by Kit Ehrman
* * *
It took all of Sunday to recover from that stunt, but by the time Tuesday morning rolled around, I was halfway to normal. Even the rib pain had settled into a dull ache, noticeable, but no longer annoying.
Like clockwork, Foxdale's farrier bumped his pickup down the lane at precisely seven-fifty-nine on the first Tuesday in March. He swung the truck around, backed up to the barn door, and braked to a halt.
"What've you got for me today, Steve?" Nick asked as he lowered the tailgate.
"Thirteen. You've done them before." I pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of my back pocket and handed it to him.
He skimmed the list, grunting at a name or two, then tossed it back at me. I leaned against the barn door and watched him rummage through an assortment of shoes, pads, and nails. Anything an equine athlete might require to produce a winning performance.
Nick was a short, compact man with wiry black hair and a heavily-muscled back from years spent doubled up under the bellies of countless horses. I'd never seen him without a twisted bandanna tied around his head, even in winter, and his thick neck always looked sunburned. Unlike Foxdale's last farrier, Nick always had what we needed in stock, even for the most complicated job. But what I appreciated most was the fact that he actually liked horses. I'd known more than one farrier who behaved as if they didn't like horses at all.
Nick hopped off the tailgate, reached back into the bed, and dragged the anvil toward him. The resultant screech of metal against metal caused me to grit my teeth. When he switched on the forge, I brought out the first horse, a bright chestnut gelding with exceptionally thin soles. He had been one of the most difficult horse I'd ever held for Nick.
"Well, this ol' boy's finally come round," Nick said, reading my thoughts.
"Thanks to you," I said.
"No . . . I think it was your singin' that did it," he said straight-faced.
I groaned. "Don't remind me."
"Well, come on now," Nick drawled in a hillbilly twang that I had long since concluded was mostly act. "It was torture all right, but it calmed 'im down. Must have a twisted sense of music." He ran his hand down the gelding's neck. "He's finally recovered his trust. Who did 'im before me?"
"Barren."
"Well then, that explains it. He's screwed up more of 'em than a hooker on a Saturday night."
I snorted.
We were on the second horse of the day when I heard the hay truck pull down the lane. Since Nick was working at the forge, I cross-tied the mare and told him I'd be back in a minute. I ran outside and caught up with Marty before he got to the truck.
"Marty, wait."
"What's up?"
"I want you to supervise the unloading. Get some of the guys to help you. Count every bale they throw off that truck. And," I paused and caught my breath, "I left a scale in the implement building. It's hung up and ready to go. I want you to weigh bales, say, at twenty-bale intervals. Let me have the figures as soon as you're done."
"What, they're ripping us off?"
"I think so."
"Stupid bastards," Marty said through a yawn. "How come it don't surprise me?"
"Thanks . . . oh, and did Brian come in yet?"
"Nope. Called in sick."
"All right. And let me know what the tonnage on Harrison's paperwork is, too."
"Sure thing, boss." I watched him head for the truck, knowing full well Marty couldn't care less about little scams like that. I wondered why I did.
Forty-five minutes later, we were almost finished with horse number three, and Marty still hadn't come back.
"Nick," I said. "Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored, six-horse? A gooseneck."
He straightened and stretched the kinks out of his back. "Not offhand. Why?"
"Here you go, boss," Marty said in my ear. He handed me a slip of paper. "Anything else?"
I shook my head, and Marty spun around and headed back to barn B.
I worked out the sums. The tonnage was off. Somehow, Harrison was altering the figures from the weigh station. In the past, all I'd had were suspicions. Now I had proof. Unfortunately, bringing this to Harrison's attention would not to be pleasant. He was irritated with me anyway, because I didn't hesitate to return moldy or poor-quality hay and demand credit--services he touted, but when it came to the actual case in point, he did so grudgingly.
"What about that trailer, Steve?" Nick said as he clinched a nail flush against the hoof wall.
"Oh. A rig like that was used by whoever stole the horses."
"From Foxdale?" he said.
"Yep."
"I didn't think the police had any leads."
"They don't. Not if they can't figure out who owns the trailer." I watched Boris, Foxdale's lone barn cat, make his way down the aisle. When he saw me, he trotted over and leaned against my leg. I pushed him away with my foot, but he came right back, not getting the hint. "Damn it."
Gene paused with the rasp in his hand. "What's that?"
"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just that this stupid cat won't leave me alone. Have you heard of any other horse thefts or--" I glanced over my shoulder.
Mr. Harrison had squeezed between Nick's truck and the barn door and was walking down the aisle toward us. A tall, plain-faced man, he kept his thinning blond hair combed across his scalp in a misplaced effort to hide the fact that he was balding prematurely.
He nodded to Nick, then handed me his clipboard. "Any return bales?"
"No." I hesitated. "There's a problem, though."
"What?"
I looked from the paperwork to his face. He had narrowed his eyes, and I had a sudden impression that the muscles in his face had settled into an arrangement they were accustomed to. Deep wrinkles creased his forehead, and his eyebrows had bunched together into a straight line that shadowed his gray eyes.
I cleared my throat. "There's a discrepancy between the tonnage stated on the invoice and what we actually received."
"What are you talking about?" His face was turning red, and he'd clenched his hands.
"By my calculations, we're about twelve-hundred pounds short, give or take a bale or two. And that's just this one delivery," I said and saw he knew exactly what I meant.
He looked so angry; I thought he might hit me. Instead, he grabbed the clipboard, scratched out his figure, wrote in a new one, and shoved it back into my hand.
I looked at the invoice. He'd pressed so hard, the pen's tip had ripped through the top sheet. I checked it, signed it, gave it back to him.
He stood there for a couple of seconds, staring at me with eyes that had become oddly vacant. The muscles along his jaw were bunched with tension, and I still thought he might slug me.
He turned abruptly and headed down the aisle. His shoulders were hunched forward under his stained coveralls as he walked out of the barn and into the flood of sunlight.
Behind me, Nick chuckled. "You sure know how to make friends."
"I wouldn't want him for a friend," I said quietly.
"No. He's a creepy bastard. Mean too, what with that incident a while back."
"What incident?"
"You didn't hear about that?"
I shook my head.
He slid the hoof knife into its slot on his leather apron and picked up a rasp. "Well, about a year ago, there was a stink about him beating a horse—"
"He has horses?"
"Yep. Owns a farm west of here. Can't remember the name right now. Anyway, some horse did somethin' that pissed 'im off, so he tied it to a post and beat it with a whip. Cut the animal up good, so they say. Blood everywhere. Somebody reported him to the Humane Society. Course, by the time they showed, the horse was nowhere to be found." He spit a glob of chewing tobacco into an open stall. "Nothin' ever came of it."
"What kind of farm's he run?"
"Hunter/jumpers, lessons, sales, anything, I imagine. . . . Got his hand in everything. Makes 'im feel important."
"You shoe for him?" I said and won
dered whether Harrison would have the nerve to continue supplying us.
"Yep. For 'bout a year now. But I'm thinkin' of droppin' him."
"Why's that?"
"Guy's got a major cash flow problem." Nick flipped the rasp over in his hand. "Ol' Steel use to board at his farm?"
"You mean Mr. Sanders' horse?"
"Yep."
"He's one of the horses that was stolen," I said.
"I know. Sanders had him insured for twenty grand while he was at Harrison's."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope. My sister works for the insurance company that issued the claim. Agent who sold 'im the policy had a couple of tense minutes over it, 'cause in retrospect, it appears the horse ain't worth as much as all that."
"I wouldn't have thought so."
