by Gwen Moffat
‘He fired it. I met him and I’ve tried to visualize the circumstances in which he’d fire at a man, and I failed. You would have known him better and longer than I. Why would a man like Irving Tye fire three shots in Sundance? It couldn’t have been elsewhere or his friends would have known. It had to be after he left the tent.’
‘I know one thing: he never fired at anyone. He was a bully and a coward. And if a bear had been around, Irving would have thrown that gun away and run. Shelley won’t talk about him to me and I can understand that, all she went through, but Edna told me he was hysterical when he ran out of the tent. The only reason he could have fired his gun had to be because he was terrified. He fired it to attract attention.’ His mouth stretched in a kind of smile. ‘If he’d kept quiet the killer would never have known he was there.’
Chapter 14
The Big Sky Motel, normally closed until elk season started, had opened early to accommodate the media people who arrived on the heels of the Search and Rescue teams and stayed for the unexpected bonus of the events that followed. However, the Big Sky provided nothing more than beds and washing facilities; for everything else; food, drink and a social life, the Press congregated at The Covered Wagon. Prosper, named for the fertility of the river valley had, in the middle of the dead season, again struck it rich. On this clear and icy evening, with the afterglow still flaming in the west, the forecourt of The Wagon was so crowded that Seale was hard put to find a place for the Bronco.
As she switched off the engine she said: ‘You’ve found your bearings. I can tell by your manner.’
‘Not quite,’ Miss Pink confessed. ‘But things are starting to make sense. We’ve been concentrating on what happened in Sundance when the key may lie in what happened elsewhere.’
She climbed out of the truck and Seale came round the front to join her. ‘You mean, by eliminating people because they were elsewhere, you’ve arrived at who was in Sundance?’
‘No.’ They threaded their way between the cars. ‘I didn’t mean that. How can you attach credence to a person’s statement concerning his whereabouts last Sunday? Some are definitely lying, but which ones? It’s the little things that are starting to form a pattern.’
‘Such as?’
But Miss Pink had opened a door on a crowded barn of a room which was so noisy that their entrance went almost unnoticed.
The wooden walls of The Wagon were studded with horned or snarling heads, under which were glimpses of banks of electronic games—glimpses only because of the crowd. The company was composed of reporters and cowhands, easily distinguished by their dress. There was no segregation; after three days of propinquity it would appear that each group accepted the other to form a convivial mob. Seale pushed through it and Miss Pink followed, smiling benignly, feeling tension but, looking about her, she saw only flushed faces and glittering eyes, some familiar—the woman in the quilted overcoat, the callow youth with the auburn moustache—but no one who looked guilty or frightened or even resentful of her mild observation.
She realized that Seale had stopped and she found herself looking into the blackcurrant eyes of a very fat man behind a bar. His features were squashed together: eyes, button nose, rosebud mouth. He wore tinted spectacles and mutton chop whiskers, and below several chins his torso broadened like a pear, sealed in a flower-sprigged shirt.
‘Hi, Randy,’ Seale said. ‘A coupla Budweisers with glasses. You’re busy.’
The small mouth opened to reveal small neat teeth. ‘You can say that again. We’re run off our feet. You looking for Archie, Seale? He’s over in the corner.’
‘Archie must have followed us down,’ Seale shouted as they squeezed between tables. ‘We got his tyres back to him only this afternoon. And if he stays here long he’s not going to be in any condition to ride tomorrow. Why, Zack got here already!’
She stopped by a table occupied by three men: Archie Burg, a middle-aged rangy rancher who touched the brim of his hat to them, and a man who, in the smoky light, was of indeterminate age, and could have stepped out of the nineteenth century. He did not sit, but sprawled in his chair, the skirts of a long grey coat sweeping the floor. He wore a black hat and a drooping moustache. His face was angular but the eyes, like the eyes of most cowhands, were bored. It occurred to Miss Pink, acknowledging the introductions with grace, that the bored eyes went with the myth, as an expression of contempt went with the gangster myth. So this was Zack Coons. She looked from him to the nearest journalists. Media people had alert and searching eyes, like those of raccoons turning over stones. Her attention returned to her own table and she smiled at the middle-aged man who was Doug Spears; the rancher who lived at the mouth of Hell Roaring Creek.
