Oh, Bury Me Not

by M. K. Wren

  “He’s a beautiful animal. Is this a Garcia bit?”

  That should have alerted Linc to the fact that he wasn’t dealing with a rank tenderfoot, but it was too late for him to back down; Potts and the other men were waiting, sunburned faces creased in anticipatory squints.

  “It’s a Garcia. Set me back a hunderd ’n fifty bucks.”

  Conan didn’t doubt that. Blued steel engraved with a floral motif, a minor work of art. And a spade bit. Few horses were unmanageable enough to need such a severe bit.

  “He’s a good horse, ol’ Domino,” Linc went on, inevitably. “Got a little spirit, y’might say. Mebbe you’d like to give him a run.” A weighted pause, then, “’Less you figger lady ponies like Mol is more your style.”

  The gauntlet had been dropped, and Conan was sharply aware of the expectant faces surrounding him. He didn’t consider his willingness to risk a broken leg or following his father’s example to an early grave relevant to his courage or manhood, but he knew the rules of the game. Among buckaroos, a man was reduced to pariah status with the succinct phrase, “He’s afraid of his horse.” The outsider would have to prove himself, on their terms, if he hoped for cooperation, or even the truth, from these men.

  “Well, Linc, I get the feeling Domino’s sort of a one-man horse. I’m surprised you’d offer to let me ride him.”

  Linc grinned frostily. “I wouldn’t ordinarly, but seein’ as how you’re a friend of the family, so to speak…”

  Conan took a long breath and reached for the reins.

  “Well now, I can’t turn down a friendly gesture like that. Domino…” I hope you and I end up friends, he concluded privately, his throat constricting dryly as Domino’s ears swiveled back.

  He didn’t miss the buckaroos’ surreptitious shifts away from the horse as he mounted, but he was concentrating on Domino, hearing his nervous snort, seeing the warning crescent of white around his eye. He kept a tight rein—he wanted Domino’s ears in sight—and swung up into the saddle, numbly aware of the muscles coiling under the withers.

  The shout came as expected, an exultant “Eeyah-HAHJ”

  And Domino uncoiled like a three-quarter-ton steel spring.

  Conan was suddenly weightless, flying godlike astride this Pegasus. Until the brutal fall from grace, when Domino hit the ground, like an earthquake, and Conan hit the saddle, convinced every vertebra was shattered, while Domino heaved skyward again.

  It was like being caught in a film running at supernormal speed, only there was nothing funny about the jerking, racking movements; not with the mass of fifteen hundred pounds behind them. Domino defied both gravity and equine anatomy, leaping, corkscrewing, kicking up his heels like a gargantuan lamb, while the buckaroos chorused whoops and rough exhortations, goading his titanic frenzy.

  Yet Conan stayed in the saddle, riding slick, hat in his left hand, fanning, spurless boots automatically raking from shoulder to rump, never once “pulling leather,” so much as touching the saddlehom, and if he’d had time to think about it he might have called it a miracle.

  Reflex.

  That was the miracle.

  Domino made four spine-wrenching turns to the right, each ending in a savage collision with the ground, then on the fifth turned abruptly left, but Conan was ready for it, his body tuned to Domino’s, reacting at an instinctive level far faster than conscious thought.

  Reflex.

  He gasped for air, breath crushed out of him under the impact of yet another 10 G. landing, and as Domino flung himself into the sky again, Conan leaned to the left, reins loose. A tight rein now would be suicidal.

  Reflex kept him in the saddle, and the miracle was that he had been fifteen when he last sat an unbroken bronc. The body never forgets lessons pertinent to survival.

  But Domino wasn’t a bronc.

  Weight to the right stirrup; heel down; keep the foot free. It was the rousing clamor of whoops from the buckaroos that fueled the stallion’s fury, and that realization was also pertinent to survival.

  Another succession of vaulting gyrations, gravel and dust exploding, while Conan drowned the impelling shouts with his own, using the reins now, but only to slap at Domino’s shoulders, to reinforce the command of his heels digging into his sides.

  A sidewinding turn caught him off balance and he nearly went flying solo. Domino didn’t give up easily, adding a few variations to the allegro theme of vault, pivot, and crash land. Conan rode it out, still shouting, still insisting with heels and slapping reins on the command forward. And finally, climaxing the pas de deux with a last leap and an airborne about-face, Domino ceased his demonic, tectonic dance. He stopped bucking only to break into a full gallop, hurtling toward the closed gate where Mano was bolting for cover, leaving the gate locked, an impervious wall.

  But Conan regarded that threat to life and limb almost with relief; Domino was only running out his hysteria. He stood in the stirrups, easing the reins to the right, mindful of the spade bit, and at that point, relief translated into anger. Linc was a fool to put a greenhorn on this horse with a spade bit. A true greenhorn could have torn his mouth to bleeding shreds.

  The imminent collision with the gate was averted as Domino obediently turned and slowed his pace. Conan circled the yard twice, more to get himself under control than the horse, so that the little surprise he had in store for Linc was calculated, even if motivated by anger.

  He approached the barn at a lope and didn’t rein until he was within a few yards of the door, and Linc, Potts, and the hands began scrambling out of the way. Then a quick tug on the reins, and Domino sat back on his haunches, forelegs flying, one hoof striking so close, Linc dodged back, hit the barn wall, and slid clumsily to the ground.

  As the dust settled, Conan dismounted, which had an immediate calming effect on Domino, who stood quivering and panting, and Conan sympathized; he wasn’t at all sure of his legs. The buckaroos picked themselves up, but it was a slow process; they were doubled over with spasms of laughter.

