Cienga Crossing: a Novel

By Bernie Ziegner

John Stewart encounters murder and saboteurs while servicing the AT&T transcontinental cable. His intuition senses the danger to the company and national infrastructure, but his warnings go unheeded even after murders and property destruction that go unsolved. John nearly gives his all to stop the final destructive act of a crazed gang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098309039

Bernie Ziegner

Bernie Ziegner grew up in Philadelphia. His career involved work as an electronic engineer for major defense contractors. He lived in Arizona for over two decades and now resides in Massachusetts. He can often be found in western Montana where he enjoys nature, horses, cattle and the local people.

Book preview

©2020 All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09830-902-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09830-903-9

Contents

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

chapter 30

chapter 31

chapter 32

chapter 33

chapter 1

The blast of a horn announced the approach of a freight train on the Southern Pacific tracks. Headlights pierced the night before the diesel engines topped the slope, westbound—out of Benson. It would be another minute before the mile-long train came into view.

John Stewart locked the heavy door to the small cinder block building. He had replaced an amplifier unit in the equipment rack. A system test completed servicing of the repeater, one of countless many in the transcontinental cable system. He leaned against the AT&T service truck to enjoy his coffee, still hot from the thermos.

It was a clear and cool night in mid-April, 1961 in the desert, east of Tucson. John enjoyed working outside by himself where he had some measure of independence—the freedom to ponder his own thoughts. At night, the rolling landscape of mesquite and cactus was kissed by the scent of sage and creosote, especially after a brief shower. The noises of night creatures and an occasional coyote were comforting company. He glanced at his watch; it was 11:20 pm. He still had to drive farther east to the Benson repeater and test for proper signal conditions before heading home to Tucson. But first, he would finish his coffee and watch the train roll by.

Watching the train provided a welcome distraction while working at the Cienga Crossing repeater hut. During the day, John waved at the engineers and the men in the caboose and would receive a comforting greeting in return. The long freight trains presented a different picture at night. Defective friction bearings, not uncommon on some of the freight cars, threw long streams of bright sparks behind them. When the trains had passed, the night got quiet and the yips and cries of the coyotes could be heard again. Bats swished by overhead, attracted to the flying insects that circled the area illuminated by the headlights of the service truck aimed at the doorway of the repeater hut. Although John had an extension-cord light, it required him to start up the noisy gasoline generator, which he refused to do. He felt uneasy not being able to hear the sound of an approaching vehicle or a person.

Five ALCO diesel-electric engines, each generating 2000 hp, roared by on the westbound track, 150 feet away, at forty miles an hour. John gazed at the train, of well over one hundred freight cars, clearly visible in the light of the almost-full moon. When the tandem engines passed across the steel bridge at Cienga Crossing, John knew the end of the long train had topped the grade out of Benson.

As John watched the train and sipped his coffee, his attention was suddenly drawn to several men standing at the open door of a boxcar as it passed through his field of view. The men appeared to throw out, what looked like, a body.

John stood rooted and traumatized as the long train rolled by. The caboose disappeared into the darkness. The desert quiet settled around him. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. Unease gripped him. He put the stopper back on his thermos, tossed out what remained in his cup, and then screwed it back onto the bottle. He opened the truck door and laid the thermos on the seat; then closed the door and leaned against it, while staring at the now empty tracks.

He struggled to believe what he thought he had seen. It looked like a body. He was conflicted on what to do as he was expected to be at the Benson repeater in half an hour to complete the scheduled system tests. Inside the repeater shack was a private telephone line via the cable to the AT&T Long Lines Test Board at the Tucson office. The nearest public telephone was in Benson, another twenty minutes down the road to the east. Would the operator at the Test Board think he had lost his marbles?

Fearing he’d make a fool of himself, John decided to investigate before calling in a report. The railroad was only 150 feet away, so he decided to hurry to where the object was thrown off the train. He grabbed a flashlight from the truck and set off at a brisk pace, walking toward the train track. He was worried about the recriminations from his boss if he got off schedule, but he had to check it out.

