Free Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 by Joseph Lewis Page B

good sheriff?”
    Sheriff Blizel began slipping off his boot, but George shook his head.
    “Probably 210 or 215, about six two or three.  Serious heal walker.  No drag, so you don’t carry a backup.”
    Blizel nodded and smiled at him.  Anger getting the better of him, Pete stepped up nose to nose with Ray Zimmerman, glaring.
    “This young man witnessed the execution of a boy his own age.  He ID’d the perps and ran the crime scene slicker than anyone we have on the force.”  He let that sink in for a minute and said, “Thanks to this young man, we have our first break in this case.”
    Summer stepped over, handed her stylish, but dusty gray flat to George and said, “My, my, my . . . the testosterone is in the air today.  I just might have to get that ruler out after all.”
    Chet Walker and Douglas Rawson walked over to George.
    Walker stuck out a hand and said, “Hi, I’m Chet.  I’ve heard a lot about you.  Really nice work.” 
    George smiled and shook his hand.
    Rawson introduced himself, shook George’s hand and gave him a wing tip, much like Pete’s, but more expensive and polished.  George checked it out and handed the shoe back to the tall black man.
    James came over, smiling, but shaking his head slightly.  He handed George and Roz thin wires with yellow numbered flags attached.
    “Let’s see what we have for prints. Let’s get moving though,” James said, urging them onward.  “We’ve got a lot of work to do before it gets dark.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Although one year younger than his brother, William could have been George’s twin.  Their builds and temperament were about the same, though William tended to be a bit more lanky.  George was more traditional than William, who didn’t care for the old ways.  He cared more for the white – biligaana world.  His only concession to his Indian-ness was his longish black hair under a beat up cowboy hat.
    In intense heat, the desert smells like nothing anyone could name, but it smells just the same.  William was used to the smell of the desert, just as George was.  And just like George, he was used to the smell of sheep and horse.  His quick eyes picked out a jackrabbit perched under some sage, sniffing at the air, testing for danger.  The sheep either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the diminutive interloper.  They continued to graze or rest under the scorch of the sun. 
    Like his brother, William sat in the same spot in the shade of the pine at the top of the hill in the rocks shaped like a recliner as he watched for rustlers.  Ever since the murder of the boy on their land, he and George were wary, nervous when they watched their sheep.  Neither found they could relax like they once had.  Ever since that day, the rifle lay across a lap and not in a scabbard on the roan William usually rode or the black stallion, Nochero, that George rode. 
    William was envious of his brother, who just that afternoon was picked up by a helicopter.  George was nervous about the trip, but William wouldn’t have been.  He would have looked forward to it. 
    One day . . .
    William took a drink of warm water from his canteen and swatted at a fly buzzing near his face.  He combed his sweaty hair with his fingers and shoved his hat low on his brow.  Just as his brother, he wore a pair of dusty blue jeans and a leather vest, but no shirt.  In the desert, the boys knew enough about heat and dehydration to keep drinking liquid, yet he was hot.  In other climates, sweat would pour out of you, but not in the desert.  You could never tell, until sometimes too late, that you were over-heating.  Beyond hot and wary and nervous, he was bored and uncomfortable.  
    His roan lifted his head and stamped a front leg.  The sheep bellowed and moved further down the hill.  William sat up slowly, looking towards the road.  Nothing.  No cloud of dust indicating a vehicle making its way towards the sheep.  He gripped his rifle tightly, his index