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Jarret
It felt great to sit in a saddle, finally. It was a good, deep-seated Western saddle, and it fit as if it had been made for him. Enyeto had selected it.
Enyeto was a bossy old Indian. You should not ride alone. Take a friend. Bring water. Make sure you have your cell phone.
He said the boundaries of the Zamoranos’ property were marked with fluorescent fiberglass posts and for Jarret to look out for them. He said Jarret would be able to have a nice ride before sunset and for him to stay within the boundaries. Red Storm, the chestnut Spanish Mustang he’d saddled for Jarret, knew the exercise trail and would follow it without guidance.
Screw that. He meant to explore without boundaries. Water? No, he brought a Coke. His cell phone? He hadn’t paid attention to that thing since the call from Keefe. Whom would he need to call out here in the desert?
Red Storm trotted through the open gate of the white fence at the back of the Zamoranos’ pasture, heading for a clear path that turned east. The mansion appeared small from here, its curvy design and natural tones putting it in harmony with the desert surroundings.
A thin, less-defined trail branched off to the right. It was probably a desert wash or an arroyo formed by flash floods and not a trail the Zamoranos used.
Jarret clicked his tongue and tugged the reins, directing Storm down to the wash. Once there, he got her going at a trot. “We’re taking a new route today, girl.”
Sunbeams blinded him from the right, confirming his southerly direction, their angle telling him that he had a good two hours to explore. He never wore a watch, but he was a good judge of time.
He adjusted his hat to shade his face and soaked in his surroundings.
A hawk flew overhead in the clear blue sky. Clusters of prickly pear, cholla cacti, and dry desert scrub dotted the sandy, rocky land, bits of pale green against a washed-out purple and red backdrop of craggy mountains and mesas. Everything nearby had a crisp clarity, the sharp lines of thorny plants and the cracks between rocks. But the farthest horizon shimmered in the heat, and he had to squint to look at it.
He breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of the arid air and the baked earth, and he sat loose in the saddle, relaxed, glad to be alone in the desert. The only sounds came from the squeak of the saddle and the clomping of the horse’s hooves. Even the horse seemed relaxed, her muscular body moving with loose and fluid motions.
Before long, they passed a four-foot fluorescent-orange marker. The boundaries. He chuckled and looked back the way they’d come.
The path he rode on had twisted and curved as it ran deeper into the valley between hills and mesas. Red broken land and a scattering of green and thorny plants blocked the view of the Zamoranos’ house.
He continued on, heading south or as south as the twisting trail would allow.
After a while, a jagged, crumbly-sided mesa loomed ahead, casting an inviting purple shadow on the sloped ground beneath it. Tall columns formed the mesa’s sides, resembling the rugged teeth of a giant. A section of the mesa’s top was flat and wide enough for a good lookout. A trail wound up the slope and up one side of the mesa. Maybe it went all the way to the top.
Whether from signals he inadvertently gave or from Red Storm’s desire, they headed for the mesa, picking a trail around rocks, yellow-flowered bushes, and cacti.
“What do you think, Storm? Wouldn’t it be cool to reach the top? Maybe we could even see your stables from up there.” He pressed his thighs to the horse’s sides. Sensitive to the slightest signal, she picked up her pace.
Soon they reached the shade of the mesa. It did little to relieve the heat, but it felt better than the sun’s relentless rays. A trickle of sweat ran down Jarret’s neck. With the reins loose in one hand and the horse proceeding at her own pace, Jarret removed his hat and combed his fingers through his flattened, sweaty curls.
Storm clomped directly to the mesa trail as if she had been here before. Maybe Selena had taken her out here. This might even be one of the mesas she’d told him about on their “date.”
The trail narrowed as they climbed, and it turned so that they now rode toward the setting sun. Then the trail descended and leveled out at about twenty-five or thirty feet above ground. The vertical cracks in the steep sides of the mesa had grown darker and wider the higher they climbed. Ahead, a smooth wall jutted from the mesa, appearing to cut off the trail. If the trail ended, turning around would prove a challenge.
Storm continued on, trotting at a comfortable gait that gave Jarret confidence. Nearing the wall, Jarret saw two things. The trail did not end but wound around the wall, and daylight stole through one of the vertical cracks in the side of the mesa.
“Wait here,” he said to Storm, dismounting. He found a stone that took two hands to carry and placed it on the reins, in case Storm should get the urge to wander off. Then he started up the slope that led to the lighted crack.
The slope was no higher than a slide on a playground, but rocks kept falling loose under his feet. His heart raced. Sweat dripped down his neck. Feet tingling, he slid back down three feet. He pictured himself losing control, sliding all the way down, skimming across the trail, and tumbling over the side of the mesa. But he didn’t slip again.
