Death on the High Lonesome

by Frank Hayes

  “Virgil, I just wanted to say . . .”

  “Not necessary,” Virgil said. “I know, last night was last night, but I don’t think either one of us regrets it. I know I don’t.”

  “Neither do I,” she said.

  She stepped up into the saddle, took a last look at the cabin, then neck-reined Ringo a hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction. They had ridden for less than a mile when Virgil suddenly pulled up.

  “Your dad was here.” He pointed to a dung pile. “That didn’t come from a mule deer. So, why didn’t he stay at the cabin?”

  “Knowing Dad, if the weather was good, he’d just as soon sleep out.”

  “Do you have any idea why he came up here?”

  “I asked Manuel. He said Mom told him he heard gunfire when he was out checking on what was left of the herd. But Manuel also said a couple of times Dad mentioned that when they had the big roundup and sell-off last year that he was sure they missed some cattle. He wanted to get up here and see if he was right. Some of those crossbreds are pretty near feral. So I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them got away from the wranglers Dad had hired for the drive. It wasn’t like years past when they were regular hands and invested in their job. Some of them probably signed on, then when they got up here, saw what they were going to herd, decided they weren’t going to break their necks doing the job. I’ve been on roundups in years past. It’s no mean trick dodging these trees when you’re trying to round up half-wild cattle.”

  “I can imagine,” Virgil said. “Did your brothers help with the roundup?”

  “My brothers? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Well, I’ve heard they had no interest in keeping the ranch going, but I thought . . .”

  “Virgil, they broke my father’s heart.”

  18

  The air was crisp. November sun offered light, but little warmth. It would be a while before the blistering heat that dried up seasonal water holes and turned grass brown would return. That was all right with Virgil. He was ready for a change. The terrain reminded him of the Mogollon Plateau area up by the Grand Canyon. Bunch grass covering rolling hills dotted with clumps of pine, cottonwood, and aspen. It was easy riding for both him and Jack. After almost an hour, he noted Jack was showing a little lather. He wasn’t blowing hard and needed little encouragement when they came to an occasional rise. Virgil and Marian had ridden mostly in silence. It was inevitable that when Virgil looked at the expanse of land riddled with gullies he thought they were on a fool’s errand. There were literally hundreds of places where Charlie Thompson with or without his horse could be. They had topped a small knoll when he saw a reflected light down below. He pointed it out to Marian, then headed toward it. The steady trickle of a stream formed a small pool at the base of an arroyo. Virgil reached bottom first, dismounted, led Jack to the water’s edge. It was clear, bright, and running freely. A feed showed at one end, a runoff at the other. Marian had ridden right up to the edge before she dismounted.

  “I don’t remember this water hole,” she said. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “It’s running clean, not stagnant. I think it’s sweet water. The fact that you don’t know this spot just tells me how daunting this is going to be. There’s so much ground to cover. If we only had a sense of where he was heading.”

  “I think our best bet would be to stay within a half mile or so of the boundary with the reservation land. There’s another cabin about a half-day’s ride. We could separate, then crisscross along that border, looking for signs. That’s fairly level ground as I remember, with pretty good elevation. You can see pretty far. If we don’t find anything, we can stay at the cabin tonight, then head back by a different route tomorrow.”

  “Okay. It beats anything I’ve got. Let’s take a break here, then head toward that fence line.”

  Jack and the gelding had already plunged their noses into the clear water. Ringo splashed his feet, then moved out to the end of the reins Marian held. The water was over his hocks.

  “If I let go, I bet he’d lie right down in it,” Marian said.

  “Looks that way. Better hold on to those reins or you’re going to be sitting in a wet seat. Well, what do you know?”

  Virgil pointed up the creek a quarter mile or so where the water flow came around a sweeping curve, then disappeared behind a rock outcropping.

  “Your dad was right.”

  Three or four cows with large spring calves at their side had come down to the water to drink. As soon as Virgil touched the reins to draw Jack out of the water, the cattle, seeing the movement, bolted.

  “Guess it would be like the old days trying to round them up. ‘Bulldogging’ would be the word for it.”

  “What are you talking about, Virgil?”

  Virgil told Marian about Billy Three Hats along with some other Indian kids watching the roundups long ago. “Billy said it was some show.”

  “He was right,” Marian said. “Straight out of a John Wayne movie. Saw it so many times, I can close my eyes even now, see the dust clouds, hear the wranglers yelling, see the whites of their eyes as the cattle tried to escape. Didn’t think of it before, but that’s part of what ties me so strongly to this land. The wildness of it.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “It’s a long story, Virgil. Haven’t spoken of it in a long time.”

  Virgil undid Jack’s girth till it hung loose under his belly, then threw the reins over his head, draping them around the pommel of his saddle. There was enough slack so Jack could drop his head and nibble some bunch grass growing along the creek even with the bit in his mouth. Virgil sat down on the ground, pushed his hat back on his forehead, and looked up at Marian.

