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  " Skowler's hired hand cowered by the fence, the cattle scattered. A long silence followed. The man gathered enough courage to walk up to the cabin. He found Skowler on the floor just inside, Johnson sprawled near his bunk. Both men had their Colt .44s gripped in their hands; each had multiple bullet wounds and a neat round hole in the middle of the forehead. Both men were stone cold dead."

  This is a work of fiction. Although the author describes many actual locations, events, and some historical figures, any resemblance to other persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  UNDER DESERT SAND

  Copyright © 2017 R Lawson Gamble

  All Rights Reserved

  R Lawson Gamble Books

  Cover by Kristallynn Designs

  Zack Tolliver, FBI Crime Mystery Series By R Lawson Gamble

  THE OTHER

  MESTACLOCAN

  ZACA

  CAT

  Table of Content

  Preface 1

  Preface 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Postscript: The Real Story

  Thank you Ann & Barbara for hanging in there with me.

  MOJAVE DESERT

  1450

  His name, translated into English, meant Wailing Calf, from an unfortunate moment in childhood he would like to forget. Wailing Calf belonged to the Mojave tribe of the Southern Piute. His name would change after his coming-of-age ceremony, when he would consume the root of the Datura plant, called "east root", the poisonous Devil's Trumpet of the desert. Only an experienced sachem could administer the correct dosage; too much, he would die, too little, there would be no effect at all. Administered correctly, he would hallucinate, perhaps even become violent; afterwards experience amnesia. The effects would remain with him for several days. Following the ordeal he would be considered an adult, ready for a new name. He was impatient for this to happen.

  On this day Wailing Calf' was camped with his family on a stretch of the Mojave Desert west of the Colorado River. The great river's rich flood plain provided sustenance for his tribe, an agricultural people. Often, as now, they journeyed west through the desert from seep to seep to trade mesquite beans and corn for bead shells with tribes as far away as the Pacific Ocean. The Mojave people commonly walked a hundred miles a day.

  Bored with activities at camp, the eight-year-old boy drifted away unnoticed, his feet following his eyes until he found his way to a small pool where water trickled from a spring. He stopped and drank. The cooling liquid refreshed and relaxed him. He felt weary, his eyes closed and he knelt there, blind to the world around him. A feeling of dread enveloped him; a pervasive sense of malevolence came over him. Wailing Calf did not wish to open his eyes, but felt he must.

  A great being, larger than the tallest tribesman in his village, stood upright before him. The man-creature wore no clothing; its weathered skin was patched with coarse dark hair. Long arms hung at its sides, its hands huge with claw-like nails, a heavily muscled torso, thick neck, large mouth with leathery lips, sharp teeth black near the gums, eyes red and hostile. A fearful stench surrounded it.

  Dread and loathing swept over Wailing Calf. He leapt to his feet and fled in terror across the desert toward his encampment. He had never run so fast; he felt he was flying over the sand.

  Wailing Calf's wish for a new name came true. From that day on, he was known as Lost Boy.

  ARIZONA

  1905

  Jake Skowler was a bad man. There are two kinds of bad men in this world: bad like one turned sour from life's inequities and his own poor choices, or bad like a man born twisted, as a fallen oak branch lies gnarled and rotting on the ground. Jake Skowler was the second kind. When the frontier moved west from Arizona he drifted with it, like a dry leaf blown by the wind.

  The lawmen of Arizona were happy to see him go. Skowler had been to court twice in that state, once in Cochise for robbery, once in Sedona for assault. He was acquitted both times for lack of evidence––it seemed no one wanted to testify against him.

  Jake tended to take what he reckoned was his. Before departing, he demanded the wages he felt his employer owed him. When the rancher disagreed, Jake settled the dispute in his own way. He waited until the old man left for Rimrock on business and met the stage along the way, held it up, removed the rancher by force, tied him to a horse, and took him deep into the Mogollon Wilderness to a cabin hidden away in a deep canyon. He chained his former boss to a wall, made him sign his name to a chit. The next day he took the paper to the bank in Sedona and withdrew $1000. That worked out so well he went back the next day and did it again. The ploy exhausted, Jake dumped the old man back on the roadside where he'd captured him and moved on.

  Skowler ended up in the high desert of Eastern California in Fairfield Valley, a place anything but fair with no fields. The town, if it could be so described, consisted of a few rough-board shanties. The valley was home to scattered settlers who scratched out a meager living from the dry soil, raised a few head of cattle, or worked in the mines. Fairfield Valley was in the high Mojave Desert, a land of blistering heat by day, chilling cold at night.

  The region was home to the Winslow Cattle Company. Jake was hired on as foreman. The outfit ran a thousand head of cattle on thirty miles of open range. Sheep had come to the valley. They thrived on the scarce vegetation; their numbers proliferated. This caused consternation among cattlemen, who believed the loud wooly creatures ruined grazing for their cattle. The Winslow Cattle Company hired Jake to see to their interests. After Skowler's arrival in the valley there were numerous incidents of bullets passing perilously close to herders from an unseen rifleman.

