by M. K. Wren
“Well, she died. That was two years ago, right after Linc come home from college. He took it hard, too. I figger that’s one reason he’s got so wild since.”
“You said they parted company before he went to college; did they get back together afterwards? Before she died?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know. If they did, they kep’ it quiet. Course, Aaron and Alvin was dead set against it. Damn fools, both of ’em. First, Alvin sayin’ Linc’s too wild; never make a fit husband for his girl. Then Aaron takin’ insult and sayin’ Charl wasn’t good enough for his son. In the end, it didn’t matter a damn; not with Charl dead.” He turned at the sound of distant voices, watching his deputies, Aaron, Linc, and Gil Potts leave the house and walk together to the cars.
“There’s somethin’ else you’ll prob’ly be hearin’ about, Mr. Flagg. Before this feud got fired up, Ted was romancin’ Bridgie Drinkwater. That’s Alvin’s youngest, and the only one left home. He has a boy, Austin, but he didn’t stick with the ranch. Career Army, and a major by now. He’s over in Germany some’eres.”
Conan looked across at Aaron, remembering his caustic attack on Ted. That “little piece of skirt” was Alvin Drinkwater’s daughter. But something else in that tirade was still unexplained: Ted had already shown his colors. In courting Bridgie? Or was there more to it? But he deferred that inquiry for the moment.
“Sheriff, just how ‘wild’ is Linc?”
“Well, I never had to th’ow him in jail.” Tate resumed his ambling walk toward the cars. “Thought I would once on an A and B, but it turned out the other feller swang first. Mostly, Linc jest hits the booze and commences to holler and whoop, and when he starts drag-strippin’ in that fancy for’n car, he’s a menace. And I ain’t had any complaints wrote out, y’understand, but I guess he’s a menace with women, too, and he don’t seem to mind much if they’re married. Now, that worries me. He’s li’ble to end up ventilated with a shotgun. But sometimes I ain’t sure he’d care.”
They were nearing the cars where the deputies, Aaron, and the subject of their conversation were standing, and Tate lowered his voice slightly.
“Anyhow, what got me off on all this was alibis. Like I said, Linc and Gil was in town, and neither one of ’em is sure exac’ly when they come home, but it wasn’t before three A.M. They saw the bars in town closed.”
“Does Potts often join Linc in the heel-kicking?” Conan frowned as he realized the foreman had disappeared from the group ahead.
“Matter of fact, he does, but it ain’t what you might think. Gil’s took a likin’ to the boy, and he’s smarter’n Aaron or even George was about him. Keeps an easy rein, y’know, but never lets him get his head down so’s he can really start buckin’. Since Gil come to the Runnin’ S, I ain’t had nearly so much trouble keepin’ Linc outa jail.”
“When did Potts join the Running S?”
“Oh, ’bout a year and a half ago.” Then he gave Conan a crooked smile. “Gil used to ride for the Double D.”
“He what?”
“Yep. Damn small world ’round these parts. Howdy, Aaron. Me and the boys’ll take outa here and leave you be. Ollie, you and Cece might as well get goin’.” Then as the two deputies departed with a slamming of doors and a rattling roar, Tate sauntered over to the other car, motioning Ross in, talking over the roof to Aaron. “I’m sorry as hell about this, you know that.”
“I know, Joe.” He turned a suspicious squint on Conan. “All I want is to see it done with.”
“I’m doin’ my best, and Mr. Flagg and me sorta come to an agreement. Can’t say I like an outsider nosin’ ’round in this, but if George hired him, and you go along…well, all right. Him and me’ll work together.”
That assurance obviously did nothing to brighten Linc’s day, but however transparent his feelings, he wasn’t prepared to voice them again in Aaron’s presence. Conan almost regretted that; it would have kept Aaron in his camp out of sheer perverseness, and the elder McFall was having second thoughts.
“Glad to hear you two hit it off so good,” Aaron said to Tate, but, like Linc, his eyes never strayed from Conan.
But Joe Tate was a man of rare good sense. He favored Conan with a cool look and replied, “Well, now, I never said we was signin’ up to be friends for life. I don’t b’lieve in payin’ out on a nag till I seen it run. Talk to you later, Aaron.”