  “Well, since we’re taking a little downtime here, I guess we got time for a story.” Marian cocked her head, then sighed. Then she followed Virgil’s example with Ringo. When she was done, she came and sat next to him.

  “It’s not a warm fuzzy.” She picked up a stick that she had almost sat on and started scratching the ground with it. “Before, you were asking about my brothers. Vernon’s the younger, Calvin’s the older by about five years.”

  “Calvin? No Charles junior?”

  “No. That would have been even worse. He was named after my mom’s brother who was killed when she was carrying him. My uncle was an airplane mechanic in the air force. Mom told me he was working on a jet engine with two other guys when it blew up. So that’s how Cal got his name. Anyway, Pop got two sons. Guess I was an afterthought. Pop wasn’t easy, but he was always fair. Wouldn’t ask you to do something he wouldn’t do himself. But this life was all he knew and he grew up in a different time. He was born to it, like four or five generations before him, but that was okay. He loved it. It suited him right down to the ground. Figured his boys were next in line, and raised them that way. Cal never fell in love with the idea, but it got a lot worse when he got into high school and started hanging out with some kids who didn’t share his life experience. He didn’t want to come home, muck out stalls, or bale hay. They started knocking heads. Along about that time Cal was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. That just became another complication and made matters worse. He wasn’t supposed to drink. Pop didn’t want him hanging out with the kids from school. Guess he was trying to protect him, but Cal didn’t see it that way. Their relationship went from bad to worse. Meanwhile, Vernon had pretty much fallen through the cracks. By the time Cal escaped to college, Vernon had been living the life Cal had wanted. Drugs, drinking, the whole enchilada. He was pretty much out of control by the time Dad tried to get him in line, and Cal of course was egging Vernon on in his rebellion. All this was going on while Dad was trying to stay on top of everything on the ranch. But he kept trying with the boys. He still is. Can’t accept that it’s never going to happen.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain why you left.” Marian had dug a pret
ty good hole in the ground with the stick. She stopped abruptly, then snapped it in half before chucking it into the water. She watched as the two pieces floated toward the outlet.

  “There was no reason for me to stay. Dad was old school. I was never on the radar, never would be. When I finally realized that, I went away to college. I didn’t come back. It hurt too much. I had worked harder and more willingly than either Cal or Vernon. I loved the ranch, the life, but I was a girl. Couldn’t change that.”

  “What did you do after college?”

  “Got a job. Went back, got a master’s, met a guy, got married, moved to the suburbs, and had two kids. Now they’re in college. My husband died of cancer two years ago. I’m pretty much on my own.”

  Virgil stood up, looked down the canyon where the creek disappeared around the bend.

  “Guess we’re both a little at odds in our lives right now. But like this stream up there. You never know what’s around the bend.”

  He reached down, offered Marian his hand, then pulled her to her feet.

  “I know you’re right, Virgil. It’s just that I don’t know how I’m going to handle what’s around the bend when I find out.”

  * * *

  For the next couple of hours they crisscrossed the landscape within the half- to three-quarter-mile boundary of the reservation land. Twice they came upon evidence of a rider, but there was no way of telling who it might have been. There was no sighting of Charlie Thompson or his horse. The terrain was definitely higher and more barren along the boundary line. Cacti were more in evidence, along with scrub trees and an occasional cottonwood. Virgil pulled up his collar. The cooler air was driven by a steady breeze because of the openness. He hadn’t seen Marian for at least twenty minutes. He would have been a little concerned, but it had become fairly obvious that she knew her way around this part of the world better than he did. Periodically he paused, then stood in the stirrups for a better vantage point. Once he saw a rattler sunning on a rock. Virgil was surprised it hadn’t already gone to ground for the winter, but he knew that a couple more cold nights would send it underground. He listened for a call from Marian, but all he heard were Jack’s shoes scraping and scattering the shale along the embankment he was crossing. When he got to the other side, he saw Marian in the distance. He put his heels lightly to Jack. They scrambled down the side, small pieces of shale stirring a dust cloud in his wake. By the time he reached Marian, she had dismounted, taken a hoof pick from her saddlebag, and was working on Ringo’s right-front hoof.

  “Forgot just how rocky it was up on this mesa,” she said.

  “Yeah, not much in the way of topsoil or ground cover up here. Nothing to fatten a steer unless they like cactus or shale.”

  Virgil sat in his saddle waiting for Marian to finish. He glanced at the sky. The sun had passed its zenith and was starting its downward slide. Slanted light started to bounce off flat surfaces. Straight lines and angles softened as the shadows grew. Marian stood up to replace the hoof pick in her pack when Virgil noticed a more concentrated light at some distance.

  “Stay here,” Virgil said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Marian watched as Virgil urged Jack a little farther down the rimrock. She saw him crest a rise about a quarter mile away, pull Jack up, and dismount. He crouched down, then reached toward the earth. When he stood up, she could see that he was holding something in his hand, but she couldn’t make it out. Then Virgil got back into the saddle, turned Jack, and headed back to where Marian stood.

  “What have you got there, Virgil?”

  He had pulled Jack to a halt alongside her, then he held out his hand.

