was the last time Jimmy saw Phil alive. Later, when Jimmy was asked what time they had met on the road, he thought for a minute and replied, “Suppose it was somewhere around 2 p.m., thereabouts anyway.”
*****
The following day Phil’s pickup was still parked at the ranch, but Phil and the little filly, Flirt, and his cow dog, Poncho, were nowhere to be seen. At first Jimmy didn’t think much about it, figuring his ranch hand had swung by one of the neighbors’ homes at dinnertime, as was Phil’s bachelor custom to do. After eating, if the neighbor had something to drink, Phil probably had gotten his nose wet, as was also his custom to do, and he was probably sleeping off a hangover. It was as simple as that, figured Jimmy.
By midmorning, when Phil had still not returned, Jimmy did become concerned. He went to the house and instructed Georgia to make a few phone calls. There were half a dozen family, friends and neighbors within a 10 mile radius and Phil could have ridden to any of their homes and spent the night. But no one had seen Phil and when Georgia informed her husband of that, Jimmy shook his head side-to-side and his voice took on a worried tone as he said, “Hope to hell that horse didn’t go down with him. Hate to think of him lying out all night with a busted leg. Best pass the word, see if we can get some folks to help search. Call Jim and Joyce and tell them.”
Justin Brooks, Phil’s brother, cowboyed on the nearby Scott Ranch. He recalled when Jimmy told him the news that Phil hadn’t come home. His first reaction, “Shit happens out west.” His second, “Figured Phil got in a horse wreck. I loaded up my horse and went to have a look. Didn’t take long to cut his tracks. They was easy to follow. The horse he was riding was this dinky son-of-a-bitch, had on triple ought shoes. Nobody in this country rides a triple ought. But the ground was dry as bone and I had to work to stay on the track. My big problem was, there wasn’t no logic to the way Phil was riding. He went wherever in hell he wanted to go. One time he chased some elk; must have been trying to get a look and see if there were any horns. He was out just fartin’ around.
“Phil and I pretty much ride the same way. We sing, you know, something western; might be an old-time tune, might be something kinda modern. Not loud, easy like. Keeps the horse quiet. Passes time. I rode along following the tracks, singing, humming now and then, rolling over in my mind what might have happened to Phil. I kept coming to the conclusion the horse – that squirrelly little son-of-a-bitch – had gone down and Phil was lying out there with a busted leg or a concussion. It never entered my head he might be dead.”
Justin followed Flirt’s tracks for a couple hours, working his way around a prominent ridge near Bearway Meadow on a skid trail that was overgrown with trees, maybe fifteen or twenty years old. From there, it was pretty much a straight shot back to the ranch. On the hard-packed dry ground the tracks were difficult to follow and then they disappeared and Justin couldn’t seem to find them again.
“By that time a lot of people had joined in the search, and when riders came up, I told them to stay the hell away and quit contaminatin’ the area,” said Justin. “I didn’t need no more horse tracks to contend with.”
Jimmy Collins and Pat Perry, a longtime friend of the Brooks family, arrived on foot and tried to help Justin locate tracks. But with darkness coming on fast, Jimmy said he was tired and was going back to the pickup. Pat stayed with Justin for another half hour and then he followed Jimmy back toward the pickup.
*****
That afternoon word that Phil was missing had circulated quickly. A steady stream of friends and neighbors wheeled stock trucks and pickups and horse trailers into the barn lot at Fopiano headquarters, and when that was full they parked along the road. Horses were unloaded and men and women rode off into the hills to search for any sign of Phil Brooks.
Even before the searchers arrived, Jimmy Collins and Pat Perry were driving the roads, looking for tire tracks or horse tracks at all the gates. Pat recalled, “I remember when we got to what we call the bone gate – it has a leg bone off a dead cow twisted in the wire high up to keep the posts from folding back – and it was not locked. There were tire tracks there, but the ground was dry and it was impossible to tell if they were fresh or old.”
While the search continued, Georgia and Jeanie Perry, Pat’s wife, stayed at headquarters. Phil’s parents, Jim and Joyce Brooks, arrived and Jim rode off in search for his son while Joyce went to the ranch house.
“We did our best to stay positive, wanting to believe Phil would be found, maybe injured but at least alive. There was no reason not to think that,” said Jeanie. “But time was wasting. I wanted to get the police involved, have search and rescue come in and organize things and get an airplane to fly over the ranch. But there was some bad blood between the Brooks family and the local authorities, and Joyce didn’t want to make that decision and risk Jim being mad about it.”
The problem between Jim Brooks and Wheeler County Sheriff, Otho Caldera, stemmed from a run-in after the Spray Rodeo. That year Tina was a rodeo princess and Jim and Bob Keys were doing a little too much celebrating. Otho spotted the pickup and horse trailer weaving as Jim drove home and he threw on the overheads. As soon as Otho made contact it was obvious Jim had been drinking. In fact he had an open container tucked between his legs and he made no effort to conceal it. Otho wanted Jim to take a field sobriety test. Jim told the sheriff to go piss up a rope. That didn’t set well with Otho. He announced Jim was under arrest for drunk driving, loaded him in the back of his patrol car, and according to the story that made the rounds, when they reached the café/grocery store at Service Creek, Jim said, “Whoa, we gotta stop here.”
Otho asks what for. Jim responded, “Gotta buy some beer. I can’t drive all the way to Fossil without a beer.”
Jim kept right on talking, telling Otho his family was used to eating steaks every meal and as long as Otho had Jim locked up in jail it would be the county’s responsibility to provide his family with food that was at least equal to what Jim provided them. All the way to town Jim kept up the steady banter, harassing Otho, and when they arrived at the historic brick courthouse in Fossil, Otho led Jim to the lone cell, inviting Jim to step inside and suggesting he sleep it off.
Bob Keys doubled back and bailed Jim out of jail. Even though it was the thing a friend would do, should do, it still didn’t set well with Jim. He demanded to know how his buddy, who had been drinking alongside him all day, could drive to town, post bail and not get in a lick of trouble. Otho pushed Jim out the door to get rid of him, but in the aftermath, at the court hearing, Jim was fined and had his license revoked. He told Otho, “Whether or not I have a license don’t mean shit. I’ve gotta work. I’m gonna keep driving and you better not stop me.”
And Otho never did stop him. But that incident, and several more minor run-ins, led to a certain amount of animosity, hard feelings and distrust between the Brooks family and the sheriff’s office. Joyce took a lot of convincing, but finally she came around and said she supposed it would be all right for Jeanie to call in a missing person’s report on Phil. Within the hour, Otho and his deputy, Craig Ward, came to the ranch.
*****
Sandy Edgeman’s parents owned the Dollarhide Ranch east of Mitchell, and each spring the Brooks family faithfully attended the Dollarhide brandings. When Sandy was notified Phil was missing, and having grown up with an appreciation for western traditions, she dropped everything she was doing, loaded her horse in the stock trailer, and drove to Waterman Flat to lend a hand in the search.
“I’ve known Phil since he was just a pup,” said Sandy. “He was this fun-loving kid, real outgoing, always very polite and nice when he was around me. I heard he was missing and figured I’d do what I could to help out. I’m used to being in the mountains. I get paid to ride for cattle, that’s my job. When you’ve spent your whole life on a horse in the hills, you notice things, little things, and I figured I had a good a chance to find him.
“I drove to the Fopiano and was told there were plenty of riders searching north of the lake. The sheriff was heading up the search and he told me to start south of the bone gate and ride west. I unloaded my horse and it didn’t take long to cross the open flat, reach timber and start climbing into the hills. As I went, I kept checking for tracks. There was a lot of elk sign and several times I saw elk moving out in front of me. I figured, with all the people searching, the elk were running here and there, trying to find a safe place to hunker down.
“Coming up a long draw I heard a strange noise, real low and guttural. I couldn’t tell if it was an animal or whether it might be human. I pulled up, and heard it again. The only way I can describe the sound is to say it was somewhere between a grunt, a moan, and a cough. It wasn’t like anything I’d heard before. At first I thought it must be a bull elk. They make some weird noises when they’re in the rut. But thinking it also might be Phil groaning in pain, I went to investigate. I turned my horse uphill. We wound our way through mahogany thickets and scattered juniper and pine trees. It was brushy and steep, too.
“All of a sudden, real close, an elk cut loose with a bugle and that struck me as an odd thing – the elk I’d seen were all moving to get away, not calling – and this was an absolute perfect bugle. Ahead of me the ground leveled off onto a little bench and a clearing. I ducked down to come under a tree limb, was concentrating on the ground and searching for sign, and when I looked up, right there in front of me at the far end of this little clearing, maybe 40 yards away, was a man crouching in the shadows. He held a bow in front of him. The string was pulled back to his chin. An arrow – I saw the four blades of the broad head, saw them very distinctly – was pointed directly at me. Petrified me. My heart pounded. I cried out, “Don’t shoot!”
I must have flinched, blinked, glanced away, something, I don’t know. But the man was gone and all I could think was he had ducked behind a tree and dropped down into the brush. Stupid me. I rode over to where he had been and listened to see if I could hear him running away. Normally, if an animal is escaping, branches pop and rocks roll, but there was nothing, not a sound. I hollered, ‘This is private property. You’re not supposed to be here. You better get out. You’re trespassing.’
“Still nothing, dead silence. And then it hit me how incredibly crazy I was acting. There was a man out there with a bow. He had pointed an arrow at me. I wasn’t armed. I panicked, reined my horse around and left in a hurry.
“Coming off that ridge I played out the events in my mind, exactly what I had seen – the very white face, clean shaven, no glasses, dark hair – and in my mind it seemed like he was dressed casually, blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt – definitely not painted with camo like a lot of hunters will do. But then again, it had been such a quick look, and then he was gone. I did have the impression I had scared him every bit as badly as he scared me, and that gave me a small measure of comfort.
