By three hours into the ride out to the far pasture, the blisters on Sinclair’s butt ached.  The sun beat down on him, baking his gel-slick hair into glass.  His sweat glued him to the saddle of the mare as she idled along, picking up a trot every so often to keep up with Arnold and Jose who chatted in spnaish a few meters ahead.  Sinclair wondered if they would ever reach the ridge as they broke into a clearing.  He blew out a sigh of relief at the sight of cows scattered in the bowl of the valley.  The old mare sidled up to the other two horses and started to graze, jerking Sinclair forward by the reins he had a deathgrip on.

“How’re you feeling about your first ride, Sheriff?” Arnold joked, shoving him gently.

“No se ve bien,” Jose chuckled.

“I’m fine.  It’s a long ride.” Sinclair stared out over the valley.

Arnold pointed towards a passage between two peaks at the end of the valley.  “We drove the herd to the lower pasture that way after Strong found the dead steer.  Castillo and Jaime are keeping an eye on them right now.  We camped up here that night.”

“Lo vi ahí,” Jose pointed to the steep stone ridge bordering the valley to the north.  A stone cliff capped a steep, sandy hill like a wave frozen in the midst of cresting.

Sinclair squinted at the ridge.  He couldn’t see any obvious path up to the top or down into the mountain.  “Can we make it up there?”

Arnold shrugged.  “Probably from the back, not at this angle.  It’s too steep a climb for the horses.  You might be able to get up there on foot.”

“Any existing trails that lead up the back?” Sinclair cringed at the prospect of another long hike uphill in 90-degree heat.

“Jose, ¿algún camino en la parte de atrás de la montaña?” Arnold yelled toward Jose, who had taken his horse some way along the hill to get a better view of the ridge.

“Ninguno,” he yelled back.

“We can take you around the back, but you’ll have to head up on foot about half way,” Arnold said to Sinclair, “it’s going to take you a while, I’ll have to send Jose back to the farm but I’ll wait for you at the bottom and make sure you get home safe.”

Sinclair shoved a few free strands of hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead.  “If that’s what it takes.  Thanks, Arnold.”

“My pleasure, Sheriff,” Arnold said.  He kicked his horse and trotted up to Jose.  Sinclair took the opportunity to relax atop his horse for a moment before Arnold gestured for him to follow him back into the woods and make their way back around the back of the ridge.

The mare whinnied in protest as they climbed the sandy slope to a rock ledge.  She followed Arnold’s gelding at a distance with her ears turned back toward Sinclair as though to say “I did not sign up for this, and certainly not with you.”  The ridge rose another hundred feet above them, promising a steep climb on foot once the horses could go no further.

Arnold dismounted and held his gelding’s reins as he waited for Sinclair to catch up.  “Ease up on the reins, there, Sheriff,” he said.

Sinclair fumbled with the reins when the mare shrieked and reared up in a panic.  A snake rushed out from the weeds across her path.  Sinclair lost his balance.  He fell to the ground with a jolt and rolled down the slope.  The world spun, Sinclair certain this would be his last day on earth as a cactus stabbed into his side and ripped itself from the sandy ground to join him on his wild tumble down the mountainside until a tree clinging to the rocks caught him.  He shuddered in pain.  His entire body throbbing with the impact.  Before he could haul himself back to his feet, Arnold was already there with a hand to help him.

“You okay, Sheriff?” he spotted the prickly pear cactus stuck to Sinclair’s side, “hold still, let me get that thing off you.”

Arnold drew his knife from his boot and used the handle to pry the cactus off of Sinclair and fling it aside.  Sinclair yelped and looked down at the dark spots bleeding into his expensive suit jacket and groaned.

“You okay?” Arnold asked him again.

Sinclair wiped the blood away from a scrape on his face and nodded.  “Let’s just get up to the ridge and be done with it.”

“Might want to reconsider those digs for this job, Sheriff.  Lotta woods up here,” Arnold considered the way Sinclair flinched at something in his side, “cactus, too.  Need something rougher 'round the edges.”

Sinclair cleared his throat, plucking a cactus spine out of his side and flicking it away.  “Suppose this city boy’s got a lot to learn, eh?”

Arnold walked with Sinclair as he limped back up to the landing.  The horses looked down on both of them--the mare pleased with herself and the gelding dancing on his hooves as Arnold approached him, considering the steep hill and whether or not it would be worth it to meet his rider halfway.  When Sinclair reached the landing beside the mare, she snorted at him and stamped her foot.  Sinclair huffed back at her.

He clambered his way up to the top of the ridge, oxygen-straved lungs leaving him panting hard at the top.  He did a visual sweep of the area.  Nothing stood out.  He sat on the rocky outcrop.  The meadow and valley beyond sprawled out before him, still green with summer rain.  Cicadas cried, but his position above it all dulled the noise to a low buzz.  He took note of the campsite on the hill and lit a cigarette as he estimated their line of sight from the firepit.  A bright light from this point would be seen for miles around, certainly from the campsite on the hill.

He walked the ridge, looking down the rear slope.  The ground glittered with mica, but one fragment glinted larger and brighter than the others against an outcrop of white quartz crumbling out of the earth.  He picked it up, turning it over in his hand.  Despite the heat of the sun, the warped fragment was cool against his skin.  He tossed it into an evidence bag, then replaced it safely inside the inner pocket of his jacket beside his pack of cigarettes.

“Find something?” Arnold yelled up the slope, shading his eyes from the sun.

“Dunno,” Sinclair yelled back, “could be nothing.  We can head back, don’t see much else.”

