by Gwen Moffat
They looked up at the pinyons which started a thousand feet above them. ‘He’d never take a horse up there,’ Nielsen said. ‘I reckon he was down in the canyon and we missed him somehow. He’s probably back at the ranch by now.’
‘There are tracks here in the sand.’
‘There would be. They’re from two days ago, when we brought the mobsters down.’
They were approaching the Stone Cabin which stood solitary on its little hillock, the spring and the cottonwood in front, its door hidden at the back. They rode up the gradient and the hitching rail came in sight. A frayed length of rope dangled from it by a tight knot. The door was ajar.
They dismounted, tied their horses and went inside. They did not call out.
There was something on the divan, covered by a blanket. Nielsen peeled the blanket back gently. Tony Doyle lay on his side, stark naked. He looked as if he had died in his sleep. He was cold and stiff and there were two wounds: one in the back of the neck, the other in the right temple. There was a lot of extruded matter from one exit wound. There was no weapon near the body.
‘Who did this?’ Nielsen breathed, not expecting an answer.
She shook her head. ‘Don’t touch anything else. We shouldn’t walk about either.’
They stood stiffly and surveyed the interior of the cabin.
Doyle’s clothes were on a chair, not neatly folded, but not thrown there either. His boots lay on the floor, his gun belt (with the gun still holstered) was on the table with the plastic cloth, beside his hat.
‘There’s no sign of a struggle,’ Nielsen said in wonder. ‘You’d almost think he did it himself but it’s impossible, isn’t it? In the back of the head?’
‘I don’t know if it’s impossible, but the gun would be here. I wonder about the calibre. Can you tell just by looking at the entrance wound?’
‘Well, it’s a handgun. A rifle would have done far more damage than that. I can’t tell any more. The bullets have to be around somewhere—’
‘Don’t look for them. They’d probably be distorted anyway. Come outside.’
They stood at the back of the cabin and stared at the horses tethered to the rail.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ He sounded devastated. ‘What do we do, Melinda?’
‘One of us must go back. I will, if you don’t mind staying. I should think Stuart could be here before dark, in a helicopter.’
‘I’ll stay. Ride carefully. There’s no hurry.’
That was a moot point but all the same she did not hurry, taking the return journey at a steady canter, not thinking so much as accepting the next step as it came, at least for the time it took to reach Sweetwater.
The first step was the simplest. When she arrived at the ranch she went straight to Nielsen’s den and telephoned Stuart, tracing him to an hotel where the visiting pathologist was staying. Her news astounded him. He said he would leave for the Stone Cabin immediately in a helicopter.
She put down the receiver and went to the kitchen where Miss Ginny was mixing batter. ‘Eat all your brownies?’ she asked slyly.
Miss Pink stared. She had forgotten lunch. ‘Of course. Delicious. Where is Emma?’
‘On the terrace with Mrs Jack. I’ve just sent tea in. I’ll bring an extra cup now you’ve come home.’
‘I’ll take it.’ Carrying her saddle bags and a Denby cup and saucer she went through the house and stepped out of the dining room into the sun. On a table under the pergola stood the silver tea service with its attendant china, and three large empty platters.
There was a step behind her and Ingrid said: ‘You’re back early. Where did you find Tony?’ Miss Pink did not reply; she was staring at the table and Ingrid followed her gaze.
‘Good God! A dog’s been here! Or a coyote.’ She stepped back to ring a bell.
Miss Pink advanced to the table. ‘Every scrap,’ Ingrid marvelled. ‘Not a crumb left. That will be two plates of sandwiches and one of cakes.’
Miss Ginny came through the dining room, wiping her hands on a towel, glancing from Ingrid to the table. Her jaw dropped, she clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes a blend of horror and amusement.
‘Not Kermit,’ Miss Pink assured her. ‘Not three plates piled with food and never a crumb left.’
Miss Ginny relaxed visibly. ‘Coyote,’ she said, stacking the plates. ‘I’m sorry for any beast as hungry as this. Everything was covered with Cling Wrap. He’s even taken that. You’ll have to be patient while I soften some more butter.’
