Oh, Bury Me Not

by M. K. Wren

  He laughed and freed her reins. Who else of her sex and age would be acting sentinel here but Alvin Drinkwater’s daughter?

  “No, you’ve never seen me, so js that any reason to fire on me without a word of warning? I’d hate to have to walk back to the Running S and tell Ted I broke Molly’s leg.”

  That disarmed her, literally. She cradled the gun properly on her arm, but it seemed more reflexive than intentional.

  “That’s Ted’s horse,” she said, eyes widening, then narrowing again. “You ridin’ for the Runnin’ S?”

  “Not in the usual sense. At least, not on Molly.”

  She relaxed enough for a brief laugh.

  “No, I guess not. But you ain’t no greenhorn, mister, or you’d still be coughin’ up mud in that crick. And in case nobody told you, that fence you crossed a ways back is a property line, and you’re trespassin’.”

  “Yes, I am, and you had every right to put a bullet between my eyes, which I’m sure you’re capable of doing.”

  “Well, if I’d been aimin’ for you, you’d know it.”

  He nodded, taking time to remove his dark glasses.

  “I’m Conan Flagg. I was a friend of George McFall’s.”

  Her response was equivocal: antagonism mixed with an uncomfortable awareness of the respect due the dead.

  “You…uh, come to see where he…passed on?”

  “Yes, but not out of sentiment.” He looked back at the junipers edging the reservoir. “Bridgie, I make a sort of business of finding answers for people. George asked me to find some answers for him. He’s dead now, but that just means I have one more answer to look for.”

  “Findin’ answers? You mean like a detective?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, she asked caustically, “So, you hired on with Aaron McFall?”

  “No. I hired on with George. Aaron has decided to tolerate me for the time being.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he thinks I might be useful to him. I have no control over what he thinks; I doubt anyone does.”

  “Sher’ff Tate know you’re detectin’, or whatever?”

  “Yes. He thinks I might be useful, too.”

  She paused to consider that, then, “How come you wanta look at the rezzavoy?”

  “It’s the scene of the crime. Or perhaps I should say possible crime.”

  “Possible! Mister, there ain’t nothin’ possible about that dam—” Then she subsided, a little embarrassed. “Oh. You was thinkin’ about George.” When he nodded, she frowned dubiously. “You figger somebody killed him on purpose?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that what Aaron told you? I s’pose he’s sayin’ Pa killed him.”

  “Bridgie, I told you I have no control over what Aaron thinks. Or says. What do you think?”

  She tossed her brown hair back over her shoulder.

  “Well, I don’t figger you’ll like what I think, ’cause the way I see it, there was only one crime done here.”

  “The reservoir?”

  “Believe it, mister. You got any idea what it’ll mean to Pa, losin’ that rezzavoy this time of year?”

  “Yes, I do. I grew up on a ranch.”

  “Oh. Well, then you know there’s more down the drain here than the money to put up a new dam. And this ain’t the first piece of dirty business ’round here.”

  “I know about the feud, too.”

  “Do you, now?” Then she shrugged. “Okay, you asked, so here’s what I think: George jest didn’t know enough about handlin’ dynamite.”

  “You think he intended to blow up the dam, but made an error in judgment and got caught in the explosion?”

  “That’s how I figger it. I’m sorry. I mean, you said he was a friend, but you asked me.”

  “Well, it’s a logical theory.”

  “But you don’t believe it? What’s your theory?”

  “I don’t have one yet.”

  She eyed him doubtfully, head tilted to one side.

  “What’s ol’ Aaron gonna say if you find out I’m right?”

  “I don’t give a damn. I want the truth, and in this business it comes in the form of facts. Aaron’s opinions won’t alter facts. Nor will yours. I have no interest in this vendetta except as the context of George’s death.”

  She mulled over that declaration, apparently impressed.

  “If you ain’t workin’ for Aaron, nobody at the Double D’s gonna make trouble for you. We got nothin’ to hide.”

  “I’m not working for Aaron,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t last a day. We’re both too stiff-necked.”