At the top, he found a level spot and straightened up. The depth of the crack prevented him from seeing what lay on the other side, so he held onto one wall and leaned forward to see.
The view made his head spin. He reeled back and pressed his body to the rock wall.
A canyon lay below, hidden in the middle of the mesa.
Once the vertigo passed, he slid down to a sitting position and dangled his feet over the edge. A rope lay beside him, one end tied to a nearby boulder, the other dangling somewhere below in the canyon. The canyon wall opposite him rose up about thirty feet from the ground, but his side went up higher, towering some twenty or so feet above him.
He touched the rope. It was old and weathered, but it was a good, thick rope. He leaned to see how far down it hung. It went all the way down, forming a coil on the canyon floor.
Someone must have used it to climb down into the canyon, exploring or maybe— Maybe someone had hidden something in the canyon. Papa used to tell stories of gold prospectors. One of their relatives, Jarret’s great-great grandpa, used to hunt for gold. A hidden canyon would be a great place to hide something.
Without further thought, Jarret gripped the rope and swung his body over the edge.
Roland
Roland rode the blue roan they called Diamond because of its shiny silver coat. Once outside the Zamoranos’ horse yard, he jumped down to close the white fence. The riding trail, a wide path covered with horseshoe prints and edged with stones, went off in two directions.
Which way would Jarret have gone? Enyeto said the trail wound all through their property and eventually out to the street, and it could take an hour to cover.
As he slipped his foot into the stirrup, a thought struck him. Jarret was the first to take a horse out this evening, Enyeto had said. Maybe Roland could tell which direction he’d taken by inspecting the tracks.
Roland dropped his foot to the ground and led the horse to where the trail split off. Sure enough, the horseshoe prints in the sandy dirt were fresher on the path that turned east.
A smile came to his face as he swung up into the saddle. Maybe he would be an investigator or a detective one day. That would be a fun profession. He could develop his observational skills, learn how to track animals, people . . .
A short distance later, Roland reined in his wandering imagination and peered down at the trail. He had lost the fresh tracks.
He twisted in the saddle to examine the trail behind him and the landscape on either side. No new tracks. Had Jarret turned off somewhere? He could’ve easily made his own path through the sparse desert plants.
Roland turned Diamond around and, giving more attention to his surroundings, retraced the horse’s steps until he found the tracks most likely made by Jarret’s horse. The tracks veered off the trail at a dry wash.
“Come on, boy.” Roland urged the horse onto the thin trail of the wash.
The slant of the evening sunlight made searching the landscape off to his right difficult, even with his hat pulled down on that side. But the tracks still followed the dry wash, so he probably wouldn’t miss Jarret.
Why had Jarret ridden out alone? Why wouldn’t he join everyone else in praying for Laszio’s sick wife and then ride out? Selena had said she wanted to ride tonight.
Roland sighed. Why did he care? He regretted getting up from his knees and bolting for the door in the middle of the Rosary. Jarret would be fine. He could take care of himself.
A few yards from the trail stood one of the fluorescent-orange boundary markers that Enyeto had described to him.
Roland pulled the reins.
Diamond whinnied and lifted a front hoof. Then he stopped.
“Jarret wouldn’t go out past the Zamoranos’ land, would he?” He stroked Diamond’s neck.
Diamond snorted and bobbed his head.
“Yeah, you’re right. The tracks do go on, don’t they?” Roland loosened the reins. “Come on. Let’s go find him.”
Roland rode the horse at a gallop, squinting against the sun on his right, straining to keep sight of the horseshoe tracks that kept disappearing behind clusters of desert plants and rocky terrain. Low hills stretched out and mesas rose up on either side, with more hills and mesas on the horizon. A high and rugged mesa soon showed itself to be his destination.
They crossed into the long shadow of the mesa, and Roland brought the horse to a stop. He rested in the saddle and gazed up at the looming sight. His stomach turned.
“Don’t tell me he went up there.” He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Jarret! Hey, Jarret!”
Diamond snorted and turned his head as if to get a look at Roland.
“Well, it was worth a try,” Roland said, stroking the horse.
Getting no reply, he loosened the reins and shifted in the saddle. “Come on. We’ll have to take the trail up the mesa. I hope Jarret’s not trying to climb to the top.” The top reminded him of a big currycomb with rows of teeth, like the ones he used to groom their horses back home.
He tapped the horse with his leg. “Let’s get to it.”
Diamond walked to the trail and began the climb.
