Page 69 of Dead Mountain

“If you say so.” He leaned back with a smile and waved over the check. “You remember the Bosque del Apache, where we watched the sun rise over the river a while ago? That grove of cottonwood trees along the river?”

Corrie nodded.

“Let’s get fresh coffees and go back down there and hang out. It’s Saturday, we’re both off work—what do you think?”

“And do what? Watch the river flow?” Corrie suddenly found herself coloring, embarrassed by the dumb, unintended implication.

“We’ll think of something.” His face still held a wry, dimpled smile.

Now her heart was pounding. God, what was wrong with her? She swallowed. “Okay.”

36

SKIP PULLED INTO the parking lot of Gallina’s Peek, letting the dust settle as he sourly eyed the flickering neon sign of a nubile Indian woman peering coquettishly out from a wigwam. This pun on nearby Gallinas Peak wasn’t any more promising than the establishment itself appeared to be. But he’d already stopped at half a dozen roadhouses that afternoon—one more wouldn’t hurt.

He’d gotten a late start on the day—although not that late, considering he’d been up half the night scouring the internet for dirt on Sheriff Hawley—but he’d headed out with enthusiasm. Hawley, he believed, was enough of a natural douchebag that Skip’s own experience couldn’t be unique. There had to be others out there he’d mistreated, who hated the sheriff’s guts—and among this august group, one or maybe several would know some scuttlebutt Hawley wouldn’t want made public. In a day or two of searching, he hoped to gather enough shit on Hawley to build a cow-pie colossus bigger than Rhodes . . . and when Lightfeather dumped the damning evidence before Hawley, he’d drop the case so fast Skip could almost feel those fat lips kissing his aggrieved ass.

Except it turned out not to be that easy. He’d first tried a couple of country clubs and fraternal organizations, posing as a journalist writing a history of Torrance County; he figured coming in with a neutral approach on Hawley, the man, would be the best way to smoke out anyone willing to talk trash about him. But it hadn’t gone as expected. He’d heard through Nora that the county was Hawley’s personal fiefdom. And from the way the retired golfers and community big shots sang his praises, it was clear Hawley had spread his crooked largess far and wide. Skip would have to sink his muck rake into a lower stratum of citizenry.

So he’d tried the barbershops and diners in and around McIntosh, Estancia, and Encino. People in these establishments didn’t speak of Hawley in quite such worshipful tones—no longer was he an incarnation of the risen lord—but there was also a deep wariness, even fear, and Skip couldn’t find anybody interested in dishing dirt.

It was, at last, in bars and roadhouses that Skip began to sense he might have better luck. The farther south he went, it seemed, the more Hawley’s influence waned. He now jettisoned the journalism story for the injustice of a wronged man: Hawley had boned his sister while her boyfriend was doing a tour of duty overseas. He’d kept it on the down-low, not making a big deal about his grudge but letting it eventually bubble to the surface as he bought drinks for those around him at the bar. He was encouraged by a few knowing scowls and sympathetic grunts. He’d heard some interesting tidbits, but nobody was willing to get specific beyond vague declarations that Hawley was a shitbag.

Gallina’s Peek, though, felt like a place where he might hit pay dirt. One old geezer had rolled his eyes at the mention of Hawley, and Skip’s droit du seigneur story about the sheriff and his sister (God help him if Nora ever got wind of that) was received with a chorus of groans.

“So old One-Bally still has it in him,” the fat, balding bartender cackled as he pulled a pint of Michelob Ultra for a customer.

“One-Bally?” Skip recalled hearing this nickname being mentioned at the Isleta burial ceremony. “What’s that mean?”

The bartender laughed again. “You didn’t know? Hawley’s the biggest, baddest pistolero in all New Mexico. Broke up a bank stickup and got into a gunfight with the robber. Shot him, too—even though he got winged himself.” He slid the pint down the bar. “Oh, he’s real proud of that. Took a bullet in the line of duty.”

“Just don’t ask him where he got winged,” said somebody nearby, “unless you want to spend a night in the drunk tank!” There was general laughter.

“Another inch or two to the left,” the bartender said, “and that shot would’ve killed him.”

“Depending on how tight his pants were that day!” said the other, to more laughter.

Skip began to get the idea. “Where was he shot, exactly?”

“Jesus, kid, is it that hard to figure out?” the barman replied, pointing downward with one finger from his belt buckle.

“So Hawley got shot in the balls?!” Skip laughed uproariously. “Oh God, I love it!”

Suddenly, a huge form rose from one of the tables in the recesses of the roadhouse. He had a buzz cut and was wearing a leather jacket. He loomed over Skip, who was leaning back on his stool, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said to Skip and the bartender. “Both of you.”

“I’ll say whatever I damn please in my own establishment,” the bartender retorted.

Skip, meanwhile, was so delighted to learn his nemesis had an Achilles’ heel that he couldn’t keep quiet. “One-Bally Hawley!” he chortled. “Ha ha ha ha—”

His laugh was cut short as a fistful of knuckles bounced off his teeth. As he went down, the biker leaned over him and, grabbing the bartender by the collar, hauled him up with one hand and punched him in the face with the other. Another patron leapt on top of the big man, and others rushed to join in. Skip, lying on the floor half-dazed, started crawling away from the fracas, dimly hearing the sounds of thuds and broken glass. He’d almost reached the door when someone yelled, “There goes the guy who started it!” Skip rose to his feet and prepared to run, only to be clocked upside the head.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, all was quiet, and two deputies stood in the entryway. Several men, some bleeding, were standing in a line before the bar. Skip tried to rise—only to find that his wrists were cuffed behind him.

“What the hell?” he said, blinking his eyes into focus.

“Hey!” said one of the deputies. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake!” A chorus of laughter followed.

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