“When I got off the hill and found a road, I located a winterkill cow, and made a triangular affair with three rib bones pointing to where I had encountered the bow hunter. I figured Jimmy and Bob Collins would want to know about the trespasser and the cow bones would direct them to the site. As I rode on back toward the ranch I could not seem to get rid of this haunting feeling that Phil had encountered a similar situation, and that he had been dry gulched by a bow hunter. I kept pushing my horse faster and faster.”
*****
Tina Bolton, Phil’s stepsister, purchased Flirt, a registered quarter horse, when the filly was only 5 months old. Tina recalled, “She was my baby. When she was old enough to ride I put in as much time as I could with her, mostly at play days at the Jefferson County Fairgrounds and a few times I rode on the National Grasslands east of town.
“I spoiled that horse, and I have to admit she was a tad spooky. When something got to her, like a shadow of a tree, she sucked up her butt and acted squirrelly. There was no way I had the time in my busy schedule to ride her every day like she needed to be ridden. One time Phil was visiting and I told him, ‘Why don’t you take her? It’d do her a world of good to be worked every day.’
“Phil was hesitant because Flirt was so small. He put me off. But the very next weekend – this would have been just a couple days before he disappeared – he returned to Madras and stayed with my sister, Wendy Chancellor. He team roped with Wendy and her husband, Larry, and at one point he told Wendy if something should happen to him he wanted two things: to be buried with what Grandpa Parton gave him, and loud music played at his funeral. He said his funeral should be happy, not sad. Wendy made light of what he was telling her, shined him on, saying, ‘What are you talking about? You’re 23 years old. You’re not gonna die.’ Phil told her he was serious and to remember what he was saying. Wendy thought this was highly uncharacteristic behavior for Phil, because he was always such a happy-go-lucky kid.
“On Sunday evening Phil swung by our place and said he was going to swap his mare, Sox, for Flirt. He promised when he brought Flirt back, she’d be as gentle as a bottle-fed lamb. I was happy he was taking her but reminded him Flirt was a pasture horse, not used to the backcountry. I told him he’d have to have patience with her, teach her how to place her feet in the rocks, and I warned him not to ram and jam her as Phil typically did with his horses.
“Back that spring, on Memorial Day, Phil had taken Bill and I on a riding tour of the Fopiano. We were looking for elk, not to hunt them, just to see what was there. We rode past Bearway Meadow and up into the hills as far as the satellite station on the top of Flock Mountain. Phil had no qualms about pushing his horse straight up the steep hills and coming off mudslides that scared me to death.
“Anyway, on that Sunday, Phil loaded Flirt in his homemade one-horse trailer and I wasn’t at all sure that old trailer would hold together to get them to the Fopiano. I said something about my misgivings and Phil laughed, told me not to worry. When he pulled away, he was still grinning. He waved. That was the last time I saw him.
“I heard Phil was missing when Justin’s wife, Shelli, called me at work about 10 o’clock on Wednesday morning. She said she was hesitant about calling because she didn’t want to step on anybody’s toes, Mom’s toes to be specific. You have to know this about my mom. One time Justin had gotten thrown off a horse at Zack Keys’ place near Richmond and ruptured his spleen. That can be a fatal injury. He was transported to Prineville and luckily they were able to save his life. But Mom never notified any of us. Finally Grandma Parton called and said Justin was in the hospital. That’s the thing about Mom, she never wanted to worry any of us unnecessarily.
“Shelli asked if Mom had called me and I could tell from the tone of her voice something serious had happened. I said no and asked what was going on. Shelli said Phil had gone for a ride on my filly and had never returned. When she said that, I felt this god-awful wave of coldness wash over me. I turned to the girl I worked with at Jefferson County Title Company – she was the one who had sold me Flirt – and I said, ‘My brother took Flirt for a ride and he never came home.”
“She said, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be okay.’
“I told her, ‘No he won’t.’ That was my gut feeling; something bad had happened to Phil. I told my boss I was taking the day off and I headed home. My plan was to load a horse, drive to Mitchell and search until I found Phil. I called my husband, told him what I was going to do and he said to wait, that he wanted to go with me. I loaded our horses, made arrangements for someone to come and stay with the kids when they got home from school, and Bill and I took off for Mitchell.
“As we traveled I kept seeing Phil in my mind; sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck, drinking a beer and giving everyone a bad time for overreacting. We reached the Fopiano and Phil was not there. There were a lot of rigs and horse trailers but nobody was around, they were all out searching. We were in the process of dropping the horses when Mom and my stepdad arrived. Jim wasted no time in saying he figured that flighty little filly of mine had gone down and Phil was trapped out there somewhere, to injured to make it home on his own.
“When he said that I felt guilty, as if I was the one responsible for Phil’s disappearance. I recalled a girlfriend of mine from Mitchell who had a horse go down with her, and if someone hadn’t been there to pull the horse off, the horse would have flailed around and killed her. If a horse can’t get his head up, he’ll die trying. I was afraid Flirt had done that, gone down with Phil, and I knew if that’s what happened I could never forgive myself.
“Jim, Bill and I rode to the gates closest to the barn, looking for any sign. Flirt had been shod for the first time just the week before and her shoes were heart shaped, and triple ought. They were very distinctive, and once we saw them, up above the cemetery, we knew we were on the right trail. Phil wandered here and there. He never was the type to stay on roads or even trails. Phil went where Phil wanted to go. He was not easy to follow. The days had been hot and dry and the nights cold. The ground was hard-packed and dusty. We rode all that afternoon until it started to get dark. We heard human voices, then a dog barking, and I told Bill, ‘That’s Poncho! That’s Phil’s dog.’
“I spurred my horse into a high lope, following an old skid trail, and within a couple minutes came upon Jimmy Collins and Pat Perry. Poncho was there, barking, yipping and carrying on. He was only 6 months old and was definitely acting like a silly puppy.
“They told me Justin was around the hill, following horse tracks, that the horse was probably nearby. I said I had to let Justin know Poncho had been found. When I caught up with Justin I told him the news and he said Phil had to be near where the dog was found. He rode in that direction. Bill and I decided to circle around. We climbed to a bench and split up in order to cover more territory. By then it was nearly dark. I followed along a game trail headed west, and as I came through a little draw I looked and there was Flirt standing beside a boulder. I called to Bill, “I see Flirt!”
“Bill rode toward me. As it turned out, if I hadn’t diverted him, if he had continued on, he would have found Phil. I talked to Flirt as I rode forward, trying to keep any emotion out of my voice. Her head came up and she looked in my direction. She had a snaffle bit in her mouth, no reins, and the lead rope was tied around her neck. That was the way Phil always rode. The rope was maybe 15 feet long. Flirt’s eyes were big and I knew she was scared. She snorted as we approached. I leaned in the saddle and grabbed the lead rope. When it came tight, Flirt reared and went over backwards. She didn’t want any pressure put on her. I dropped the rope and tried to reassure her, saying, ‘It’s okay, baby. I’m not going to hurt you.’
“Once again I took the lead rope, and this time Flirt recognized me and responded; she sucked up against my horse so tight she dang near knocked me out of the saddle. I checked to see if she was hurt. Her front legs were a little skinned, and that was about it, a few cuts and a little dried blood, nothing serious. The cinch was tight and the saddle unmarked. There was no evidence to suggest a struggle. It was as though Phil had simply stepped off Flirt and turned her loose.
“I hollered to Justin that I had found Flirt. He was close enough that he came immediately. I told him I wanted to go back to the ranch and tell Mom we had found Poncho and Flirt. He told me how to go, to follow the fence line to the road and the road would empty out just above the cemetery. He said he would keep looking for Phil until he found him.”
As Tina rode in the direction of the ranch the moon slipped over the bald hills on the far side of Waterman Flat and bathed the countryside in a soft, white light. She rode in silence, listening to the horses shuffling their feet on the dry hollow ground, deer bounding away, elk mewing and owls calling back and forth with their lonesome voices spilling out across the land. Several times Flirt crowded so close she caused Tina’s mount to stumble and Tina thought, if Flirt could only talk and tell what had happened to Phil, and where he could be found, then all her burning questions would be answered. As Tina drew near the ranch, her apprehension built to dread and now she suddenly did not want to face her mother.
“The moon was so bright it was almost like day,” recalled Tina. “I came off the ridge and hit the road and I was thinking about parades I had attended where someone led a riderless horse to symbolize the death of a cowboy. That is always so sad. But me, leading Flirt down the road, I knew it was the exact same thing.
“I saw her running toward me – Mom – and when she drew near she wailed, ‘Where is he? Where’s Phil?’ And to me, seeing the moonlight on Mom’s face and the tears wet on her cheeks, that was the most awful moment of my life. I felt the weight of her grief, as well as my own.
“I found myself saying, “I don’t know where he is, but I found Flirt, and Poncho came down. Phil has to be somewhere close. Justin will find him.’”
Wendy appeared. She took Flirt and Tina’s horse to the barn to unsaddle them. Tina walked with an arm slung around her mother’s shoulders, and when they reached the house they sat in the semi-darkness and waited for someone to come, for someone to tell them they had found Phil. Time dragged by ever so slowly. Every minute seemed like an hour. Tina listened to the sounds of her mother’s ragged breathing, to Georgia’s too, and tried to make sure they couldn’t hear her breathing. She wondered if they could.
*****
An old man sat in the dim shadows. on the white bench in front of the Wheeler County Trading Post in downtown Mitchell. He gingerly held a cigarette between nicotine stained fingers and blew a cloud of blue smoke into the moonlit night. A passerby paused to ask what the latest development was in the ongoing search for the lost cowboy. The old man took a contemplative puff and replied, “Ain’t ya heard, they done found the dog and the horse, too. Said there was blood on the saddle. The kid must ’ave got shot off his horse. Damn pity is what it is.”
