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walk. My nature was to sit, sit, sit. It was easier to think when I was motionless. But this intense young lady always brought out the best in me. I glanced toward the county road where a fair crowd had collected—cops who wanted in, Posadas Electric crews ready to assess and repair the damage, rancher Miles Waddell still patiently supported by the fender of his truck, firemen finished with their half-acre burn. The crowd remained stationary, though. They apparently understood that if they started milling about, any semblance of crime scene would be stamped into oblivion.
    Taking the damaged power poles in order, we visited each saw cut, crossing first to number five, nearest the tarp-shrouded figure of Curt Boyd, the pole that had kicked across the cattle guard as the whole mess tilted and twisted.
    The initial cut was a neat job, the saw ripping through the creosoted pole to within an inch or two of completion.
    â€œThat’s not much to support the pole,” I said. “The least little breeze would do it.”
    â€œAnd no breeze tonight,” she said. “Not until dawn, maybe. Between this,” and Estelle touched the torn fragment that the saw hadn’t finished, “and the wires themselves, would the pole stand? I mean, barring a wind or a push?”
    â€œI would think so, but I’m just guessing. You’d have to ask Dick Whittaker. But if all six weren’t cut all the way through, if they’re just balancing there on a little splinter of wood…”
    Superintendent of this portion of the grid, Whittaker was talking to a group of his men fifty yards away.
    â€œI’ll meet up with him in a bit.” Estelle measured the wood with her fingers. “Not much left, but maybe enough.” She looked off to the east. “So. Here we have six cripples, each one held by only an inch, and along comes one little morning breeze…”
    â€œAbsolutely. And it could be that the last one they cut sabotaged the whole plan. Over they went, and that last one kicked Curt Boyd.” One at a time, we visited the other four poles, and all showed the same pattern: a clean cut that implied a powerful saw with a sharp chain and a confident operator. In each case, the saw cut stopped short of running through, leaving just a minimal tag to support the pole—a tag that had splintered when the poles toppled.
    â€œPaul Bunyan gave this a lot of thought,” I said. “A whole bunch of power poles standing, just waiting for daytime breezes. Can you imagine that? A bunch of wobbly giants, ready to take the plunge. And by then, our cutter is long gone.”
    â€œHis scheme didn’t work quite the way he planned.”
    I thought about that for a moment. “It worked until the last one, sweetheart. Maybe he missed a closer look at that last one, with all its nicks and bangs. Or he got a little excited, maybe a little tired and drove the saw just a hair too far. Over she goes, and with that weight off balance, the whole set rips free. A jangled mess.”
    â€œThe truck you saw driving north? He couldn’t have just been driving by here out of coincidence,” Estelle said quietly. “If he’d been a innocent witness, he would have stopped the first cop he saw to report this. If the truck whose lights you saw was the cutter, then he took off when the poles went down. And he didn’t take his injured friend with him, he didn’t leave the saw behind, and he didn’t give Kenderman a chance.”
    â€œAnd no sawdust on Curt Boyd,” I added. The undersheriff stood still, gazing at me, lost in thought. “Boyd sure as hell wasn’t the saw handler. Those things spray chips and oil all over the place. And by the way,” I added, “I didn’t see a truck driving north. I saw a set of headlights. That’s all.”
    â€œTell me how you see it happening, sir. With Boyd, I mean.”
    I took a deep breath. “I see Boyd