Last Regulator at Roswell

By Robert C. Mowry

About the Book
Last Regulator at Roswell is a fictional story written based on the headlines in today’s real world. It explores the impacts of illegal immigration and looks at the ways events of the past impacted the reality of today.

About the Author
Robert C. Mowry was born in Butler, PA in 1948. He currently resides in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He is an amateur Southwest historian. He has spent many hours in historical areas such as ghost towns, old museums, remote ranches, and the like.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889258032

Book preview

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Robert C. Mowry

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

Dorrance Publishing Co

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Pittsburgh, PA 15238

Visit our website at www.dorrancebookstore.com

ISBN: 979-8-8892-5303-7

eISBN: 979-8-8892-5803-2

Last Regulator at Roswell

The second book in the series

Contemporary Novel with multiple flashbacks as in the first book.

Other published books:

Last Wolf at Eagle Well

This is the first book in the Last series

Adobe Gold, Tucson Knights, Smoking Springs

Three historical fiction works

My sincere thanks to Mrs. Jane Kelley

for her valuable input and assistance with this book.

Chapter One

The Star Spangled Banner flowed quietly out of the old pickup truck’s radio. The local station was signing off for the day. Midnight… The ticking, dial faced clock in the dash confirmed it.

Where are they? Trouble? Oh, por favor, Jesucristo—no trouble, I beg of you.

Earlier that day the van driver who was to deliver this man’s son had called him at work. The driver had just then crossed the Rio Grande River into Presidio, Texas and had estimated he’d be at the rendezvous place in Sangria Canyon about this time. The anxious father had driven his old truck out here half an hour early and parked at the canyon entrance hoping to see his son even before the planned meeting at the old cabin.

Have they been stopped? Will Diego be deported back to Mexico?

It had taken him three long years of hard work to save the money to have his son Diego and wife Maria join him. However, a few months ago, Maria had been caught in the crossfire of a gun battle by two warring cartels in the normally peaceful little village where they were living. She was gunned down right in front of her mother’s house as she ran for safety. This while little Diego watched from only yards away. Now, it was only ten-year-old Diego who was to join him here tonight.

Something’s wrong… Or, could it be they were quite early and are waiting up the canyon at the designated meeting spot? Could I have been sitting down here at the canyon’s entrance hoping to see him a little bit earlier while Diego awaits only a few minutes away up at the cabin? If only I had a cell phone. Maybe that driver has wanted to contact me.

He reached down and turned the key. With a puff of black smoke, the old truck’s engine sputtered to life. He slipped it into low gear then slowly started up the trail. He reminisced how he’d come here himself a little over three-years-ago now. His uncle had promised him work in his small, auto-repair business. He then reminisced how that only six months after he’d arrived here, he was mistakenly identified as the man who had attacked a woman and beaten her severely. Before the police could arrest him, he’d hastily retreated back across the border. A few months later, justice prevailed. The real attacker was identified, subsequently convicted then imprisoned.

Another covert trip, while stuffed into a tiny, hidden compartment in the bed of a pickup truck loaded with dozens of sacks of onions, put him back in Roswell. Once again, he worked for his uncle, hiding in the shadows, careful to obey the law and not draw any attention to himself. To have his family—his wife and son—with him drove him passionately day after day. Now… Now it would only be Diego who would be with him. Maria… Tears started down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away with the back of his well-suntanned forearm.

I must not grieve for Maria at this time. Only should I have joy that Diego will be with me. I must not show any sorrow in front of him, only happiness for his arrival.

To go back home and come over here legally would take too long. Too much money, also. Besides, there were so many just like him in this area. As long as he caused no trouble, few seemed to care—including the law.

Moments later, against the moonlit sky, and with the light of his old, yellow headlights, he saw the remains of the cabin. It had been built many years ago near one of this canyon’s seeping springs for use by cowboys working this section of the ranch. It had long been abandoned, become dilapidated, and the roof was falling in. He stepped harder on the throttle. His heart sped its beating also. His headlights then outlined an ageing, silver-colored van.

