by M. K. Wren
“I didn’t mean nothin’ against Laura. I jest meant—well, a country husband goes along with country life, don’t it? And anyhow, the ol’ biddies ’round here’ll gossip ’bout anybody, y’know, ’specially when…I mean, even if there ain’t anything to…” Finally she stopped, perhaps realizing that she was only compounding the damage.
Conan laughed, focusing his attention on the ranch buildings ahead.
“I know what you mean about gossips; I live in a small town myself. Well, after this long ride, I hope your father’s home.”
She accepted the change of subject gratefully.
“Prob’ly is. He was purty stove up from last night. Anyhow, he’ll have to see about puttin’ in a new dam.” At that, she became soberly preoccupied. “Wonder if ol’ Foley will stand him for a loan. Tight-fisted cuss. But I guess that’s why they got him runnin’ the bank.”
Conan didn’t question her on that subject; it would undoubtedly be a sore one, and she had already given him more answers than he had anticipated or even hoped for.
CHAPTER 9
The headquarters of the Double D weren’t as impressive as the Black Stallion’s, but far more typical of Eastern Oregon ranches. There were fewer buildings, none painted except the house; some stone walls, but most of raw board weathered the rich, black-streaked gold peculiar to pine in this climate. The hoary-trunked poplars cast a welcome shade in the afternoon heat; no wind moved the leaves; the close stillness was punctuated only by the lackadaisical barking of a brindle dog and the distant cackling of a hen.
The house was old enough to show its age with a certain pride; a bit of Victorian gingerbread graced the porch and eavecorners, and its wood siding was painted an uncompromising white. The picket-enclosed yard would take no prizes for landscaping, but the borders of zinnias and marigolds were bountifully cheerful. Conan saw a saddled horse tied near the gate, where the only human beings in sight, both female, chatted amiably across the fence.
“That looks like Jesse Broadbent,” Bridgie said, and Conan assumed she meant the woman outside the fence; the one within it, plump but small-boned, wearing a wistfully faded print dress, suited her surroundings so well, she could only be Emily Drinkwater.
Her visitor was a sturdy woman whom he might have termed matronly except for her baggy Levis, blazing, red-flowered blouse, and alert, ready stance.
“A friend of your mother’s?” he asked.
“Yes. Guess you might say Jesse’s a friend of the family. She runs the newspaper down to Burns; the Clarion.”
He gave Jesse Broadbent a closer look; a representative of the press was one complication he preferred to avoid, and he found his scrutiny fully reciprocated.
“That’s Pa’s roan there. He must be in the house,” Bridgie said, giving Conan a nervous glance. She wasn’t looking forward, he knew, to explaining him to her father.
Emily Drinkwater called out a greeting to her daughter as they reached the fence and dismounted. Conan was just looping his reins around a picket when the silence was shattered by a sound so much like a gunshot, his first inclination was to drop to the ground.
It was the front door of the house. The screen door slammed with a lighter report, and Alvin Drinkwater stormed into the pastoral quiet in a quivering rage. A tall man, thin, every movement all angles, but too wirily tough to be called emaciated, his sparse hair, still dark, seemed to fly under the static impulses of his anger; heavy brows loomed over black eyes whose crackling flash was contained only by a tight squint.
“That gawdamned, sidewindin’ sonofabitchl Collateral! I’ll stuff his—Emmy!” He didn’t pause for her to respond, and she seemed too shocked to do so. “Emmy, Foley won’t back a loan! Twenty years runnin’ this place and by God payin’ ever’ cent I ever owed, and that white-livered bassard calls me a bad risk!” He came to a halt, towering over her, oblivious to the other witnesses to this outburst.
“Foley got told! Aaron McFall’s behind this, and if he figgers he can run me off my own place, he’s gonna get hisself pruned up. Before I let him set name or foot to the Double D, I’ll see that, sonofabitch dead!?!”
With that final pronouncement, he seemed to run out of steam, his wide, angular shoulders sagging, and Emily took the opportunity to make a waving gesture that vaguely included Bridgie, Conan, and Jesse Broadbent.
“Uh…Alvin, we…we got company.”
He glowered at them impartially, then apparently Jesse registered, and he started to touch his fingers to his hat brim, realized his hat was still crushed in his left hand, and hastily put it on.