‘So you’re the lady who found the body,’ he said.
She hesitated, wondering which body he meant, how much they knew.
‘I mean the hiker’s body,’ he said. ‘Archie told us Jed Trotter got took by a bear too.’
She said: ‘I was talking to Otis Lenhart this afternoon; he says someone was shooting on Wapiti on Sunday.’
Spears smiled and shook his head. ‘It wasn’t me, ma’am.’
Zack Coons regarded her without expression, chewing solemnly.
‘What time did Sim Logan leave your place on Sunday?’ she asked of Spears.
He showed no surprise at the question. ‘That was when he brought the bulls over. He must have left about eleven. Why?’
‘I was thinking about the timing of the shots—but would you have heard them from your place?’
‘It would depend where they were.’
‘Lenhart said they seemed to come from the south side of Wapiti: on Logan’s lease.’
‘Then we wouldn’t hear them from my place. It’s too far away, and all them trees swallow sound.’
Coons spoke for the first time: ‘Has this got something to do with the hiker getting hisself killed?’
Miss Pink said: ‘Only that whoever was on Wapiti Sunday morning couldn’t have been in Sundance. It’s an alibi, but who is it an alibi for?’
Archie Burg said: ‘You don’t have far to look for that. It had to be Jed Trotter on Wapiti.’
Miss Pink beamed approval at him. ‘Then why does Mae Trotter think Jed killed Tye?’
So far as Spears and Burg could portray surprise they did. Coons said: ‘That’s not Jed’s style: murder. If Mae’s frightened, it’s not because she thought Jed was a killer.’
‘Could she be frightened of them?’ Miss Pink asked brightly. ‘She said Jed was.’
‘Them?’ Coons was astonished. ‘Who’s them?’
‘You don’t know? Mae says Jed told her someone he referred to as “they” were after him.’
He stared at her. He could have been unwilling to answer but she had the feeling he was dumbfounded. She could have been wrong. She was suddenly angry; in this country where everything was ostensibly earthy and open, façades were ubiquitous and it was extraordinarily difficult to discover, at least in the initial stages, which people were nothing more than a façade (Irving Tye, for instance) and who was using a front as a cloak for the truth.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Archie Burg said with a candour she found refreshing, ‘is they keep asking us questions. It could have been an out-of-state hunter. Most likely it was.’
‘On Wapiti?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Well, that too. But I meant: up in Sundance, the guy as killed the bear—and Tye.’
‘He was a local man,’ Miss Pink said. ‘A visitor would need a trailer for his horses. He had two horses because he had to get the pelt down. How can you bring a strange vehicle and horse trailer into the Silvertips without someone seeing it? But a local person can come and go with horses by way of the game trails through the forests all the way from Sundance to his home.’ She looked round the table. Coons and Burg were staring at her. Spears said slowly: ‘I reckon you could get a trailer up some of these canyons without anyone being the wiser. You’d need to pick a time when everyone on a ranch was away, of
course, but it could be done.’
‘You saw something?’ Miss Pink asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am. But someone could have come into the Silvertips by way of the south slope: up Wolverine, for example. Did you think of that?’
Miss Pink glanced at Seale, saw that the girl was considering this new angle, shaking her head, when she sensed tension about the table, a concerted movement. An immaculate Highway Patrolman had approached and was surveying them with the flinty regard of a television cop.
‘Hi, Gilbert,’ Spears said. ‘Sit down. We were just talking about you.’ No one smiled.
The patrolman appropriated a chair from the next table and sat, nursing a can of Seven-Up. ‘What was that about Wolverine?’ he asked.
Young Burg looked surprised. ‘We was just saying the killer probably come up Wolverine.’
After a pause Gilbert said: ‘Yeah, well, that’s not my job.’
Coons turned sleepy eyes on him. ‘No?’
‘I’m Highway Patrol, man, not Homicide!’
‘So what’s your theory?’ Coons asked.
