Pete Wilson swung the cruiser into his driveway. Today marked his first full week of duty in Ramah. His eyes swung up to the craggy crests of the Zuni Mountains. He’s never dreamed he could return to his childhood home, but circumstances had brought him back at last. At the same moment, he frowned. One week and he had a puzzle on his hands already. Who was the mystery marauder that was putting everyone on edge?

He’d stopped in to see Susie Barton, who ran one of the local bed and breakfasts, along with Ramah’s small post office. She had the usual band of small animals tagging around her as she put the mail into the post box slots. They were both Diné, and had known each other since grade school, despite the long years since then.

“It hit my garden last night, knocked over two chicken coops at the Natachu farm, and pulled broken wire out further so Hosteen Othole’s two goats got loose.” She was grinning, her good natured round face beaming as usual.

“I know about the goats, because Hosteen Othole called me in. One of those devils nearly got run over before he could be caught.” Pete’s lips downturned as he remembered the nice gash the bucking goat had made in his car’s fender.

Susie tapped her mouth, eyes scrunched up in momentary contemplation. “But it never eats anything, or even bloodies any creatures. Down, Sugar!” She swatted ineffectually at a small wire haired mutt who’d jumped up to paw at her knee.

“Well, there is that,” Pete agreed.

“This must be a switch for you, after all that urban crime,” Susie said.

Pete brushed away the thoughts of Albuquerque, its grit, gangs, and swift sharp confrontations, now mercifully receding in memory. Or the continuous pang of the lofty hospital building, beeping and buzzing with lights and machinery. The thin face on the stark white pillow, a plea radiating from eyes that had lost hope. “A nice switch,” he said curtly.

(to be continued)