Chapter 2

They were met at the door of the Officers’ Mess by the restaurant’s owner, Franz Herkimer. Herkimer, who spoke with the mildest of a German accent, smiled broadly and said, “Good morning, Mister Castillo and welcome. But I am surprised to find you in the company of such a dishonorable reprobate as Emil Malik, the man who stole the best cook I’d ever employed.” By offering his hand to each man, however, the humor in the rebuke was made clear.

Emil grinned while replying, “The way Mister Collins describes it, Mister Herkimer, is that I aided his escape from conditions little better than those he suffered when he was enslaved in Mississippi.”

“Hah!” Herkimer exclaimed. “I treated that man like a prince. I was more the slave, trying to match his exacting standards in the front of the house. But I know he is doing well with you, Mister Malik, and I hear good things about the Old Courthouse Inn.”

“Nor does it look like the Mess’s business has suffered in Mister Collins’ absence.”

“Oh, we’re getting by, but Joe is missed. Our current success owes much to his insistence on exceptional food and genuinely gracious service. Give him my regards, please.”

“Of course, Mister Herkimer. He does speak fondly of his experience here. Had he known I was coming, I’m sure I would be carrying his greetings to you.”

“Gentleman, will this window-front table suit you, or would you rather something more private?”

Castillo raised a questioning eyebrow toward Malik, who said, “This will be fine, Mister Herkimer. I’ll enjoy watching the activity on the street. Thank you.”

During breakfast, Castillo had more questions about Malik’s railcar.

“Next time I have business here, I’ll bring it along and we can trade places. I’ll sleep in your comfortable guest room and you can choose either the upper or lower bunk in my car. It has an indoor privy, too. You just have to remember to empty the bucket.”

“Surely not?”

“Only in the station or rail yards. On the road, the bucket is removed and waste drops directly onto the roadbed, just like in the coach privies.”

“My image of private railcar travel is becoming tarnished, Emil.”

“Then it is saved from further corruption, Raul, because Connor Lonegan is just coming in the door. If you don’t mind, I’ll invite him to sit at our table.”

“But of course, Emil. I must leave in a few minutes, in any event.”

“I’ll be right back,” Malik said.

He got to the door just as Herkimer was greeting Lonegan. “Mister Herkimer, if the Marshal would be agreeable, he could join Mister Castillo and me at our table.”

Lonegan looked over at Malik and flashed a huge grin. “Mister Malik, this is a pleasant surprise. I’d be happy to join you and Mister Castillo. Mister Herkimer, I’ll want my usual breakfast, please. I can find my way to the table.”

“Of course, Marshal. Coming right up.”

“Emil, it really is good to see you. Mister Castillo, good morning.”

“Good morning, Marshal. But please call me Raul.”

“Thank you, Raul. I’m Connor, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Unfortunately, Emil, Connor, I have an early appointment in the state district court judge’s chambers, so I’ll have to excuse myself.”

“Shall we have lunch, Raul?”

“I’ll meet you here about one, if that is satisfactory, Emil. I think I can take the rest of the day off, then. Maybe we can go fishing, if your business is concluded.”

“I’d enjoy that. See you at one.”

After Castillo departed, Lonegan asked, “So, what brings you to Fort Birney, Emil? If I’m not mistaken, you’re wearing the extra-set of trail clothes you keep clean in your hurry-up travel pack, so I’m guessing this is an unanticipated visit.”

“Exactly, Connor, though first allow me to congratulate you in person on your appointment as a US marshal. I have to assume it pays better than being a deputy. And are the duties worth it?”

“Well, before I was paid for piece work. So much per arrest, so much per mile, so much per paper served, so much per bailiff day, so much per prisoner transfer. Now I’m on a salary, but making less than I did before, plus there’s another bushel of reports due every month, so no, on all counts. But the glory makes it all worthwhile,” he said, with a grin.

“The job must be some easier, not having to use the bothersome word ‘deputy’ in front of your job title, all the time.”

“Well, there is that. I hadn’t thought of it, but it’s probably why my tongue isn’t as sore when I go home at night.” At that juncture, a breakfast of biscuits, gravy, fried eggs, and ham was delivered to Lonegan’s place at the table. To the young waiter, he said, “Thank you, Pablo. Can you get me a refill on this coffee, por favor?” Just before he took his first bite, he looked back at Malik. “So, did you have another purpose in seeking my company, other than to remind me about my poor career choices?”

