Cienega 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.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernie Ziegner
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890213525

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

Contents

Chapter 1 1

Chapter 2 4

Chapter 3 8

Chapter 4 13

Chapter 5 15

Chapter 6 17

Chapter 7 22

Chapter 8 29

Chapter 9 34

Chapter 10 38

Chapter 11 42

Chapter 12 48

Chapter 13 51

Chapter 14 59

Chapter 15 61

Chapter 16 64

Chapter 17 66

Chapter 18 70

Chapter 19 76

Chapter 20 83

Chapter 21 88

Chapter 22 90

Chapter 23 95

Chapter 24 98

Chapter 25 109

Chapter 26 115

Chapter 27 123

Chapter 28 126

Chapter 29 129

Chapter 30 134

Chapter 31 139

Chapter 32 142

Chapter 33 147

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 coffee still hot from the thermos.

It was a clear and cool night in mid April of 1961 in the desert east of Tucson. John enjoyed working outside by himself where he had some measure of independence and 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, 11:20pm. 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 divergence when working at the Cienega Crossing repeater hut. During the day John waved at the engineers and the men in the caboose and would receive a comforting return greeting. 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 into 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 declined to do. He felt uneasy not being able to hear the approach of a vehicle or person.

Five ALCO diesel-electric engines, each generating 2000hp, 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, seen clearly in the light of the almost full moon. When the tandem engines passed across the steel bridge at Cienega 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 glimpse several men at the open door of a boxcar as it swept through his field of view. The men appeared to throw out what looked like a body.

John stood 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. Uneasiness 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 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 telephone private-line via the cable to the AT&T Long Lines Testboard 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 Testboard think he had lost his marbles?

Fearing to make a fool of himself, John decided to investigate before calling in a report. The railroad was only 150 feet away, and so he decided to hurry to where the object came off the train. He grabbed a flashlight from the truck and set off at a brisk walk toward the train track. He 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 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 pounded. 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, his voice pitch 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 he ever met.

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 outa 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 met him.

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 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 started watching it go by. That’s when I saw it.

Saw what, exactly? The sheriff wrote something.

Box car 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. John pointed toward the east. That way.

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 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 up anything? 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 be going to finish the tests I need to do.

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 just ahead.

It was 1:15am when John informed the Tucson Testboard that the tests were completed at the Benson repeater. He was told that all was well and 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 an urge 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 US-80 across the state and John stopped there frequently. Even at this late hour, several large rigs were parked in front. John was always sure of a hearty meal or a generous slice of pie.

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 regular US-80 highway, 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 why the hobos were stirring at this hour. John had met all four men some months earlier. They were all veterans of the Korean War wanting only 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 solicited a ride back to Pantano. John parked and walked toward the group of hobos. They nodded at his approach as John singled 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 continued toward Tucson.

John arrived at the AT&T office early Saturday morning. Randy was still sitting at the Testboard when John entered the room.

"Hey John. You make enough trouble for