Leaning Land by Rex Burns Read Free Book Online

question of his own. “The CBI interested in him? That why they sent you out here?”
    “That and to work with the federal agents on their homicides,” Wager said.
    “You gentlemen need a refill?” The girl, silent in her soft-soled shoes, held the globe of hot coffee over their cups. Wager nudged his toward her. As she poured, Paula told him, “Verdie says to ring the bell when you’re ready to register and she’ll take care of you. She’s in the back.”
    “OK.”
    Morris waited until the girl had refilled his cup. “Why’d they send you to work with the feds?”
    “Mostly on the chance the Del Ponte case is tied in with the killings they’re working on. And because your boss and the federal agencies don’t get along.”
    The deputy’s eyes once again followed Paula’s legs as she headed back to the kitchen. But his mind was on what Wager had said. “You talked to Sheriff Spurlock yet?”
    Wager shook his head. “I plan to tomorrow.”
    “That FBI man, Durkin, thinks he’s pretty hot shit. Henderson might be all right by himself, but he won’t wipe his own nose without Durkin lets him.” Morris pushed his cup in a tiny circle, sending its muddy coffee swirling almost to the rim.
    A gust of wind made the large window quiver and hum, and from its surface—darker, now, and reflecting the restaurant’s lights and tables—Wager felt cold air slide down the glass to pool around his ankles. “Was Del Ponte’s death tied in any way to the BLM agent’s death?”
    “Not that I ever heard of.”
    “You were his contact, weren’t you?”
    The deputy’s eyes, a shade between blue and green, studied Wager. “You already talked to Durkin? That son of a bitch as much as accused me of getting Rubin killed. That what he told you?”
    “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
    “I say he’s full of shit’s what I say!”
    “What do you think happened to Del Ponte?”
    “Could have been anything. Rubin could’ve asked too many questions or talked to the wrong people about what he was doing. God knows he couldn’t keep his mouth shut more’n five minutes—I warned him about that. I think he dropped hints to every son of a bitch and his son-in-law that he was working for the FBI. Made him feel like hot shit, but he wasn’t worth a damn as an informant. I told Durkin that.” The deputy gulped at his coffee and winced at its heat. “Could’ve been killed by accident, too—drunk and sleeping on the pavement to keep warm, most likely. Happens all the time with Indians. Or died some other way. Wasn’t any evidence of murder.”
    “He was on foot, alone, a long way from anywhere. No car. Did you find any trace of tire tracks at the scene?”
    “No. He’d been there maybe a week or more: rain, wind, animals. Wasn’t much left of him, let alone the site. We did pick up a couple of cigarette butts—filter tip. Rubin didn’t smoke, but God only knows how long they’d been there. They could as easy been thrown from passing cars. There was nothing more to show anybody else had been around the body.”
    “What had he been working on?”
    “Durkin had him looking into something.”
    “What?”
    Morris leaned back in his chair, its joints making tiny crackling noises that sounded loud in the quiet room. Wager heard a drawer slide shut in the kitchen and the brief hiss of a faucet splash water into a sink. “He probably already told you—his version of it, anyway. I’ll tell you mine: Durkin’s got a hard-on for this civilian militia a lot of the ranchers belong to. Call themselves the Constitutional Posse. He wanted Rubin to find out if they were meeting with anybody on the reservation.”
    “Why would they do that?”
    “Ask Durkin. It was his idea.”
    “Did Del Ponte find out anything?”
    “Hell, no. Was a damn-fool idea to start with. The ranchers and the Indians mostly don’t get along, unless a rancher happens to be a Mormon out to save their souls. Ranchers say the government uses