The first signs of a creek. It looked right.
He worked his way down and stopped in the creek bed. No water. He pawed at the silt covering the sand. Maybe this wasn’t it. He checked the landmarks. No, it had to be. He could see the rock where he’d set up his stove, and the slide, smooth from the wash of water, where the creek poured into the pool he had skinny dipped in. But there was no water. Last year there had been plenty of flow—enough to support what had seemed like hundreds of tree frogs, all singing, catching him by surprise, making him forget his troubles. So, where was the water?
He scrambled around an outcropping and looked down on the pools. They were dry, their bottoms ringed with detritus, telling the story of their gradual disappearance.
Surely the pools would return another season, but what about the frogs? Endangered, were they adapted to such things? To swings in habitat condition and availability? He wasn’t sure. No one was really sure.
He remembered something he’d read in the scientific literature. ‘Reproductively isolated,’ it said, ‘...from both the Canyon tree frog and the Arizona tree frog.’ It wasn’t found along the bigger rivers, only the smaller creeks in and around the park. How had the speciation occurred? Somehow the little brown frog with an orange stripe across its eye, and pads for hanging onto trees—that it didn’t seem to use—only frequented the sandstone substrates along the slow moving creeks in this section of New Mexico. Nowhere else.
And it was having a hard time of it. Its population numbers were dropping, except in the park. There they were thought to be stable; elsewhere, they were in decline.
Cruel world, he thought. Mother Nature shows no favors.
And this would be a dry camp. He had water in his pack—he always did, just in case—so that wasn’t a problem.
Really odd, though. Sure, it was unseasonably warm, but it hadn’t seemed all that dry. But this was high desert, and he only had one year to compare to. Still, people weren’t talking about a drought.
Last year’s camp was now in a sickly looking fringe of willows, along a very dry creek-bed.
That won’t do. Go with sunset and stars.
He found an outcropping with a view to the west, and threw out his pad, bivy sack and sleeping bag.
A cool dip in the creek would have been nice about now. Next time—maybe even Thursday, if he could work it out—he would hike into the upper reaches of Caveras Creek. It would take a little longer, but it was said to be worth the trip.
CHAPTER 8
Jack stood by the truck, his pack stowed and sweat dripping from his brow, and watched as the crew drove up and stopped.
Johnny Reger climbed out of the 6-pack, and gave him a funny look. “Man, you look awful. About a quart low.”
“A little more coffee would be nice, but I’m alright.”
“I was thinking beer. You should’ve been with us last night. Lots happening.”
“Oh, I had a good time up here.”
“Jack, we’re worried about you. We think you’re a lonely man. We decided we’re gonna see it as our job to take care of you. We think you need a woman, or a few beers, or both.”
He frowned. “I’m going to work.” He grabbed his vest and charged off, to get away from such talk.
It was another hot day. When it was done, Jack resisted another invitation to Elena’s, but followed the crew down off the plateau.
The curves of the road failed to completely hold his attention. He began thinking about the Chamber of Commerce meeting and what he would say, and how he would answer the questions Mack Latham said he would get, most likely about the National Monument and how it would affect the local tourism economy.
Damn. Why couldn’t Joe find someone else to cover that meeting? He had other people to turn to.
At least this meeting would not be contentious.
— • —
On Wednesday morning, in dress uniform, Jack drove into town. The uniform felt a bit much for Las Piedras, but Joe Morgan would have expected it.
He found a place to park the government pickup, and entered the Inn of the Canyons by way of the porte-cochere, a stucco and timber some such designed to take on the flavor of the Southwest. Its elements of grandeur, combined perhaps to attract the wealthy and well heeled, seemed strangely out of place.
The sign in the lobby said the Chamber was meeting in the Cañon Room. Jack walked past the registration desk, the concierge, and the lounge, and hung a right at the hall leading to the meeting rooms.
He stopped at the door and looked inside. Sunlight reflected down the length of a conference table. Chairs were set around it, three to a side, and one each at the heads of the table. There was ample space between them, and more chairs against the walls.
He was not sure just whom he expected, but the attendees somehow put him on edge. In addition to Mack Latham, standing just inside the door, Jack recognized a couple of county commissioners, Wayne Enslow, and a few people he’d seen around town. Others looked like ranchers. It was not a large group, maybe a dozen.
Latham saw him at the door. “Come on in Jack,” he said. He extended an arm and shook hands.
Somehow this did not look like a Chamber of Commerce meeting. Jack remembered something he had heard about the innkeeper, about him needing to improve his bottom line. This market was not proving to be as lucrative as investors had hoped. But surely this meeting wouldn’t be about that.
“You’ve met Wayne Enslow?” Latham asked.
Enslow turned to him.
“Hello, Mr. Enslow,” Jack said. “I sent you that proclamation.”
“Yes, I got it,” Enslow said. He turned away.
Latham walked him past Enslow. “How about Tom Herrera and Helen Waite, our county commissioners?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” Jack said to Herrera. He shook his hand.
He looked surprised. “We have?”
Obviously Herrera wasn’t one to remember the little people. “Only once,” Jack said. He turned and shook hands with Waite. “I was with Joe Morgan.”
“Oh, yes,” Herrera said, as if he remembered.
“How about a cup of coffee, Jack,” Latham asked.
“That would be good.” He followed, giving the county commissioners one last nod. Were they always at Chamber of Commerce meetings?
Latham led him to the service table along the back wall, stopping beside a man drawing coffee from the silver coffee urn. The man’s well-made, Western cut sport coat gave him the appearance of an elected official or a comfortable stockman. The latter was such a rare thing to see these days. Must be a politician. Tall and solid, maybe in his sixties, hair gray and well groomed, there was something about him.
The man finished preparing his coffee and spun around. He looked Jack in the eye. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. The expression on his face was cordial, but not warm.
“I don’t believe we have. I’m Jack Chastain.”
“Kip Culberson,” the man said. He shifted his cup to the other hand, and offered his right.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Jack said, as he shook hands with the man. It was a firm handshake. He was certain he had heard the name before.
“I’m sorry Kip,” Latham interjected. “I assumed you two knew each other.”
“We do now,” Culberson said. He moved past, and around to the other side