Diego’s here! All the time I waited down the road to see him. He was up here all that time!

In seconds, he braked to a stop, only a few feet from the van. He turned off the ignition as he flung open the truck door and jumped out. He ran around the front of his pickup to the open driver’s door of the van.

Diego! Diego! he called out for his son. Only the soft rustle of the night breeze blowing through the Spanish-bayonet yuccas and various cacti along with a faint whistling of wind through cracks in the boards of the old cabin answered him.

Suddenly, a chill swept through his body, and he shivered, though it was yet nearly ninety degrees. Where was everyone? He stepped back to his pickup and turned off the lights. In a moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness and, in the shadows created by the light of the moon, he searched the area.

Diego! he called again. He cautiously walked to the old cabin then stepped around to the backside. Horror replaced the chill in his body as he dropped to one knee.

Diego… What have they done to you? Oh, Jesucristo… Mi Diego, he wailed.

Much later, as the eastern sky showed a faint glow, he rose from the log where he’d been resting. Earlier he had taken an old shovel out of his truck and had dug a two foot by four foot hole. He grieved with a mixture of intense loss, guilt and anger. He’d lined the small, lone grave with some of the old corrugated metal roofing from the cabin and had taken two pieces of the fallen timber and placed them over the body in the form of a cross to protect it from coyotes and other vermin. Using his well-worn pocket knife he’d carved Diego, mi hijo. Then he’d tearfully covered everything with fresh dirt.

Will get mi tio’s old backhoe and return tomorrow night. Bury the others—the driver and the youths. The van… There be a brushy draw a few miles over yonder that has many rusting, old things in it. I shall drag this van there. Have to trust that no one will ever find it, or care if they do.

He got in his truck and reached for the key, but then let his arm fall to his side as he lowered his head to the steering wheel and let tears of sorrow flow.

Why? What awful thing have I done to deserve such? Maria… Now Diego… Do you hate me, Jesucristo? I could hate you for letting all of this happen. Sí, I could easily hate you.

•••

FBI Agent Rusty Redtail leaned back in his chair and tightly closed his eyes. The official e-mail that filled his computer screen still seemed to glare at him as if imprinted inside his eyelids. Zzzzzt… Zzzzzt… his cell phone vibrated. He slid it out of its holster and looked at the screen—Liz.

Why is she calling me on my cell phone? Oh Lord, please let me not be in trouble again.

Hello, Liz. What’s up?

Rusty, I just want to give you a heads up. I think Harland’s going to give you another case, she said.

And get me off this probation, or whatever he’s imposed on me? So, what is it? Someone get drunk and kill an eagle out on the rez?

Oh, Rusty. Don’t be that way, Liz said. Be glad for anything and, oh please, don’t let anything like that happen again.

Like what? Rusty asked. I solved that case, no help from Harland.

You know what I mean, Liz said. Like a totally destroyed Suburban, losing your gun, phone and computer. Not to mention nearly getting killed.

I solved the case.

About put me in my grave, too, so you did, Liz said.

Yeah, well, what’s up? Rusty asked.

Don’t know much. Something about some oil well drilling company that was preparing a rig site finding some old graves. Children it seems, Liz said. The local sheriff thinks they were probably illegals. That’s what brings us into it. Some place called Sangria Canyon. You know where that’s at?

Down off the Pecos River. Out on the high plains off to the west. Actually it’s out southwest of Roswell. That’s sort of off the edge of any existing oil country, Rusty said. There are tales of a cattle-rustling trail up through there and some old Cavalry and Apache skirmishes there, too. Old Lincoln County War country. Rumors are that after the death of Billy the Kid, some of that Regulator group went to Mexico while others were believed to work for Susan McSween on her massive cattle empire that she acquired after her husband was killed. Sangria Canyon was the supposed exchange place from the Mexican rustlers to McSween’s men. That’s just old stories, though. Could all be campfire windies spun by impoverished cowboys jealous of how well Susan McSween had done for herself.