  “Looks like a small hand pick. Guess some prospector passing through must have dropped it.”

  He handed it to Marian.

  “Doubt if it was from somebody looking for the mother lode up here,” she said. “I’m no expert, but this doesn’t seem like a likely place for a prospector. Besides, this looks almost new. Hasn’t been out here in the elements too long.”

  “Well, what would anyone be looking for up here if not gold?”

  “I know paleontologists use a small pickax to dig for fossils.”

  Marian handed the tool back to Virgil, who put it in his saddlebag.

  They stopped two more times as the day and their search progressed. It was late afternoon when they had stopped the second time. They were close to the reservation line and within an hour to the next line cabin. Virgil abruptly pulled Jack up. Marian, who was a little farther down the trail, caught up to him. He was looking up at the sky.

  “What is it, Virgil?”

  “Maybe you ought to wait here,” Virgil said.

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he raised his eyes to the sky again. Marian followed his gaze. High on the thermals she saw them. Flying in circles, almost like they were caught in a vortex, pulling them closer to the earth. The circles became tighter as they spiraled down. Black with outstretched wings, they marked their target as they closed in on the prize. Virgil turned again to Marian.

  “Why don’t you stay here? Let me check it out.”

  Marian swallowed hard.

  “No, Virgil. I came with you to find my father. It didn’t seem right to me that I should sit back. Let someone else absolve me of my responsibility. It wasn’t right then. It’s not right now. Let’s go.”

  Without waiting for Virgil’s reply, Marian put her heels to Ringo’s flanks. Virgil caught up with her as they crested the last rise. The carrion birds were still circling lower. The nearest couple issued raucous insults at the suspected intruders. When Virgil pulled to a halt, he heard Marian’s intake of breath. They were near the edge of a steep ravine.

  “Jupiter.”

  That was all she said. Then she moved Ringo forward at a slow walk. Virgil followed. They looked down on the bloated carcass.

  “Jupiter,” she said again. “Dad’s horse.”

  Two of the birds had settled near the body. Virgil reached in his saddlebag, drew out his sidearm, firing two shots in the air. The cloud of rebellious black flew into the air, loudly protesting the interruption of their anticipated feast. Then Virgil and Marian carefully made their way down the embankment to reach the dead horse. Marian sat in the saddle while Virgil dismounted. He bent over the dead animal. The bloating told Virgil that he was looking at an event that had taken place a couple of days before. The horse carried no rigging. Virgil walked around the animal twice, a little surprised at the absence of blowflies. He attributed that to the cold weather along with the persistent wind, which even now caused him to turn up his collar a little more. The wind also blew away the scent of death. Finally, he returned to stand by Ringo’s side. Marian’s face was devoid of emotion, giving no hint of her suspicions.

  “Obviously, no sign of your father, but this was no accident. The horse took a round squarely in the chest about two or three days ago. I’m not sure whether Charlie walked away, but someone took the saddle and any other gear the horse was carrying. I just don’t know what became of Charlie.”

  Marian’s body language showed little change except for the tightness in her face, which caused her cheekbones to become more prominent.

  “Guess our search isn’t over,” Virgil said. We’ve just got to keep on looking.”

  “Looks that way,” Marian said as she looked at the sky. “At least until we find another flock of vultures.”

  19

  Doctor Arthur Kincaid was a little surprised when he called the sheriff’s office on the day after Thanksgiving and Jimmy Tillman answered the phone.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  “Hey, yourself. What are you doing there, Jimmy? Thought you would still be home nursing your wounds or eating leftovers. Where’s Virgil or Rosie?”

  “Hold on just a second, Doc. The other phone is ringing.”

  The second la
sted over two minutes, and Art Kincaid was tempted to hang up the phone.

  “Sorry about that. It was Alex Rankin down in Redbud just checking in. He knows I’m alone here, like he is down there.”

  “So, it’s a little thin as far as personnel in the sheriff’s department this holiday.”

  “Yeah, well, things are usually pretty quiet this weekend. Most folks sitting around feeling guilty about eating too much. Then of course, there’s football. I got nothing happening in my life right now, ’cept physical therapy, which ain’t exactly what I’d call much of an ingredient for an exciting social life.”

  “What about that Simpson girl?”

  There was a momentary hesitation before Jimmy responded.

  “Guess nothing’s secret in this town.”

  “C’mon, Jimmy. We only got a weekly newspaper. This is news of the day.”

  “Well, it ain’t no more. That water hole is just about dried up. She met some guy who drives a Corvette. Guess she thinks he’s got a little more potential for excitement than a deputy who lives in a double-wide with his mother and twelve-year-old sister, whose only means of transportation has a divider separating the front seat from the back. Hell, I ever pick up a girl in that, everybody in town will spread the word I’m dating a criminal.”

  Jimmy couldn’t see the smile on Art Kincaid’s face.

  “Jimmy, from where I sit, your life is pretty exciting. More to the point, I’ve never had a lady fall out of the sky on top of me.”

  “Yeah, I could’ve passed on that.”