  Skowler didn't get along well with people in general. Within six months of his arrival, he was involved in a dispute with cowboys in the Winslow outfit and he quit. Jake set up a small ranch nearby, put together a modest herd of cattle, origins unknown. About this time there was a rise in misappropriated calves from the Winslow herd. All the settlers in the region came under suspicion, Skowler foremost among them.

  The Cattle Company responded quickly. They brought in another known gunman, a bad hombre from Arizona named Curt Johnson, gave him the foreman's job. They placed him in a cabin by a critical water hole in the area, known as Hidden Springs. He squatted there like a spider in the center of its web. No one would have water without his say so.

  Hidden Springs already had an evil reputation. It was situated on the old Mojave Road, traveled by the earliest desert tribes. The few water locations along this ancient corridor were critical for survival, yet known places for ambush. Like mice drawn by cheese in a trap, travelers over the ce
nturies balanced thirst against danger when approaching the springs. The army built a fort nearby in the 1850s to protect traders and travelers along the road. It was a harsh posting; the soldiers went crazy in this barren, isolated place, were eventually withdrawn, the fort abandoned. There was an overall sense of decay around Hidden Springs.

  As a newcomer, Curt Johnson saw the spring only as a place to water cattle. Its reputation did not matter to him.

  The tension grew in Fairfield Valley. Incidents of sniping increased. Johnson found 13 bullet holes in his cabin wall one day when he returned from the range. Jake Skowler had his hat shot off, his horse killed from under him. The honest sheepherders and small cattle outfits began to move away from the valley in fear for their lives. They believed it was only a matter of time before the dispute exploded into open war and someone was killed. They'd just as soon not be there when that happened.

  Surprisingly, things quieted down again. A year went by without incident. Hope grew among the few remaining settlers for a return to the peaceful life before Skowler and Johnson arrived. They would soon learn the pot hadn't cooled––only simmered.

  The pot boiled over on the day Jake Skowler and a hired hand drove a few calves to Hidden Wells to water them. Jake called to Curt Johnson in his cabin for permission to open the gate and let his cattle water. Johnson hollered back to go ahead, and invited Skowler to come on in. Jake left his hired hand to water the stock, walked over to the small building and entered. The sound of gunfire erupted almost at once.

  Skowler's hired hand cowered by the fence, the cattle scattered. A long silence followed. The man gathered enough courage to walk up to the cabin. He found Skowler on the floor just inside, Johnson sprawled near his bunk. Both men had their Colt .44s gripped in their hands; each had multiple bullet wounds and a neat round hole in the middle of the forehead. Both men were stone cold dead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day

  "Imagine this." Susan looked over the folded top of the morning paper, her blue eyes twinkling. A beam of morning light set her blonde hair aglow and ignited bright sparkles in the lenses of reading glasses perched low on her nose. "A man riding his OHV somewhere in the desert, in the middle of nowhere, comes across two bodies in the sand, two young men lying 100 feet apart." Her eyes scanned on down the page.

  Zack glanced up from his own paper, mildly curious. "And?"

  Susan's eyebrows lifted as she read on. "Both were dead from a bullet to the head. Both men were wearing gun belts around their waists, each had a six-shooter in his hand, as if they had just fought a classic western duel."

  "Wannabe gun fighters?"

  "Yeah, but wait. Here's the fun part. Both guns had been fired just once, five bullets remained in each pistol." Susan crossed shapely legs stretched out on the lounge chair. "Each man was struck by a single bullet in the exact middle of the forehead." She watched Zack's face.

  "Not so mysterious. They were good shots."

  "You don't think it's strange two guys standing 100 feet apart somehow put a bullet right in the middle of the other's forehead? At the exact same time?"

  Zack tri-folded his own paper, laid it on the table next to him. "What paper are you reading?"

  "The Las Vegas Review-Journal."

  "Where did this happen?"

  Susan's smile broadened. "Grabbed your interest?"

  Zack didn't want to admit it, but yes. "I might know the sheriff in charge."

  "There wasn't a sheriff. They found the bodies in the Mojave National Preserve down near Needles at the California border. A Park Ranger was first to respond, did the initial investigation. He was later backed up by BLM agents."

  Zack reached for his coffee cup, tilted it back, peeked in, found it empty. "They might have missed something. Not all those guys are trained for crime scene management. They have a lot of other responsibilities."

  "Your modest way of saying they lack the skills you and your buddy Eagle Feather bring to crime solving." Susan's eye went back to the article.

  Zack spoke through a yawn. "Well, yeah."

  The two were breakfasting poolside. Although Susan would have preferred the magnificent buffet in the Crystal Room, spread across several tables, smelling of bacon and rich coffee, Zack found the heavily mirrored space oppressive and the ornamented furniture annoying. It was pleasant in the shade by the pool; the early morning breeze was still cool, the air fresh.