Sinclair half slid back down to where Arnold was holding the horses.   He swayed on his feet clutching his side as the movement freed a cactus spine from the fabric of his jacket and embedded it in his skin.  Arnold helped boost him up on the back of the mare, whose ears pinned back in displeasure.  Arnold patted her side.

“All you’ve gotta do is stay on the horse, Sheriff.” Arnold swung his leg over his own horse and turned him around.  

The mare followed, jolting Sinclair as she started to move at a slow pace down the hill.  Sinclair wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and held onto it to keep his balance.  He turned his head down against the sun, his back seizing in displeasure.

The mare ambled back onto the driveway behind the homestead.  Arnold dismounted his gelding to help Sinclair, who almost collapsed as his numb feet hit the ground.  The sun dipped behind the peaks and cast the ranch in shadow.  Sinclair thanked Arnold and hobbled back to the patrol car, collapsing into the front seat and turning it on.  He steadied his exhausted hands on the steering wheel and headed back to town.

A corona of orange graced the peaks of the mountains when Sinclair finally pulled into the parking lot of Janie’s Diner for the second time that week.  He stretched his stiff back and slammed the car door behind him, aware of his disheveled appearance but enticed by the thought of a big, juicy burger and a cold beer.  He sat himself in a booth in the far corner, away from the stragglers lingering in the dining room after the dinner rush.  

Angie wordlessly approached the table and set down a glass full of ice and a pitcher of water in front of him.  She didn’t offer him a menu before walking away again and disappearing into the kitchen.  Sinclair poured himself a glass and chugged the water and cringed at the wave of brain freeze that washed over him.  He watched Angie leave the kitchen and pass him on her way down the stairway to the bar below.  Music played quietly over the chatter.  Angie reappeared with a pint of beer fresh from the tap and set it in front of him.

“Food’s coming in a second.  Sit tight,” she said.

Sinclair looked up at her, confused.  “I haven’t ordered…”

“Elk burger with swiss sound good?” She pursed her lips at him.

Sinclair looked back down at the table and nodded.  He grabbed the pint of lager and took a deep swig.  

“I’ll take care of you, just like I take care of everyone else, Sheriff.  Know what you need, I’ve been doing this for nearly thirty years,” Angie assured him as she walked away to check on the other patrons.  

Sinclair stared into his drink, unfocused.  The air conditioning inside of the diner cooled the sweat that clung to his shirt and suit jacket.  The stinging of the cactus spines embedded in his skin nagged at him for attention, and he knew he looked a mess.  By the time he looked up again, an elk burger and a heaping plate of fries had materialized on the table in front of him.  He devoured the burger before starting on the plate of fries.

A man slipped into the booth across from him and stole a fry from his plate.  “Hey, Sheriff,” he trilled between bites, stealing another fry from Sinclair’s plate, “Edie told me you wanted to talk about the cattle mutilations at the ranch,” he extended his hand across the booth, “name’s Jericho, folks ‘round here call me Jerry.”

Sinclair did not shake his hand.

“I’m the one who called the mutilation in,” Jericho continued, using his outstretched hand to grab another fry, “I heard you were looking into it.  Actually looking into it, not just writing it off this time.  I’m happy to hear that -- no doubt Edie already told you this has been going on for years and not a single person takes it seriously.  It’s like one mutilation is proven to be a hoax, and suddenly all the others are too,” he spoke through a mouthful of potato, “you look like you’ve had a rough day.”

“You’re eating my fries,” was all Sinclair could muster.

“Anyway,” Jericho ignored him, “I got permission from Strong to be on his ranch about a week before I found the cow.  I backpacked out to the pasture with a camera and camped up on the hill with the nice flat top.  Jose and Arnold probably showed you -- or they will, if you haven’t been up that way yet.  I think you have, though. Did they at least let you borrow a horse?  Anyway -- that’s where they like to camp when they take the herd out, the hill with the flat top.  I actually didn’t see anything, heard the cows moving around in the dark, but I had my eyes on the sky.  I know Jose’s seen lights up on the ridge there before, but I’ve never seen them myself.  Not for lack of trying!  I found the cow when I went back to the van, just stumbled on it that morning when I made it back to the road.  Stopped by Strong’s ranch to let him know, caught him doing chores, and headed back down the mountain.”

Sinclair’s blood boiled, but he chewed on his fries and listened.

“Anyway, Sheriff, you’d know better than I would, but from what I could see it’s in line with other incidents across the southwest recently.  I took a look at the crime scene -- hope you forgive me, I figured it was a cow, not a person -- but I noticed that there weren’t any bugs or blood.  Have you heard about the mutilations that happened in Nevada?  Well, they have about the same injuries.  No internal organs, no eyes, no tongue, no bugs or blood, smooth edges on the cuts.  Reports of lights out there too, and things in the sky moving in ways no plane or helicopter ever could.  I know some folks think those are just military tests, but where would the military even get that kind of tech?  Not from the USSR, they’re leagues away.  And we’ve seen them up here, but there isn’t a military base for miles!  How could they explain that?” Jericho gestured with a fry before popping it in his mouth and taking a break from speaking.  

Sinclair glared at him from across the table.  “Thank you for your statement, Jericho,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, no problem.  Don’t you need to write this down?” he asked.

Sinclair grabbed Angie as she passed.  “Check, please, Angie.”

She dropped the check on the table and Sinclair slapped a 10 down on it.  He stood up from the table and stalked out of the diner, leaving Jericho to pick over the rest of his plate of fries.  

“Bye, Sheriff, nice talking to you!” Jericho waved.

Sinclair didn’t look back at him.  The blood pounded in his ears.  When he finally sat down in the car again, he took a moment to scream into his hands before driving home to spend another hour plucking cactus spines out of his skin.