I really didn’t need a history lesson, Liz said. You know, and think, way too much about that old stuff. Today—today’s what matters, Rusty. You can’t live in the past.

Yeah, often think I’d have fit in better back in those days. It was more sane than now.

And you think the old wild west with your people being hunted down like dogs was more sane? You think a life where your very survival was your foremost thought was better?

Oh, maybe just in my mind. At least I wouldn’t have to put up with you messing with my peaceful daydreams.

There’d be someone. You’d torture some poor woman into keeping you out of trouble.

My mother did a good job of that and never complained.

Your mother… Someday I have to meet that saint. The fact that you lived to become an adult without her skinning you alive—she can’t be normal.

Yeah, well, Sangria Canyon… Strange and desolate area, so it is, Rusty continued. That’s why no one else wants this case. Mine by default, right? None of the ‘real’ agents want to get their shiny-shoes dirty so give it to the Apache kid. Let him solve it then the whole office looks good. Proof that hiring a redskin can benefit the team.

At least you won’t be doing it alone, Liz said.

No? Who’s going to be with me? Rusty asked.

That big chip on your shoulder, Liz said. It’ll be right there with you.

Oh… Sorry, Liz. Just having one of those days, I guess. These walls are closing in on me, Rusty said. Actually, getting out of here and back out into the wilds will be a very welcome change. I should be thankful—I am, really—for another chance.

Well, I just didn’t want you blindsided so you’d do or say something foolish—like you just did, Liz said.

Sorry, Liz. I haven’t been myself lately. You know I’m not cut out for desk duty. Guess with each passing day I’m less and less sure about this whole FBI thing. You know, ever since I was a little kid, this is what I thought I wanted. Got my law and criminal justice degrees with this as my goal. Now… Guess my image and the actual job don’t line up.

Give it time, Rusty, Liz said. Go solve this new case then Harland will have to treat you better. Why’s that area called Sangria Canyon, anyway?

There’s been an abnormal amount of blood shed in that canyon, Rusty said. My people fought with the Cavalry, and cattle thieves killed the honest cowboys. I’ve heard there’s a big old cottonwood tree used by the Regulators—that Lincoln County War-era gang— to hang at least two sheriff deputies. Guess there’s a lot more stories of killings out there too. There’s a flowing spring beside that hanging tree. It’s said that cattle sometimes wouldn’t drink from it and even coyotes avoided the area. Tales are often told of ghosts out there too.

You believe any of that? Liz asked.

I don’t know. Lonely cowboys probably made up stories around campfires at night and they got repeated, growing bigger and badder each time. The bloody water stuff is probably only for the fearful. There’s no ghosts, for sure.

Be careful, Liz said. I sorta believe in the paranormal stuff, myself. You wouldn’t catch me down there at night. That’s all you need—to be attacked by a ghost.

Yeah, well, they have to give the case to me first, Rusty said. Maybe someone else will decide to take it.

I don’t think so, Liz said. I’d say—

Buzzzz—Buzzzz—Buzzzz—

Oh, that’s Harland on the landline now, Rusty said.

Told you, Liz said. Answer it—goodbye.

Rusty picked up the desk phone. Agent Redtail.

Carter here, Special Agent Harland Carter said. So, Redtail, you all healed up and ready to make us heroes again? I mean, well, got us another case, right up your alley.

Remote and inglorious is what you really mean, Rusty thought, but said nothing.

Come up to my office, and I’ll lay it out for you, Harland Carter said.

Be right there, Rusty replied then hung up the phone. He leaned back in his chair then closed his eyes for a minute.

Minutes later, Rusty stepped into Special Agent Harland Carter’s office doorway where, across from the Special Agent’s desk, sat a man wearing a sheriff’s uniform.

Come on in, Redtail, Harland Carter said. Here, meet Clay Coronado. He’s the Rio Pecos County Sheriff.