“I do, in fact, but it won’t be as enjoyable as listening to you grouse.”

“Well,’ he mumbled, around the biscuit he was chewing, “all good things must come to an end.”

“Fact is, it’s a rather serious situation. I happened to be up this way, more or less coincidentally, and figured I might take the opportunity to pick your brain, slim pickin’s as that is, or maybe Judge Westcott’s brain, see if there was any rationale to involve federal attention.”

“Never go wrong pickin’ the Judge’s brain. What’s it about?”

“We had a shooting in Waypoint yesterday, just before noon. Andy, Cowboy, and I lit out after the two shooters, who led us south and then east, along the Utica Heights and Leander Hills, before turning northwest, and heading toward Shepherds Crossing. At that point, the men we were chasing, who’d ridden their horses all out, were supplied with fresh mounts by a third man who met them in the hills. All this we know only from the tracks.

“As we came within a few miles of Ranch Home, I took two of our horses to ride relay, in order to try to catch up. Andy and Cowboy went to the ranch for fresh mounts. While we’d had good looks at the shooter’s clothing, we never saw their faces, couldn’t even swear they actually were the shooters, so I couldn’t give a positive identification to Sheriff Hanson when I finally caught up with them, as they were boarding the train. I followed them on. They got off at Cleveland and were met by a man with more mounts, all of which bore the B-Bar-L brand. Turns out, too, the man who brought the fresh horses to the Leander Hills rendezvous works for Arthur Coates, who owns the major livery stables in Waypoint, the Crossing and Dorado Springs. In addition, all of their mounts were shod in new Star iron, which Coates’ stables use exclusively.”

“Pricey iron,” Lonegan observed.

“Sheriff Hanson knew that man who brought the fresh horses. He’s Clarence Odey and he manages Coates’s stable at the Crossing. Later, I realized Odey had been one of that crew from the B-Bar-L that tried to waylay us when you were takin’ us to the Franklin lock-up.

“So far, I’ve got nothing that a prosecutor could take to court that a defense lawyer like me couldn’t pick to pieces. The best evidence would be that one of the shooters, named Trey, was peppered with what were probably shotgun pellets on his face and neck, as was a hat, which we found on the street in Waypoint, after the shooting. But even that’s not worth much, by itself.”

Lonegan was just finishing his breakfast. “So, your man got a shot off, then. Who was it?”

“Who was who? You mean Trey?”

“The man who Trey and the other shot, assuming it was a man with a shotgun.”

“Oh, I didn’t say, did I? You may know him, or at least know of him. He’s the brother of that deputy sheriff you shanghaied in the Crossing, Sean Edwards. It’s his younger brother, Bill. He’s a deputy--What?”

Lonegan had looked up, startled, swallowed what food he’d had in his mouth, and asked, quietly, “Is he dead?”

“Not last I heard. He received two wounds, hip and chest. He was spitting blood, doing poorly, as of last evening, but hanging on. So, you’ve met him?”

Lonegan abruptly stood and dropped some coins on the table. He said, “C’mon. We need to see the Judge.” Castillo had already paid for Malik’s breakfast, so he quickly followed Lonegan out the door and down the street, on a brisk and unusually chilly April morning.

When he caught up with the marshal, Malik asked, “What is it, Connor?”

“Emil, let’s hold all further mention of this until we’re in the Judge’s chambers.”

They strode hurriedly for six blocks, on a zig-zag course, until they came to a plaza, bordered on one side by a two-story, red brick, colonial revival building with a white-pillared front portico, the District Federal Courthouse. The building had served as headquarters for Fort Birney’s large contingent of US Army infantry and cavalry troops after the Civil War, during a period of intense conflicts with local native clans. The post was closed when the troops were relocated, some south, nearer the border with Mexico, others to forts on the northern plains. Then, before statehood, the building had served as the Arenoso territorial capitol. Now, it was the seat of a federal judicial district and housed other federal offices.

There were three steps up to the first level, the base for the painted, wooden columns supporting the portico roof, but the marshal leapt them as one and Malik followed suit. Likewise, Lonegan took the stairs -- an exposed, decorative architectural feature, part of a two-story atrium, just inside the entrance -- two at a time up to the second floor, then hurried down the hall to the rear of the building, Malik keeping pace.

