Sinclair sipped his coffee, the eyes of the ceramic alien bugged back up at him.  He read over the open case files on his desk, about ten of them in all.  Open cases abandoned upon Sheriff Foreman’s spontaneous retirement three months prior.  A petty theft, a few shoplifting cases, a hold up at the local gas station, and a series of complaints between neighbors illustrating an ongoing fight over yard decor.  The most pressing case described a domestic disturbance that ended in a death threat against a young girl, alongside the two other reports of mutilated cattle on Walter’s farm from years prior.  Clearly, Foreman expected more cattle mutilations when the tourist season began, and given the state of his desk, expected to run the investigation.

Sinclair shuffled the cases into piles.  The spat over yard decor was, quite frankly, none of his business.  He tossed it onto the “ignore” pile alongside the shoplifting cases -- in each one, the perp was no more than 17 and the total amount stolen amounted to less than $50.  The petty theft case seemed to be a family matter, so he set that file aside as well.  That left him with the domestic and the previous years’ reports of cattle mutilation.  He looked at the two small piles and sighed wistfully.

“Sheriff, I got a call from the photo lab.  Sadie says your pictures of the cow are ready,” Eden Windrose popped her curly grey head into the office, “you’ve really got a mess on your hands there.”

“Thanks, Ms. Windrose,” Sinclair placed his hand on the cattle mutilation files, “but this is nothing.  You get a lot of these cow killings?”

She rolled her eyes.  “Most of ‘em are just vet and med students up from Phoenix playing pranks on the UFO folks.  We get some crop circles too, in the open fields, but no one much cares to report those to us since we got no corn croppers up this high.  Gosh, I just feel awful for those poor animals, though.  They always get the cutest lil babies -- and just call me Edie, sheriff, everyone does.”

“Well, they didn’t get a baby this year, Edie,” Sinclair corrected her, “this year, they got ahold of a full sized um… whatever youse call it.  Beef.”

“Steer?” Edie offered.

“Steer.  Do you know if Sheriff Foreman took any pictures of the cattle mutilations last year or the year before?  Or if any other animals got the same treatment?” Sinclair asked, flipping through the pictureless reports.

Eden stood in the doorway.  “No, no, no.  We get one of those a year, just about.  I don’t think we bothered to photograph anything after the first one about 15, 20 years back?  I haven’t heard of it happening to deer neither -- and believe me, them hunters are jumpy enough to report a find like that.”

He hummed in thought and drained the last of his coffee.  

“What’re you getting up to today, Sheriff?” Edie asked.

“Just going to go up and check out Walter Strong’s ranch, ask around about his herd with a few of the ranch hands and see if they saw anything.  I’ll pick up those photos from the lab on my way back down.”  He stacked the open case files in order of importance and shuffled the papers away from the main writing space on the desk.  

“Sure, have fun Sheriff.  Good luck with the investigation, and hurry and get your ass up that mountain before noon.  It’s shaping up to be a scorcher out there,” Edie said, wandering back to her desk at the front of the tiny station.

Sinclair opened the drawers of the desk one after the other, looking for anything else Foreman left behind.  One of the drawers was locked, one contained a half-empty pack of Camels, and another a broken pencil and some stray shavings.

Dust kicked up from the tires of the patrol car creating a thick cloud in its wake as it rolled up the dirt road and over the hill.  At the crest, the ranch came into view, nested between stretches of pine barrens and meadows sloping gently up on each side.  Kipling creek, the main water source for the area, wound lazily past the horses pastured in the meadow and down through a ravine hidden in the trees. Walter Strong’s old Ford sat in the gravel driveway in front of the homestead’s wrap around porch.  Sinclair pulled the cruiser alongside it, careful not to block Walter in.  By the time he got out of the car, Walter stood on the porch ready to meet him.

“Sheriff,” he greeted, shaking Sinclair’s hand firmly, “I’d like to thank you, I was worried when I heard we were getting an out-of-towner to replace Foreman that we’d get some jaded city boy.”

Sinclair smiled back.  “Glad to exceed expectations.  Are your farmhands around?”

“I already spoke with ‘em, but I called ‘em back so you could have at ‘em yourself.”  Walter led Sinclair down the porch steps and around the back of the farmhouse where a few outbuildings stood along gravel walkways lined with gardens of cactus.  He banged his fist on the door of one of the buildings, “Arnold, Jose, sheriff’s here.”

The door opened.  A young black man extended his hand to Sinclair past Walter as he stepped out.  “Arnold Carter, sheriff.”

“Sinclair Vitale, it’s a pleasure.  You mind if I speak to you and Jose for a minute?” Sinclair waited for Arnold to make room for him to step inside.

Arnold shook his head and stepped aside to beckon Sinclair in.  “Not at all.  Jose doesn’t speak much english, just to warn you.”

“That’s fine.  You speak any spanish?” Sinclair asked him.

“Sí,” Arnold grinned at him.

Sinclair clapped Arnold on the shoulder.  “Then how ‘bout you translate for me?”

Jose sat on the top bunk of a bed shoved up against the far wall.  The little outbuilding seemed to include nothing but a bed, a sink, and a closet for the two men.  Bare quarters, but Sinclair figured they were out on the range most of the time anyway.

Sinclair pulled out his notepad as Arnold let the door swing shut.  “First things first, how long have you been working for Mr. Strong?”

“Four years, the both of us.  Strong’s a good man,” Arnold answered for the both of them.

“And were either of you out in the pasture when the cattle mutilations happened?  Either this year or in years previous.”

Arnold stood next to Jose.  He turned to the as of yet silent man.  “Quiere saber qué pasó cuando murieron las vacas,” then he turned back to Sinclair, “I don’t remember much, Sheriff. We were out there a few years back in the far pasture when one of the calves was killed.  I heard some coyotes, did a round of the herd, but nothing hinky.”

“Vi una luz.  Muy brillante, me lastimó los ojos,” Jose said quietly.

“What was that?” Sinclair asked Arnold.

“He said he saw a light that hurt his eyes,” Arnold translated.

“Around when?” Sinclair scribbled a note down.

“Lo vi cerca de la medianoche, hace unos diás.  Lo sé porque no podía dormir y estaba mirando la luna.  Estaba completo, pero la luz parecía baja en el horizonte.  Sé que no fue la luna.” Jose looked at Sinclair earnestly.

“Uh, Jose says he saw it close to midnight a few days ago, and that he’s sure it wasn’t the moon because it was low in the sky,” Arnold appeared unsettled, “no me dijiste, Jose.”

“No quise asustarte,” Jose said, “Dormí tranquilamente después de que llegó la luz.  No recuerdo nada más.”

“He says he went to sleep after that.” Arnold shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Can you show me where you saw the light?” Sinclair asked.

Arnold translated.  “Quiere que mostremos dónde vio la luz.”

“¿Puede montar un caballo?” Jose asked, pointing to Sinclair with his thumb.

Arnold chuckled and turned to Sinclair.  “He wants to know if you can ride a horse.”

“U-um,” Sinclair stuttered, “I can’t say I have.”

“Ah, no,” Jose smiled, “el aprenderá rápido.”