‘No hurry,’ Ingrid said. ‘I’m sorry, Melinda.’
‘I’ll take a cup of tea to my room and get rid of these bags.’
But she was in her room no longer than it took to drain the tea at a gulp and drop the saddle bags, then she went along the passage and knocked on the door of the Chadwicks’ apartment.
There was no answer. She turned the handle and found herself in a vestibule with two doors, both of which were open. The rooms beyond were shadowed; they were on the north side of the house. There was a movement and Chadwick appeared.
‘May I come in?’
He was against the light so she could not see his expression clearly. He made no response but turned back to the room. She entered, closing the outer door behind her, and joined him in a pleasant sitting room furnished in sage and rose, its French windows wide to a balcony and the view up the valley.
‘Sit down,’ he said, but there was no hospitality in his tone. They sat opposite each other in easy chairs. He bore no resemblance to the man who had welcomed her to Sweetwater a little over a week ago. His shirt was damp, he wore no tie and his dull eyes mirrored deep distress.
She contemplated him for a moment. He asked her if she would care for a drink and she said she would take a sherry.
He got up, gripping one arm of his chair, went to a sideboard, poured the drink, came back and set it beside her. ‘I’m still a bit shaky,’ he said. It was a superfluous remark.
‘Where is Emma?’ she asked.
‘She went out.’
‘When?’
‘About twenty minutes ago.’
‘Riding or driving?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘I came down from the Stone Cabin but I didn’t see her.’
‘She could have gone in any direction.’
‘Do you ride, Simon?’
The answer to this did not come pat. ‘After a fashion.’
‘Why did you hesitate?’
‘Were you wanting me to ride out and look for Emma?’
‘Where was she yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. She was riding.’ There was a long pause. ‘Why do you want to know?’ He trod like Agag.
‘Is it wise for her to go out with Tony?’
He stood up, went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky. He came back and sat down. ‘I trust her,’ he said.
‘If you’re sincere when you say that, there’s a lot more going on than you realize.’
He looked at his shoes. ‘Is there?’
‘Simon.’ Reluctantly he raised his eyes. ‘Was she in Bighorn Basin yesterday?’
‘How would I know?’
‘And where is she now?’
‘Look, I don’t keep tabs on her.’
‘She stole food a short time ago. What’s she planning? Has she taken money?’ He gaped. ‘She has. Where did she get it?’ She held his eyes. ‘Where did she get the money, Simon?’
‘I don’t think she took the—any money. She stole food? Why did she have to do that?’
‘Had they made plans to run away?’ He put his head in his hands. She waited. After a while he asked, without looking at her: ‘How did you know?’
‘She told me.’ It was almost true.
‘She told you he was going to go away with her? Poor kid. He’d never have left, not in a million years. It’s all over now anyway: water under the bridge. They’re going so she just has to stay and accept things as they are.’
�
��He’s dead.’
He blinked at her. ‘Oh, no! Don’t tell me he killed himself! He hasn’t got the guts.’
‘He was shot, and one wound is in the back of the skull. He was murdered at the Stone Cabin.’
‘What the hell was he doing up there?’
‘Jack had sent him across yesterday to bring down a boulder that was threatening the road.’
‘You’re talking about—’
‘About Tony Doyle.’ He closed his eyes. ‘And you were talking about Orville Fraser,’ she said. ‘You haven’t given anything away; there had to be a good reason for Bertha Fraser hating Emma as much as she did.’
He stood up and walked unsteadily to the balcony. Leaning out he looked at the Last Chance Range. The light was failing and no lamps were lit in the sitting room. She wondered what his face looked like.
‘Is it impossible to shoot yourself in the back of the skull with a handgun?’ he asked.
‘How do you know it was a handgun?’
‘Because it would be impossible with a rifle.’
‘There was no weapon near the body.’
‘How was he found?’
‘In bed.’