  “I can see that.” She laughed and turned her horse toward the reservoir. “Come on, you might as well have a look around since you come this far.”

  She pointed out where George’s body had been found, but Conan could have guessed it from the concentration of footprints. While he examined the scene of the disaster, Bridgie held Molly’s reins and watched him intently. The survey occupied nearly half an hour, but he had nothing to show for it except a pair of mud-caked boots. He took a sample of the mud before he again pronounced it hopeless and returned to Molly.

  Bridgie asked, “You find somethin’ out there?”

  “A lot of wet ’dobe.” He frowned, looking back. “I can see one thing, though. This whole area is volcanic ash; a very fine-grained soil.”

  “So, what does that tell you?”

  “Only that there aren’t any rocks of any size; nothing more than pebbles. The dam was simply ’dozed out of the ground. Nothing was brought in for fill. Am I right?”

  “Right.”

  “George’s skull was crushed by a large rock, and if your theory is correct, that rock was here of natural causes, so to speak; available to be hurled at his head by the force of the explosion.”

  She shrugged. “Must’ve been.”

  “Bridgie, it would have to be the only large rock within miles.

  Have you any idea of the odds against one lone rock flying at random and hitting George squarely enough to kill him? They’re astronomical. For the sake of your theory, I’m sorry.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean that it’s virtually impossible that his head and that rock collided accidentally.” He looked up at her. “I mean George was murdered.”

  She stared at him, alarm flashing in her gray eyes.

  “Who…who would want to murder him?”

  “I don’t know.” He took Molly’s reins and mounted. “Bridgie, I’d like to talk to your father.”

  One eyebrow shot up. “Well now, I ain’t sure he’ll wanta talk to you”

  “Probably not, but it might help if you’d introduce me.”

  “Might not, too. You won’t get around him as easy as you did me.”

  “Easy? Does ‘hard’ mean that bullet between the eyes?” Her responding laugh was a little constrained, and he went on soberly, “You know if this isn’t interpreted as an accident, your father will be the prime suspect.”

  “Mister, Pa would never—”

  “I’m only telling you how it will look. Your father found George preparing to blow up his dam, killed him in a fit of rage, then tried to cover the murder by dynamiting the dam himself. Another logical theory.”

  “Pa wouldn’t kill him. He might rough him up a little—” She stopped as if caught in a damning confession, then insisted, “He’d never take a rock to him. His fists, maybe, but I know Pa, and he don’t have it in him to kill anybody, not even a McFall, and if you try to hang him for this—”

  “Bridgie, I’m not trying to hang him. I told you, all I want is the truth. That can’t hang him if he’s innocent.”

  She studied him for a long moment, then finally turned her horse, spurred boots nudging its flanks.

  “Come on, then. Pa’s at the house.”

  Conan let the silence grow as they left the reservoir behind and rode north up the shoulder of a low ridge. Brid
gie sat her horse with easy grace, relaxed, reins loose; she’d probably learned to ride while she learned to walk. And he was thinking what an error it was for Aaron McFall to oppose a union between Ted and this strong young woman. She would be a bride bred to this land.

  It was Bridgie who finally broke the silence. Something was worrying her, but it took a little time for her to make up her mind to voice it “Did Joe Tate—did he tell you he’d been askin’ where ever’body was last night?”

  “He gave me a rundown of alibis for everyone at the Black Stallion. Why? Wasn’t your father home last night?”

  That shaft hit the mark and called up a wary frown.

  “No. But he didn’t have anything to do with—with what happened to George.”

  Conan smiled. “All right, Bridgie. Where was he?”

  “Well, he’d been out all day workin’ cattle. We can’t keep enough buckaroos on with the feud and the Runnin’ S hirin’ away all our hands. Pa can’t pay the wages Aaron does. Anyhow, Jerry and Pete come home to supper, but Pa was clear out to Cabel Basin roundin’ up some strays, and he found a piece of fence down, so he had to fix that. He didn’t start home till after sundown, then that bowlegged roan of his got spooked and throwed him. Took off like a jackrabbit and left him knocked cold.”