Rusty walked over to the sheriff who rose then reached out and shook Rusty’s hand. Good to meet you, Rusty said. Nice country down your way.

I hear good things about you, Agent Redtail, Sheriff Coronado said. I surely do need your help.

Sit down, sit down, Special Agent Carter said. "Here’s the deal, Redtail. Sierra Blanca Energy Development Company has a lease down that way and they were setting up to drill the first well in a place called Sangria Canyon. Well, as they were preparing the pad site, pushing aside the remains of an old, collapsing building, they came upon what appeared to be a large mass grave with a small, single-body grave off by itself. Sure enough, that’s what was there. Likely to be kids from south of the border and the coyote bringing them in based on what remains of their clothing and stuff in their backpacks, some notes and whatnot. That’s what brings us in. The sheriff here shut down the drilling setup. That didn’t make anyone down there happy. They’re spending their royalty money already, I guess.

Anyway, Agent Carter continued, "Like I said, found one adult male and six boys in the big grave and only one kid in the little one. Had two timbers in the form of a cross buried on top of the body in that single grave. Appears whoever did the burying probably had some connection with that one, but not the others.

I’m putting you in charge, Redtail, Agent Carter continued after clearing his throat. Agent T. J. McCoy will assist you if you need any dogs or other grave-seeking stuff. Ahh…just a head’s up, I don’t think he thinks much of you, him being from Philadelphia, or somewhere out there. ‘Course I’m from New York myself. Well, the truth is, I’m thinking I need your instincts—your, well, I guess it’s your Indian-thinking ways—to quickly solve this.

Rusty said nothing. Sheriff Coronado squirmed slightly in his chair.

Figure you’re about full of this office, anyway. Just… Please, Redtail, don’t go losing all our stuff this time. For every pound of praise I got for solving that BLM murder case, I had to swallow two for all that equipment you had destroyed or lost. Do something like that again and you’ll not be demoted to desk duty—it’ll be the permanent toilet cleaner. Understand? Harland paused a minute, but Rusty didn’t comment.

Well, see Liz and get set up with what you need, Special Agent Carter then continued. The sheriff here will fill you in on all the details. I’ve emailed Liz all I have, and she’s making a file for you. Any questions?

None at the moment, Rusty said. I’m sure the sheriff here will get me up to speed. How about it, Sheriff? Let’s go down to Liz’s office then get going.

Glad to. Anything to quickly get this solved, Sheriff Coronado said. There are rumors and suspicions flying around down there faster than bullets. Everyone who’s ever done anything not kosher is now suspected of this. I’m afraid someone will take things into their own hands and harm someone innocent, or something like that.

Okay, Redtail, that’s all I’ve got for now, Harland Carter said. Go solve this and make me—I mean us—look good again.

Rusty and Sheriff Coronado left the office and walked toward the elevator to go down to Liz’s office. Rusty spoke first as they walked down the Saltillo-clay, tiled floor.

Ever have anything like this out there before? he asked.

Not even close. Quiet out in the country, for the most part, Sheriff Coronado said. Almost all our trouble is in town­—Roswell. Drugs, now. Used to be a few drunken cowboys on the weekends. Now, it’s more the younger set—not all young ones though—fighting the demons of some powder or snake-juice they’re willing to put into their bodies. That’s brought in different factions, actual gangs even, and sometimes it’s like downtown Chicago or Los Angeles. I didn’t know how good I had it 28 years ago when I moved over here. Still, out in the county, the rural areas, there’s little trouble. Oh, I hear rumors that a lot of the drug-trading goes on out there where no one sees or bothers about it. Could be true. I don’t have the manpower to scout out all of that.

You didn’t grow up down there? Rusty asked.

Born over in Silver City, Sheriff Coronado said. Went to Western University there and got a job on the force in Silver City after I got my degree—criminology. Moved over to Roswell a year later and have been here ever since. My wife is from there. Her family has a big farm down on the river. How about you?