“Sorry, Jesse. Didn’t mean to scald your ears like that”
She only laughed. “Well, they been scalded worse, and don’t worry, I won’t print none of it. I’d have me an X-rated newspaper.”
He wasn’t up to laughing, but tried a smile, then hurriedly pushed out of the gate and stalked over to the roan.
“Emmy, I’ll talk to you later.”
Bridgie came out of her daze as he passed her.
“Pa, wait—Pa…” She glanced at Conan hopelessly; then, with a resolute lift of her chin, “Pa, this is Conan Flagg. He…he was a friend of George’s.”
Drinkwater tossed the reins over the saddlehorn, eyeing Conan warily, but it was Jesse Broadbent who spoke first.
“Flagg? Why, I know you. You’re ol’ Henry Flagg’s son, ain’t you?”
Nonplussed, Conan conceded that, reading with some foreboding an intimation of further recognition in her speculative gaze as she amplified for Drinkwater, “Alvin, you remember Henry Flagg, don’t you? Ran the Ten-Mile up to Pendleton till he got th’owed off a bronc and busted his neck.”
The relationship seemed to incline Drinkwater to regard Conan as something possibly of a higher order than a coiled rattlesnake, but not to stay and chat He swung up into the saddle, sparing him a curt nod.
“I’m sorry about young George, you bein’ a friend of his. Emmy, I’ll be over to Cabel Basin. Afternoon, Jesse.” With that, he spurred the roan into an easy trot, leaving behind a silence in which Bridgie’s sigh was clearly audible.
“Well, Mr. Flagg, you said you wanted to meet my pa. You met him.”
That revelatory hint at his purpose didn’t escape Jesse Broadbent, he noted. Probably very little did.
“I’m afraid my timing wasn’t very good. Mrs. Drinkwater, I owe you an apology for that.”
“Well, Mr. Flagg, I guess we should be doin’ the apologizin’.” Her smile was reserved by habit, yet it almost succeeded in hiding the strained anxiety. “Don’t take ever’thing Alvin says to heart He—well, he’s jest a little tight-wound today.”
Conan smiled and nodded understandingly, although it was a little difficult not to take that outburst to heart. Particularly the part about seeing Aaron dead.
“A man has to blow off steam occasionally,” he said, “especially in circumstances like these.”
But if he hoped to draw her into any sort of revealing exchange with that vague allusion to the “circumstances,” he hadn’t reckoned on Harney County’s representative of the Third Estate.
Jesse Broadbent came to Emily’s rescue and assumed command with the wry comment, “If ever’body ’round here stuck to hollerin’, there wouldn’t be no ‘circumstances.’ You’re stayin’ with the McFalls?” Then, as if to explain her clairvoyance, she cocked her head at Molly. “That’s Ted’s horse, ain’t it? By the way, I’m Jesse Broadbent. ‘Jessica’ when I was christened, but ever’body calls me Jesse.”
He shook the hard brown hand she offered, but wasn’t given an opportunity for even a polite acknowledgment.
“Oh, damn.” This with a glance at her watch and a show of consternation. “Look at the time. Never get that paper put to bed at this rate; and, Emmy, I know you got plenty to do. Didn’t mean to stay so long. Where’d I put my car key?”
While she delved into a paper-stuffed saddlebag of a purse, Emily murmured regrets through a sigh of relief, and Bridgie grabbed the bay’s reins
and made a hurried exit.
“I better take care of this horse,” she said over her shoulder. “Jesse, it was good to see you.” And fti a more restrained tone, “Nice meetin’ you, Mr. Flagg.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he responded absently.
“There’s a real gentleman for you,” Jesse noted. “You take care, Bridgie. I swear, Emmy, that girl gets purtier ever’ day.” Then, taking a firm grip on Conan’s arm, “Well now, how ’bout givin’ an old lady a thrill seein’ her to her car? ’Bye, Emmy. Holler if you need anything from town.”
Conan bid Emily Drinkwater a brief farewell as he took Molly’s reins, well aware that he had entirely lost control of the situation. But he didn’t protest. The patent relief with which Emily greeted the prospect of his departure made it obvious that further conversation with her now would only serve to put her on the defensive.
She smiled and waved across the fence. “’Bye, Jesse. Nice meetin’ you, Mr. Flagg.”