  “Was he badly hurt?”

  “Oh, he’s limpin’ around some, but Ma couldn’t get him to call Doc Maxwell. Anyhow, when he come to, he had a long walk home. Ma got worried and rousted the hands. They were headin’ out to look for him when he finally come in.”

  “What time was that?”

  She gave him a defiant look, then turned away.

  “Nearly midnight. Mebbe a quarter to.”

  “In other words, time enough for him to ride back from the reservoir after eleven?” He laughed and held up a calming hand. “I know, he probably came from the opposite direction, but that’s what’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. It don’t look good.”

  “What about his horse? Did it come back to the barn?”

  “Sure, but…” She took a deep breath. “Willful plug, that roan. Don’t know why Pa likes him. He didn’t come back to the barn till this momin’.”

  Conan frowned. If the horse had returned before eleven, the probable time of the explosion, that would give credence to Drinkwater’s story; he couldn’t walk the five miles from the reservoir in forty-five minutes. But as it was, he might have ridden from the reservoir, released the horse near the ranch and walked in, and his injuries could have been acquired in a stmggle with George or in the explosion.

  “Pa wouldn’t lie,” Bridgie insisted, “and if he had a mind to, he’d come up with somethin’ better’n that.”

  Like what, Conan wondered, under the circumstances.

  “The other hands are accounted for?”

  “Yes, and me and Ma are, too. We were both home.”He smiled at that, then hesitated, choosing his words.

  “Bridgie, I’m going to ask you to take my word on something; to believe I’m no more welcome at the Running S than I am here. That means I’ll have a hard time getting any straight answers there.”

  “And you figger I’ll give ’em to you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, I guess that depends on the questions.”

  “Fair enough. What can you tell me about Linc, for instance?”

  She tossed her hair back, mouth going tight.

  “Linc’s got a likin’ for music, booze, and women, and he’s never been out of trouble long as I can remember.”

  “Music? I’ve heard about the booze and women, but not the music.”

  “I guess he’s purty good at it; singin’ and gittar. Ted says he even wrote some songs himself, but he didn’t stick with it; he never sticks with anything. He don’t really belong here, y’know, but I guess he jest don’t have what it takes to pull up stakes and leave.”

  “He used to date your sister, Charlotte, didn’t he?”

  She looked at him sharply, pausing before she answered.

  “They saw a lot of each other when they was in high school, but they broke up before he went off to college.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “There wasn’t any afterwards,” she snapped, a little too positively. Then she looked away, gray eyes clouding. “Anyhow, it wasn’t long after he come home till she died. That was two years ago.”

  “Was she in love with Linc?”

  “Yes, I guess so. She always was willful.” Then a wistful smile. “Chari was the purty one. Red hair like a sunset and skin like cream. Never coulcl take the sun.”

  “Your parents didn’t like her dating Linc, did they?”

  “Well, ol’ Aaron didn’t take to it much, either. Jest spite. That’s what makes him run. Jest plain spite.”

  Conan didn’t attempt to argue that.

  “How do your parents feel about you and Ted?”

  That brought her chin up, but the sharp reply that was her first response died unspoken, and her eyes clouded with regret like the hint of grief displayed for her sister.

  “Ma always liked Ted, and Pa never set his heels like he did with Linc and Chari. We were…well, we talked about gettin’ married, but then this feud started up. Pa’s half out of his mind, and he can’t see me tied up with anything havin’ to do with the Runnin’ S.”

  “Has the feud changed the way you and Ted feel about each other?”“No, not what’s between Ted and me, but you can’t really fence it off by itself.”

  A remarkably wise observation, he thought, from someone so young, and bitterly sad.

  “Do you need your parents’ approval to get married?”

