by Gwen Moffat
The immediate and infuriating problem was that of reaching Shawn’s body. Sprague was furious when he learned that it had been touched. When Miss Pink pointed out that it had not been touched so much as protected, his anger did not lessen. She told him coldly that, had they left it exposed, by tomorrow there would have been no flesh on it at all, and the bones would have been scattered, even carried away by the vultures.
Sprague floundered. Having had the great cove pointed out to him, he proposed approaching it from below. A suggestion that this might not be feasible was termed obstructive. With Pugh and a number of uniformed men, trailed by the press, he crossed the valley and followed Forbidden Creek back to the big wall. They walked along its foot unable to believe that there was no place where an agile man could not climb into the cove, only a hundred feet above. Ropes, they said, knowing that ropes were used in rock climbing, but then they realised that someone had to go first to get the rope up there.
They telephoned Nebo in order to try to find a policeman who was a climber but they had no success. Again Sprague tried to get a helicopter, this time to lift them into Rustler Park, but all helicopters were still in the La Sals. Fire-fighting had priority over crime.
None of the police could ride, and by the time they could reach Rustler it would be dark anyway. And it was pointed out to them that although no one had seen rattlers in the Maze in the daytime, even the local people would not go there at night. As for the cove: to go there after sunset was suicide.
The police had to wait until Sunday and daylight. They sent a car back to Nebo for food and persuaded John Forset to let them sleep in the cabin which Glen Plummer had left so precipitately. In theory he was still the tenant, having paid his rent to the end of the month; in practice the police did not think he would be returning to sue them. Despite that, they were meticulous about not touching the odd bottle of spirits he had left behind, although less meticulous about his beer. It was a bad time for them. Holed up in the A-frame with its wide picture window, they stared across the valley at the cove only two miles away and fumed impotently. They were quite sure Shawn had been pushed.
The valley, that Saturday evening, was quiet. No one went visiting. The local people knew Rustler Park and the configuration of the Maze, even those who had not been there. Many of the canyons were lined with the squat capped towers, so they could envisage the ground where Shawn had died. They knew what being rimrocked meant – and that stranded animals: cows, horses, people, usually fall to their death eventually, victims of delirium or apathy. The consensus among the locals was that Shawn had not been pushed but had fallen; he had died by accident. What was worrying people, keeping them watchful while at the same time aware that they were being watched, was that they did not know who had murdered Birdie.
That was the reason why people wanted to believe that Shawn died, if not naturally, at least without foul play; if Birdie had died by accident too – well, nearly by accident, with someone (no one would dream of mentioning a name) hitting harder than he or she intended – then there was no malicious murderer in their midst. But if Shawn had been murdered, the implication was that Birdie had been as well, and since no one knew why that had happened, who knew where the killer would strike next?
No one slept well the night after Miss Pink’s party came down from Rustler, their thoughts like birds: sheering away and returning to the Maze and the wall above the cove where the body lay in the dark at the foot of the Stone Hawk’s image.
The police left Plummer’s cabin before the sun reached the valley and drove south. Miss Pink guessed that they were heading for Wind Whistle. Evidently Sprague and Pugh were going to ride to Rustler. ‘We wonder how they’re going to manage on the slickrock,’ said Frankie, telephoning after breakfast. ‘There hasn’t been so much activity in these canyons since Indian times. Did you know the press are going to look for Alex today?’
‘On horseback?’
‘No, they’re bringing in a helicopter from Salt Lake. Sarah says they’ll never find Alex, and I hope she’s right … Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I was thinking.’
‘A pretty desperate exercise. One keeps going round in circles. I was awake most of the night. Come over for lunch and a swim.’
‘I thought I might ride— ’
‘It’s going to be much too hot.’
‘I have things to do – after yesterday … ’
‘Of course. Come when you can. Any time.’
She drove to the Olson homestead. Steve – the senior of the ‘true’ Olsons, blond and blue-eyed – was sitting on the porch steps shelling peas. There was a smell of baking bread and someone was playing a recorder in a room off the kitchen. Jo sat at the table feeding cereal to the baby. She smiled a welcome and Miss Pink looked around. There was no child in the room other than the baby.