*****
Headlights played across the dark interior of the ranch house, and after a moment or two, members of the Wheeler County Search and Rescue began to drift inside. They refused the coffee that was offered and said they wanted to start searching immediately. Tina told them about finding the horse and the dog and they asked if she could lead them to the area. Tina said yes. She was thankful they had come and wanted to get away, leave the brooding people in the house and return to where she might do something constructive to further the search.
One man stayed behind at the ranch house to run the base radio, while the others drove to the ridge near Bearway Meadow. Here the team divided into two groups, one went up the ridge and the other followed the skid trail along the fence line dividing the Fopiano from the adjoining Sixshooter Ranch. Tina joined the first group because it included several men who worked with her stepfather on the Oregon State Highway Department crew.
“The searchers were wearing hats and coats and had food and water in their packs,” said Tina. “They were prepared to stay the night. I led them to where I found Flirt and they started backtracking. I was amazed how they were able to track at night. By laying a flashlight on a track, and pointing it in the direction the tracks were headed, it was almost like magic the way the next track was revealed. Even when the trail passed over a bed of pine needles the tracking was easy because pine needles have a shiny side from where they have been in contact with the sun and weather, and a dull side underneath. When pine needles are stepped on they generally roll. The dull marks in the sheen of a bed of pine needles can be followed almost at a trot.
“If we only had Flirt’s tracks to follow, it would have been easy, but by that time there had been so many horses and people through there searching that we kept getting sidetracked, following wrong leads. It was impossible to stay on a single set of tracks and finally we gave up, turned off our flashlights, and wandered around in the moonlight calling Phil’s name.
“At one point, on the hill opposite from where I had found Flirt, I saw a light, and whoever was using the light seemed to be looking for something in a small area. I flipped on my flashlight, shined it in the direction of the other flashlight, and hollered, ‘Hey! Who’s over there?’
“Immediately the light was turned off. That struck me as very odd. I knew where the members of our group were, and from radio contact knew the second group had worked their way back toward the ranch and were several miles east of us. Who was that on the other hill, at midnight, and what was that person searching for? Certainly not trying to find Phil. That puzzled me at the time, and it puzzles me still.
“Finally I announced I was going to go back to the ranch and try to get a couple hours of sleep. They asked if I knew how to get there. I assured them I did. I walked for a couple miles, was almost to the road, when a man’s voice startled me, ‘Who goes there?’ A figure stepped from the shadows of a pine tree and into the moonlight. I recognized Dave Humphries. I had grown up with Dave, gone to school with him. He was out there in the night with no warm jacket, no flashlight, nothing. I asked him what he was doing.
“‘Heading back,’ he told me. ‘My rig’s over there. Wanna lift?’
“I said I did, and we walked and talked and Dave told me one thing that stuck with me. He said, because of the amount of time that had passed, he figured Phil was injured and had probably dragged himself to a place where he could stay out of the sun during the heat of the day, and yet pile leaves and whatnot on him to stay warm during the cold of the night. When I questioned him about this, he said the searchers should be looking around windfalls, and that Phil would be hard to find. At the time, his statement was very disturbing to me.
“Later I learned Dave had run into a bow hunter that day, surprised the guy down by the lake, but he never mentioned anything to me about the incident. I’ve never seen Dave again to ask him why not, why he didn’t tell me.
“Dave dropped me off at the house and I went inside and joined Mom, Wendy, Shelli and Georgia. They were seated around the kitchen table. One of the searchers came in, had a cup of coffee and happened to mention Sandy Edgeman had run into a bow hunter and the bow hunter drew down on her. I was watching the others at the table and saw the way the blood seemed to drain from their faces, as it did mine I’m sure. It was the last week of bow season and even though bow hunting was not allowed on the Fopiano, a trespasser could have been there. I’m sure we all thought the same – that Phil had been shot by a bow hunter – but none of us voiced our fears.”
*****
“Did you hear, a bow hunter shot Phil, dug a hole and hid his body? That’s the reason nobody’s been able to find him.”
*****
The Warm Springs Search and Rescue tracking team, headed by Keith Baker and Stoney Miller, arrived from the Warm Springs Indian Reservation. After sleeping for an hour or two in their rigs, they made their way inside the ranch house. People were already gathering there and Georgia, Joyce, Wendy, Shelli and Tina were busy pouring coffee and fixing breakfast. A quad map was laid out across the kitchen table and members of the tracking team, and other searchers, filled their plates with ham, hash brown potatoes and eggs. They stood near the table eating as Sheriff Otho Caldera pointed to areas that had been searched. He finally tapped the map with an index finger and said, “Right here is where Phil’s dog came down. And here is where the horse was found.”
“When Otho told us that, I knew where we needed to concentrate our search,” said Keith Baker. “In most cases, a dog will stick pretty close, even if its master has been hurt or is dead.”
Searchers find it helpful to have some basic information on a subject, and while they waited for morning light, Keith and Stoney asked general questions about Phil – his height, weight, what he did for a living, what he had been wearing when he disappeared, and whether he was left or right-handed. Usually a person who becomes lost or disoriented, if he, or she, is right-handed that person circles to the left and a left-handed person circles to the right. Age matters because older people will most often venture into open country to increase their odds of being seen, while a young person invariably climbs uphill and hunkers in a thicket or beside a log because of their lingering womb instincts.
Although, because of the presence of the Brooks family, people were guarded about what they had to say, it was revealed Phil loved animals, was a proficient horseman, had trouble in school because he suffered from dyslexia, liked women and when he drank he sometimes drank to excess and could become rowdy. He was like a lot of men his age growing up in a rural environment. But probably the most vital piece of information concerned the horse Phil had been riding when he disappeared: its size, temperament, and most of all the distinctive, heart shaped triple ought shoes.
Keith Baker was the only white man on the otherwise all-Indian tracking crew from the Warm Springs Reservation. He was a big man, close to 6 feet, and 230 pounds. He was a veteran of two tours in Vietnam where he served as a sniper. His graying hair was gathered into a tight braid that fell down the middle of his back. He sported a roadrunner tattoo on his beefy left bicep and claimed he got into tracking and white-water rescue because, after having taken so many lives during the war, he felt he owed a debt to society. Now he wanted to try and save lives. He wore a pack around his waist with the tools he needed for tracking, survival gear and a week’s supply of rations.
That morning at breakfast, and during the briefing session, Keith met and observed the Brooks family members and was impressed at their unwavering spirit and belief that Phil would be found alive. He hoped he could find Phil in time, as he had found other lost hunters and rafters, but he was experienced enough to know that not every story has a happy ending. He prayed this one would.
“Pat Perry led the way,” recalled Keith, “and what struck me as strange was that, on the drive in, we passed an open campfire and a lit lantern inside a tent. Back at the ranch we had been advised this was a remote area. I asked what this sign of civilization could possibly be and was informed, ‘That’s a hunting camp.’ I pressed further and was told that Mike and Roetta Williams leased the hunting rights to the Collins’ property and brought in fee hunters, mainly from California, and that they used the hunting camp as their base of operation. I wondered if anyone had talked to the Williams’ to see if they might have any information about the missing cowboy, but I didn’t press the issue.”
Pat drove to the site where the dog had come off the hill, and where the horse had been found. The trackers got out of their rigs. The air was cool and the dawning of a new day was beginning to sweeten the sky with gray light. As they hiked across a flat and through a shallow gully, Bearway Meadow was off to their left, north, and as they moved toward higher ground a Caterpillar could be heard starting up, first the gas engine and then the slow pop-pop-pop of the diesel engine firing. It was at least a mile away, on the far side of Bearway Meadow, and Keith made a mental note of it, figuring if someone was in the vicinity, logging or building roads, maybe one of those workers had seen or heard something. Ahead was a forested area, logged maybe 15 or 20 years before, and there were thick clusters of small trees that had never been thinned. The team of trackers spread out and began a grid sweep up a narrow, timbered draw, looking for tracks or any physical evidence, from candy wrappers to cigarette butts, and of course they were looking for an injured cowboy, or a body.
“I was on the far left wing,” said Keith. “Had gone only a few dozen steps, when I noticed the ground at my feet had been disturbed. Looking more closely, and even though the light was not real good, I clearly recognized the print of a horseshoe – very small, heart shaped – and instinctively knew this was the track from Phil’s horse. The prints were dug in deep, side-by-side, indicating the horse was bounding, moving fast and planting its feet hard. When I looked up the rocky spine in front of me, I saw more tracks, evenly spaced, and even farther up the hill I spotted a foreign object. It wasn’t anything I could immediately recognize or identify; it was just something that shouldn’t have been there. To gain a vantage, I stepped onto a nearby rock and from there plainly saw a body on the ground, lying face up. Definitely male.
“‘I have a body,’ I called downhill, and then waited until Stoney Miller worked his way to me. He marked where I was standing with red ribbon and I eased forward. As I approached the body I looked for any signs of movement; there were none. The right leg was bent at the knee and slightly elevated, left leg at full extension, dried blood on shirt mid-torso, left of center, but not a lot of blood, left hand extended out and down, cowboy hat pushed back cradling his head, face fully exposed. The skin was pale, almost translucent and slightly blue tinged. The eyes were open, glazed over, and although the birds and animals hadn’t bothered him, there were insects at the mouth and nose. Positively, the subject was dead. I made mental note of the broken limbs near the body, and the tracks of the horse leaving the area. It appeared the horse had been spooked, and my initial judgment was the horse had run the subject, which I assumed was Phil Brooks, into a limb and that was what killed him.
“I backtracked, marking each step out with a ribbon. Upon reaching Stoney, and not wanting to alert everyone to the fact Phil was dead, I tried to reach Otho on the radio to inform him of our discovery. He apparently was not within range, but after a moment he responded. I purposely tried to be vague and said we needed to talk. He wanted to know what was going on. Again I told him we needed to talk. He still wasn’t catching on and asked if we had found something. One of the people from law enforcement said to say we had a 10-7, which I guess meant we had a body. I repeated those words and Otho replied, ‘Headed that way. Be there in a minute.’”