He paused at a door, knocked twice and then entered. There was a bespectacled man at a desk who had obviously paused while writing on a page. Without preamble, Lonegan said, “Mister Fisk, Mister Malik and I need to see the Judge, right away.”

Apparently picking up on Lonegan’s sense of urgency, the clerk immediately rose and went to a door just past his desk. There, he knocked softly twice, and opened it to a muffled, “Come.

“Marshall Lonegan and Mister Emil Malik to see you, sir. The Marshall says it’s urgent.”

“Well, then,” Judge Westcott said, and he called out, “Both of you, please come in.”

The judge’s office proved to be brightly lit, from the tall, curtain-framed windows on two walls and reflected by the glossy white paint on the paneling, wood trim, and bookshelves. While the furniture was typically heavy and dark-stained, the floor was decorated with brightly-colored Navajo rugs. The overall feel was of energy and industriousness.

Westcott, a mid-sized, square-built, hale-looking man of fifty-five, was up and walking around the end of his desk, his hand out to Malik. “Good to see you again, Mister Malik. Your family is well?”

“As you, your honor. Everyone is fine. And your wife, sir?”

“Good, Mister Malik, good, thanks for asking.” He turned to Lonegan and simply laid his hand on the marshal’s forearm. “And good morning to you, Marshall. What is the urgent matter? I know that good news is rarely urgent, so this will be, no doubt, unpleasant.”

“Mister Malik has a first-hand account, sir, but it’s about Bill Edwards.”

“Bill Edwards? I see. Perhaps we can sit around the conference table, there.”

They sat at a six-place table in a corner of the large office, Westcott at one end with the other two men on his left. He tented his hands and tapped the fingers together, looking off into the middle distance.

Malik began to speak, but Lonegan grasped his arm to stop him. Just then there was a knock on the door and Fisk stepped just inside the room. “Mister Castillo sent a boy with a telegram for Mister Malik, sir.”

Westcott looked toward the door. “What? Oh, of course. Yes, ah, bring your notebook, please, Mister Fisk, and the telegram.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, as he slipped back out the door. Fisk came back in a moment with a thin, bound, half-sized notebook and several pencils. Westcott indicated the chair at his right hand. Fisk sat down and placed the telegram in the center of the table.

Westcott said, “Mister Fisk, please transcribe this meeting.” That man immediately began to write shorthand symbols on a clean page in the book, now open before him. Westcott then turned to Malik. “Mister Malik, I must insist that the information you hear, now, will be held in confidence. Is that agreeable?”

“It is, Judge, and I so pledge.”

“Very well, please tell me about Bill Edwards.”

“As you likely know, Bill is chief deputy for the Jackson County sheriff, Noah Williams. Yesterday, on Jackson Street, in Waypoint’s primary business district, shortly before noon, Bill was shot, we believe by two men who immediately fled on horseback. As far as I know, other than Bill, there were no witnesses to the shooting itself.”

Westcott uttered, “Damnation,” then lowered his head and gave it a barely perceptible negative shake. He looked up again and asked, “Is Mister Edwards dead?”

“In a bad way, sir, but hanging on.”

“Please go on, Mister Malik.”

Malik glanced quickly at Lonegan, then turned again to Westcott. “Bill was struck by two bullets, or at least he had two wounds, one through his outer left hip, exiting through the back, the other in his upper right chest, which appeared to hit his lung, as he was coughing up blood and the entry wound was sucking air. That bullet remained in his body. In reconstructing the event from what I saw, I would say the hip shot, from the angle between entrance and exit wounds, was from the height of a man on horseback. The chest shot, I’ll surmise, was from a man on foot and nearby, since there were powder burns on Bill’s shirt that were evenly distributed around the point of entry. Bill also got a shot off from the shotgun he carried. He hit the man, probably the one who shot from horseback, likely striking him with some pellets in his cheek and ear, maybe his scalp. Nearby, we also found a hat with a large hole through its brim. Before my brother, Cowboy Tsosie, and I took to the trail of those men, Bill said only, ‘They just drew on me.’ What I learned from my brother’s wire last evening was that Bill was doing poorly. Perhaps this wire contains more recent news of his condition.”

“Yes, please read it, Mister Malik,” Westcott pushed the envelope toward him.