‘The police have gone up to Rustler,’ she said quietly.
‘Poor guys. It’s going to be a hot day.’
‘And they have to bring the body down.’
Jo shook her head. ‘The silly kid. He was the first one to do that, go up there alone. All the others knew to wait until they were old enough to be taken. It always put me in mind of an initiation ceremony, like in a primitive culture.’ She smiled. ‘Primitives never hurry things. Maybe Shawn was too civilised.’
‘Too civilised?’
‘He was out of touch with the earth.’
‘Would you expect a small boy to be in touch?’
‘He had no respect. And he was very greedy.’
‘You’re suggesting greed and lack of respect had something to do with his death?’
‘In a broad sense, yes. He wanted to see the Cave of Hands, he had to see it, he wouldn’t wait until he was old enough. When Shawn wanted something he had to have it now, this minute, and he was a terribly determined kid. Perhaps he thought the Cave of Hands, the ritual about waiting until you were old enough, was a silly game dreamed up by the older kids – and he was too clever to stick by the rules … ’
Debbie was coming up the porch steps, wearing an ancient Panama hat and carrying a jam jar. She greeted Miss Pink gravely, went to the sink and filled the jar with water.
‘How’s it going?’ Jo asked.
‘It’s awful hard trying to do it if I can’t copy the picture. Can I take some more cake?’
‘You need worms, not cake.’
‘It’s too dry, Mom! I can’t find no worms.’
‘Any worms. You can try some cake; they don’t like it.’
‘What are you doing?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘Biology. If you’ll just carry the cake for me I’ll show you – if you want to see.’
‘I’m fascinated.’
At the end of the vegetable garden was a log seat on which was a sketch pad, a paint box and a bird book open to the plate of thrushes. They sat down and Debbie opened the pad.
‘This is the male robin.’ It was, of course, the American robin, which is a thrush. Miss Pink was astonished by Debbie’s firm lines.
‘You’ve got a steady hand, and a fine eye for colour. Did Dolly teach you to draw?’
‘Some. Not much.’ She was drawing with a soft pencil, sneaking glances at the picture but trying a different stance. ‘Do you like her pictures?’
‘Not all of them.’
‘Some are hard. You know: hard and bright? The little one in Mr Forset’s cabin is soft, the one of the Grand Canyon, all pale and misty.’
‘Ah, yes; that’s my favourite.’
Debbie sighed. ‘That’s a neat painting, but people don’t buy that kind. She paints second-rate pictures for second-rate people. Mom says that’s sin – sick— ’
‘Cynical?’
‘Yes, so that stuff Mrs Holman sells isn’t the best.’
‘I suppose Mrs Holman will be selling Dolly’s pictures again now.’
‘I expect so. They’ll be safe. Here she is. See the difference?’ The female robin pecked at the cake crumbs in a desultory fashion and
flew away. ‘Damn!’ said Debbie. ‘She’s awful shy.’
Miss Pink sighed. ‘It’s an odd thing to do: spoil someone’s picture, even if you do think it’s second-rate. Did he hate all pictures, or just Dolly’s? Did he spoil any of yours?’
‘Huh! He never got the chance.’
‘And you always had your big brothers and sisters around. He’d never dare.’
‘He was a coward. Frightened of everything.’
‘Not everything. He rode up to Rustler on his own.’
‘On a nice day. But he was frightened of the dark and of thunder.’ Debbie glanced at the sky. ‘We’re going to have a storm today; it’s too hot. Don’t the Stone Hawk look pretty?’ The monolith was more impressive than ever in the side-light. Debbie looked at Miss Pink out of the corner of her eye. ‘You know about the Stone Hawk, what she does in a storm?’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘She moves.’
Miss Pink felt the hairs shift on the back of her neck.
‘How far?’
‘Well, not far but, like if you’re here and it thunders, next time you look, she’s moved to about the other side of that cottonwood.’
