Chapter 6

Lincoln Steele shielded his eyes in the bright desert sunlight. He stood in a parking lot surrounded by old cars and beat-up farming equipment, squinting at the sign over the building’s entrance door. He smiled. It simply said, “Buck’s Garage.” No flare. Right to the point. Buck Ka-e-te-nay was a man Steele would like.

Steele didn’t bother going to the main door. He marched around the side to the garage entrance. Inside were two bays and a large work area. A tractor was in the work area. Much of its engine was scattered on the floor around it. The walls inside the garage were covered with an assortment of tools and parts. A blue Harley Davidson motorcycle with high handlebars and low, black leather seat rested on its kickstand near the entrance. Steele scanned the room into his memory before his gaze settled on a pair of legs in blue jeans and scuffed brown cowboy boots sticking out from under a 2005 Ford pickup. The truck’s black paint was faded to gray from the unforgiving Arizona sun.

“Mr. Ka-e-te-nay?” Steele said.

“Just Buck,” the man said from under the car.

“Buck, can I speak to you?”

“What kind of problem are you having? Car trouble or farming?” His legs and feet never stopped twisting and kicking as he worked on whatever he was working on.

“I want to talk to you about Pete Bargas.”

Buck’s legs stilled. Steele waited.

The large man wriggled out from under the truck with the agility of a smaller man. His straight black hair was tied in a long braid that kept it out of the way while he worked, but he still wore an Apache bandana around his forehead. A few grease smudges on his cheek looked like war paint.

From the floor, Buck stared up at Steele, sizing him up. “You don’t look like a reporter.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you asking about Pete?”

“His mother called me.”

Buck’s eyes widened. “Elena called you?” He scrambled to his feet. “Why’d she call you?”

“I’m an old friend. Are you a warrior?”

“Huh? I’m a mechanic.”

“Ka-e-te-nay. It means warrior.”

Buck’s face broke into a toothy smile. “Actually, it means warrior and chief. You speak Apache?”

“My apologies. No, I had a buddy who was Apache. We talked a lot.”

“From around here?”

“New Mexico. He’s Mescalero.”

“A mountain Apache. I’m from the desert. What else did he teach you?”

“How to use a knife.”

“For scaling fish?”

“Survival.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “Hunting?”

“You can say that.”

“But not animals.”

“Not the four-legged kind.”

Buck’s eyebrows furrowed. “So what can I do for you?”