Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘One,’ he ticked his fingers, ‘they’re happy. Two, they’re polite. Three, they’re workers – but that don’t count; Shawn’s too young to work. And that’s not true neither; Mike was working cattle at his age. The twins can ride good as a man, too. ’Course,’ he turned those disconcertingly innocent eyes on her, ‘kids always ride better than men because they got no fear, so really they’re not so good. Can you understand that?’

  ‘No fear means no respect. That’s dangerous.’

  ‘They learn it quick, though. Young Mike is careful. He knows if his pony breaks a leg that animal’s gonna have to be shot. By the time they’re Mike’s age they’ve grown up some.’

  ‘And he has respect for people too – Mike?’

  ‘Mike’s a good kid. He’s around the age our boys would be if we’d been married. ’Fact, he sorta takes the place of our own kids, the ones we didn’t have. We’re the last of the family, Bob and me, so there’s no one for the old place to go to.’ He stopped short and looked away, smoothing his face.

  ‘Something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Can you forget I said that?’

  ‘I can, if you tell me why I should.’

  ‘That’s fair. It’s family stuff; I forgot I shouldn’t talk about family and such.’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else then. Cattle? When are you going to bring the cows up here?’

  He peered through the trees, calculating. ‘Soon’s there’s enough grass; pretty soon, when Bob gives the word.’

  ‘You bring them up Horsethief?’

  ‘Yes. Not the way you came, but the other side of the canyon, back of the rim. There’s an old stock driveway, musta been in use since the Mormons started putting their cattle in the Straights.’

  ‘There’s a little trail that crosses the creek at the Upper Jump.’

  ‘That trace comes up the steep draw south of the Jump and joins the stock driveway on top. That’s where I should be fencing— ’ He hesitated, and began again: ‘I was pulling fence there last Saturday.’

  ‘A nasty place to be in a storm.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I left, went on home with the tractor. There was thunder and lightning and stuff but it didn’t bother me, not on four rubber wheels.’

  ‘But Mike was on a horse.’

  ‘He left early.’ Alex grinned. ‘It was Saturday afternoon, that’s holiday time for young boys; he shouldn’t have been working. I told him: I could get that old fence finished on my own, and I sent him off middle of the afternoon. Had his fishing rod with him, see. Off he went, down that old draw, but slow like, dainty, you could say; he takes care of his pony.’

  ‘Well, you did have your eye on him.’

  ‘All the way – oh, I see what you mean: he went careful because I was watching. No, Mike’s a good kid anyways.’

  She started to pack things away, talking as if for the sake of being polite. ‘He couldn’t have caught many trout with the storm coming and all.’

  ‘Storm didn’t come till later. He had an hour or so there and then the thunder started getting close, I hollered down to him and pointed to the sky, and he packed up and went home.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Went fast too – good thing he’s got a pony like a goat. By the time I got home, he’d been and gone.’

  ‘Been in to Wind Whistle?’

  ‘Of course! It was baking day, and Tracy and Sandy cook like angels.’

  She sighed and sat back on her heels.

  ‘You wanta rest a whiles? Old Yaller’ll be all right.’

  ‘I am resting, but thank you all the same. Were you upset at what happened to Birdie?’

  He was startled. ‘I’d forgotten it.’

  ‘That’s the best thing to do.’

  He didn’t seem to hear that. ‘Now I’ve remembered. It was dreadful.’ He shook his head. ‘Cruel, cruel. Sam wasn’t her father, you know that? Paula was her mother but one of our hands was her father. I hope he never learns what happened. She was a lovely little girl.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Bob told me as she was hit and thrown in the creek, but the police said terrible things; Sam Estwick couldn’t have done that, what they were saying. He might hit her p’raps, in anger, not meaning to hit so hard, but the knifing – no!’

  ‘It was almost certainly done after she was dead.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that? Once a body’s dead, there’s no reason. A deer gets shot once, even twice, by a poor marksman and someone goes and finishes it off, but you don’t keep stabbing a dead body. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Where were you searching, Alex? You and Bob?’