The tracking crew strung orange ribbon from tree to tree, marking off the area in an attempt to preserve it. A number of horseback riders approached and Keith turned them away, saying he couldn’t let them pass. They wanted to know why and Keith told them the sheriff had requested this area be preserved as a search site. One of the riders tried to go up and around, and Stoney sent a member of the tracking crew to head him off.
Otho arrived and Keith led him to the hill and told him to walk on the ribbons. Keith followed behind. As they approached the body Otho confirmed it was Phil Brooks and he stood for a long moment, hesitant to investigate any further; and then he bent, reached with his right hand and pulled back the shirt to expose the chest area. There was an entrance wound – a round, perfectly symmetrical, purple dot – over the heart and Otho jerked his hand away, straightened and exclaimed, “He’s been shot. We have a homicide!”
Otho looked around to see from which direction the shot might have been fired. Phil’s body was in a very small opening in a thick tangle of trees. There were only three possible places from which a shooter could have seen into this area. One was from Bearway Meadow, but he quickly dismissed this option because it would have required a shot in excess of a thousand yards. Another was downhill, less than 100 yards at the base of the rocky ridge, and the third was across the way, on the opposite hill, a distance of nearly 400 yards. Otho reasoned, if the shot came from the shorter distance, then the shooter had definitely seen Phil and it was most likely a cold-blooded murder. But if it was the longer shot, Otho reasoned the shooter could possibly have mistaken the horse for an elk.
Otho, who had been the Wheeler County sheriff for 21 years, mulled over a wide range of considerations and made a snap decision. In part his decision was based on the fact Wheeler County was strapped for funding and could not afford the expense of a major homicide investigation – the first homicide in the county since 1935 – but also included in the mix was the fact Otho had never investigated a murder and personally lacked a background in law enforcement. He had won election after election because he was a hard-nosed man who saw law and order as black and white. He was popular with voters. Everyone knew Otho and he was universally respected. What folks did not know was that Otho had recently been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. He was taking medication and had suffered from involuntary muscle twitching, occasional blurred vision and some short-term memory loss. Based on these considerations, Otho decided to turn the investigation over to the Oregon State Police.
*****
“The trackers worked the area pretty hard,” recalled Pat Perry, “and all the while Phil’s body laid up there on the ridge. I hated to see that because, although it was cold at night, the daytime temperatures were running into the 90s. I didn’t want the body to deteriorate any more than it already had and asked Otho if I could cover Phil with a blanket. At first he refused, but later he said he figured it would be all right. I got a blanket from one of the horsemen. They were still being held at the base of the hill. Nobody had bothered to tell them a body had been located. Jim and Justin Brooks were in the group. I felt bad for them, that they didn’t know, but I had been warned not to shoot off my mouth and I didn’t.
“When I returned with the blanket, Otho was rolling the body to one side, looking for an exit wound. There was none, and that was a pretty good indication the bullet was still inside. I hoped it would be in good enough shape for ballistic tests, and useful as evidence to hang the guilty party. I asked Otho if he had called the coroner. He acted confused, said he hadn’t. I knew how long it’d take for the coroner to get all the way out to the ranch and I jumped Otho’s ass. He told me he’d take care of it.
“Two state policemen arrived. The one standing nearest to the body wanted to know if I had a pocketknife. I told him, ‘Yeah, I got a pocketknife.’ He asked to borrow it. I said, ‘What do you want it for?’ He said he was going to collect tissue from around the bullet hole as evidence. I told him, ‘Not with my knife you won’t.’ He borrowed a knife from someone else, and I watched him place the sample in a plastic bag.
“After that I went to talk to Jim Brooks – knowing that by then he had been told Phil was dead – and I asked if he had a preference on which mortuary to call. He was in shock and told me, ‘Pat, do whatever you think is best.’ I used a mobile phone and called the Prineville Funeral Home, told them to come pick up the body and gave directions on how to get to the Fopiano.”
The state police officers had informed the riders congregated at the base of the hill that they had recovered the body and there was no reason for them to hang around. They advised the riders to go home. Then they told the trackers the state police investigative team was attending a meeting in Salem and would not arrive on site until late in the afternoon. The trackers, within view of the body, ate lunch while the Wheeler County deputies took their statements.
After eating, Keith Baker asked Otho for permission to backtrack Phil, and although the state police officers protested, Otho said he was still in charge of the investigation and gave his permission. Keith and his tracking partner, Vinson Macy, a Warm Springs Indian, followed the tracks uphill from Phil’s body. They moved slowly, sometimes on their hands and knees, using tracking sticks to measure distances, marking each footprint and hoof print with red ribbons, trying to read and interpret what the sign meant.
*****
Tina was in the saddle, riding in the dark, and as the twinkling stars faded and the soft hues of morning seeped into the eastern sky, she remembered what Dave Humphries had told her the night before and she searched behind rocks, windfalls and brush piles. She puzzled over why, if Phil had been injured, he had not built a fire. Phil smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and she knew he would have matches with him. A fire would keep him warm at night and a fire would signal his location to the searchers. When Tina came across Justin, who had spent the night in the woods just sitting on a high point and trying to think where his brother might be, she asked him why Phil had not started a fire.
“Jimmy Collins don’t want nobody smoking. The woods are tinder dry and he’s afraid of forest fires,” responded Justin. He went on to say that whenever Phil was going into the backcountry, he always left behind his cigarettes and matches and took a can of chew to feed his nicotine habit.
“I kept searching the area but as I drew near to where I had found the horse, I was turned back by law enforcement,” said Tina. “A number of riders came to that point, and we were all forced to wait there together. Finally a state police officer came and told us Phil’s body had been found. We were directed to return to the ranch.
“When I came off the ridge and looked out over all the rigs parked there, knew how many friends had come to help out in the search, I felt overwhelmed with emotions. People, horses and dogs were everywhere. When I rode in, I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, and rode to our horse trailer and tried to hide there. Bill found me. We talked and I knew I had to be with Mom. I leaned on Bill and we started for the house.
“On the way, I spotted Shelli, Justin’s wife, lying on the ground near the fence, curled in a fetal position, legs drawn up, with blankets and coats piled over her. A friend was standing nearby. I didn’t figure there was anything I could do – she was in shock – and I went inside. I saw Wendy and she was falling apart and then Pat Perry found me, put his arms around me and said he wished he could have done more. I said, ‘I know.’ Then he kissed my cheek and left me alone.”
Justin and his father were standing in the yard, but not together. Linda Keys was with Joyce. It seemed as though the family was purposefully staying away from each other. Maybe their thinking was, if they were not together, they didn’t have to talk about, or deal with Phil’s death.
Many of the searchers had brought food with them, and as if this were a giant neighborhood potluck, the food was arranged on long tables in the yard. As the searchers drifted in, some grabbed a bite to eat and others just poured themselves a cup of coffee. Mostly people stood around, saying very little, waiting for someone to tell them something.
A group from law enforcement arrived, including the two state police officers dressed in crisp, blue uniforms, Tom Cutsforth, the Wheeler County District Attorney, Sheriff Otho Caldera and Deputy Craig Ward, as well as two Reserve Deputies, Dave Rouse and Jim Walker. They stepped inside the house and after a few minutes, Linda Keys was asked to join them. A few more minutes passed and then one of the state troopers opened the door and requested all immediate members of the Brooks family to please step inside.
“I don’t know how Linda was chosen to deliver the news,” said Tina. “I suppose it was because she was the Wheeler County Justice of the Peace and a close friend of our family.”
After the family was gathered in the living room, Linda stepped forward and said, “I don’t know how to tell you what it is I have to tell you…” She faltered.
Jim Brooks spoke up, “Damn it, don’t beat around the bush. Say what you gotta say. Give it to us straight out.”
Linda took a deep breath. “Phil was shot.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Justin cried out, and took a step back. Jim never uttered a word but he looked as though he had taken a hard punch to the pit of his stomach and bent slightly at the waist. Joyce’s expression did not change. It was as blank as a white wall. Tina gave an audible sigh.
“To me it seemed as though that black cloud that had been hovering over my head was finally gone,” said Tina. “All the time I had been blaming myself, and blaming my horse, and now we had been told some person had shot Phil. I never considered the ramifications of that; what I experienced was this tremendous sense of relief. It had not been my horse that killed Phil.”
Linda continued to talk, saying if they had found Phil earlier, there was nothing any of them could have done, that Phil died instantly on Tuesday afternoon. Tina and Justin, relieved Phil had not suffered, exchanged looks, then nods.
“What was he shot with?” Jim wanted to know.
“We’re not certain but we believe it was a small caliber at close range,” said Linda and added, “Maybe he confronted a trespasser. We don’t know.”
Deputy Craig Ward stepped forward and told the family what they had just learned – that Phil had been shot – was strictly confidential and he went on to threaten, “If you tell someone, anyone at all, you risk being arrested for hindering prosecution.”
Tina spoke up and said, since Jimmy and Georgia Collins owned the ranch and were like family, they should be told. Jimmy responded by recoiling and saying, “He was shot? Holy shit!” Georgia – Phil had been like a son to her – cried and kept repeating, “No, not on the Fopiano. No way. Not on the Fopiano.”
Craig announced the meeting was over and suggested the family leave the investigation to the authorities and go home. Tina asked about Phil, when the body would be released. Craig said it would not be any time soon, that in the case of a homicide, an autopsy was required and it would take several days. Then Tina asked if they needed Flirt. Craig turned to Otho. Otho shook his head. Craig said, “Take her home.”
