Chapter Twenty-one

I found a 7-11 in Hesperia and bought two gallons of water and a king-size bag of peanut M&M's. Ought to hold me. I had three-quarters of a tank of gas and decided that should be adequate. According to Jarred's map, I wasn't heading more than fifty miles out into the desert.

With the open bag of M&M's nestled in my lap, I munched away and headed east on Highway 15. As far as M&Ms go, I didn't prefer one color to the other. Colors, to me, were a moot point anyway. Still, I often wondered what the M's meant.

Twenty minutes later, I turned off Highway 15 and onto a narrow road called Burning Woman, instantly surrounded by a lot of rock and sand and heat.

I continued on and the deeper I got into the desert, the more I watched my temperature gauge. So far, so good. Hell, the bottled water was as much for my car as for me.

Occasionally, I checked my rearview mirror. No sign of a blue truck.

My windows were down. Sweat collected at the base of my spine. I sipped some water. Actually, a lot of water. The radio didn't work. So I listened to the rush of wind past my open window and to the not so gentle purr of the Mustang's rebuilt engine. There were no freeway noises out here. No honking horns or the rumble of Harleys.

This is nice.

Eerie.

But nice.

Per the map, I was to turn left onto a very small, winding road near a cluster of boulders. I soon found the boulders and made the left, using my turn signal because you never know who's waiting behind a cluster of boulders.

Chapter Twenty-two

I sat in my car and peered down into the valley. This smelled of a set up, a trap. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

My car wasn't getting any cooler.

I didn't have to go down into the valley. I didn't have to observe the spot where Sylvester was found. The last place Willie was seen alive.

Sure, I didn't have to, but I wanted to. It was part of my job, part of the investigation; it was why I made the big bucks.

You could come back later with Sanchez and check the place out first.

Or not.

I drummed my fingers some more, took in a lot of hot air. Sweat coated my skin. I stopped drumming long enough to drink some water, then resumed the drumming.

Then again, if I headed down into the canyon to look under the proverbial rock, it might be interesting to see what comes scurrying out into the light of day.

Sure, I thought, if you don't mind using yourself as bait.

A solitary hawk, or perhaps a vulture, circled the sky above, its massive wingspan forming an arching V. The sky was cloudless. The sun was almost directly overhead.

I scanned the surrounding desert; I appeared to be alone. Scraggly bushes clung to the sunbaked earth.

With my Browning tucked into my waistband, I stepped out of the car and regretted it almost instantly. The sun was unbearable, true, but it was the heat rising up from the sand that threw me off guard.

I'm getting it from both ends.

If there was indeed a sun god, he was surely smiling wolfishly down on this foolish mortal.

I brought one of the bottled waters with me, locked the car. By habit I set the alarm, and the horn beeped once, echoing down into the canyon. I think something scuttled in a nearby bush, frightened by the beep.

At least the car was safe. And I would know if anyone screwed with it.

I was wearing a tee shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts and basketball sneakers. Boots would have been better against rattlesnakes, although boots would have looked pretty silly with Bermuda shorts. I moved the gun from the small of my back to the front pocket of my shorts, as I didn't want to sweat on it.

And headed down.

The path was steep. The rocks underfoot loose. More than once I slipped, but never fell, thanks to my cat-like reflexes.

I reached the valley floor without melting or mummifying. There, I found some shade at the base of the cliff wall where I stopped and drank some water.

The valley was far removed from anything. Why had Sly, or whoever he was, been out here in the first place?

Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was part of a bank robbing gang and this valley was their hideout; maybe his fellow bangers turned on him.

The wind picked up, bringing with it a spicy mix of juniper and sage. Or maybe I was just smelling my own cooking flesh.

I knew from my readings that Sylvester A. Myers, the man who first found Sly back in 1901, had been looking for the next great silver claim. Turns out he found a mummified man instead.

The sun angled through the narrow canyon walls. The walls were mostly dirt and sandstone, layered with the occasional swath of something darker, perhaps basalt. The hawk or vulture continued to circle slowly above. Maybe it knew something I didn't.

Something scuttled in a bush nearby.

Ah, life emerges.

Before me was a mound of three huge boulders. Screwed into one of the boulders was a very old and faded brass plaque. It read: "In memory of the Nameless who helped settle the Wild West."

That was assuming a lot. Maybe Sylvester didn't help settle anything. Hell, maybe he had done his best to unsettle things. Maybe that was why he was shot.

Maybe, but somehow I doubted it.

I bent down and took a handful of the hot sand, sifted it through my fingers. In my mind's eye, I saw the image of a man staggering through these canyons, gut-shot, bleeding and hurting. Alone and probably scared. Or not. Do cowboys get scared?

Yeah, probably.

To the east, high on the high cliff above, something flashed. Instinctively, I turned my body, narrowing myself as a target. Beside me, next to my left elbow, a section of the boulder exploded in a small cloud of dust, pelting me with rock fragments. I dove, rolling.

The report from a rifle followed, echoing throughout the valley.

It kept echoing even as I kept rolling.

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