  ‘We were upstream of Estwicks’, clear back to Horsethief.’

  She got to her feet. ‘Is there a way up to Rustler from this side, up the slickrock?’

  ‘You want to see it? I’ll take you.’ She hesitated at such eagerness and then realised it could be due to the change of subject. ‘It’ll only take five minutes.’ He was pleading, like a small boy, anxious to show the visitor a favoured place.

  ‘Five minutes?’

  ‘It’s steep,’ he admitted, regarding her doubtfully now, and without embarrassment.

  ‘You’ve done it?’

  ‘Oh yes. You can see the whole of Rustler from the top. We used to put cows in the park in the old days, and when we gathered, I’d often run up the rock from this spring, see what was happening in Rustler.’

  He was not young any longer and it was some time since she had scrambled up steep rock, moreover they were both wearing smooth-soled boots with high heels; not the footgear for rock climbing, she thought wryly as she heaved herself up incipient chimneys and toiled up sloping slabs in his wake. All the same, it was quite a reasonable route for a person on foot, and it was ridiculous to suggest that Rustler Park was inaccessible except by way of Horsethief and the Twist.

  Alex had stopped. She reached him and found that they were on one of those long ledges characteristic of the country. Above them was the wall of a butte. He grinned and led the way along the foot of the wall. He stopped again and watched her approach. She looked at him, then at the wall. She saw light in the rock and stepped forward.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll go first.’

  He walked into a kind of short tunnel with a kink in it. She stumbled after him for a few yards and again found him waiting.

  ‘There,’ he said.

  They looked out, as if from a doorway, over the sunlit expanse of Rustler Park. She could see all of it except for that strip which lay immediately below. There was the solitary reef, more or less in the centre of the huge meadow, the Barrier with all its needles to left and right, and straight ahead; and there, less than a mile away, was the Pale Hunter above the Maze.

  Downwards, her view was obstructed and she went to step forward. His hand was on her arm. ‘Careful, ma’am; that’s a hundred-foot drop.’

  ‘Oh! There’s no way down?’

  ‘No, just up one side is all. It’s like being rimrocked.’

  ‘Rimrocked?’

  ‘You get into the bad canyons, go past a place where you can’t go back – like you jump down, or something? Can’t jump back. So you go on, ’cause that’s all you can do, and you come to a place like this. That’s being rimrocked. Of course, we’re not rimrocked, we can go back.’

  ‘How do people escape from a situation like that?’

  ‘They don’t, not alive. They get a fever from the sun and thirst and then the cold nights and they walk off the edge.’

  She shuddered. ‘Like sheep stuck on a ledge, and when they get weak enough the ravens knock them off.’ She turned back to the park. ‘Do you know the other way down to the valley, that goes through the Maze?’

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  ‘And the Cave of Hands?’

  ‘You been talking to Dolly.’ He was smiling but then his face changed. ‘Or little Birdie.’

  She sighed and looked away from the sad eyes. ‘Oh, there’s Shawn,’ she said brightly. �
�I hope that child doesn’t go near the old cabin; there’s a rattler— ’

  ‘Rattler won’t hurt him, cabin’s the other end of the reef; you can pick out the old corrals. I see the pinto but I can’t see the boy, can you?’

  She was focusing the binoculars. ‘I didn’t see him either, just the pony. There it is, and it’s tied. He is a careless boy, tying it in the sun. So where is he? Ah.’

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s sitting in the rocks at this end of the reef.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Just sitting and watching.’

  The glasses moved fractionally as she looked beyond Shawn. He was in line with the Pale Hunter. So he had thoughts about the Maze? It must be an open secret – but why should he remain half a mile from the start of that mysterious (and cairned) trail and just stare at it? Through the glasses she studied the base of the Hunter, working through the little trees, and then she caught a glimpse of an alien colour. The rock was pink and grey, the grass was sage and green, the pinyons almost black, but this short strip of colour was yellow, too bright and high for flowers. It seemed to be on a boulder of blueish grey – and then the yellow moved with the rock. She inhaled sharply.