He wiped the back of his neck and after a while, during which she watched him but didn’t speak, he walked across the room to the vestibule. She followed him into the bedroom where a large double bed was neatly made. He glanced at her and went to an old-fashioned wardrobe. Feeling inside the pocket of a sports jacket he brought out a sheaf of bills and handed them to her. There were seven and they were each for one hundred dollars.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘Just money. It came from Vegas originally—by way of Donna Aragon.’
‘Where is the rest of it?’
‘In a safe place.’ He sounded exhausted. He went to the bed, lifted the quilt and felt under a pillow. His face, which had been set, changed, became frightened. He leaned over and felt under the second pillow. His eyes darted round the room. ‘My gun was here. Emma must have taken it.’ The fear left him and he sat on the bed. ‘You’ve got the money anyhow. Do you know where Stuart is?’
‘He’s on his way to the Stone Cabin.’
‘When you see him you can tell him I’m ready to make a statement now.’
No one had seen fit to move her horse, probably because she had left it at the back of the ranch rather than taking him to the corral; without orders the servants would think she was going to need him again. But Breeches was tired. She went in search of Myron whom she found in the dining room. No one else was there, nor on the terrace.
‘Myron, I want you to do something.’
He inclined his head: his compromise with an alien etiquette.
‘I’m driving down to the corral. Will you bring Breeches and pick out a good horse for me, a fresh one?’
‘I will send one of the men.’
‘I can’t talk with the men and this is a private matter. I need you to take a message to Mr Jack.’
‘My job is here.’
‘Your job is looking after your people. You know what happened at the Stone Cabin?’
‘I know that Mr Jack is there, and a helicopter went in a few minutes ago.’
‘Tony Doyle was shot in the Stone Cabin.’
His face did not change but his eyes flickered. ‘Who shot him?’
‘Not an Indian. And Indians didn’t kill the others: the women in the car.’
‘So?’
‘I have to find Mrs Chadwick. If there is another killing the police might become desperate to find the killer. Some of your people are like children. Those at Molten have run. That looks bad. I want to get to Mrs Chadwick quickly. I need your help for that: show me which way she went, pick out a reliable horse for me. Mr Jack trusts me.’
It was that that persuaded him. He rode Breeches while she followed in her car. At the side of the corral stood the bunk-house occupied by the wranglers, the barns and stables. Halfway, between the corral and the ranch, they had passed the cabins where the Indians lived. There were a few lights in these.
She parked at the stables where a powerful light mounted on a pole flooded the corral, shining on sleek backs and gleaming eyes. The horses milled and jostled uneasily.
‘Is the palomino here?’ She was trying to pick it out among the restless animals.
‘No, it has not come back. Mr Jack said Hal should go south today.’
‘And Mrs Chadwick’s little horse?’
‘I don’t see it.’ He removed Breeches’ saddle and carried it into the stable which was also lit. They looked down the rail where saddles were stacked. There were four missing, the other two being Nielsen’s and Doyle’s.
‘Saddle a strong quiet horse,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the bunk-house. Come to me immediately if anyone rides in.’
She had not been in the bunk-house until now. She paused outside at the uncurtained window and saw that it appeared to be untenanted. She pushed open the door and surveyed its one room.
It was a large barn of a place with two sets of bunks and two single beds, the former with blankets folded on mattresses, but the beds neatly made up. Each bed had a rough table at its head with a few paperback books. There were no names on the fly leaves. She pulled a worn leather suit-case from under one bed. It was not locked and contained two pairs of thick socks, a T-shirt and a pair of nail clippers. She glanced at a wardrobe but tried the other bed first. Under that was an elegant pigskin case. She opened it to reveal clothing: clean shirts, shorts, socks, handkerchiefs. Under these was a small plastic bag showing green, and inside it was a wad of hundred-dollar bills. She did not count them but the wad was over an inch thick.
There was also a cheque book, over-printed with the name Antony John Doyle.