To his shock and fright, John found a Caucasian male, possibly in his early thirties, lying face up in a twisted heap only a few feet away from the tracks. He stood looking down at him for several seconds with a sense of sorrow, before bending over to touch his neck. He did not find a pulse, but saw several bloody wounds that soaked his shirt. The man wore a well-aged leather jacket, open to the waist, and shoes without much wear. John, a cold sweat on his brow, looked around nervously. There was no noise or headlights on Marsh Station Road. He was alone.

His heart was pounding. He was convinced the dead man was not a hobo, and that the men who had thrown him off the train were not hobos either. No hobo, he reasoned, would have tossed the body without first removing the leather jacket and good shoes. John ran back to the repeater shack, unlocked the door, and entered. The landline phone was always in the ‘on’ state and he whistled sharply into the mouthpiece. It took several whistles before he gained the attention of the operator at the Tucson Test Board (TTB). Randy was on duty that night as John explained what he had seen.

You freakin’ nuts? What’ve you got in that thermos bottle?

I’m not kidding. The man is dead. What should I do? asked John, the pitch of his voice rising. I’m supposed to be in Benson in a few minutes.

Yeah, I know. This is crazy. I gotta call Mr. Edwards, and hope like hell he ain’t asleep. He’s gonna be pissed.

Damn it, Randy! Call him. This is serious. What the hell am I supposed to do, just go to Benson and finish the tests? What about the body? Someone killed the guy. Shouldn’t the cops do something right away?

Yeah, yeah. Stay put ’til I call back. Holy crap, he’s gonna be pissed.

The phone line went quiet.

John leaned against the cinder block wall and wondered if he and Randy would be in trouble. Mr. Edwards was the AT&T manager for the Tucson facility and not the most patient man.

A few minutes later, a loud whistle came from the handset and John put it to his ear.

Did you get a hold of him?

Yeah. He had just dozed off. He almost bit my head off.

Well, what should I do?

Edwards said for you to stay where you are and wait for the Cochise County Sheriff from Benson or the Pima County Sheriff outta Tucson—whoever gets there first. You’re kinda on the county line. He said to report what you saw to the sheriff and then to finish your scheduled work.

So, are you contacting the two sheriffs?

No. Edwards is doing that as we speak. Someone should be out there in twenty minutes or so.

Okay, I’ll close up this shack and wait down on the road.

Call me when you get to Benson. I’ll still be here.

G’bye, John hung up the phone and left the shack.

chapter 2

Twenty minutes later, headlights came from the east along Marsh Station Road and soon, the rotating red beacon on the roof of the sheriff’s car was visible. The car stopped in front of the AT&T truck and John walked toward it. A tall, middle-aged man in a tan uniform stepped out. The man smiled and offered an outstretched hand.

Sheriff Arthur Morgan, Cochise County. I’m normally at the Bisbee office, but I’ll be in Benson for a month or so.

John shook hands with the sheriff.

Actually, I think here we’re really in Pima County, said the sheriff, but what the hell, I’m here. So, where’s the body?

John pointed to the track.

About 250 feet east of here.

They started walking to where John indicated.

You’re Mr. Stewart?

Yeah. I guess you talked to Mr. Edwards. He’s the facility manager.

Sheriff Morgan pulled a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.

So, start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.

John stopped. I had just finished my work at that repeater shack. John turned and pointed to the small cinder block building clearly visible in the bright moonlight. I was having some coffee when the train came into view. I was watching it go by. That’s when I saw it.

Saw what, exactly? The sheriff asked, as he wrote something in his notebook.

Boxcar with the door open and some guys throwing what looked like a body, out of it.

Whoa! The train moves past here doing about forty. You don’t get much of a chance to see anything.

John nodded. Yeah, forty sounds about right. I could see this freight car with the door open as it came in my field of view and up until it got to the bridge.

They took a few more steps toward the tracks.

Okay. You saw how many guys in the doorway?

It looked like three, but I can’t be sure.

The sheriff stopped again, wrote in his notebook and looked up, Might have been two?

"Sure. It looked like three."

Okay. And they tossed something out? Where?