  ‘What is it?’ Alex asked.

  She turned slowly. ‘It occurred to me: could Shawn have heard the story about the Cave of Hands and the secret way down? Would he be silly enough to go and look?’

  ‘Shawn isn’t silly. Is he going? The pony hasn’t moved.’

  She handed him the glasses and watched his face. He tried to focus. ‘I’m not very good with these things. I’ve altered the focus for you.’

  ‘Never mind.’ She held out her hand. ‘You can probably see better without them.’

  ‘I think I can.’ He squinted towards the reef. ‘I can still see the pinto so Shawn won’t be far away.’

  She focused again, not on Shawn but on the object of his interest: a blue roan horse in the shade (the yellow slicker revealing its presence) at the top of the slope leading to the Maze. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell Alex that Sarah was down there. She may have remained silent because he denied knowledge of the area, an area which seemed to fascinate Shawn. These three people had secrets, shared or unshared; it might be better to keep quiet about the curious tableau below.

  They returned to the horses and she made leisurely preparations for departure. Her going seemed to revive his anxiety.

  ‘Does Bob know you’re here?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I told no one I was coming to the Straights.’

  ‘Are you going to tell people you met me?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘Then I won’t.’

  ‘Good. Because Bob said— ’

  ‘I’ll say nothing about meeting you, Alex. I promise.’

  She rode up the canyon without looking back. She was fairly certain that he would leave the spring. There had been no sign of a camp; that must be in one of the other canyons, or back in the really wild country to the south. She wondered if he had ridden over here to meet Bob, and then thought that she would prefer not to meet him herself. So instead of taking the trail by which she had come she rode on until she intercepted what must be the stock driveway. Turning east, she broke into a canter.

  The rift of Horsethief appeared on her left but the trail ran some distance back from what would be dangerous crags for cows. When she came to a pile of old fence posts and wire she rode out to the rim and found herself looking down the steep draw above the Upper Jump.

  On the far side of the canyon the slickrock plunged in sweeping slabs from the needles to the gorge of the inner canyon. She was amazed to think that she had climbed that slope on a horse, on this horse, she remembered, patting his damp neck – and then she tensed. A patch of colour was moving down the slickrock: the pinto.

  Looking more closely she saw that Shawn was not alone, and once again it was the yellow slicker that alerted her. The roan was ahead; Shawn was coming down in company with Sarah. All the same, he was not in her company in Rustler Park – but Sarah had found him, so that was all right. Whatever mischief he might have been up to, in a position that suggested he was spying, he had been discovered: an anti-climax really, but at least Miss Pink no longer had to make the decision whether to tell Sarah that she was being watched.

  At home that evening she remembered that she had meant to try to look into the back of the great cove, but even with binoculars she could see nothing. All that side of the valley was in deep shadow, the cove showing merely as something darker than the cliffs.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Shawn was at Wind Whistle?’ It was next morning. Myrtle paused in her sweeping and regarded Miss Pink blankly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He was riding Birdie’s pony.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Myrtle put the broom behind the door and removed the piece of chiffon that was protecting her immaculate coiffure. ‘Paula said he could ride it.’ She stepped out to the porch and looked across the valley. ‘Who was at Wind Whistle?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So how d’you know he was there?’

  ‘I saw the pony tied outside, then he came out of the house and rode up Horsethief Canyon. He caught me up and we had a long talk.’

  Myrtle stiffened and her hand went to her lips. She bit her knuckles. Miss Pink observed her without expression.

  ‘Which brother was there?’ Myrtle asked.

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand you.’

  ‘Who was in the house: Alex or Bob, or was it both of them?’

  ‘Neither. The house was empty.’

  ‘So what did he tell you?’

  ‘Well,’ Miss Pink seemed embarrassed. ‘He was eager to talk— ’

  ‘About— ?’ Myrtle was tense as a spring.

  ‘Young children find it easier to unburden themselves to strangers … He spoke about men.’

  ‘Which one? Men, not a man?’

