Free Once a Ranger by Dusty Richards Page A

safer place to live. Both of you be careful. I am counting on you.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    * * *
    T HEIR PLANS MADE, they left before dawn to check things out. Guthrey found Soda Springs quiet and Zamora told him they’d had no big crimes. He’d inquired with several folks about a good glove maker and had no answer. Maybe she was down at Nogales or Tucson. Baker planned to write the sheriff in Tucson and ask if he knew of anyone. Wherever she was, she would be sought after, as good as that glove was made.
    After lunch, they headed into the mountains north for a place called the Devil’s Ranch and found it deep in a canyon. They approached it with care, but anyone could have heard the ring of their horseshoes on the rock-floored canyon. The steep mountainsides above them were covered in talus rock—flat loose rocks all over the slopes to the peaks.
    Some cottonwoods and a few palm trees marked the setting. A palm frond–covered ramada had once served as the house. There were no horses or signs of human inhabitance as they searched the place. Guthrey was ready to scratch it off his list.
    Noble came riding back. “There’s a grave beyond the corral. It looks fresh. You think we should check it out? I think whoever was here didn’t use the corral so no one would know they’d been here.”
    â€œYou’re thinking they never used the corrals or the shade?”
    â€œYeah,” Noble said. “They tied their horses up way over there where the horse apples are fresher.”
    When Guthrey saw the fresh dirt mound, he wondered who was planted there. “I hate to dig up a body that’s been dead awhile, but I guess we better to try and identify it.”
    The dirt was loose and they used their short camp shovel. But finally they needed their bandana face masks as the copper and sour stink of the decomposing body became evident. Taking turns with the short-handled shovel, they soon unearthed a man, and when Guthrey saw the size of his boots, he knew they had come from the murder scene. The dead man’s face had been obliterated by several shots of a large-caliber pistol at close range. At the sight of him, Guthrey knew the unknown corpse was one of the Carlson killers.
    They bound his remains in a blanket of the least value they had and tied him on the unloaded packhorse. Guthrey said he’d take him back to Soda Springs and return here in the morning. Noble never argued when they parted and Guthrey headed for the county seat.
    Past sundown, he arrived at the Combs Funeral Home and woke the attendant, who was already asleep. The two carried the smelly corpse inside and the young man promised to get Guthrey an autopsy report. Guthrey left him, went to the office, and wrote a note instructing the day deputies to try to learn the dead man’s identity, since he could be one of the Carlsons’ murderers.
    Hard to escape the smell of death; the odor had saturated him and his clothing. He arrived past midnight back at the Devil’s Ranch.
    Noble woke up and greeted him. “You eat anything?”
    â€œNo, I’ll have some jerky. I haven’t wanted to eat much, as bad as I stink.”
    â€œIt sure ain’t a pleasant odor.” Noble shook his head.
    â€œHow far are we from any other old ranch? I wonder why they chose to shoot him here, or bury him here anyway.”
    â€œThey stayed away from the ramada and pens. But I almost forgot, I found a note up there near that grave. I jammed it in my pocket at the time but you need to read it.”
    Guthrey frowned. “What does it say?”
    â€œIt’s a receipt for some goatskin gloves. They cost twelve dollars a pair and Ramona Garcia made them. The man bought them in June. No address. But we know a helluva lot more than we did.”
    â€œThat’s great. This man’s big feet and the glove are about all I have. Does Ramona Garcia sound familiar to you?” Guthrey lit a