The elevator door opened, they entered and Rusty pushed the ground floor button. I’m a reservation buck. Mescalero Apache, from the rez over by Cloudcroft. Joined the Bureau a little over a year ago. Still trying to figure out if this is for me. It’s a lot different than I had imagined in my mind. Guess most of life is.

You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Sheriff Coronado said. Lots of years to figure things out.

Came within inches of dying on my first case, Rusty said. There’s a lot of space between ideas and realities. I learned that.

Yeah, Sheriff Coronado said. Getting worse. This badge used to be respected and looked up to. Some still do, but then there’s those others that think it’s a target…

They’re doing to lawmen what they succeeded in doing to guns a few years back, Rusty said. Guns used to be something good. Fathers and sons, daughters too, went out shooting and hunting. Schools had rifle clubs. You saw a gun, you felt safe, that someone with ill intent would go elsewhere. Now, they’ve made the very sight of a gun evil. Made good people afraid to have them. It’s becoming the same with all types of cops. The sight of a law enforcement officer of any kind used to make people feel safe. Now, it’s like the badge on you makes you evil, at least in the eyes of some. No longer a symbol to honor and respect. Guns… Cops… What’s next? Well, that’s my soapbox rant for the day.

Can’t disagree, Sheriff Coronado said as they exited the elevator. I couldn’t do what you do. Too much bureaucracy and all that. I’ve got to have my independence—do my own thing.

Sounds as if you’re right where you belong, Rusty said.

Never had it better, Sheriff Coronado said. On my third term now. Hopefully I can get a couple more before I have to make a change.

Let’s get this solved quickly, Rusty said. That’ll help you in the next election.

Help me or not, Sheriff Coronado said. We need this solved as soon as possible.

The two men entered Liz’s office after knocking on the door jamb. She was on the phone and motioned for them to take a seat in front of her desk. She then slid a manila folder over to Rusty. He picked it up and opened it. He looked at an aerial photograph of the crime scene area. He was just ready to ask Sheriff Coronado a question when Liz hung up her phone.

Liz, this is Sheriff Clay Coronado from over in Rio Pecos County, Rusty said. I’m sure we’ll be working closely together on this case.

Oh, nice to meet you, Sheriff Coronado. I hope you carry some rope in your car so you can tie up this new partner of yours to keep him from destroying himself, Liz said. He’s pretty good at things like that—all our equipment, too.

One case… One case I lose a bunch of stuff, and no one will let me forget it, Rusty said. I solved the case, but all anyone remembers is the stuff that got destroyed.

You didn’t have to do the mounds of paperwork on all of that, Liz said. It took days.

Job security, Rusty said. If I didn’t create work for you, you wouldn’t have a job.

But I’d sleep better, not having to worry about you, Liz said.

Looks like for now you’re stuck with me, Rusty said. Don’t tell me none of the other agents you assist don’t cause you grief, too.

Sure, but if it makes you feel good to be on top of a list, you’re on top of my grief list, Liz said. Well, what all do you need?

Wheels to get there. Get around that back country, too, Rusty said.

So, you want another SUV? Another Suburban? Liz asked.

That’s what I was thinking, Rusty said. Unless you’ve got something better.

If I did, you’d not get it, Liz said as she scoured her computer screen searching the available vehicles in the motor pool. Here’s one. Nearly four years old. Scheduled to be traded next month. Lots of miles. Okay, you’ve got that one. What else?

I’ve got all my standard issue gear, Rusty said. Oh, a couple boxes of 10MM’s. What about some .223 hollow points, too? Any of those?

What? You want some .223s? Liz asked. You don’t have an AR-15 issued to you.

No, Rusty said. Just thinking of taking my old varmint rifle down there to help the ranchers with their coyote problem, if I have the time. I don’t get much chance at those critters here in the city.

Buy your own coyote ammo, Liz said. I’m not explaining that to Mr. Carter and you know he’ll be scrutinizing your every expense and requisition.

You’re no fun, Rusty said.

Oh, I can be lots of fun, Liz said. You just never want to find out.

Hey, I offered to take you out on the rez to eat fire-roasted horse-steak and dance to a circle-of-drums, and you turned up your nose, Rusty said. ’Spect you’d do the same at getting up at five in the morning and hunting coyotes.

I said fun, you Neanderthal, Liz said.

A place to stay, Rusty said. Where should I stay? he asked, looking at Sheriff Coronado.

Only one place out in the area, Sheriff Coronado said. Little mom and pop place called the Regulators Rest over at Lone Pine. That’s about three miles from the scene. Otherwise, it’s up in Roswell for any of the chain places. That’s nearly an hour away. Don’t’ think the Regulators Rest is much, but…

Mr. Caveman here doesn’t need much, Liz cut in. He’ll probably sleep on the floor or maybe even outside with the wild critters. Be a waste of good taxpayers’ money to put him up in the likes of a Holiday Inn, or such.

Soft beds make soft bodies, and minds, Rusty said.

Of course, we couldn’t soften up that hard head of yours, Liz said. Treating your body with some tender loving care might actually enter into your heart and soften it as well—couldn’t have that.

Rusty looked at Sheriff Coronado, smiled then said, Actually, Liz and I make a good team. I couldn’t operate out there without Liz in here reluctantly helping me all the way.

So we’re a team, Liz said.

Sorta—maybe like Santa and his elves, Rusty said.

So now I’m just some kind of munchkin? Liz responded.

Well, you’re surely not Santa Claus, giving me the oldest vehicle in the lot and a fleabag motel room, now, are you? Rusty asked.

I’ll get you a room reserved, Liz said. Take him, please, Sheriff Coronado. Turning to Rusty, she said, Stop over at the armory and pick up your ammo on your way out of town. Your car’s in the motor pool lot. Anything else, let me know.

Yeah, I’ll call you later, Rusty said as he and Sheriff Coronado rose to leave. As they reached the door, Liz called out to him.

Rusty—be careful, please.

Later, was all Rusty said, giving a half-hearted wave. Without speaking, Rusty and Sheriff Coronado walked down the hallway towards the side door leading out to the back parking area and motor pool lot. Stepping outside, they stopped.

You know where you’re going, right? Sheriff Coronado asked.

Yeah, I’ll find it, Rusty said. I have to go over to my apartment and pack some things. What’s it, about five hours or so down there?

Give or take, Sheriff Coronado said. I’ve also got some things to do here in the city—shopping list of stuff for the wife. How about I meet you for breakfast in the morning? There’s a small café beside the motel. About eight?

Sounds like a plan, Rusty said.

Oh, be careful, Sheriff Coronado said. There’s some locals out there who aren’t happy with that rig setup being shut down. This is a new field, the first chance for any of that oil money to hit that part of the county. There’s a lot hinging on this first hole being a success. If it’s dry, or they pull off and never drill it, a lot of people are going to be disappointed—very angry, too. Even though I shut it down, you being a Fed, well, they might take things out on you. You’ll sorta have a target on your back.

Used to that, Rusty said. My people have had targets on their backs since the first white man set foot out here.

 Sheriff Coronado just nodded. Only thinking about all the paperwork young Liz in there would have to do if something happened to you. She likes you, I guess you know.

City girl, Rusty said. She’d never keep up with me. Besides, we’re on a different plane on so many important things. She does a great job for me, though. We really are a good team. Hey, as you’re driving and all, think about any suspects—any possibilities at all. We need somewhere to start. Somebody out there knows something—maybe everything.

 Sheriff Coronado nodded his head. In the morning then. He turned and headed for the parking lot and his sheriff’s pickup truck.

Rusty walked over to the motor pool office where he signed the paperwork and got the keys. He found the old Suburban and walked to it. As he opened the driver’s door, he glanced back at the rear wheel. Flat Tire… Great way to start things off. A sign of things to come? Going to need your help on this one, Lord.

Chapter Two

Later that evening, Rusty turned off the main highway south of Roswell and drove