‘Have you seen this happen?’
The child’s face fell. ‘No. And I don’t know anyone who has. We used to watch but I don’t any more. Maybe I will again today. She used to.’
‘Who?’
‘Birdie.’
‘Used to watch for the Stone Hawk to move?’
‘Only in the storms. She wanted to see the Stone Hawk move more than anything ’cept seeing the Cave of Hands.’
Miss Pink was silent for so long that Debbie looked up. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Yes, I believe you. I was trying to see it happening: the Stone Hawk moving. Did Birdie say anything about it at the rodeo when your mom shouted that there was a storm coming?’
‘I don’t remember. But we all knew about the Stone Hawk; she’s part of the storm.’
‘Sometimes I have the feeling she’s watching.’ They stared at the hunched figure.
‘She looks all ways,’ Debbie said. ‘She sees everything.’
‘Is she guarding people?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Watching over you, like protecting?’
‘Well, if she is, she’s not doing a very good job of it.’ It was so unexpected that Miss Pink was shocked.
‘That sounds disrespectful.’
‘I was thinking of Birdie. The Stone Hawk sort of belonged to her. Birdie was Indian, so’s Hawk, so how come she let Birdie be killed? It wasn’t fair.’
‘If Hawk is good, could there be a bad rock somewhere – could Blanket Man be bad, and he was more powerful, and he slipped past Stone Hawk at that moment?’
‘Blanket Man didn’t kill Birdie.’
Miss Pink’s mouth was dry. She said delicately: ‘Could he get a person to do the job for him?’
‘It had nothing to do with Blanket Man.’
‘I see. He’s good too, like the Stone Hawk.’
‘They’re only rocks.’
The robin alighted on a fence post and sang a snatch of song.
‘She’s got a white eye ring,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Is that natural or has she got ringworm?’
Debbie glanced at the book. ‘It’s natural – but that’s the male.’
‘So it is. Why were you so worried about Shawn riding the pinto? He didn’t come to grief riding. It was after he left the pony that he got lost.’
‘The pony left him. I expect he beat it. I wasn’t worried about Shawn getting hurt; I was worried about the pony.’
‘Why did Mrs Estwick let him borrow it if he was cruel to animals?’
Debbie smiled. ‘Maybe that was why she let him have it.’
Miss Pink stood up. ‘Do you mind if I take a walk?’
‘Not at all,’ Debbie said politely.
She climbed through the garden fence and crossed a meadow to the creek, emerging at the ford where Birdie must have crossed to reach home after the rodeo. She waded to the far bank, the water coming only to her calves. She looked west and saw that from here the Stone Hawk was obscured by trees. She walked upstream for a few yards and the rock appeared in plain view, beyond the plinth of the Blanket Man. There were no cottonwoods on the near bank for some two hundred yards, and a short distance upstream a stake had been driven into the earth with a yellow ribbon attached. The opposite bank was low and covered with willow scrub.
The Estwicks’ cabin, although close at hand, was not visible because she was in that pasture where the steers grazed, the one dotted with trees. She remembered that the Stone Hawk could not be seen from the cabin, so if Birdie wanted to see it during a thunderstorm she would have to come down to the bank of the creek or go up the track towards the road, but in the latter case the Blanket Man would be in the way.
She returned to Debbie. ‘Did Shawn hate Birdie?’ she asked.
‘He was jealous of her.’ Debbie stood up and began to put her gear together. ‘It’s too hot for painting; my sweat’s running all over the paper. He were jealous of all of us. We had ponies and nice things to eat.’
‘So he didn’t hate anybody?’
‘No-o. I never thought about it before but Shawn didn’t last – I mean, he’d hate you one day ’cause you wouldn’t let him ride your pony, and next day he’d forgotten – I think.’ She looked doubtful.
‘He had a nasty temper?’
‘No.’
‘What happened, how did he look, when you said he couldn’t ride your pony?’
‘He went white and he stared at you and then he walked away. Sometimes he went home.’
‘How did you feel then?’
‘I kept clear of him next time he came. He was bigger’n me. He was ten.’