“I went outside to load my horse,” said Tina. “I thought I was handling things pretty well, but when I went to get Flirt’s halter from Phil’s pickup, I opened the door and the sadness of losing Phil, having him shot, just hit me. His hand had touched the door handle I was touching. The inside smelled like Phil. He had breathed the same air I was breathing. His cigarette papers, tobacco and matches were on the seat. I lost it, started sobbing and my legs went wobbly. I leaned against the side of the pickup and slumped down to where one knee was touching the ground.”
A state policeman took hold of Tina by the arm and lifted her. He pulled her a few steps away from the pickup while another officer wrapped yellow plastic ribbon with the words “CRIME SCENE” printed on it in bold letters, around the pickup. The policeman holding Tina said, “There could be evidence there. Stay away.” He released her, and to make his point he gave her a little shove.
Tina was taken aback. She was unsure how to react, whether to fight or simply go along with the authorities because, after all, they had a job to do – find the person responsible for killing Phil.
Flirt was loaded in the horse trailer along with Bill and Tina’s other two horses. As they pulled away from the ranch Bill shook his head and said, “Tell me, why would someone want to shoot Phil?”
“When he said that – this is really bizarre – but I saw a bright light, as bright as if I was staring into the sun,” said Tina. “In that yellow ball appeared a vision of Phil, a silhouette of him with the light shining through. It was from his neck up; he had on a cowboy hat and was wearing this crooked smile he’d get whenever something amused him. He looked happy, content, at ease.”
Tina was at a loss to explain why this vision of Phil had appeared to her. There was an 11 year age difference between Phil and Tina. He was her stepbrother and according to Tina, “We were close, but never really close-close.” She was afraid maybe the grief was causing her to go crazy and that night, when she closed her eyes, the vision remained – Phil’s face drifting in the black void, yellowish gray light in a halo around him, light leaking through his crooked smile. For three full days and nights the vision remained, as if indelibly imprinted on her eyes and then it went away and never returned.
*****
Although the investigation was halted awaiting the arrival of the state police investigative team, Sheriff Otho Caldera gave Keith Baker and Vinson Macy permission to backtrack Phil and the horse. Keith related, “What we learned from the backtracking we were allowed to do, is that about a half-mile above where Phil was killed, on a bench with a well-worn game trail leading through the middle of it, Phil’s horse was running flat out. What made that horse run hard? I don’t know because we were not allowed to backtrack above that point. What I do know is that at the upper point of our search, Phil’s horse leaped a windfall a couple of feet high. The horse did not go around the obstruction and that is abnormal. But what does it mean? I don’t make assumptions but common sense dictates it could mean one of two things; the horse was either being pushed by the rider to do something it wasn’t comfortable doing, or it was scared and running away.
“Phil did not have control of the horse, and in fact he lost a rein while the horse was running. The horse stepped on it, broke it off. We found the rein and that’s also a very odd occurrence, for a cowboy as experienced Phil was, to lose a rein. The sign revealed, after losing the rein, the horse continued running and was out of control until Phil cranked on his one remaining rein, the right one, and brought the horse’s head around, causing the horse to veer to the right and side-step. A horse can’t do much when its head is pulled back to the rider’s knees. At that point Phil had regained control, and yet he didn’t stop, he kept going for another hundred yards. Then he finally brought the horse to an abrupt, sliding stop. He dismounted; most likely he jerry-rigged the rein, but I don’t know that for a fact. I do know he cleared away the pine needles and duff with the sole of his right boot, down to bare dirt, and with his heel drew a straight line and an arrow pointing uphill, in the direction of where we found the rein. Then he remounted, started down off the hill in the direction of the skid trail, abruptly changed his mind and rode onto the rocky ridge. Phil got off his horse and led it 26.8 feet to where he was killed.
“Those are the details I know as fact. I had tracked Phil around the hill on the skid trail, and I had tracked him on the bench above, down to where he was killed. What I wanted to know was what happened between those two points – from the skid trail to where I picked up his track again on the bench. To me, that was the key. Something, or someone, diverted him from his intended route. He had been returning to the ranch, and it would have taken him less than a half hour to get there. It was getting late in the day, after 5 o’clock. His horse was tired and was slowing down. But for some reason, and it had to be something substantial, Phil turned straight up the hill from the skid trail. Why? Did a cougar scream, a bear growl, an elk bugle? Did he hear a shot? Did he hear someone? Did a hunter blow an elk call? What was it?
“And when I had the answer to what turned him up the hill then I wanted to know what happened on top. I believe something, or someone, threatened Phil and the horse. Threatened them to the point they wanted to put distance between them and the perceived threat. I say that for a number of reasons: the horse was running wild and jumped a windfall; Phil lost a rein and yet waited to get control of the horse; he regained control but kept going. He stopped, got off the horse, but rather than go back and get the rein, he drew an arrow to the spot and continued on. That tells me he did not feel comfortable about going back. And then, of course, I wanted to know why he chose to go to the point where he was killed. That spot does afford some protection, to a limited degree, but more than anything it offers a view of the game trail through the bottom of the draw, as well as the road leading to Bearway Meadow. It is a very logical choice if Phil had wanted to observe a specific area, thinking something, or someone, might pass along the game trail or the road.
“There were answers to at least some of those questions in the dirt and I could have found them, but the state police never allowed me to find the missing pieces, fit them together and complete the puzzle. They were impatient and thought Vinson and I were taking too much time following the sign. We were told to stop and await the arrival of the investigative team. I can’t help but think the case would have been solved, and the killer’s identity revealed, if only we had been allowed to continue tracking that first day.”
*****
As the sheriff of Wheeler County, Otho was still officially the man in charge of the Phil Brooks homicide investigation. But as that first long day wore on Otho had his deputy, Craig Ward, take an active role in talking to the media. Reporters from the Oregonian, Eugene Register-Guard, Bend Bulletin, and the Prineville Central Oregonian wanted information and Channel 21, the local television station from Bend, as well as several television stations from Portland, requested interviews. The shooting death of a cowboy was big news, but Craig Ward had good reason to be uneasy in the glare of the media spotlight. He knew it was only a matter of time before an inquisitive reporter, or television personality, recognized his name and put two-and-two together.
Craig Ward was a tall man, thin, and he liked to dress like a western gunslinger; wearing snakeskin cowboy boots with tight black pants tucked in the hand-tooled tops, a double-breasted shirt and a flat-brimmed cowboy hat. He lived up in the hills 18 miles from the Wheeler County seat of Fossil, in a rustic 700 square foot cabin; a family of five living without running water, electricity, telephone or television. Some of Craig’s neighbors claimed the deputy practiced quick-draw, and at any time of the day or night the sound of shots could be heard. They said the constant shooting was unnerving.
“Not everybody got along with Craig,” claimed Jeanie Perry. “He used to be a police officer in Portland before he came here and he wore two crosses pinned on his shirt right next to his shiny badge. He claimed the crosses represented the two people he shot in the line of duty. Some folks thought it was terrible to advertise such a thing, like he was proud he had killed someone.”
One of the shootings occurred in 1985, when Craig shot a robber who had taken a hostage, and two years later Craig killed a troubled teenage boy who was threatening a family member. After the second shooting, Craig claimed a stress related disability and he said of that time, “I was pretty much a basket case, dysfunctional and arguably dangerous. When I realized I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, wanted to die, I knew it was time to get out. We moved to Wheeler County which is about as isolated as I could be. How much further away can you get than a place that does not have a traffic light within a hundred miles?”
The shootings in the line of duty, ruled justifiable, were one thing, but Craig had more skeletons in the closet. And what made him most uncomfortable when dealing with the media was an incident that had occurred in April 1981. He was a Portland police officer, working the Northeast Precinct, and along with his partner, Jimmy Galloway, Craig had raced through alleyways in their patrol car to purposely run over possums. They gathered four dead possums and dumped them on the front steps of the Burger Barn, a business whose sign out front advertised “soul food” and was owned by an African-American. To the black and liberal communities, this stupid prank evoked an image of the Ku Klux Klan and a march was held in downtown Portland that ended on Oak Street in front of the police bureau. Protesters demanded that Charles Jordan, the black city commissioner in charge of the police bureau, fire the white officers involved in the possum-dumping incident. Politics prevailed and the officers were fired. This led to the Portland Police Union filing a grievance on behalf of their brother officers and holding a counter-demonstration with several hundred uniformed officers marching on city hall.
A hearing was held on the grievance and an arbitrator made his ruling, reinstating the officers with a mere slap on the wrist, giving them 30-day unpaid suspensions and directing the city to pay them for the remainder of the time they had not worked. The owner of the Burger Barn filed a $3.4 million civil-rights suit against the city, but eventually agreed to a $64,000 cash settlement.
When someone from the media did recognize Craig Ward’s name, and quietly asked him about the possum-dumping incident, Craig hung his head in shame and replied, “That was the biggest mistake of my life. I put the city through hell and brought discredit to the bureau. But it wasn't done out of meanness or racial motivation. It’s my fault, and I try to make amends for it every day.”
*****
Not until 5:30 p.m. did the state police investigative team, who had been attending a meeting in Salem, finally arrive at the site where Phil Brooks remained on the hillside under the blanket Pat Perry had laid over him to protect him from the flies. The state police came riding in like the cavalry to an Indian uprising.
“They were dressed like a bunch of city boys, wearing suits and ties and fancy slip on shoes,” recalled Keith Baker. “They certainly weren’t dressed to be out in the woods. When they tried to climb the hill to the body, their leather-soled, slick-bottomed shoes slipped on rocks and pine needles, and when they lost their footing they cussed and complained. If it hadn’t of been such a serious situation, it would have been comical.”
The state police quickly discovered the small opening in the trees where Phil had been found afforded only three opportunities from which a shot could have been fired. The first was from an extreme distance, coming from Bearway Meadow, and in excess of a thousand yards. Even though that was a remote possibility, the state police zeroed in on that scenario. Keith Baker showed them how Phil had been facing when he was killed, down on his haunches, looking downhill. He said when Phil was shot he fell over backwards and to prove his point he showed the tracks in the dirt and pointed to the cowboy hat that remained on Phil’s head. He said if Phil had been facing the meadow, the tracks would indicate that. They did not.
