Red Tails in the Sunset

Chapter 1-3

When Daz left the small rural airport, he drove back west to Las Cruces, where he was currently based. The devastation of the fires made him sick. The waste and destruction of so much beautiful wilderness land and the damage to wildlife and to those who made their livelihood from the land in a variety of ways seemed senseless and tragic.

With these grim thoughts weighing his mind, he couldn’t deal with the empty silence of his efficiency apartment, so he wandered down to a small pub a couple of blocks away.

Midweek, it was quiet. A baseball game played on the big screen TV over the bar. He couldn’t get interested in it. He thought it was Albuquerque’s ‘Topes versus the new El Paso Chihuahuas, although he wasn’t sure. He nursed a beer and pondered yet again on how he might manage to get close to Blaine Darby.

The man seemed to be a damned recluse. Perhaps his military experiences were just too traumatic. He could be suffering from some kind of PTSD that made it very hard for him to deal with people. Daz sighed. Was there any other angle to this that he could work? There always was, just not right now. Tomorrow he’d go searching for some other folks who might be easier to approach.

He was about to leave when a short, dirty and ragged man sidled up to him and perched with one cheek on the next stool.

“You got a minute?”

Daz shrugged. “Yeah, I ‘spose.”

“You’re that hard-hitting investigative reporter. I’ve seen you on TV. If you’ll buy me a beer, I think I can give you some leads to a real hummer of a story. It’s about these fires.”

Even though Daz figured he was going to be taken, a couple of beers would not break his budget. He signaled the bartender and ordered a second for himself and one for the stranger.

Before he touched the foaming brown bottle, the smaller man cast a worried glance around the room, as if to make sure no one was close enough to listen. Then he stood and tilted his head to speak almost into Daz’s ear. “It’s arson, you know. All of these fires.”

Daz nodded. “No news there. Although it may not have been publicized much, lots of people know that.”

“Yeah, maybe. Who knows who’s behind it, though? Not many, I’d say, but I do.”

Feeling a twinge of disgust, Daz gave an irritated shrug, “Oh? Some say terrorists or possibly drug kingpins. Either or both would profit from distracting the authorities and absorbing resources that otherwise would be directed against them.”

“Close,” the other man said, “Still, I’ve gotten closer. I can name names.”

Daz raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And just how do you know? What proof can you give me? I’ve gotta have proof to build a real scooping story.”

“I’m up in the hills a lot, out there in the southwestern part of the Gila. I have—um—a business. You know, mining claims and stuff. I see things and hear things. I’ve seen people who have no reason to be up there…people carrying all you’d need to set fires, lots of little ones close enough together to grow quickly into one large one, even a few big ones right off. And most of them don’t speak a word of English.”

Still dubious, Daz quickly began to frame some probing questions. “If not English, what? There’d be lots of people speaking Spanish anywhere. Immigrants often travel through remote areas to bypass the border patrol. They have to camp out so they might need to make a little campfire. Sometimes, they don’t put them out when they move on.”

The other man shook his head. “Not them. I’ve seen ‘em, talked to some. I speak a little Spanish. No, what I’m talking about is Ay-rabs or something like that. Rag heads, you know? They’re dark, definitely not Mex, though. What business do they have out in our forest?”

Daz shrugged again. “Maybe. You said you could name names. Like who?”

The other man cast another furtive and anxious look around. “Not here, man! We need to meet somewhere a lot more private. I’ll give you some pictures I took, some names I heard, at least what they sounded like. How about tomorrow? And a few dollars would help. I don’t have a place to stay here in town. I live in an old mining camp out there and just drove to town for some supplies. Kinda low on gas, too.”

Despite his reluctance, Daz decided to chance it. He’d probably not see either the two twenties he dug out of a pocket or the peculiar little man again. Oh, what the hell. The guy had a good tale, anyway.

The man snatched the bills and squirreled them away in a cargo pocket of his tattered and faded camouflage pants. He glanced around again and then spoke, still low-voiced. “There’s a park, about half a mile north of here. Be there around ten. It’ll be quiet then. Not a lot of people go there anyway. Some kids in the afternoon and maybe a few bums since it’s not too far from the railroad tracks and the interstate. I may even get another guy to come talk to you, too. Partner of mine.” With that, he slid off the stool and scuttled for the door.

Daz waited a few minutes before he stood, paid his tab and left, ambling back to his place in time to catch the evening news. As a freelancer, he wouldn’t be on tonight, for sure. Maybe soon, though. He didn’t put much faith in sources that seemed to have an axe to grind, but you never knew what might pan out. For now, he could not ignore any lead, however iffy it appeared.