  The Southwest Press and Lawmen's Annual Conference was meeting in Las Vegas and Susan and Zack had been invited to offer a presentation. Their workshop on how to deal with inexplicable and seemingly impossible occurrences during homicide investigations had met with a mixed response. Crime reporters and lawmen attending the conference were less interested in potentially paranormal perpetrators than ordinary human criminals, a fact illustrated by the sparse turnout. Still, those few in attendance were eager front-row types, the usual Las Vegas fringe group, as well as a handful of hardened reporters and cops from around the southwest who in the line of duty had stumbled into situations they did not understand. Despite the small numbers, there had been active discussion and the evening went late.

  Susan put her paper down, took a sip of coffee. "You know, among the kooks attending last night, I felt there were a few people who genuinely wanted reassurance. They needed to know they were not going nuts. Perhaps my theories allayed some of their fears, coming from an academic and published anthropologist. But those grizzled cops out there needed support from one of their own. The fact that you are an FBI agent with a reputation and career on the line, yet willing to talk about these things, seemed to give them a boost."

  "Kind of like those airline pilots who confess to seeing UFOs even though it will cost them five months of psychiatric treatment and a loss of flying time."

  "Exactly. Now take this article, for example. If we accept the facts as presented here, it's an impossible scenario. Yet they call it a double homicide and leave it at that."

  "Why impossible?" Zack wasn't ready to give in.

  "What are the odds? According to this, both men shot each other directly through the forehead with their first bullet. Consider the immaculate timing and deadly accuracy it took to do that."

  "Susan, you're always trying to dredge up a puzzle to solve even when there isn't one. The men were marksmen."

  Susan studied Zack with raised brows. "So you're saying both men had absolutely no fear, took careful aim, and fired simultaneously with incredible accuracy."

  "Sure. Why not?" Zack sighed at Susan's grimace. "Susan, there are always many mitigating factors, things we don't know. Who were they? What was their emotional state? Why were they shooting at each other? It might just be both were great marksmen and all it took was one shot."

  "Could you be that accurate?" Susan's finger tapped the paper. She wore her stubborn expression.

  Zack threw up his hands. "Enough. The fact is, we'll never know." He peered at his watch. "We've got just a few hours before our flights. I need to think about getting ready."

  Susan leaned toward him, her eyes accusing. "There's something wrong with that scenario, and you know it. That's why you changed the subject." Before Zack could respond, she said, "Let's go take a ride on the High Roller over there. We can get a great view of Las Vegas."

  Zack experienced the metaphorical jaw drop he always felt at Susan's abrupt subject changes. He followed her gaze across the roofs to the huge Ferris wheel, the passenger pods glistening in the early morning sun. "That's what it's called?"

  She nodded, swung her legs down, and slid out of the lounger. "C'mon, don't be a stick-in-the-mud."

  "Is that how you view me?" Zack gave her a sideways glance but Susan was already walking away.

  Zack Tolliver's first assignment after graduating from the Academy was with the FBI Liaison Office responsible for the Four Corners Navajo Indian Reservation, Tuba City Region. That had been nearly fifteen years ago. He'd gone through a change in bosses, watched several other colleagues come a
nd go, apparently unable to withstand the solitude, vast emptiness, and boredom punctuated with isolated moments of extreme excitement. Zack thrived there, and under the tutelage of friend and hunting guide Eagle Feather came to know the Navajo People, the Diné, for the deeply spiritual and mystic people they are. More than one case had drawn him from the concrete reasoned world of the White Man to an amorphous spiritual reality seemingly without conclusion or resolution, to his mind. Eagle Feather helped him to understand.

  Half an hour later, Zack and Susan were packed and checked out of their hotel, their bags left in care of the concierge. On the short walk to the High Roller, Zack felt the desert heat building in the concrete canyons of the city.

  The ride cost them twenty bucks apiece. At this early hour the line was short. Each car had benches on both sides and plenty of standing space in the middle, capable of holding forty people. The pods were glass enclosed to promote great visibility and a superior sense of queasiness. An antidote was available in the Happy Hour cabin, a car with a bar running through the middle of it for those willing to pay the ticket upgrade. Several people were already taking advantage of this despite the early hour.

  "Maybe those people are still there from last night," Zack said, winning a laugh from Susan.

  They declined the "Calorie Car", as Susan renamed it, and stepped into a pod that was almost empty. After their car was loaded, with just the two of them, the wheel moved briefly and stopped to load the next one. There was a series of starts and stops before the ride began in earnest. The motion was smooth and slow, more like a rotating restaurant than a Ferris wheel. Once beyond the halfway point of ascent, the view was notable. At the apex, a full 550 feet above the ground, they could view the entire Strip and the distant mountains, brilliant in the bright morning sun.