  ‘He concentrated on Sam Estwick but he also mentioned Glen Plummer.’

  ‘Glen! Why?’

  ‘You’re forcing me to tell you things which may well have been confidential,’ Miss Pink said gently. ‘A little boy’s secrets?’

  Myrtle was very still. ‘Why are you smiling?’ she asked. ‘Is something funny?’

  ‘I’m not amused, I’m embarrassed.’

  Myrtle looked away. ‘I am the boy’s grandmother.’ She was trying to keep her voice even. ‘I have a right to know what he’s saying. It can’t be confidential from his family.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but – you’re right. He was comparing their merits, d’you see? He could well feel that to discuss such a matter within his own family might imply criticism of his mother. He’s terribly concerned that he doesn’t have a father. A normal attitude in the circumstances.’

  Myrtle seemed to have lost control of her head. She turned it slowly towards the visitor, jerked away, swivelled to the creek and then, as if aware of eccentric behaviour, she started to roll her skull deliberately, doing neck exercises.

  ‘I came to look at your jewellery,’ Miss Pink said.

  The old woman retreated inside the store, automatically taking up a stance behind the display counter. Miss Pink stood back and surveyed the cluttered shelves. ‘Did you see any strange cars or hikers on Saturday?’ she asked.

  Myrtle’s eyes showed the effort involved in adjusting to the change of subject. ‘We came home late – later than we’d intended. We stopped – we’d been to town, and Maxine saw a friend’s car outside – some place, and we stayed there a while.’

  ‘That’s important?’

  Myrtle gaped. ‘Well, we wouldn’t see anyone, would we? We were too late. I mean, it happened much earlier, didn’t it? He’d have been gone, time we turned off the highway – and of course, no one’d notice a strange car on the highway.’

  ‘What time did you reach home?’

&nbs
p; ‘About seven, eight, some time around there.’

  ‘Shawn was alone for quite a while.’

  ‘He watched a video. He knows how to work the set. He’s old for his years. He’d got himself some supper, and changed his clothes. He was drenched, out in that storm. We shouldn’t never have stopped, but there, no harm done, and he didn’t even catch cold.’

  ‘A very self-sufficient little boy, but, I think, lonely too. He’s so conscious of not having a father.’

  ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ Myrtle was relaxed now, even a trifle smug. ‘When Maxine re-marries we shall be a complete family.’

  ‘And he’s fond of Glen.’

  ‘Well, Glen’s easy-going, promised him an Arabian horse – pure-bred; I don’t mean Glen would try to buy Shawn’s affections, but it is kind, isn’t it, give a little boy a pony?’ Her expression changed, became censorious. ‘But he shouldn’t never have talked about his mother’s business outside the family.’

  Miss Pink ignored this. ‘Nevertheless, he seems to favour Sam Estwick,’ she murmured.

  Myrtle gave a snort of derision. ‘He can’t stand Sam Estwick! None of us can. Just because my daughter befriended him once, felt sorry for him married to a Mormon, what passes for Mormon, and him a drinking man, now he comes up here trading on a friendly gesture. It looks bad. One thing, I’m here, and little Shawn, but he’s so thick-skinned he can’t see where he’s not wanted. No, no one in this house has a good word to say for Sam Estwick. Besides, he’s in jail.’

  ‘He was taken in for questioning— ’

  ‘Shawn saw— ’ She stopped, her eyes wide behind the gaudy spectacles. She gripped the square of black velvet on the counter and started to knead and stretch it. Miss Pink watched the thin, arthritic hands and waited for the cloth to tear. ‘It was Sam?’ she asked softly. Myrtle’s head twitched sideways. ‘It was Glen?’

  ‘No, no! Not Glen! He told you that? Shawn said it was Glen?’

  ‘It wasn’t Sam,’ Miss Pink said, making a statement of it this time. Myrtle stared at her as if she were a snake. ‘Who was it?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘Alex Duval?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ It was a whisper.

  ‘Shawn was at Wind Whistle yesterday morning.’