He withheld comment as Jesse led him toward an old Plymouth that seemed to be blue under a thick coating of dust, but when they reached the car he politely extricated his arm.
“That was a very adroit maneuver, Mrs. Broadbent, but—”
“Oh, for pete’s sake, it’s Jesse.”
“Jesse, then. If you’re worried about my staking a claim in your reportorial territory, I promise you, you have no cause for concern.” She gave him a crinkly grin as she leaned back against the car, arms folded across her generous bosom. Pioneer stock, he was thinking; the kind like they don’t make anymore. A freckled, nut-brown face; short hair a salt-and-pepper mix merging into tarnished silver. Past fifty, he guessed, and no doubt he’d be surprised if he knew how far past.
“‘Reportorial territory.’ By damn, Conan, I like that; might use it sometime. But I ain’t worried about you hornin’ in, nor anybody else. Burns is chuck full of reporters, but I got a few advantages here. Joe Tate put a man on the gate out yonder to keep the gawkers out, but you notice I got in. Folks is sorta used to me, I guess.”
Conan laughed, assuming that to be an understatement.
“I suppose you got into the Black Stallion, too.”
“I was there when they brung George in, ’bout eight this mornin’.” Then her eyes narrowed. “But you wasn’t there. Now, I’ll tell you the truth, I did cut you out jest now on purpose, but not ’cause I figgered you was a reporter. I was jest wonderin’ what brings a feller like you out here to Harney County.”
He rubbed Molly’s head; she was nuzzling his pockets in search of sugar.
“Well, Jesse, George was a friend of mine.”
“I know he was, but how much of a friend? Last time you paid a visit here was five years ago, at the weddin’. Right? But today—lessee, you rode in with Bridgie from the south; from the rezzavoy, prob’ly. That means you had to ride out there first from the Runnin’ S, and altogether, that’s a lot of ridin’, so I figger you showed up at the Runnin’ S about nine or ten this momin’, jest a few hours after they found George. That’s what I call fast friendship.”
Conan began a demurrer, but she didn’t pause to hear it.
“Mebbe you thought I was kiddin’ when I said I knowed you, Mr. Conan Joseph Flagg. Last time I seen you, you was knee-high to a grasshopper, but I ain’t likely to forget a name like Flagg, and you’re the spittin’ image of your ma. Course, she was purtier.”
If Jesse’s intent was to mystify him, she was successful. He studied her, trying to call up a memory.
“You knew my mother?”
“Sure did. A real lady, she was. Folks ’round Pendleton used to give her a bad time, her bein’ full-blood Indian, but she only made them look bad.” Then finally she laughed and took pity on his bewilderment. “Well, I’ll tell you how I come to know your folks. Me and my husband worked for the paper in Pendleton—the Eagle it was, back then. About twenty years ago we bought the Clarion. That was always Sam’s dream, runnin’ his own paper, but we wasn’t here three years when he lost an argument with a cattle truck up on Stinkingwater Pass.” She paused for a stoic sigh. “I took over the Clarion then. Wasn’t nothin’ else to do; we was mortgaged up to our ears.Anyhow, that’s how I happened to recognize you.” Then she added slyly, “And I’m a friend of your aunt Dolly Flagg; Avery’s ma.”
At that, Conan murmured a premonitory, “Oh, no…”
“Yep, me and Dolly still keep in touch. She talks about you a lot.”
“I was afraid of that.”
She grinned crookedly. “Uh-huh. Well, Dolly told me you done a stint spyin’ for the CIA or somethin’.”
“It was G-2,” he noted dully.
“Oh, yes. She told me somethin’ else, too: said you’re a private detective, licensed proper and official. Course, she says you don’t exac’ly advertise yourself.”
“Stop it, Molly.” He irritably pushed the mare away from her futile search for sugar, thinking dark thoughts about what he’d have to say to Dolly Flagg next time he saw her.
Jesse said sharply, “Conan, I can check that with one call to Salem. Now, you wanta tell me more about this here friendly visit of yours to the Runnin’ S?”
He studied her a moment, then shrugged.
“If I did come here for professional purposes, I’d be a damn fool to advertise myself. I’m an outsider. I’ll have a hard enough time getting any information around here as it is without headlining my investigator’s license in a newspaper.”