When he had departed in a spray of dust and gravel, Aaron stalked away with the curt announcement, “Me and Linc’s goin’ into town to see Roy Caplin about the funeral.”
Neither of them looked back, Linc following his father to the long, metal-roofed shed extending from the corner of the picket fence. Conan wondered if Aaron would choose the shining black Continental for this occasion. He didn’t. Linc drove him away in the black Buick station wagon.
CHAPTER 7
Ted McFall was waiting at the front door. He looked pale and haggard, but managed a constrained smile.
“I’ll help you get your stuff up to your room.”
He took the suitcase while Conan perched the Stetson on his head, draped the sheepskin jacket over one arm, and with the briefcase in his free hand followed him up the stairs. As they reached the top, he glanced into the open doors ahead. The boys’ bedrooms, probably, each taking up a corner of the house.
“Where’s Laura, Ted?”
“She’s still out to the cookhouse. Your room’s down this way.” He made an about-face and led Conan along the balustrade surrounding the stairwell toward the front of the house. “She likes to work in the cookhouse. I mean, she always did, and mebbe now…” He concluded with an expressive shrug, then, “Here it is.”
A door opened off each side of the hall; as Ted turned into the one on the left, Conan glanced into the other. The master bedroom, no doubt, and only Aaron would occupy that.
But the guest room was impressive enough; a spacious, airy room the same size as the living room, which was directly below it. The windows were in the same relative positions, two on the long wall opposite the door, and a big double one looking out over the front porch. The room was obviously a repository for several generations’ “good” furniture, including a beautifully carved bedstead, probably a gift to an ancestral McFall couple on the occasion of their wedding.
Ted put the suitcase down by the bed and waved in the direction of the door on the left wall.
“The bathroom’s in there. Laura said to tell you if you need anything, jest holler.”
Conan deposited his load and went to one of the windows on the opposite wall; it looked across to the barn through a mosaic of leaves. Then he turned, studying Ted, who waited uncertainly, hands thrust in his pockets. He’d rather be elsewhere, Conan knew, and alone.
“Is this the first…the first time you’ve lost someone close?”
Ted stiffened, immediately on the defensive, but after giving Conan a close scrutiny, he seemed to relax a little.
“I guess it is. Ma died when—when I was born. There never was anybody I was really close to. Bert Kimmons, mebbe, but it wasn’t like he was family.” An uncomfortable pause, then, “Mr. Flagg, did you…was you and George close?”
“No. We were friends. It isn’t hurting me as much as it is you.” He looked away, then down at his watch; the morning was nearly gone, and in any case, he had no more desire than Ted did to pursue the subject of grief.
“Ted, I want to see the reservoir. Do you know if that fence is still down?”
“Guess so. Joe Tate said nobody was to touch it.”
“I’ll need a horse. Can you take care of that?”
“Well, you can have Molly. She’s mine. Sort of a pet horse, I guess; no good for workin’, but she’s gentle as a milk pen calf.” He stopped, his face going red. “I don’t mean to say you’d need a—a gentle…I mean…”
Conan laughed as he lifted his suitcase onto the bed.
“It’s a long time since I looked a bronc in the eye. Give me a few minutes to change clothes.”
Ted waited patiently through the transformation, and Conan refrained from questioning him; he needed a little time to get used to this stranger in their midst.
But as he buttoned the trim-waisted shirt and belted the hip-hugging Levis, Conan felt himself less a stranger. The metamorphosis went deeper than costuming. It was not only a step into a familiar river of remembered experience, but a recognition of his present context.
The boots seemed to epitomize that. Last night, when he took them from their storage place, they struck him as vaguely ridiculous; thirteen inches high, toes molded to a cramping point, high heels sloping in rakishly. But now, with the prospect of a long ride before him, they began to make sense. They were designed for function, not effect; to assure a man’s efficiency and survival on horseback, and for some tasks, there was still no viable substitute for the horse; not in this country or in this business.