The tables nearest to them had fallen silent, the Press all ears. Gilbert had realized this and the sweat showed on his forehead. The obese Randy oozed softly through the room, collecting glasses without a sound.
‘I don’t think they got to you yet,’ Gilbert said tightly, addressing Coons, ‘but then you haven’t been around. Where were you last Sunday?’
The silence widened like ripples as people became aware of the tension and stopped talking.
‘In the Sapphires,’ Coons said, his body immobile, one hand on his thigh, the other holding a can of beer.
‘Can you prove that?’
‘If I’m asked.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘You haven’t cautioned me.’
There was a spurt of laughter. Coons’ eyes didn’t waver but Gilbert flushed and shifted his legs. ‘They’re looking for skins up at the Trotter place right now,’ he said spitefully.
‘So?’
‘So if Trotter was in Sundance, where were you?’
Coons brought his legs together and sat straight in his chair. ‘You’re saying Jed Trotter killed the hiker?’
People who were standing drew closer to the table. There was silence in the bar.
‘You got an alibi for the Sapphires?’ Gilbert persisted.
‘Jed Trotter’s dead,’ Coons said. ‘But he left a widow and a son—’
‘Hell, man, who done all the poaching around here?’
Coons stood up. ‘You’re not talking poaching; you’re talking murder.’
‘Right. Where’d he get the money? How did he get it? Two thousand dollars. You tell me that, Zack Coons.’
Coons was tall, over six feet, and very thin. When he stood, the long grey coat reached to below his knees. He had looked imposing, even threatening: an oldtime outlaw in his cold-weather dress. Suddenly he was no longer impressive.
‘What money?’ he asked.
‘You’re the only one as hasn’t heard? And you’re his buddy. You’re going to have to answer some questions, Coons.’
The cowboy ignored him and sat down, turning to Burg, asking a question in a low voice. Gilbert went on: ‘So where are you staying tonight?’
The Press stood around watching, listening with absorption. Their wide hat brims shaded the faces of Coons and Burg.
‘I said where you staying, Coons? You’ll need to talk tomorrow.’
He looked up. ‘I’m working cattle for Sim Logan.’
‘This is a murder inquiry, man.’
‘You can go to hell, Gilbert. Cows is more important than murder.’
Chapter 15
At six o’clock next morning it was still night on Cougar Creek with no sign of dawn and frost crystals gleamed in the torchlight as Miss Pink and Seale picked their way across the yard for breakfast at the house. There was a light in the barn and the horses were visible standing tethered just inside the great doors.
As they entered the kitchen Logan was finishing his breakfast.
‘You said six o’clock, Sim!’ Seale was angry. ‘You must have been up ages. You caught the horses.’
‘I brought them in last night. There’s been a change of plan. We got ten people; with luck we can get those cows down in one day. Maybe we’ll leave a few behind but we can go back and get those any time—after the Forest people has told us where they are, do the job for us. You guys eat your breakfast while I call Farrell, and you can start riding soon as it’s light enough to see.’
They slid meekly into their places. No one said anything other than Logan at the telephone. They listened to him saying that Wilbur and Flossie were to ride the hiker’s trail up Cougar into Loon Basin, bringing any cows out to the head of Hell Roaring. Lee Farrell was to go to Cow Camp “as planned”.
Logan put down the receiver and took a mug of coffee off the stove. ‘So far’s we know, the bulk of the cows is on Wapiti,’ he said. ‘Edna is taking Spears and Lenhart up Hell Roaring as far as she can get with a trailer. Archie and Zack are to go down Hell Roaring and push up them side canyons. They might have trouble if there’s cows in them little canyons. Maybe some of us will have to go down and give them a hand this afternoon. You two go up behind the Trotter place, and once you reach the top, you do like everyone else and work south. We’ll aim to drop the cows down to the river meadows below Loon, hold them there overnight and bring ’em out tomorrow.’
Miss Pink said: ‘What about the bear?’
‘What bear?’
‘The one that mauled Jed Trotter above their camp. You’re sending Seale and me up there.’
‘You don’t have to go—’ he began, to be interrupted by Seale: ‘She just wants to get the record straight; she’s not bothered about bears. For one thing, I’ll be armed—and grizzlies will be on the run today anyway. A cattle drive’s a noisy event, Mel; if we see any bears, they’ll be way in the distance.’
