Free Leaning Land by Rex Burns

photograph was of Del Ponte’s torso with its head—the distance marked by a ruler to give dimension to the photo—tumbled into a depression between two rocks. To judge from the black, desiccated flesh running from left eye to right jaw and covering half the face, he had lain partially facedown in the hot sun for at least a couple of days before animals began their playful feast.
    Identification had been by the man’s wife, one Sharon Del Ponte of RR1, Egnarville. She stated that her husband had left home on 17 March and that she hadn’t seen him since. No missing person report had been filed—Del Ponte had been self-employed as a small-time trucker and had had his own tractor-trailer for transporting livestock and other cargo. March was a busy time for him ordinarily, bringing cows from lower winter pastures in the canyons to the better grass of the highlands at the east end of the county. It wasn’t unusual for him to go off to a job that lasted several days and which she would not be told about. She knew of no one who wanted to kill her husband.
    His last haul, at least that Sheriff Spurlock could determine, was March 15 for the Butte Springs Ranch, moving cattle to their summer range in BLM land east of La Sal.
    The analysis of the remains—conducted by the coroner down in Montezuma County—showed no causative wounds located in the bones of the victim; too much damage had been done by animals to determine if death was the result of trauma in the soft tissue. In short, the coroner’s report was inconclusive on everything except the fact that nobody would be in that condition who wasn’t dead.
    Neighbors or known associates of the deceased who had been interviewed were listed: B. J. Haydn, Egnarville; Pete Stine, Egnarville; Joseph Dorfin, RR2, Egnarville. None offered any information about possible assailants.
    Del Ponte’s car and his diesel tractor were found parked and locked behind Mallard’s Garage at Lewis Corners, where he usually stored his truck and trailers.
    What wasn’t in the file were the steps of investigation that a larger department would do routinely: lab analyses of body fluids and tissue samples; fingerprint search of the victim’s vehicles; canvass of all local residents who used that stretch of highway daily; forensic medical specialists to examine the victim’s clothes, intestines, fingernails, hair, teeth for any indication of where he’d spent his last hours. It was too late for any of that now, and the only thing left for Wager was legwork.
    Or car work. He couldn’t help a glance at his new tires as he unlocked the car and headed back west toward Egnarville. Twenty-five minutes later, he passed the Gypsum Motel. In the parking lot outside the restaurant, he noted two dusty pickup trucks bearing La Sal County plates and a dark Lexus sedan with Denver’s code: it was the car a salesman was likely to drive in this country—speedy but easy to handle and soft to ride in. Another twenty minutes of fast driving brought Wager to Egnarville.
    This town didn’t have a crossroads. Its center was a wider shoulder on the north side of the highway where a combination gas station and grocery store sat. It held the single public telephone as well as the contract post office. The scattered mobile homes and small frame houses were all on the same side of the highway. The south side was fenced rangeland, and Wager guessed that the houses were located where they were because that was where a spring had been found and where water wells could be sunk without much drilling.
    The name of the Egnarville store was Store, and the name of the man who worked the cash register as well as the post office counter was Jesse.
    “Jesse Herrera.” He looked at Wager’s ID and then at Wager. “What can I help you with, Officer?”
    “Rubin Del Ponte. He lived around here, didn’t he?”
    “Sure did.” A tilt of his head indicated somewhere behind the crammed shelving that formed the wall behind him.