The Stetson was of the same ilk; dust-colored beaver felt with a wide, curling brim. It could serve as protection from sun, rain, or snow, as a goad or semaphore, or even as a water bucket. Vanity couldn’t be separated from function in clothing, and a buckaroo might spend a month’s wages on his hat and boots, but function was of necessity his primary concern. These were tools more than adornment, and as Conan settled the hat on his head he found its uncompromising weight and sturdiness eminently reassuring.
He nodded to Ted. “Let’s go have a look at Molly.”
*
When they passed from the white, hot morning sunlight into the cavernous darkness of the barn, Conan took a deep breath, savoring the cool, earth-animal-hay smell. Ted led the way into the tack room, where the scent of leather was added to the rich mélange. The walls were festooned with bridles, halters, hackamores, reins, and lariats, among them a few of braided rawhide, masterworks of an unrecognized folk art. Ten saddles draped with blankets and chaps straddled wooden jacks.
“You—uh, mind usin’ George’s saddle?” Ted asked. “You could use my rig, but I’ll need it if I’m gonna take you out to the rezzavoy.” It was an awkward situation for him; he was reluctant to ask Conan to use something belonging to a dead friend, but found it equally unthinkable to offer any saddle other than his own.
“No, I don’t mind, Ted.” Conan found the situation awkward for another reason: he wasn’t planning on an escort.
Ted took a bridle from a hook and swung the saddle onto his back, bending a little under its forty pounds.
“Molly, now, you can use her anytime you want. She’s a good ridin’ horse. Laura takes her out a lot.”
Most of the stalls were empty, but a few horses were always kept in the barn so they’d be available on short notice. Night horses, these reserves were called. Ted opened one of the stalls to be greeted affectionately by a blue roan Appaloosa mare. He laughed as she nuzzled his hip pocket until he produced a few dusty cubes of sugar.
“That’s Laura’s doin’. Got her spoilt rotten. Hey, Mol, you pineared plug.”
Molly, an elegant little creature who could never honestly be called a plug, submitted graciously to having the blanket and saddle flung upon her back. In the stall opposite, a muffled whinnie attracted Conan to another piece of horseflesh that was anything but a plug; a tall, black stallion, its coat gleaming silkily in the soft light.
“This another pet horse?” he asked.
Ted looked up from threading the latigo and gave a curt laugh as he glanced across at the stallion.
“Don’t let Linc hear you say that. That’s Domino. Pa put out five thousand for that stud; give it to Linc for graduation. And I wouldn’t think too serious about takin’ him out for a run. Linc’s sorta short-fused when it comes to Domino. He ain’t one of the cavvy.”
“I’ll remember that. Besides, I don’t like the way he shows the whites of his eyes. Let me put on her bridle.”
“Sure. Jest give her a little sweet talk.”
Molly was remarkably amenable. At first she set her teeth against the bit, but apparently decided she liked what he was saying, or at least the way he said it. The bridle in place, he smoothed her mane, then turned to Ted.
“I don’t think you should go to the reservoir with me.”
He frowned questionably. “What d’you mean?”
“Well, I should get permission from Drinkwater before I cross that fence line. I know that, but I also know I have no legal authority, and I doubt he’ll put out a welcome mat for me. I want to see the reservoir before anyone else gets in there and tramps around. I won’t disturb anything or make trouble, but if anyone’s going to trespass on Drinkwater land, it’s better if I do it. Alone.”
Ted leaned against the stall gate, intent on the toe of his boot scuffing out a bare strip of dirt in the straw.
“Well, I guess so, but it don’t seem—”
“Are you afraid I’ll get lost?”
He was, but he called up a laugh.
“If you do, jest give Mol her head; she’ll come back to the barn sooner or later. Well, I s’pose if you jest follered Spring Crick—it crosses the road a half mile down—it’ll take you to the rezzavoy. It’s about six miles.”
“That doesn’t sound like too difficult a navigational problem. Come on, Molly.”
He led her outside to mount, an elementary precaution so ingrained it wasn’t a conscious decision. If a horse was going to buck, the rider was well advised to be clear of walls, posts, or gates. The same unconscious caution dictated his method of mounting, turning the stirrup around, facing Molly’s hindquarters, then making a 180-degree turn as he swung up into the saddle. Ted laughed at that.