The trail inclined gradually, but Roland soon found himself hesitant to glance out over the edge. He didn’t have a problem with heights. The horse seemed relaxed. No reason to feel queasy at the sight of the ledge and the landscape below, right?
A rock at Diamond’s hoof broke free and skidded down the side of the mesa. Roland squeezed his eyes shut as it clattered to its resting place far below.
They rounded the side of the mesa and Roland gazed out without squinting. The sun had turned the sky pink at the horizon and no longer blinded him. The trail, however, had narrowed considerably, so turning around would be awkward, even dangerous. Maybe they would come across a wider spot ahead. He would hate to have to climb all the way to the top. From the ground, he’d thought he’d seen a flat area in the middle of the mesa’s top. But looks can be deceiving from a distance.
God willing, Jarret had done whatever he set out to do, had turned around, and was now headed back to—
The chestnut horse Jarret had taken out, Red Storm, stood a short distance away, where a wall of the mesa jutted out.
Roland’s hope deflated. Where was Jarret?
He dismounted and walked Diamond to Storm. Then he secured the reins with a stone as Jarret had done.
The trail wound around the protruding rock wall. Maybe Jarret had thought it unsafe to ride the horse around it. Or maybe he—
Roland’s gaze landed on a scraped-up, steeply inclined part of the mesa that separated the trail from sheer rock walls. A few desert scrub plants grew in the loose, rocky dirt of the incline. Footprints went all the way up but they were short, probably from him using the toe of his boots to climb. The scrape marks were about three feet long, as if Jarret had gotten halfway up and slid back down.
Jarret had climbed the incline. But why? There wasn’t anything at the top, no place to go from there.
Roland moved closer, examining his surroundings. Maybe Jarret saw something, went to get it, and came back down. Where would he have gone then? Maybe he was still nearby.
He lifted a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Jarret! Hey, Jarret!”
One of the horses whinnied. A warm breeze blew. No other reply came.
Roland stepped up on the slope. The dirt gave way under his shoes, bringing him back to where he started. He studied the slope and the footprints again. If Jarret did it, he could do it. He took two steps back, leaned over and readied himself. Then he sprang up the slope using the toes of his shoes. He got to the top on his first try. Then he saw it.
He stood before a high and narrow gap between rock walls of the mesa. The gap opened to a canyon below. A thick but weathered old rope hung down into the canyon. Would Jarret have climbed down? He did have a reckless side.
Roland sat down, swung his legs over the edge, and shouted as loud as he could, “Jarret, where are you?” His voice echoed in the canyon.
As he waited for a reply, he scanned the canyon, what he could see of it. Rock walls jutted out on either side, blocking the overall view. Beneath him, about thirty feet down, were a few desert shrubs, rocks, a dry creek, and the end of the rope.
Roland called again and waited.
Minutes passed with no reply. His stomach tensed. Something must’ve happened to Jarret. Of course, the canyon could come out somewhere else. Jarret could be taking a different route back to his horse.
Or he could be hurt and unable to reply.
The sunlight would soon fade. He ought to look for him. No, he had to look for him. He had to do it now.
With a prayer to God, he grabbed the rope. He wrapped the rope around one hand and gave it a good tug. It seemed secure enough. Gripping the edge with one hand and the rope with the other, he turned his back to the opening and lowered himself down. His stomach leapt. Not wanting to look down, he locked his gaze to the rope. Then with knees and toes pressed to the canyon wall, the rough rope ripping at the skin on his fingers and palms, he started down. After climbing a short distance, his foot lost contact with the canyon wall. What happened to it?
He reached as far as he could with his foot. Still nothing. He must’ve been on the side of a ledge, the canyon wall setting back farther. He’d have to rely only upon the rope and the strength of his arms to go the rest of the way.
He glanced down and his stomach flipped.
It still seemed like a thirty-foot drop to the rocky canyon floor. If he fell, he’d land on a big round boulder or on the smaller, sharper rocks next to it.
“You’re not going to fall,” he whispered, closing his eyes in preparation to move on.
Using his knees, he climbed the last few inches down the side of the ledge. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and let his legs hang free.
His body slammed the wall.
He tried to turn so that his shoulder would hit, but the knuckles of his left hand cracked against hard rock. At the impact, he grunted, then he held his breath while the pain passed.
A moment later, trembling now, Roland breathed. “Thanks, Lord,” he whispered, glad that he hadn’t fallen.
He forced himself to go on. A few inches at a time, he lowered himself, the rope swinging him as he went.
Then the rope jerked.
And vibrated.
Roland clung to the swinging rope and peered back up. Something thin stuck out from the rope above him, near the edge of the ledge. A fray?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT