Seized by an un defined gloom, a listless shiftless melancholy that inhabited his sober moments, Scotty wandered down the expanse of dry river bed, washed sand a quarter mile wide in most places, seeking relief at the spring. The river was bone dry except for flash flood season when it could run bank to bank, a six feet deep frothy brown torrent that swept everything in its path, trees, cars, even cows. All year, about a half a mile south from his place  the rock formations forced a spring to the surface from the under ground river causing a soothing oasis of green with long cotton wood trees dripping mistletoe and ankle deep water flowing above ground for a mile or so before it again disappeared into the sand. Sometimes the hangover drove him here, but most times it was the empty feeling he didn’t understand and could not describe. Fully dressed except for his shoes he would walk through the water to a shady spot and lie down letting the water flow over and around him. Where his body touched the bottom the sand would slip away with the current and he could feel the minnows swimming into the void. He thought to himself, the cool quiet was what it must feel like to be dead and of so, it wasn’t so bad. As the sun shifted the light caused him to come out of his trance, but not moving, he continued to day dreamed about the Indians and rustlers that must have taken refuge here in the olden days. Often, after a flash flood, he would come down here and look around to see if a strong box might have surfaced. Like a child, he imagined gold bars neatly stacked and still shiny from the mint. Or Spanish silver, coins the Apache had no use for. Dreams of buried treasure or Lost Dutchman gold strikes often filled his mind, there were gold mines around here, hell, there was one near the house, so he was sure to strike it rich sooner or later. If  he lived long enough he wouldn’t need to strike it rich. When his mother and grand mother died he could just bury them and keep going to town to get their government checks like everything was regular. Thanks to Roosevelt, they both got money each month from the Social Security and no one came around to look after them. He could  live in style, maybe have some friends, throw parties, even Bar B. Q.
 
Liquor was what he now thought about. He wasn’t hungry and couldn’t remember being hungry, feeling his ribs he knew he had no meat on his bones, but food didn’t make him feel whole, free from concerns like alcohol did. He thought about the good times, being dressed in his best outfit in town for the Gold Rush Days celebration and seeing the three of them, his mother and grand mother and him reflected in the window of the Bar 7 and how they had looked so small, frail even, yet proud with their fancy western wear and happy from the drink and how later he found his mother and grand mother standing in the street, watching the horse parade, both drunk as skunks with piss stains down their fronts. He looked down and yes he had pissed himself too. He must have passed out, that’s usually when it happened. By that point, he hadn’t cared one way or the other how he looked or what people thought cause folks were buying drinks and leaving half drank glasses, some with the beer still cold, on abandoned tables as they went from crowded bar to crowded bar, the bartenders too busy to snatch up the leavings, to yell at him or run him off. The abundance of these celebrations lead quickly to his stupor, giving him relief from the miseries that shadowed his waking life, the chance to be the Scotty people thought him to be, with not a care in the world, the way kids envy dogs with no chores or school to attend. Those same people sure wouldn’t trade their life for his, their wives, kids, jobs and struggles for his supposed care free way. If you offered the opportunity, they would fight like hell to keep what they got. Coming out of the memory he wondered toward the house hoping for something to drink. The saw and the cut wood were left in the sand.
          
Cecil looked across the river from his front porch and watched the smoke curling from the two fires at the other side of the railroad trestle. The tar smoke from the burning roofing paper burned his nostrils and turned his stomach, the reality of what was happening worse than what he’d imagined.. Two days before Pete, the deputy sheriff  he knew from town and a wool suited, tight tied and strictly business railroad official had come by to give him a heads up. The rail road official informed him they would be using the easement across his land for equipment to burn down the two miners’ shacks across the river and for him not to worry, they’d bring a tanker truck to keep the fire from spreading. After they left he started over to warn Scotty but thought better of it and turned back, helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. The County promised to care for the animals and do what they could for the old women. Scotty and the Osborne’s, the other family squating  over there were expected to take care of themselves. As for their property, probably wouldn’t be anything of value, but the rail road would move the personal belongings off the land, storing it at the depot in town. Cecil didn’t know the Osborne people, but he had known Scotty and his kin since they were kids together on the ranches near Yuma, a time when people didn’t have locks on their door, when a neighbor or even a stranger was welcome if they needed shelter, food or most importantly, water. Nobody had much, the rung of status between what Scotty’s family had and what the other families had was just one step. Now you needed credentials to get a drink of water. The world had changed; Scotty couldn’t or wouldn’t keep up. Cecil couldn’t imagine that any place the Weathersbys landed wasn’t going to be better than what they had, so why did he feel like he had let them down? Not having them around would be a load off his mind. He’d helped when he could, having Scotty do simple work, stretch barb wire, staple a fence or dig a hole and he gave leftovers and clothes, even boots, but it never changed their circumstances. Any money was quickly turned into drink. As far as he knew there weren’t any more Weathersbys after these three left this world and who would miss them? He spit the grounds that came with the last gulp of coffee, looked at the grit in the cup and was overcome with uncomfortable thoughts, thoughts about himself, about whether any of us would be missed when we were gone and about the son of a bitch railroad man with a job no one should have. If that man felt bad about what he did, he didn’t show it. Listening to him the day before go on about how the company needed to limit their liability, how they needed access to their land, land you knew they would never set foot on again, made Cecil and the deputy tight lipped, both glancing sideways at the road, wanting the episode to be over, despairing at the powerlessness of their position, guilty for their un witting participation and angry about being used like spoons to stir this pot of misery. Disgusted by the lies, his impotence in the face of needless cruelty, the thought that the rancid smoke and heat of the fires could add weight to the already oppressive heat of the day turned Cecil in his tracks and sent him back into the house
         
The next morning early, just before seven, Pete found Cecil in his kitchen, drinking his third cup of coffee and having his fourth cigarette of the day. After pleasantries Pete asked in a stumbling voice, “Say Cecil, when’s the last time you saw Scotty?”
“I don’t know, I thought he left in one of those trucks yesterday.” Cecil answered, his curiosity aroused.  
“Did you see him in the truck, talk to him?”
Cecil thought for a second, then answered “No, I don’t guess I did, I just thought.”
“Then you didn’t see him leave?” Pete interrupted.
“No I guess I didn’t” Cecil answered falling into thought. He was not sure what to say about when he had last seen Scotty. “Why, what’s going on?” Cecil asked but not waiting for an answer he continued, “Say Pete, would you like a cup of coffee?” not liking the gist of the conversation, wanting to defuse the tension that was filled the room. 
Pete didn’t answer the question and instead asked in an obviously friendlier tone, “What kind of guns you keep around here Cecil?”
Puzzled, Cecil answered “I don’t know, nothing I guess, just an old thirty thirty I used to use for hunting, Why, Pete, what’s going on here?
Pete persisted, “No shot guns?”
“No shot guns Pete, now what’s going on?” Cecil stood, a reflex, raising his voice, wondering just what the hell was happening. “Did Scotty do something? Hurt someone?.”
“Scotty’s the one that’s hurt Cecil, maybe you should sit down.” “I’ll tell you what happened but first, did Scotty have any guns?” Bewildered, Cecil shook his head “Not that I ever saw.” being more careful with his answers, lighting another cigarette off the one he had just finished.
“So you didn’t see Scotty at all yesterday?”
“That’s right, I can’t remember when I last saw him.” Cecil thought better about mentioning that he has started over to Scotty’s the same afternoon Pete and the rail road man had been to see him.
“Then you don’t think Scotty had a shot gun?” Cecil shook his head no.
“Did you hear any gun shots yesterday, see anything suspicious yesterday after we left?”
Cecil paused, wanting to leave the impression that he was making sure of his answer and told the truth, “No, nothing happened after you all left and I don’t remember hearing any shots.”
The deputy continued “Well, you see Cecil, Scotty was shot and killed yesterday sometime after we left, shot with a shot gun of some kind. We don’t know all the details yet, so is there anything you can tell me?”       
Cecil sat back, his breath stuck in his lungs, his legs too weak to stand. After wiping his mouth and then his forehead and back over his thinning hair with a paper napkin Cecil said “Did he shot himself, was it an accident? Suicide?”
“It don’t look that way” The deputy answered without offering any further details, his lack of openness alerting Cecil and further heightening his curiosity. 
“You going to tell me what happened or just make me guess?” Cecil demanded and then added as if a defense, “You know I know most everybody around here, so why don’t you let me help? Do you think his mom or the Osborne’s had something to do with this?”
The deputy hesitated, knowing he needed to consider Cecil as a suspect, would giving away details hamper the investigation, decided there was no danger in taking Cecil into his confidence since it might be the best way to get him to open up and decided to tell him what he knew after asking him to keep “what he heard under his hat, strictly confidential.”
“Now this don’t go no further, okay?” The deputy inquired and Cecil nodded. “Well it looks like Scotty was shot twice, one from a distance and a second time up close, with a shot gun of some sort, probably a small gage gun with a bird shot load. There weren’t no gun at the scene and it don’t look like the first shot did much damage. So who ever did this took the time to re load and get real close for that second shot, which was to the chest, right in the solar plexus so as to get the heart. Now who do you know who could have done that?”

Cecil knew he was a suspect and hoped he could think of who else might be, coming again and again to the Dery kids, who everyone knew carried around a shot gun. Thoughts whirled in confusion in Cecil’s head as he clicked off the families in the area and whether any of them would have done such a thing. Who had a shot gun? Nobody hunted around here so he wasn’t friendly enough to know who had what guns. Sure there were plenty of guns, this was Arizona after all, but he couldn’t remember seeing one in any anybody’s house.

And who would want to hurt Scotty? He could only come up with the Dery grand kids and the 410 they carried around. Would the deputy believe a kid could do such a thing? Deciding to keep quiet for the time being he lowered his head, then shook it side to side and said, “Damned if I know Pete, I just don’t know.”

Cecil spent the rest of the day wondering around in a daze thinking about the people who lived around him and questioning who might get the blame for such a thing. None of it fit together and he kept coming back to the Dery grand kids as the only possibility he could put forth. He had seen them many time with the 410 walking to the river and would it seem possible. The older one was quiet and could be old enough to do such a thing, but the younger one was just a nice friendly kid that seemed happy all the time and kind of simple. Tiring of his morbid thoughts he drove to town to scare up some dinner and see what the gossip was about the shooting. He ended up at the Chicken In A Basket, a place in the center of town where everybody ate chicken fried steak, not chicken, but did not see anybody he knew to talk to so he took a small table next to the window away from the swamp cooler. He wanted his chicken fried steak and potatoes with gravy over both to be hot more than he wanted himself to be cool, besides it was late evening and it had cooled considerably. His meal came with mayo drenched coleslaw made with red cabbage, what passed for exotic in 1950's Arizona and all the coffee you could take. He listened to the talk at neighboring tables but didn’t over hear any conversation about the shooting. Finely, he asked the waitress if she had heard about Scotty Weathersby to which she gave one of her standard  weary with customer conversation answers,  “Sorry, I don’t know about him,” the same answer she gave whether she knew the person or not.  When Cecil persisted with “He was shot dead yesterday” she seemed genuinely surprised and went immediately to ask the cook, who also didn’t know about the shooting or who Scotty was. Shootings were not an everyday event in this sleepy little dude ranch town and when he got up to pay both the cook and the waitress came to the cash register to ask about the event, repeating after each detail “that is just awful.” Finely, tired of thinking and talking about the shooting, Cecil bought a couple of beers to go and went home.