Logan smiled vaguely and put down his mug. ‘I’m going to saddle up,’ he said, and walked out.
‘He’s thinking about the cows,’ Ginny said, advancing on the table with the coffee pot. ‘It’s a big worry: trying to get ’em all down in one day.’
They gulped the rest of their food in a hurry and left the kitchen.
‘I feel as if I’m dreaming,’ Miss Pink said. ‘What happened to the murders? Where are the police in this?’
Seale sniffed. ‘All that goes by the board until the drive is over. You leave dead people to the fuzz; they’re nothing to do with us. Thank God we’ll be well away before the sheriff and his creeps get on the road. Once we’re on Wapiti we’re safe.’
‘It’s not the police I’m thinking about,’ Miss Pink murmured, walking up the wooden ramp to the barn and staring across furry backs in search of the chestnut.
She was untwisting her throat latch when Logan said: ‘I forgot to tell you. Remember the bear skin, the one was thrown out on the Sweetgrass road? They found all the bits now. Except one.’
‘Except one?’ she repeated stupidly.
‘They got one front paw to find yet. Been taken by a fox, shouldn’t wonder, or some kid wanting a trophy.’
Shod hooves clumped heavily on wood. From the entrance Seale said morosely: ‘It’s light enough to see and it’s cold as a plucked hen. After this I’m going down to Arizona, herd cattle in the deserts.’
They did not take the forest trail to the Trotter place but rode between Cougar Creek and the trees, threading their way through sage that held a deathly pallor in the dawn. As Seale had said, it was bitterly cold. Two pick-ups passed, towing trailers: Logan and Lee Farrell. Seale knew every vehicle in the area.
By the time they reached the Trotter place the sky was shining but down in the bottom of the canyon and even on the heights of Pioneer Ridge the trees were matt and black, ungilded. The riders’ feet were like blocks of ice.
Smoke was rising from the stove pipe above the khaki tent. The ho
unds ran to meet them, showing their teeth, the hair stiff on their backs. As Seale cursed them Mae lifted the flap of the tent.
‘We’re starting the drive,’ Seale told her. ‘What’s happening with you?’
Mae shrugged. She looked no different from when Jed was alive: tough and shrewd, her face accustomed to hardship. Bereavement would make little change in her appearance, not because she was unfeeling but because she had seen it all before. There wouldn’t be much Mae hadn’t seen.
‘Like some coffee?’ she asked.
‘We’d better not,’ Seale said. ‘We’re meeting the others on top.’
They chatted a bit about the composition and deployment of the party and then Mae said: ‘We might as well follow you up. They come and took Jed away yesterday so we got nothing to keep us here.’
‘The police aren’t coming back?’ Miss Pink asked in surprise.
‘They’ll be back. They found a load of skins yesterday: elk and moose. They brought a coupla German Shepherds up, and them dogs found where someone had buried the skins. They been saying Trotter killed that bear too, up at Sundance, because he were in Sweetgrass Monday. They reckon he threw the pelt out the pick-up then. So they’re saying he killed Tye. Well, I knows young Billy weren’t with his dad last Sunday ’cos Jed wouldn’t take him for some reason. But the police won’t believe that; I guess they think we’re all in it together. So I reckon we’ll come and help with the cows and then we won’t be here when they come looking. I’ll go and wake young Billy.’
‘That was to be expected,’ Seale said as they started up the narrow zig-zags of a cow trail. ‘I wonder what they’ll find at the autopsy on Jed?’
‘I expect they’ll find nothing more than what’s obvious: the blow to the skull, severe wounds to the abdomen and throat …’
Seale looked down as her friend’s voice trailed away. The zig-zags were tight and the slope steep. ‘Take your feet out of the stirrups,’ she said. ‘That way you’re free to jump if he goes down.’
Miss Pink threw her a startled glance but slipped her feet loose. The chestnut seemed unconcerned about the angle, and as for Seale and the buckskin: they could have been on the level sage flats for all the attention either paid to the drop.
