Free Threepersons Hunt by Brian Garfield Page B

a tough son of a bitch, or he thinks he is. I guess he likes to think he’s welcoming the challenge.”
    â€œThis squabble’s over water rights on the boundary of the Reservation, isn’t it?”
    Kendrick’s eyes raked him. “In a nutshell, the Bonito River supplies the water along that side of the Reservation. There’s a string of recreation reservoirs along the river and the tribe draws irrigation water out of them. Some years back Rand and his neighbors started drilling deep wells on their side of the line and they dug on a slant so that the wells bottomed out straight under the riverbed. It’s diverting a lot of acre-feet from the Apache water supply and the tribe’s having trouble finding enough water to irrigate the farms, and half those recreational facilities are closed down because the lakes are nothing but mud puddles. We’ve been trying to obtain an injunction to restrain Rand and his cronies from pumping out those wells. So far the Court of Appeals seems to be in Rand’s pocket—Rand’s lawyers claim there’s no mention of water rights in the Fort Apache treaty. And they say even if there were, it wouldn’t affect this issue because Rand’s wells are on his own private property. Naturally we’re claiming an analogy with mining law where you’re not allowed to drill slant-shafts under your neighbor’s claim. We’re also arguing that water rights are implicit in the treaty even if they’re not specified. We’ve got plenty of precedents and we’ll win it, and Rand knows that. He’s just being obstructionist.”
    Kendrick lit a cigarillo and blew smoke at his match. “We’re getting a little off the subject of Joe Threepersons, aren’t we?”
    â€œMaybe. But the better a picture I’ve got, the better a chance to find him. Did Joe have anything to do with any of these wells?”
    â€œHe wasn’t a driller if that’s what you mean. I suppose he must have ridden past them a thousand times on his rounds. He was a line rider, his job was to keep the fence in repair and look out for livestock in trouble.”
    â€œWhere’d he live?”
    â€œLine shack at the northwest corner of the ranch.”
    â€œWith his wife and kid?”
    â€œOf course. They were only two or three miles off the highway to Showlow. It wasn’t a bad little house, I visited it once to interview his wife. Rand treats his employees pretty decently, he’s no cotton farmer.”
    â€œYou talk as if you admire the man.”
    â€œI respect his good points. It doesn’t pay to underestimate your opponent.”
    â€œYou happen to know if anybody’s living in that line shack now?”
    â€œSomebody must be. It’s twenty miles from the ranch headquarters—too far to commute on horseback. There’s always somebody posted out there. Rand has four or five line shacks. Christ he runs better than a half million acres.”
    â€œAll of it cattle?”
    â€œAbout half. He grows feed corn and alfalfa, and there’s a lot of timber.”
    â€œAnd that’s what he needs the extra water for?”
    â€œI gather it is. I’m no expert on farming.”
    â€œJoe worked up there for better than three years. Did he have any especially close friends who might still be there?”
    â€œYou’d have to ask around. I don’t know many of his friends. He’s got a sister here in town, and an uncle by the name of Luxan.”
    â€œAnybody else?”
    â€œNot from me,” Kendrick said. Watchman heard the knock at the door and turned in his chair to look that way, and Kendrick lifted his head: “Yes?”
    It was a young Indian with long hair held back by a multicolored headband. His suit was tailored and hadn’t come from stock and the patterned Justin boots were polished to a vicious shine. Late twenties, Watchman judged, and full of vinegar.
    â€œI