  “You mean by law? I don’t know. We never talked about runnin’ away.” She looked into the distance to a juniper where a klatch of cattle ruminated in its shade. “Y’know, some people are born to this business. I mean, they’re born knowin’ when a horse’ll buck, or how much hay they’ll need for a winter, or when a bad storm’s cornin’ down, or where some cow is lost up on a mountain havin’ trouble droppin’ a calf. They jest know. Ted’s like that. Most kids around here can’t wait to get loose and find some soft, reg’lar job in the city, but he’d go crazy if he tried that. He couldn’t ever leave ranchin’, and anymore, you can’t jest go out and homestead yourself a place. It takes a lot of money to get a start in this business; more’n he’d put together in a lifetime ridin’ for other people.”

  “You think Aaron would cut him out of the ranch if he married you?”

  “I know he would; he told Ted so. That was when he set him down about that money.”

  Conan’s eyes narrowed briefly at that

  “What about your father? Would he cut you off?”

  She concentrated on tightening the knot at the end of her reins, nodding finally.

  “He wouldn’t take to havin’ a McFall run the Double D, and that’s what it’d come to since my brother decided to go into the Army. If Ted and me got married, we couldn’t stay here. That’s why I never put it up to him. I guess you could say we’re in love, but it ain’t smart to push a person further’n he can go. I know good and well if he ever had to choose between me and the ranch, he’d tell me good-bye first. At least, he ought to. Never make a life together startin’ off on a lie.”

  Conan turned away, looking ahead to the plumed grove of poplars in the distance.

  “I hope Ted never has to make that choice. You said Aaron set him down about some money. What money was that?”

  She seemed suddenly older, any trace of the child that always shadows youth chilled in adult bitterness.

  “It was a year ago August. Aaron put aside some money for Ted to buy breedin’ stock, but when they counted ever’thing up, he was a couple of thousand short, and Aaron flew mad; said he stole it.” She turned her angry eyes on Conan. “That was jest plain senseless. I mean, Ted—it’d never enter his head to steal from the ranch. He’d as likely rob a—a church.”

  “Ted couldn’t explain the l
oss?”

  “No. He’s got no head for figures. That was George’s job, with his fancy business degree.” Then she qualified her sarcasm apologetically, “But George had a feel for ranchin’, too. I guess nowadays you have to be half lawyer and half bookkeeper jest to keep up with the IRS.”

  He laughed at that. “Accountants will inherit the earth, Bridgie. Tate told me Gil Potts used to work for your father.” He watched her and caught a glint of uncertain suspicion.

  “Sure, Gil rode for Pa for about six months.”

  “Why did he leave the Double D?”

  She gave a short laugh. “Well, the way Gil tells it, he left because Aaron was offerin’ better wages.”

  “How do you tell it?”

  “Pa fired him. Run him off our place.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, they jest never did hit it off good; had a couple of real set-to’s, and Pa got it in his head Gil was dippin’ into the till. Never had any proof, though, and Gil’s been at the Runnin’ S a year and a half now, and Ted says he’s about the best foreman they ever had.”

  Conan nodded, wondering where the truth lay in Potts’s disagreements with Alvin Drinkwater. The poplar grove was closer now, the ranch buildings visible in its dappled shade. Fenced fields stretched to the north and west, peppered with cattle, red, black, and tan.

  “Mr. Flagg, what about Laura? How’s she takin’ it?”

  “I don’t know. She seems to be taking it fairly well.”

  Bridgie sighed. “I s’pose she’ll go back to California. Her home’s there, ain’t it?”

  “Yes. San Francisco.”

  “Jest as well, in a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh…she don’t really belong here. I think she tried real hard at first. Y’know, the Grange and 4-H and all that. She still teaches a first-aid class down to the high school in Burns. That’s for 4-H.”

  “Has she given up trying to belong?”

  “Well, I don’t know, really. We never saw much of each other when I was in school, and then this feud started up. But she’s a city girl, and you couldn’t expect her to be satisfied with country life or a country husband.”

  That had slipped out, and Bridgie’s cheeks went red as she sent him a quick glance. He managed to contain his surprise at that insinuation while she made a hasty verbal retreat.