Of the two remaining options, one was across the way on the opposite hillside, a distance of approximately 400 yards. The other possibility was at the base of the rocky ridge, a distance of less than 100 yards. Those were the only windows in the maze of trees that would have been available to the shooter.
“The state police sent me and Vinson downhill to see if we could locate any sign of a shooter,” said Keith. “Vinson cut sign first and called out. The first reaction by the state police was for everyone to freeze, but that was only momentary, and then they rushed Vinson. I called out, telling the officers to stay back and pleading with them to allow us to work the track. But when I went down to help Vinson, the state police crowded in so close around me that I had to tell them to step back and give me room. And they questioned me on everything I was doing. I tried to be patient, do my job and explain what I was finding, but it had been a long day. I was tired and a bit peeved.
“The tracks I was working revealed the person had been running, scrambling and trying to get away. The officers were standing behind me, with the sun at their backs and they couldn’t see what I saw down low. Since they couldn’t see it, or read the sign I was seeing, they insinuated I was fabricating evidence.
“In my defense, allow me to admit that I’m not always the world’s most tactful man. And as further explanation, I have to offer that I have a buddy, a World War II veteran, whose favorite expression is, ‘What, are you stupid?’
“So here I had these state police officers dressed up in their suits and ties and slip on shoes, ridiculing me and the evidence I was generating, and finally when one of them stated he didn’t see what I was seeing, I blurted out, ‘What, are you stupid?’ That went over like a lead balloon. One cop in particular glared at me. I figured I was dead. Then a senior officer broke the ice and asked my name. I told him. The senior officer chuckled and said, ‘Mr. Baker, we don’t know anything. Would you please teach us to read sign?’
“I am well aware that much of the world is asphalt and concrete and tracking is a dying art form. But I’ve tried to pass on my skills to others and have even taught tracking to kids. That was how I approached it with the state police, from square one, as if they were children. Using my tracking stick I pointed to specific areas of an individual track and showed how to use the angle of the sun to best see the depressions and ridges. A few of the officers caught on. They got down beside me and studied the sign. Some did not. They hung back and remained skeptical.
“I backtracked the subject to a point where this person had gone into a shooter’s stance with one knee on the ground beside a tree. On this tree was a mark where the bark had been damaged. I pointed this out and a state policeman asked, ‘Was it made by a rifle?’
“My response was that, in order to answer such a question would require conjecture on my part. I said, ‘I don’t make assumptions. I point out physical evidence. It’s up to you to interpret that evidence. What I can tell you is this; someone leaned a hard object against this tree and damaged the bark. Now, it could have been a tracking stick, the counter weight on a bow, a rifle. I don’t know. The other information I can determine from where the mark is located and the measurements I have taken is this person is approximately 5 feet 8 inches tall, weighs between 120 to 160 pounds, and if this was made by a rifle, the individual shoots right-handed.’
“The officers rushed me, basically they pushed me aside, and began searching around the tree, brushing away the duff, grass and dirt. I took a quick step back and said, ‘Gentlemen, you’re destroying this site.’ I was informed they were looking for a brass casing and my continuing pleas to not further disturb the area fell on deaf ears. In the end, the officers found nothing, and the only remaining evidence at that vital location was the damaged bark on the tree. The state police destroyed everything else.”
Not much daylight remained but Keith and Vinson were allowed to continue working the site. They discovered the possible shooter had smoked several cigarettes and then field striped the butts, leaving only tobacco. Then, after having assumed a shooter’s stance, this person had reacted by jumping up, running several steps, trying to leap a dry wash, falling, scrambling and running some more. Near a big rock this person had stopped, leaned into the rock and pissed. The smell of urine was still evident.
“The state police made an assumption the subject had to have been a man and they wanted me to confirm it,” said Keith. “I regret that I said it probably was a man, but in hindsight, I know it could have been a woman who stood close, or leaned against the rock and pissed like a man. Some women do that.”
*****
When the light began to fade, the state police finally agreed to release the body of Phil Brooks. Pat Perry, who had remained at the site all that long day, finally was able to place the body on the olive drab army stretcher, and with help, carry it downhill where it was loaded in the back of his pickup truck. Pat packed ice around the body to preserve it as much as possible, drove to the ranch and delivered the body to the hearse that had been sent from the Prineville Funeral Home.
*****
The trackers and the state police worked until darkness prevailed. As they were driving the dirt road following Fopiano Creek, they met a pickup occupied by Mike and Roetta Williams. Detective Ringsage stopped the vehicle. He recognized Mike because they were friends and attended the same church. He informed Mike the area was part of a crime scene and was closed to all except law enforcement and authorized personnel. The Williams’ turned around and followed the procession of vehicles, stopping when they reached their hunting camp. This chance meeting was never made note of in any of the police reports.
“When I inquired about the Williams’ I was informed they had purchased the exclusive hunting rights on the Fopiano Ranch,” recalled Keith Baker. “That was for rifle only. Bow hunting was not allowed. That night, when we met the Williams’ on the road, it did seem very peculiar to me that someone would be coming into that area after dark. A reasonable person would question why, when there was no bow hunting allowed on the ranch and rifle season was several weeks away, anyone should be driving in there, especially at night. As far as I know, nobody ever asked the Williams’ what business they had to be there that night.”
*****
The initial police report, as filed by lead Detective Robin F. Ringsage, described the victim, Phil Brooks, in graphic detail; all the way down to his slightly receding hairline, the white socks he was wearing, size 11D cowboy boots, his lack of underwear and noting the shirt with snagged sleeves had an entrance hole in the front, but no exit hole. Further, the horse Phil had been riding was described as, “just over 2 years old and was dark brown chestnut colored with a bright blaze going from the forehead to the nose.”
Detective Ringsage’s report read: “On Thursday, September 22, 1994 I was advised that a Wheeler County cowboy had been found shot on the Fopiano Ranch. Believed he was the victim of a homicide. I was requested to go to the Fopiano Ranch and assist Wheeler County Sheriff’s Dept. with this investigation.
“I arrived at the Fopiano Ranch and met with Deputy Craig Ward and he said the victim was employed by the Fopiano Ranch as a ranch hand and he and Jimmy Collins had spent Tuesday morning, September 20th sorting stray cattle. Victim asked for and received permission to take the afternoon off to work with his sister’s green broke horse. The victim was last seen by Jimmy Collins heading toward the ranch headquarters at approximately 2 p.m. where he had left the horse while going home for lunch. It was believed that he intended to be gone for approx. 2 hours. When the victim did not arrive for work the following morning Jimmy Collins became concerned and subsequently called another rancher to have his hands assist in a search. It is estimated that up to 200 persons conducted a search prior to notifying the Wheeler County Sheriff’s Department.
“At 2:41 p.m., September 21, 1994 the Wheeler County Sheriff’s Department was notified the victim was missing. They subsequently requested the assistance of the Warm Springs Search and Rescue trackers, as well as employing their own searchers. At approx. 7:15 a.m., Thursday, September 22, the victim was found on a ridge near Bearway Meadow on the Fopiano Ranch by members of the Warm Springs Search and Rescue. Sheriff Otho Caldera, and deputies and reserve deputies of the Wheeler County Sheriff’s Department, secured the crime scene. At approx. 5:30 p.m. I arrived at the crime scene. Present were Keith Baker, Vinson Macy, James Surface, all from the Warm Springs Search and Rescue, Pat Perry, Tom Cutsforth, Wheeler County District Attorney and Wheeler County Sheriff Otho Caldera, and his reserve deputy, David Rouse.
“The crime scene is on the Fopiano Ranch, a 33,000 acre ranch owned by the brothers Jimmy and Bob Collins. This portion of the ranch is in Wheeler County. The victim was found lying on his back on a rocky, wooded ridge running along the east edge of Bearway Meadow. The victim’s cowboy hat was positioned in an upward position, tipped back at the base of the victim’s head. His left arm was at his left side and right arm closer to his body with the right hand on the right hip. Victim’s right leg was bent at the knee with the knee pointing left while the left leg was extended in a straight position. Located off to the victim’s left, down an incline, was a can of Skoal. According to Keith Baker a rein was found NE of the victim’s body, between the rein and the victim's body an arrow shaped mark that appeared to be pointing in the general direction of where the single rein was found indicated according to Baker that the victim had gotten off his horse and then remounted and further he stated there were disturbances in several locations and that just above where the victim was found there were signs indicating the victim was off the horse and leading it down the ridge. The single rein has been entered into evidence at the Bend OSP office and should be noted this rein has a horseshoe print indicating it might have been stepped on.”
*****
The morning of September 23rd an investigative briefing was held at the Cinnabar Restaurant in Prineville, the county seat of Crook County. Attending this meeting were members of law enforcement, as well as the tracking team from Warm Springs Search and Rescue. Detective Robin “Robb” Ringsage let it be known at this briefing that he was heading up the investigation. He was a short man, no more than 5 feet 7 inches tall, sporting a small mustache and built slender, like a long distance-runner.
Not everyone was impressed with Detective Ringsage. Some of his detractors claimed he had a “Napoleon complex” and that he tried to take his 6-ounce badge and use it to exert a ton of authority. Even members of law enforcement found him to be, at times, arrogant, overbearing and abrasive. One person involved in the murder case described him as being, “Like a banty rooster protecting a manure pile.”
The Phil Brooks homicide investigation was the largest investigation Detective Ringsage had ever headed up, and before it was over, his Achilles’ heel would be revealed; his tendency to focus on one scenario and one scenario only, and to try to make the evidence fit that tight focus, while excluding and ignoring all other possibilities.