She nodded soberly. “Well, I never made a habit out of printin’ ever’thing I know. Besides, it jest might be I could help you out on gettin’ that information.”
“I’m sure you could,” he agreed cautiously.
“Damn right, but you’re wonderin’ what it’ll cost you.”
“Yes.”
“Not so much, mebbe. Y’know, this feud’s a real jackpot. I never could make sense out of it, and neither can Joe Tate.” She looked back toward the house, her mouth drawn with regret. “What I mean is, this thing’s more important than a headline in the Clarion. I’ve known the Drinkwaters and McFalls for years, and I like to think of ’em as friends. If you can make head or tail of this mess, well, I figger I owe it to my friends to give you a hand. Then, if it works out, mebbe you can give me a hand by lettin’ me know what you come up with before you tell any of them city reporters.”
Conan laughed at that. “Done, Jesse. Anyway, I seldom confide in city reporters. I can guarantee you an exclusive, but I can’t guarantee I’ll come up with anything.”
“I learnt a long time ago not to ask for gar’ntees. Well, I better get back to town. You know where the Clarion is? Right on the main street. Can’t miss it”He opened the car door for her, waiting for the roar to subside as she started the engine with a full-throttle burst “You’ll be hearing from me, Jesse.”
“Figger I will. Luck.”
Molly shied as the Plymouth launched itself down the road, leaving a contrail of dust. Conan mounted, looking back over his shoulder. The ranch seemed deserted, but he had no doubt his departure was closely observed from behind some curtain or shade.
CHAPTER 10
Even by the road it was a long ride back to the Black Stallion. Conan was feeling the heat and the effects of his unintentional fast; it was nearly five when he reached the ranch, and breakfast was twelve hours behind him. He was also feeling the effects of a day in the saddle, an experience he hadn’t endured for some years.
Ginger’s husband, Mano Vasquez, armed with a shotgun, was posted at the gate to discourage overeager journalists. He opened it for Conan with a noncommittal nod. Apparently, Aaron and Linc had returned from Burns; the station wagon was back in the open-fronted shed with the Continental, the Buick Skylark, the Ford Mustang, and the Mercedes 450SL. The latter was a lustrous red; the other cars, like all the pickups and trucks belonging to the ranch, were black with the ranch name and brand on the doors.
The two dogs, barking and prancing, heralded Conan across the graveled yard, but his arriv
al had already been duly noted. Three of the buckaroos were gathered at the barn door with Ted, Gil Potts, and Linc, who was lounging astride his black stallion, one knee crooked around the saddlehom. When he dropped lithely to the ground for a secretive conference with Potts and the hands, an exchange accompanied with sly grins and covert glances in his direction, Conan was warned. The greenhorn was in for it. Ted, he noted, stood aloof, or was excluded, from the conference.
Conan reined near the barn door, and Linc’s saccharine, sardonic smile was a further warning.
“Well, looks like you had yourself a long ride, Flagg.”
“Looks like it,” he agreed as he dismounted, annoyed to discover his muscles were already stiffening.”Hope that sugar pony didn’t give you no trouble.” The hands bandied knowing grins at that. Ted didn’t share them. He walked over to Conan and took the reins.
“I’ll take care of her, Mr. Flagg.”
“Thanks, Ted. She was a perfect lady.”
Linc snorted, ignoring the angry glance Ted sent him as he led Molly into the barn.
“Well, some people like lady ponies,” Linc drawled. “Sort of suits ’em. That right, Flagg?”
Conan almost laughed. This little game was probably inevitable; every functioning social unit has its rites of passage. He looked directly at Linc, matching his cool smile and even his casual drawl.
“Maybe. And maybe some people don’t need a stud under them to prove what’s in the saddle.”
Linc’s face reddened when the men gave that thrust a round of laughter. Still, he held on to his smile while he stroked the stallion’s head to quiet its restive fidgeting.
“Ho, boy, easy now. Well, Flagg, mebbe a person don’t know if he’s got what it takes to handle a stud till he’s had a real horse under him. Like ol’ Domino, here.”
“Ol’ Domino,” nostrils flared, shifted nervously from one foot to the other with the leashed grace and contained power of a Nureyev warming up. Conan ran a hand along his neck, moving slowly, keeping his voice low.