A little ways that way, John pointed toward the east.

You could tell it was a body?

I wasn’t sure. It seemed like it was from the quick glimpse I got. That’s why I went over there . . . to check it out.

The sheriff kept writing. Uh-huh. And what did you find?

A body. He was dead.

Caucasian? Mexican? What?

White guy. Maybe thirty. He was bloody, been stabbed in a few places. He didn’t look like a hobo.

You disturbed the body? Sheriff Morgan looked sternly at John.

All I did was check for a pulse. There wasn’t any. I didn’t move him.

All right, let’s take a look.

The two men walked quickly over the rocky ground to where John had found the body. The sheriff stooped and checked for a pulse, then closed the now sightless eyes. He quickly went through the man’s pockets, but they were completely empty. He looked at John. You didn’t move him?

John shook his head. No.

Did you pick anything up? A souvenir?

No. I ran back to the shack over there to call the office.

Okay. Your boss, Edwards, asked me to let you go on your way. He was rather anxious that you keep your schedule. He handed John the notebook and pen. Here, write down your contact info. I won’t hold you up. I’m going to call Tucson and bring ’em up to speed. I need to get my medical examiner out here too. Thanks for your help.

You’re welcome. I’ll get going—need to finish those tests.

The sheriff waved and went to his car. John got back in the truck; glad to be away from there. He had never seen a dead body before except at a funeral, and this had unsettled him.

He drove east, along the old road and passed the hobo encampment at Pantano. He glanced to his right at a small campfire, and then passed two abandoned Pullman cars on a siding that were now used by hobos. He kept going several miles to join with US-80. Benson was right ahead.

It was 1:15 am when John informed the Tucson Test Board that the tests were completed at the Benson repeater. He was told that all was well and was asked to return to the office. John stopped at the Big Bull Diner located on the west side of Benson. It was a glossy white building with a huge plaster statue of a Hereford bull just above the doorway. He had a craving for pie and coffee, before heading back to Tucson, especially since the company would pay for it. The Big Bull was a favorite stop for truckers driving on the US-80 across the state and John stopped there frequently. Even at this late hour, several large rigs were parked out front. John was always sure of receiving a hearty meal or a generous slice of pie there.

While John enjoyed blueberry pie and coffee, he kept wondering about the body he had seen. Who was the man? Why was he killed and thrown from the train? The man didn’t appear to be a hobo. Would anyone ever be punished for the murder? Did the man have a family? He felt a sense of sadness. He dropped a couple of bills on the counter and left.

John chose to return to Tucson driving by the ghost town of Pantano instead of on the US-80 highway, which he usually preferred, curious to see if investigators were still at the scene of the tragedy. Seeing the campfire at the old Pantano Station still burning, John stopped, curious to know what the hobos were stirring at this hour. John had met all four men some months ago. They were all veterans of the Korean War who wanted to be left alone in peace. The only man John knew well enough for conversation was Chester Dugan, a middle-aged hobo he had met in Benson when the man had solicited a ride back to Pantano. John parked and walked toward the group. They nodded at his approach as John directed his attention on Chester.

You guys up kinda late, aren’t you?

Yeah, said Chester as he got up from his rickety folding seat. Sheriff rousted us less than an hour ago. Said somethin’ about a dead guy on the tracks—down a ways, near the bridge. Weird.

John nodded. "It was weird. I saw him being tossed from a freight car."

"No kiddin’? You saw it?"

Yeah. I called it in to my office and waited there for Sheriff Dugan.

Who was the guy? Some hobo?

I don’t think so. He had on a leather jacket and good shoes.

Chester shook his head, No hobo.

What did the sheriff tell you guys? asked John.

Damn little. Wanted to know if we had heard or seen anything unusual. Told him it had been a quiet night until he showed up.

I saw your fire going kinda late and thought I’d stop by and see what was happening.

Nothing much here, hope it stays that way.

Well, I’m on my way back to town. I keep wondering who the poor guy was. What a way to go.

Yeah, the guy must have got himself mixed up in something.

John waved and started back to the truck. He drove away from the encampment, past the place of the tragedy and