“I distinctly remember,” said Keith Baker, “after the meeting in Prineville, we drove the 70 miles to the Fopiano Ranch. I was a passenger in the fourth vehicle in the procession, and when we reached the Williams’ hunting camp, which is located approximately halfway between the bone-gate turnoff from Waterman Flat and Bearway Meadow, we came to an unexpected stop. A man and woman were in the Williams’ hunting camp and they stepped forward and approached the first vehicle, the one Detective Ringsage was driving. An extended conversation, lasting five or ten minutes, ensued. I watched the way the man leaned down to converse with Detective Ringsage, while the woman stayed back a step or two. It appeared the man and Detective Ringsage were well acquainted, and every so often the man laughed or made some gesture with his hands.
“After that conversation ended, we continued on, and as we passed the camp the man and the woman remained standing near the road, watching us. I noticed a third person standing inside a tent, peering out the open flap. I could not say whether this person was a man or a woman, a boy or a girl. All I know is that it was a human being.”
That morning Detective Ringsage assigned Keith to track the person who had taken a shooter’s stance at the bottom of the ridge, the short shot. The tracks were of a person who had run wildly from the scene, had slipped and fallen crossing a dry wash and had urinated against a rock. Keith learned this individual’s normal walking stride measured 18½ inches between toe and heel, the tracks were made by someone who wore work boots – Packer and White make that type of boot – and this particular boot had a toe that narrowed, a raised heel and the sole was well worn and had distinctive crack marks. From the stride, the way this individual swung the right leg and placed that foot on the ground, it was apparent that at some point in the past, this person had suffered a serious injury to their upper right leg. This person had not been in the military, where soldiers are taught to elongate their stride. This person took short choppy steps. And this person was not raised in the city. Most people from the city are used to walking on pavement and their feet turn slightly outward. This person was raised in the country, was used to walking on dirt, and walked with a pigeon-toed gait.
Keith followed the trail and saw where the person had stepped up on a log and then down. A log provides perfect habitat for a rattlesnake to lie under. An experienced outdoor person would never step over a log and risk being bitten. And there were several times this person had stopped, faced toward the road, and then hurried on. The tracks led a half-mile to a brush pile, where limbs and wood debris from a logging operation in the past had been piled. The trail followed onto the brush pile and Keith found a spot where this person had leaned down and placed something on the ground, hiding it from view, and leaving behind in the soft earth, marks of four fingers and a palm print.
“I called Detective Ringsage’s attention to what I had found,” said Keith. “He asked if it was a rifle that had been placed there. I said I didn’t know, but what I could say was this person I had followed had placed something in the brush pile, and then retrieved it at a later date. I would not commit myself to anything more.”
The tracks moved off the brush pile and ended with the person getting into a full-sized vehicle. From where the vehicle was parked, it would be nearly impossible to see it from the road. Keith searched the ground to make sure there had not been a second person involved. He found no other human tracks, but what startled him was to discover distinctive horse tracks, triple ought, heart shaped. And by backtracking, he located where Phil Brooks had been riding on the skid trail, and where he had undoubtedly seen the parked vehicle and ridden off the trail to investigate. He had proceeded to within a dozen paces of the vehicle and then returned to the skid trail and went on his way. Keith said this discovery caused him to wonder if Phil, having seen the vehicle parked at the brush pile, had ridden around the hill for about a mile, and then gone uphill on the off chance he might encounter the person from the vehicle. Keith’s other thought was that a second person was involved and they might have been dropped off and hiked into the area. Could this person have been picked up at another location? Had the driver, or a hiker, taken a shot at Phil? Keith knew none of the answers to these questions and it bothered him that he did not.
“By looking at the tire tracks I knew several things,” said Keith. “The tires were nearly brand-new, and they were 15 inch Les Schwab Wild Country tires. I told Detective Ringsage. He was amazed and wanted to know if I had memorized every tire tread. I laughed and told him, ‘No, I just bought the exact same set of tires for my pickup last week. This tread is identical to mine.’”
Another thing Keith discovered by following the tire tracks to the main road was that there was a rickety bridge, a couple of planks crossing Fopiano Creek, that were hard to see and dangerous to cross. The driver knew enough to avoid the crossing, choosing to go around the makeshift bridge and drive through the creek. It stood to reason the driver was knowledgeable of the area, and had passed that way before.
*****
Phil Brooks’ body was transported to Portland, and on September 24, 1994 the state medical examiner, Dr. Ed Wilson, conducted an autopsy. Present at the examination were Detective Ringsage, Lieutenant John Spilker from the Oregon State Police crime lab in Pendleton and Tom Cutsforth, the Wheeler County District Attorney. Detective Ringsage noted in his report: “The victim had a wad of moist, red chewing tobacco between his teeth and gum, fly eggs were in nostrils, lips and on back – entrance wound was located 56 3/8 inches above the heel, 1/4 inch right of the middle, 1/4 inch above the traverse nipple line, the bullet path traveled through the junction of the breastbone and right fourth rib, through the aorta, traveled through the left portion of the backbone and came to rest beneath the skin 55 1/4 inches above the heel – the bullet was recovered.”
The bullet, although mushroomed on the end, was relatively intact toward the base. Ballistic testing was conducted and it was determined the bullet was a .284 caliber. The bullet retention was measured at 99.6 grains. The lands were .029-.032 and the grooves were .110-.122. A rifle capable of firing such a round included: .280 Remington, .284 Winchester or Savage, and 7MM Magnum manufactured by Alpine, Winchester, Remington, Sako, Savage, Weatherby, or Ruger.
*****
The autopsy report revealed the .284 bullet that killed Phil Brooks hit him dead center in the chest – the location in the center of a target commonly known as the ten-X spot – and it had exploded his heart, ricocheted off his left shoulder blade and lodged in his spine just under the skin. This fact, that a high-powered rifle fired from a distance of less than 100 yards had not blown through Phil’s body, caused Detective Ringsage and District Attorney Tom Cutsforth a great deal of consternation. They felt the only logical explanation was that the fatal shot had to have been fired from a longer distance. They began concentrating the investigation on the 400-yard shot, what they began calling the long shot.
“Detective Ringsage wanted me to look for sign on the opposite ridge,” related Keith Baker. “It was an open, east facing hill and the ground was soft and loose. This made for easy tracking. What I found were five sets of human footprints. Two of those were quickly determined to be members of the search team, one set was unknown and wandered around never reaching a position where this person could have seen Phil on the opposite ridge. The last two sets of tracks were determined to be of a suspicious nature and I worked them carefully, anyway I did, once again, up to a particular point.”
The tracks indicated two people had come down the side hill. One set of tracks was made by a fairly new set of hiking boots and the tread was very distinctive. The stride was long and unique with a slight out-pitch of the left foot. This person did a lot of hiking in the woods and based upon the length of stride and how far the track was pressed into the dirt, Keith estimated this person weighed between 140 and 170 pounds. The second set of tracks was also remarkably distinctive. This person wore older boots and there was a chunk of tread missing from the heel of the right boot. This person was much heavier, over 200 pounds, and was more used to walking on pavement than dirt. The left foot splayed out more than the right foot when this person walked.
A wrapper from an energy bar was found and it was assumed it came from one of the two individuals. Detective Ringsage chose to ignore it and did not collect it as evidence. Coming off the hill, the tracks paralleled each other, about 15 feet apart, to a point where one of the individuals had cautiously approached a weathered stump where this person assumed a shooter’s stance, using the stump for a rest. The other person stood nearby. Both were facing the hill where Phil was shot.
“From the tracks, I could tell these two individuals left the area of the stump in more of a hurry than they were before,” said Keith. “Were they running away? They didn’t seem to be afraid. They only seemed to be moving with a purpose. Perhaps they were apprehensive about being out in the open. I don’t know. All I can say is they were moving a little faster than they had been. And they walked to where a narrow tired vehicle had been parked. It could have been a small pickup. It could have been a car. The sign here was obliterated because so many people had been in the area, from searchers to law enforcement.
“Detective Ringsage wanted me to say these people had left in a vehicle. I told him I could not do that. There was just too much sign, too much confusion to try and reach a single logical conclusion. Then he wanted me to backtrack and see where the two people came from. And while I was doing that, a team came in and swept the area around the weathered stump, looking for spent casings. I was told they found brass but it was all old brass.”
That afternoon, a laser-sighting team arrived with their sophisticated equipment. On the open hillside they set up a tripod and instruments at the weathered stump. Across the way another tripod and a box with a silver disk were positioned where Phil’s body was located. An officer in a yellow raincoat assumed the position where Phil had been squatting, but he was not visible on the opposite ridge. Nor did the laser-sighting test penetrate the trees and branches. What the laser-sighting team proved was that it would have been nearly impossible for anyone to shoot Phil from the weathered stump. But that scientific evidence didn’t seem to dissuade or discourage Detective Ringsage or Tom Cutsforth. They wanted to make the long shot work because it was easier to explain why the bullet from the high-powered rifle had not blown through the victim’s body.
“I tried to enlighten law enforcement,” said Keith, “to the fact poachers oftentimes use short load ammunition – hand-loading only about half the smokeless gunpowder that a factory load will carry – allowing the round to exit the rifle at a slower rate of speed, subsonic, and therefore the report is much quieter. The problem with a short load is it has killing power out to only about a hundred yards. Law enforcement refused to consider the possibility. They were not interested in my theories. They had their minds made up, it was the long shot that killed Phil and nothing I could say would persuade them otherwise.”
Detective Ringsage had Keith and the other trackers backtrack the two individuals on the long shot. At one point the trackers came across bright red feathers, fletching from an arrow, and they called Detective Ringsage’s attention to it. He ignored it, did not bag it as possible evidence, he simply walked away. Most likely he had already made up his mind the two individuals he was following were not bow hunters, they were rifle hunters, and one of them had killed Phil Brooks.