‘But you never thought he hated you.’
‘No, I said: it never lasted. Anyway he didn’t hate kids. Just Mr Estwick.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Mr Estwick used to visit with Shawn’s mom so he was probably jealous of him too, but I heard someone say’ – Debbie motioned Miss Pink to come closer, and whispered – ‘someone said Mr Estwick told Shawn he ought to be put away.’
‘Put away?’
She nodded solemnly. ‘With the mad people.’
By two o’clock the heat was stifling, and the party about the Grays’ pool drifted back and forth between the hot shade and the limpid water.
‘I hate to think of even Mr Sprague in Rustler Park on an afternoon like this,’ Dolly murmured, floating with her eyes closed against the glare. ‘Although I’m more sorry for his horse.’
‘Perhaps they’ll get a lift down in the helicopter,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The men anyway.’ She was sitting in the water on the steps of the pool, wearing a regulation swimsuit and a coolie hat. Behind her Sarah and her parents were stretched out under the ramada.
Jerome said: ‘The press will be occupying every inch of space in the chopper. The pilot won’t be able to pick up anyone else. Besides, the press are searching the Straights.’
‘I think they’re going up and down Limbo,’ Sarah said, and everyone smiled except Miss Pink.
‘Limbo,’ Dolly told her, ‘is big and crooked, full of trees and caves. Even if they did spot him there’s nothing they could do about it. If they could land on the rim they wouldn’t know how to get down. I don’t see the press walking anywhere. Alex is safe for as long as he wants to be.’
‘But, if he killed Shawn?’ Miss Pink ventured.
‘That had to be an accident,’ Sarah said.
With a swirl and a splash Dolly was at the steps. Miss Pink moved aside, allowing her to emerge, dripping. The younger woman shivered. ‘We don’t know there isn’t a double murderer in the canyon,’ she said, towelling her hair. ‘How are the Olsons taking it, Melinda?’
‘Jo thinks it was an accident. I mean, Shawn; she didn’t speak about Birdie’s death.’
Frankie said miserably: ‘Are we going to be
wondering for the rest of our lives whether the person we’re talking to killed Birdie?’
‘If the police don’t catch him,’ Jerome said.
‘Is Alex going to be the scapegoat?’ Sarah asked.
‘It looks that way,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The press will be hounding the police, particularly if they do catch a glimpse of him today, in Limbo Canyon. He has an alibi for Birdie’s murder but not for Shawn’s. If the boy died the day after he went missing, Alex has no alibi. By that time he was missing too.’
Jerome said, as if he hadn’t heard her: ‘Alex was pulling fence when Birdie was killed, or he was on the tractor coming home.’
‘Quite.’ Miss Pink was casual. ‘I rather favoured Art Stenbock for that.’
‘You thought Art killed Birdie!’ Dolly was incredulous.
‘He had the opportunity.’
‘What was his motive?’ Sarah asked.
Miss Pink looked confused. ‘It could have been some kind of accident.’
Jerome said: ‘You can’t be suggesting there are two murderers in the canyon?’
‘Actually I could, if Alex was the second one. He’s simple and loyal; he could have killed Shawn because the boy threatened to expose Art Stenbock. Or he could have killed him just because he was a blackmailer and a psychopath: put him down as he would a dangerous animal.’
‘Alex would have shot him,’ Sarah said.
‘I don’t think Alex is so simple that he’s unaware of the penalties for killing a human being. If he was responsible for Shawn’s death in the Maze, he did it in a manner that can never be brought home to him.’
‘Can’t it?’ Frankie was caught up by this new theory. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘My dear!’ Jerome protested.
‘We may learn more when the police get back,’ Miss Pink said.
The police returned in the late afternoon. They had gone up to Rustler on Duval horses and guided by Bob. They found Miss Pink on her shaded porch, watching the sky, waiting for the storm to break and clear the air. Sprague and Pugh were pale with fatigue, and Sprague must have been additionally exhausted by anger. Every cairn in the Maze had been demolished.