Chapter 15
The night was cloudless and although the moon had not yet risen there was a fair light from the stars. Across the valley the cone of Lonesome Peak was obvious: the fixed point towards which she turned the bay mare as she set out across the flats. Behind her the lights of the Toyota crept towards the ranch while away to the north, half right to her present line of travel, was the canyon leading to Bighorn Basin. She was puzzled. Why had the helicopter not come out? And was Nielsen still up there or riding down the canyon? A number of people were abroad tonight. Hal Brewer must be somewhere to her south, either heading back to the ranch or camped for the night. In front, in the canyon under Lonesome, there was Emma.
She sensed rather than saw an obstruction in her path at the same time as the mare veered to pass it. The horse continued to turn, imperceptibly, until Miss Pink saw the lights of the ranch. Firmly, suppressing a touch of panic, she pushed it back to the line. The mare shook her head but turned obediently. ‘Keep her head to Lonesome Peak,’ Myron had said. ‘She’ll find the canyon.’ Miss Pink hoped he was not putting too much trust in the animal; for the life of her she could see no break in the escarpment.
She must be riding between salt pans for the going was firm and she could distinguish dark clumps on either side which must be creosote bushes. Occasionally a twig brushed her boot. Somewhere, out in the middle of the valley, the bushes stopped and she could see nothing but the pale ground. Again she wondered about the salt and her horse getting tired but the mare kept up a steady pace, her hooves making scarcely a sound on what must be the dry silt of the river that ran here only in the spring.
After a few hundred yards of this wide watercourse something huge loomed ahead but this time she would not panic, merely gripped her horse a little closer. The mare angled sideways, dropped her head, gathered herself and seemed to claw her way upwards like a cat. Miss Pink had thought the bank a hundred feet high but after only a few feet they were on the level again. She glanced back and saw the high ground bold against a paling sky. It was a knoll crowned with creosote, and the moon was rising.
They plodded through sand, traversed a grove of mesquite where they put up some large bird that had been roosting in the branches, and now the trees grew darke
r and the ground more pale as the moon floated clear of the Molten hills. In front Lonesome appeared bright by virtue of its contrasting canyons and there, almost floodlit, were two rock buttresses with a shadowed cleft between. She looked back. The ranch was still in the gloom of the eastern mountains and its lights showed clearly across the valley. Still there was no sign of a helicopter. There was nothing more than the sounds her horse’s hooves made on sand, on hardened mud, and now on stones. They must be on the scree fan at the foot of the canyon.
The rock walls closed about her, which was a good thing because there was an ancient pack trail in the bottom which, in the old days, had run from a gold mine right down the Sweetwater valley and out to Calcine. With the narrows only a few yards in width the horse found the path immediately and quickened her pace. Miss Pink was happy to let her go while she concentrated on her surroundings: looking, listening, sniffing.
It was her ears that caught the first hint of life, but that was not human; somewhere up ahead the coyotes were on the prowl, calling and singing like banshees. At the ranch she had delighted in their night song, but this was another place. Reason reminded her sternly that the beasts were not aggressive, but a sly imp, itself quite reasonable, pointed out that if she were lying on these slopes with a broken leg, coyotes might behave differently from how they would towards a fit rider on a good horse. And where was reason anyway when the chorus of a hunting pack erupted suddenly in a wild and empty canyon?
Wild but not empty. In the distance a faint glow waxed and faded. An optical illusion? It would not be the first tonight. She remembered the high ground that had been a bank with a shrub on top. She turned her head slightly and, with peripheral vision, she was certain that there was light in the bottom of the canyon that was not associated with the moon. Soon she smelled woodsmoke but her relief was superseded by wariness. Who was tending the fire?
She caught the odour of mud and damp vegetation. Water gleamed on the trail, the fire glowed red, foliage shone in the moonlight. The flames had subsided by the time she approached the spring. Her mare whinnied, to be answered by another horse.
A blanket lay on the ground and a pair of saddle bags. There was a saddle on the branch of a fallen cottonwood. A horse moved among the tree trunks. She dismounted, went over to the animal and identified it as Emma’s. She returned to the fire.