While the tracks were being backtracked from the long shot, members of the state police investigative team happened to stumble across a makeshift camp in a dry wash a half-mile northwest of the location of Williams’ hunting camp. Recovered from the site were a sleeping bag in a blue and gray stuff bag, a rolled up air mattress, a black pack frame, a bag of Twinkies, cookie bars, a box of pop tarts, three breakfast bars, a cheese and cracker snack pack, one fruit pack, two open juice drinks, berry flavored, and a piece of wood with the words, “Go to Bike” scratched into the wood with a sharp object.
It was immediately assumed this was a bow hunter’s camp. The mention of bow hunters caused someone to remember that a bow hunter had threatened a woman on horseback, one of the original searchers. And someone else remembered that another searcher had reported finding a bow hunter hiding near the lake and this hunter had been wearing camo and had his face painted.
“It was like an avalanche,” recalled Keith. “All this information came pouring out about bow hunters. Things got hectic and Detective Ringsage pulled us off the long shot and had us tracking around the makeshift camp, then pulled us off to track down by the lake, and he even brought in the woman on horseback and she showed us where she had confronted the bow hunter. We tracked it all. But we were never allowed the time it would take to bring the various trails together. It was assumed that some local had brought in a couple bow hunters, dropped them off and picked them up again when the hunt turned sour. The big stretch was in assuming the bow hunters had been armed with a rifle.”
For Detective Ringsage the clues were finally adding up to something. What he thought he had was a couple of rogue hunters who were armed with a rifle and one had committed murder. He was dead set on proving his theory.
*****
Craig Ward, issuing a press release to the media under the letterhead of the Wheeler County Sheriff’s Office, strongly urged the party or parties responsible for killing Phil Brooks to come forward. He quoted Tom Cutsforth as promising, “It will go much easier on them, both in terms of how the justice system deals with them as well as their own conscience. If they wait for us to catch them, it will be too late.”
Deputy Ward went on, quoting himself as saying the suspects, “left a much better trail than they know.”
*****
After the autopsy the body of Phil Brooks was transferred from Portland to the Prineville Funeral Home. Four days later the funeral was held and Phil was buried at the ranch cemetery near the headquarters of the Fopiano. His headstone, depicting a cowboy on a horse, dog trotting alongside and pushing a small herd of cows and calves in front of him through the sagebrush hills of Waterman Flat, would be added later.
“Phil had mentioned to Wendy he wanted to be buried with what Grandpa Pardon had given him, and for the longest time we couldn’t think what that could be,” said Tina. “And then we were going through a briefcase where Phil kept his ‘important papers’ and we found a knife. Grandpa Parton had given Phil that knife, and rather than carry it with him and take a chance of losing it, he had kept it in his briefcase. We buried him with the knife in his pocket.
“Our family wanted to have an open casket, but the funeral director said he would advise against it because of the amount of time that had passed and the deterioration of the body. We just went along with what we were told to do – it was such an emotional time for all of us – but later we regretted, as a family, that we did not insist on viewing Phil one last time.”
A big crowd attended the funeral at the Fopiano Ranch and loud music was played on a pickup stereo with the doors thrown wide open. Law enforcement attended; some officers were dressed in uniform, and others, hoping to blend into the crowd, were dressed casually in boots, blue jeans, long sleeved shirts and cowboy hats. But they were too clean, their hair cut too short, and they stuck out like sore thumbs. Also in attendance were several women Phil had dated, and the police dutifully noted each who cried, and if a man had accompanied the woman, the cops watched to see if he exhibited any signs of jealousy.
The obituary was read and it was noted Phil had been born in Prineville on May 6, 1971, graduated from Mitchell High School with the class of 1989, and that he had worked for Cannon Tire Center in Mitchell, one of the first Les Schwab stores in existence. Phil also worked for Fran Cherry on the Cherry Creek Ranch where he herded sheep one winter, as a logger for Johnny Rhoden and F.M.C. Logging and Jim Smith and Smith Logging before signing on as a ranch hand on the Fopiano. His hobbies were listed as hunting, fishing and fixing up old rigs. His passion was simply, “the outdoors.”
Dan Cannon, owner of Cannon Tire Center and a noted local cowboy poet, read a poem written by Shelli Brooks, Justin’s wife, titled My Other Brother.
As I was growing up I had a wonderful brother.
When I got married I was blessed with another.
Phil was always coming over, many times a week.
The first thing he said when he walked through the door was “Honey I’m home, when do we eat.”
He was always on his best behavior at the house, because he usually wanted dinner.
I must not have done too awful badly. I didn’t notice him getting thinner.
Phil grew up to be a very large man!
And when feeling strongly about some things, he wasn’t afraid to make a stand.
We all feel this is what happened.
We’ll all miss him so.
We won’t say good-bye and won’t ever let him go.
Phil will always be with us each and every day.
So I’m ending this now with only one more thing to say.
We all have our memories and a special place where they are held.
How he touched our hearts and the way it always felt.
After the service concluded, Tom Cutsforth approached Jim Brooks and asked if the family would gather in one place, that he had something to tell them. Jim fixed him with a steely gaze and his deep voice rumbled as he said, “Mister, this ain’t the time and this ain’t the place. You best wait until tomorrow and call the house. Today I’m havin’ to put my boy in the ground.”
*****
Mike Williams, who along with his wife Roetta held the hunting rights on the Fopiano, contacted Detective Ringsage and claimed he had heard rumors the investigation was focusing on an unknown bow hunter. He said he had some pertinent information to the case that he was sure would prove helpful. He identified Bob Long, a well-known bow hunter and big game moviemaker from the San Francisco area, claiming the Californian had been sneaking onto the Fopiano and that he had solid evidence to back up his claim. This information interested Detective Ringsage a great deal.
The trouble with this sudden revelation was that Jerry Brauns, a New York attorney representing two bow hunters from California, one of which was Bob Long, had already contacted Tom Cutsforth and was in the process of negotiating an agreement whereby his clients would be given immunity from prosecution on trespass charges in exchange for their testimony.
*****
The day after Phil was laid to rest, Tom Cutsforth and Otho Caldera visited the Brooks family at their ranch west of Mitchell. Otho seemed uncomfortable in this setting and the district attorney did most of the talking. He said a New York attorney, representing two bow hunters from California, had contacted him and the two men had been given immunity in exchange for their testimony. He seemed very pleased with himself when he said, “They were on the Fopiano and might know something that will aid the investigation.”
Tina was at the house that day and she bristled at this announcement. She pushed back. “We asked to see Phil’s body. You won’t let us. Then the funeral home insisted on a closed casket. We went along with that, too. We hear all the rumors about the leads you’re following and the people you’re talking to, and you tell us nothing. We hear the results of the autopsy on the radio. We read about things in the newspapers. We see you on television. We are Phil’s family and we don’t appreciate being the last to know. If you want to be a big shot and stand up in front of the TV camera and dish out information to the reporters that’s fine, but call us personally, let us know what’s going on rather than make us read about it, or hear about it, or see it on TV.”
Tom Cutsforth hung his head and muttered, “I’m sorry. Guess I got caught up in all the publicity.”
*****
Bill Smith, a major Bend developer and owner of the G-I Ranch south of Paulina, heard about the missing cowboy and the fact local law enforcement and the state police had not been able to locate a viable suspect. He made a few phone calls and in a short time put together a reward fund that eventually reached $65,000, the largest reward ever offered in the state of Oregon.
“When the reward failed to generate any solid leads, we offered to increase the amount,” stated Bill, “but the state police said it wouldn’t do any good, so we left it where it was.”
Those who contributed included the Brooks family, friends of the family, local ranchers and the owners of car dealerships, sawmills and even Nosler Bullets, Inc. of Bend. Of course, William Smith Properties, Inc. and the G-I Ranch were included on the list but the largest single contributor was Jack Rhoden, who owned the sprawling 43,000 acre Sixshooter Ranch next door to the Fopiano.
“Why was I willing to pony up twenty grand? Because I wanted to help find the killer,” said Jack. “But that was before the state cops went off the deep end and announced to the world one of my sons was a suspect.”
*****
“The day Phil got killed was my birthday,” said Jimmy Collins. “After we moved cows, Phil took the afternoon off to ride and I drove to the Scott Ranch and watched Phil’s brother push dirt around with a D-6 cat. He was making a pond. Never could remember that kid’s name. I called him Boots. I could remember Boots. I spent two or three hours at the dam and then I come on back home along about 5 or 5:30.
“Phil and me, we was 60 years difference in age, I was his boss, but you know, boil it down and the two of us was just good friends. Everyone liked that kid, except when he got to drinking and then according to what he told me, he got siwashed a time or two and after that he pretty much swore off whiskey. But he’d have a beer with me of a hot day. That kid, he was a hard worker, wasn’t no bronc rider, not by any means, but he’d get on a wild one every now and then just to see, I suppose, if he could shake and rattle. He was the kinda kid who, if you know what I mean, liked to have a little wind blow by his ears, He could handle his horse, didn’t jerk it around unnecessarily, was easy on cattle and I liked that about him.
“Told Phil he could stay at the bunkhouse – had a bathroom, hot water, electricity – but he declined and dragged that trailer of his up to the granary and camped there. Came to the bunkhouse to take showers and such. Said the reason he didn’t stay in the bunkhouse was because he didn’t figure my wife and I’d approve of some of the people he ran with. Don’t know what he meant by that remark, might have been referring to some of the women he spent time with. But he and I never talked women, and I never saw him with a lady friend.
“One thing, I do feel a little responsibility
about is this, I told Phil if he ever ran into anybody up in the
hills, and that person didn’t have a legitimate reason for being
there, I told him to run his ass outta there. I’ve wondered if that
wasn’t what happened. If Phil didn’t come across a trespasser, try
to run him off and that was the one who killed him. I don’t rightly
know.”