“You can mount up squaw-style with ol’ Mol. Never bucked a jump.” Then he frowned, shading his eyes with one hand as he peered into the distance. “Oh, damn.”
Conan found the object of his chargin: a plume of dust rising from the road.
“What is it, Ted?”
“Cattle truck from the feedlot at Boise. I forgot they was due today, and I guess Pa did too.” For a moment, the reason for that forgetfulness seemed to overwhelm him, then his mouth thinned into a firm line. “We got a contract to meet, and them damn cows should be in the corral already.” He started to turn away, then, “You sure you’ll be—”
“I have absolute faith in Molly’s homing instinct.”
“Okay. Luck.” And with that he struck off toward the bunkhouse, his peremptory orders flushing buckaroos and sending them about their business at a run.
Conan watched curiously. The foreman, Gil Potts, was among the hands galvanized into action, and he toed Ted’s mark with as much alacrity as the others. But it was Ted’s confident competence that interested Conan. It was so much at odds with his attitude and behavior up to this point.
CHAPTER 8
The wide, parched bed of Spring Creek wound the path of least resistance through gullied hills and across alkali flats in an indifferent silence. As the sun reached zenith, more prudent creatures sought the shade of juniper and sage, but Conan wore his own shade—the Stetson and his sunglasses.
The flood unleashed by the demolished dam was increasingly evident as he rode upstream, first in swaths of wet ’dobe already crazed under the searing sun, then in glistening sinks of mud, and finally in linking strands of moving water reddened by its burden of iron-stained earth. It was like seeing someone bleeding to death.
He stopped when he reached the property line. The sheared barbed wire spiraled across a morass of mud threaded with an indecipherable tangle of tracks. Hopeless. The reservoir would, no doubt, be equally hopeless.
In this spirit of pessimism, he dismounted to examine the broken fence. The wires showed off-center ridges in cross-section, the mark of a tool in common use in this country, but seldom individually owned. Wire cutters were ranch tools, available to any ranch hand who needed them.
As he continued upstream, he kept Molly near the bank to avoid the treacherous mud. At times he had to leave the stream bed, but he stayed in it as much as possible, hoping for the miracle of something overlo
oked, and trying to make sense of the tracks. Between the Double D, the Black Stallion, and the county sheriff’s office, at least twenty men and horses had tramped the mile between the fence and the reservoir.
He saw the grove of junipers ahead and guessed they grew on the banks of the reservoir, but he was intent on the ground. There was no sound to warn him; he was enjoying the quiet peculiar to places uninhabited by men and machines, lulled by the steady thuds of Molly’s hooves and the leathery creaking of the saddle. He was only a few hundred yards from the ruins of the dam when the shot ruptured the silence.
Molly screamed alarm and reared as a spray of dirt sprang up near her forefeet, and Conan felt himself plunging backward. He checked his instinctive impulse to pull on the reins, grabbed for the saddle-horn, Molly’s mane whipping his face as he strained forward, then rocked back when she lurched into a staggering run, stumbled, and nearly threw him again before she fell into the creek bank.
He was too consumed with anger to consider his good fortune in getting pinned against the soft bank rather than a rockier surface. He shouted Molly to her feet and up the bank, heels in her flanks, and urged her into a dead ran.
The sniper was in clear view, mounted on a bay whose shadowy color blended all too well with the junipers. At his sudden charge, she turned and spurred north in full retreat, but Conan had the advantage of both surprise and momentum, and it was a short chase. And a damn fool one on ground this rough.
But his temper remained at full boil, disdaining caution, until he caught up with the bay, grabbed the reins, and brought both horses to a halt in a cloud of dust. When it cleared, he was looking down the barrel of a .22 rifle at a dark-haired girl whose steel-gray eyes served notice that the gun was no bluff.
“Mister, you let go them reins or I’ll blow you to kingdom come.”
“An unarmed man? Bridgie, whatever happened to the code of the West?”
The muzzle came down a few inches as determination gave way to surprise. But there was no lessening of suspicion.
“I never seen you ’round here. How’d you know my name?”