Malik ripped open the envelope and extracted the message form. He read aloud: “‘Bill high fever, breathing ragged, delirious, repeats only tell Marshal Lonegan. Applying cool wet towels per Bauer. Gabriela here.’ It’s signed by my brother, Andy, sent only an hour ago.”

“Gabriela still runs her own ranch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, good,” Westcott mumbled, then, “What else did you learn, Mister Malik, as you trailed these men? I presume you did not apprehend them.”

“No, sir, we did not. It turned out they had an escape plan which included being spotted with fresh horses. They ran their first mounts into the ground, while we moderated our pace for distance. Then they were met by another man who brought them fresh mounts. We read all that from their tracks.

“I did manage to catch up with them at the Shepherds Crossing train depot, but was not able to identify them specifically, having had only a distant view of their clothing, not their faces, nor did I witness the shooting, itself. I knew it would be insufficient for a successful prosecution. Beyond that, I wanted to see where they ran to. I joined them on the train, where I took note of what I presumed to be wounds from Bill’s shotgun on the left cheek and ear of a man the other called ‘Trey.’ They left the train at Cleveland, the first stop north of the Crossing. I don’t think they suspected me of being on their trail, but I had already told them I was on my way to Fort Birney, so I couldn’t follow them further. However, I’m fairly certain of their destination.”

“Go ahead, Mister Malik. You’ve told us what you know, now I expect you’ll tell us what you guess. Marshall Lonegan tells me your guesses are better than some men’s gospel, so guess away.”

Malik looked askance at Lonegan, then turned back to Westcott. “The Marshal does like to turn a phrase and his golden tongue did once save my bacon, so I’ll ignore the blatant flattery. As to my speculation, I pick up two notions from the overall picture. First, all five of their horses were newly shod with Star brand shoes. Because of their premium price, Stars are not a common shoe. However, there are three stables, each in the seats of Sonora, Jackson, and Franklin counties, all owned by the same man. Those liveries use Star shoes exclusively, receiving a discount for bulk purchases. I have a small investment in these stables, and the owner has told me of that arrangement. Moreover, the man who I believe supplied the fresh horses during the escape is, according to Sheriff Hanson, the manager of the associated stable in Shepherds Crossing.

“Then, when the two men left the train at Cleveland, they were met by another man and all three rode off on horses wearing the brand of the B-Bar-L ranch.

“You’ll likely remember that some B-Bar-L hands were involved in the events of two years ago, when I first became acquainted with Marshal Lonegan. Seeing that brand sparked my memory and I recalled that the Crossing livery stable manager was a member of that B-Bar-L crew, two years ago.”

“So you see possible connections to those stables and to that ranch?”

“Yes, Judge. It’s thin, but I can’t ignore it.”

“Do you care to speculate what those connections might be?”

“Not without really stretching my imagination, sir.”

“Please do, Counselor.”

“Well, I’ll simply lay some cards on the table. You can make up your own hand. First, Bill Edwards, though perhaps too young by some estimates, appears to others as a possible candidate for the sheriff’s election in Jackson County, this November.

“Second, Arthur Coates, the owner of the stables I mentioned, has been promoting himself for sheriff, without gaining much support, so far.

“Third, Mister Coates has become chummy with Senior County Judge John Gunderson and County Clerk Timothy Ranford Banks, some of the bad element left over from the last shake-up at the Jackson County Courthouse.

“Fourth, B-Bar-L drovers assisted in the unsuccessful attempt to pry my brother and me from the Marshal’s grip at the Crossing depot on June tenth, two years ago. That effort was foiled mostly by Marshall Lonegan’s ability to mesmerize a crowd.

“Fifth, the owners of the B-Bar-L are a syndicate that included both Senator Paulus Ranford, now deceased, and Granger Lestly, who has been missing for nearly two years. He is, by the way, my wife’s former brother-in-law, her late first husband’s brother. In any event, both men had some irregular financial and other dealings that appeared to be at the root of the problems from which the Marshal extracted us, two years ago. Senator Ranford, for instance, never accounted for a forty thousand dollar subsidy, approved by Congress and signed off by the President, but never delivered to the building fund for the new Jackson County Courthouse. Mister Lestly is under suspicion in both the deaths of his brother and his niece.

“Now, were I to put a hand together from those cards, I feel like I’d still be drawing to an inside straight. Nonetheless, I suspect the plans these men make often depends on filling an inside straight, so I do not see that as reducing the likelihood that someone has launched a poorly constructed scheme.

“On the other hand, the escape plan for the men who shot Bill Edwards was well thought out and executed, showing a bit more intelligence than I’ve come to expect from that crowd. But, even then, they left evidence of their possible involvement every time their horses’ hooves hit the ground.”

Malik spread his hands with a shrug. “That’s all that I’ve got, Judge. I came here hoping you or the Marshal might find some rationale to provide federal assistance in bringing Bill’s shooters to justice.”

Once again, Westcott had tented his fingers, tapping them together as he appeared lost in thought. Finally, he looked over at Malik, “Yes. Well.” He said each word as he appeared to be weighing a choice. “As I’ve heard it was once expressed regarding your investigation of Anna Lestly’s death, you are either telling a wondrous fine tale or you have this circus tent pegged down tight. Frankly, I lean toward the latter estimate.

“Now, I’ll lay my cards on the table.” Westcott said.

“About eight months ago, we approached Bill Edwards, asking him to become a deputy US marshal, but to stay on the job in the Jackson County sheriff’s office, without informing anyone of his federal status. We can smell the stink from that courthouse even up here, a hundred and twenty-five miles away. While the last state audit showed numerous and serious irregularities, the county judges and the new county clerk managed to lay it all at the doorstep of the clerk’s brother, the former sheriff, who was killed in the boiler explosion that also killed Senator Ranford. Well, you were there, as I recall, so I need not elaborate.

“From what the state attorney general told me,” Westcott went on, “those scoundrels first tried to shove the blame onto George Miller, the former county clerk, who also died in that blast. But Miller had been working secretly with the state attorney general looking into the corruption in that courthouse, so that pig didn’t fly. Then they just chose to fault the only other likely dead body that couldn’t argue back, Sheriff Banks. Problem solved, back to business as usual.”

Malik said, “At least the sheriff is no longer an active participant. Still, Noah Williams wouldn’t notice a parade of elephants going by, so he’s more a cypher in the scoundrel column, since they can manipulate his authority. Bill Edwards has been the brightest star in that constellation. I’m glad you recognized his talents. For that matter, though I hate to let on, I think he’d make a better federal deputy marshal than he would an elected sheriff, in any case. He’s got a temperament for action more than for administration. Not to say he’s poor at organizing or paper work, I’m just considering his strengths and what he’d find more satisfying. I’d hate to lose him from Jackson County, though, and I pray his wounds don’t remove all his options.”

“Amen to that,” Lonegan said.

Westcott said, “The AG also mentioned you folks could use a county treasurer who could do sums without removing his shoes and socks.”

Malik chuckled, “Ain’t that the truth. Most of that trash got elected on the say-so of Senator Ranford. He came out and campaigned for Gunderson, both Banks brothers, and Herb Arnsworth, the treasurer. Well, their terms are up next year. I’ve already got a man in mind for the treasurer, a real, college-educated accountant who’s moving to Waypoint by the end of the month. And my brother’s thinking of running for sheriff this year. Then I’d like to see one of our Malik ranch partners as County Clerk and Jacob Baylor, Andy’s father-in-law, as Senior Judge. There’s some good men around the county. Come to think, some exceptional women, too. I hadn’t considered women.”

“You’re not just a kingmaker, then, but also a queenmaker?” Westcott joshed.

“Might could be. It definitely expands the horizon. Women may not be able to vote, but nothing says they can’t get elected to office.

“But to get back to the point of my visit, does not the fact that Bill is a federal officer bring this to your jurisdiction?”

“It does, indeed,” Westcott intoned. “However, if that news gets out, our rats are likely to go to ground, maybe even south of the border. The problem is, there’s a bigger picture here and, much as I hate to say it, it’s possible that Bill’s shooting is not directly relevant to the concerns we wanted him to look into.”

“What concerns have you, if I may ask?”

“I reckon your thoughts might be valuable. All my security concerns may have actually limited our ability to gather information.”

Lonegan said, “Now that you mention it, Judge, I think bringing Emil, ah, Mister Malik into this may be a good move. Maybe you might even want to deputize him. He could look into things without revealing our interest.”

Emil said, “Before you reach a decision on that point, I’d only agree to it if you deputized Cowboy Tsosie, too. He, Andy and I work together pretty well. But I’d keep Andy out of any federal appointment, as I don’t want people to be confused about his loyalty to the county if he runs for sheriff.” He looked at Lonegan. “And I don’t think you’re talking about being a full-time deputy, are you?.”

Westcott said, “To be official, I’m not talking about it at all, at this point. But to satisfy my curiosity, what is Mister Tsosie’s normal work?”

Malik laughed. “Right now, he’s a baker. He got married last year to the daughter of the woman who owns the Waypoint Bakery. Matilda, that’s his wife, is partners at the bakery with her mother. So that’s where Cowboy’s mostly been for the last year. But, generally, he’s raised horses, particularly Appaloosas, over in the Flat Grass Valley, on the Tsosie family ranch.”

“Ah, yes,” said Westcott, “now that you mention it, I’ve heard of him. He’s quite the breeder, getting both good color and smart horses on a regular basis.”

“Cowboy’s an intelligent and resourceful man. He’s been like a brother to me since we were kids.”

“They are a good team, Judge. It’s like they can read each other’s minds.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Marshal. We’ve just been working together for a long time. More than twenty years, now.”

Westcott said, “Let’s set that aside for now. I want to describe the larger problems we’d hoped Bill could look into.

“Foremost is the Sonora silver mine in Long Valley. That’s why we first went to him. I’m sure you’re aware that the mine is on reservation land, but no one lives in that area or even runs livestock there. The Sonora aren’t at all interested in mining, the money it represents doesn’t seem to impress them.”

Malik said, “I wouldn’t expect it does, Judge. The concept of money is not something they can hold as being important. For them, family is important. Raising sheep is important. Hunting is important. The freedom to move around is important. A place to grow some corn, some beans, and some squash. That and some water and they feel their lives are full.”

Westcott nodded. “Be that as it may, Blue Maize, their chief, thinks someone has been taking ore from the mine. That would be a federal crime. And it looks like some fresh digging and maybe strings of pack mules have hauled ore out through Isabella Canyon.”

“Where does it go after that? Has the railroad been hauling ore from Waypoint?” Malik queried.

Lonegan said, “They say they haven’t. I suggested it may have been in smaller amounts, maybe in crates, but Thomas Palmer, the freight manager down there, says hardly anything gets shipped from Waypoint that isn’t livestock, grain, or hay. The ore must be continuing by mule pack or by freight wagon. But that also leaves the question of who is doing it?”

“I reckon Tom Palmer would know about the freight. He’s a good man. Maybe Blue Maize should have the mine closed, just collapse the entrance.”

“Won’t really help,” Lonegan said. “Someone’s dug some other shafts, already, trying to intercept the vein. Apparently, it’s not all that deep.”

“What is it that Blue Maize wants, then?” Malik asked.

Westcott said, “He just wants people to stay off the reservation.”

“Are we sure that it is someone from off the reservation, not some ambitious members of the clan?”

“No, we’re not sure of anything.”

“So, we have no possibility of solving this here. What else is going on?”

“Something else about the mine. There’s a group, maybe from back east, who are suing to get permission to extract ore from the mine. Their position is that, if the Sonora aren’t going to mine it, someone else should. Their premise is that it is a resource too valuable not to extract.”

“That’s creative. Sounds a bit like an eminent domain argument,” Malik said.

“Precisely. They’re playing up the taxed portion that would come back to the government as being the overriding public benefit.”

“Speaking of business as usual, that’s exactly what it will appear to the Sonoras,” Malik added, “the white man taking more from them, despite the treaties.”

Malik was shaking his head, an exasperated expression on his face. “Let me talk to Blue Maize. Our family’s been doing business with the Sonoras for over thirty years. If Cowboy were in on it, it would be even better. His family’s been doing business with them nearly as long. I think we could talk from a position of trust.”

Westcott said, “There’s another odd occurrence, too. You’re familiar with the canyon called Shepherds Gate, just west of Shepherds Crossing?”

“Sure. There’s an easy trail through there up into the Toonilini Valley. Or at least it’s easy other than during spring thaw.”

Westcott looked over at Lonegan, who said, “Someone’s building an earthen dam above the upper end of the canyon. It’ll catch the runoff and hold it in the Toonilini Valley. That is, assuming the dam doesn’t wash out. That could dump an uncomfortable amount of water on Shepherds Crossing, all at once.”