  That was also part of the game, a conciliatory signal. They were laughing at themselves, at the unexpected outcome of the trial. All except Linc. But Ted, watching from the barn door, was clearly enjoying himself.

  Conan said dryly, “You were right, Linc. Ol’ Domino does have a little spirit.”

  Linc pulled himself to his feet, glaring hotly, hands clenched into fists until Potts stepped in with a wry grin.

  “Hey, Linc, you wasn’t s’posed to be the one spittin’ dust. You better have a talk with that pin-eared cayuse.”

  Linc could take that from Potts, and could even laugh.

  “You wanta try siftin’ that pin-eared cayuse, Gil?”

  “I’ll pass on that. He’s already got the wind up. Mr. Flagg, mebbe we should sign you on; we could use a good bronc buster.”

  Conan flexed his back and grimaced painfully as he surrendered Domino’s reins to Linc.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to Molly from now on.”

  That was also a conciliatory signal, and Linc’s smile showed a hint of warmth for once. Conan took some hope from that, but the promised thaw didn’t materialize. The smile vanished as a strident voice broke the brief detente.

  “Linc, what the hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

  Aaron McFall was crossing the yard from the house, with Laura a few steps behind, her pace slowing as his quickened. The buckaroos, except for Potts, began making prudent retreats, mumbling excuses, Ted turned abruptly and went into the barn, but Linc stood his ground.

  Potts put in apologetically, “We was jest havin’ a little fun, Aaron. Didn’t nobody get hurt.”

  “Fun!” He glared at Linc as if he, not Potts, had spoken. “You ain’t got nothin’ better to do? You don’t get enough fun down to Burns ever’ damn night of the year?” When Linc, red-faced and sullen, made no response, Aaron glanced at Conan and added, “Well, Linc, next time you figger to prune up a greenhorn, you damn well better make sure you got a real greenhorn first.”r />
  Conan set his teeth against an angry rejoinder. With that caustic counsel and derisive laughter, Aaron had destroyed all hope of Conan’s achieving any rapport with Linc. That was verified in the cold look Linc sent him before turning away, jerking at Domino’s reins.

  “I gotta take care of this horse,” he said, and stalked into the barn. Potts sighed and started after him.

  “I’ll give him a hand, Aaron. Be up to the house in a little while.” Aaron ignored that, turning a speculative eye on Conan.”That was a purty good job of ridin’, Flagg. Course, that damn plug ain’t nothin’ but a fancy-show stud.” And with that he turned on his heel and set off for the house.

  “Typical,” Laura said flatly. “Aaron is incapable of giving a compliment without qualifying it with an insult.”

  She was wearing Levis and a Western-style shirt, but that only made him more aware of her model’s face and figure; a city girl in country clothes. He remembered Bridgie’s terse assessment: Laura didn’t belong here. He was also remembering something else Bridgie had said: You couldn’t expect her to be satisfied with country life—or a country husband.

  If Laura had sought an alternative to her country husband, it would have been Linc. Her limited opportunities to meet other men would dictate that to some degree, and, as Bridgie had noted, Linc didn’t belong here, either; they had that in common. And Linc had made his feelings clear enough already. Laura’s feelings were still an enigma.

  She turned, looking up at him anxiously.

  “It was a good job of riding. Are you all right?”

  He laughed and began walking with her toward the house.

  “I think I’ve sprung my rib cage, cracked my coccyx, and dislocated my liver, but aside from that I’m fine.”

  “Well, there isn’t much I can do for you except advise a hot bath and a couple of aspirin. And perhaps some liniment. I have a patent remedy highly recommended by the buckaroos, but I’m not sure whether they rub it on or drink it.”

  The humor was forced, but he laughed with her, surprised she was capable of it. He recognized the tightness around her mouth, the shadow of desperation behind her eyes.

  “Are you serving as ranch nurse now?” he asked.

  “Yes, and occasionally it’s more like ranch doctor. Doc Maxwell’s nearly an hour away at the least. Sometimes when you have an accident out here, there isn’t that much time. In San Francisco I’d probably get arrested for practicing medicine without a license, but Doc just makes sure I have the necessary drugs and equipment. Anyway, it’s been educational. And convenient for Aaron and George. I mean, not every ranch has a live-in nurse. In fact, we can almost claim two; Gil Potts had some paramedic training in the Army. But he’s very considerate. Leaves the nursing to me, which seems to be my only claim to fame.”

  He caught an almost inperceptible slurring in her words, which with the careless cynicism made him realize she’d been drinking. That came as a surprise; when he first met her she was a virtual teetotaler. But that was five years ago, and not in the wake of sudden widowhood.

  “Well, I’m glad you haven’t given up nursing. RNs are too hard to come by these days.”

  “Oh, I haven’t given it up; it’s sort of my civic duty. I even teach a class in first aid for 4-H. Respectable Mrs. McFall, teaching the kiddies to set bones and suction snake bites.” Too much bitterness was coming through; she paused, as if to get herself under control, then made a question of the comment, “Ted said you went out to the reservoir.”

  “Yes. It seemed the logical place to start.”

  “He was worried about you, and so was I. Crossing that property line now could mean getting shot at.”

  “Well, I did have to dodge a little lead.”

  She paled, eyes widening. “Alvin?”

  “No. Bridgie. Fortunately, she wasn’t shooting to kill.” He stopped at the peal of a bell, startling in the evening quiet.

  “The cocktail hour,” Laura said.

  “It’s announced with a bell?”

  She laughed and nodded thanks as he opened the gate for her. “Actually, that’s the dinner bell for the hands. The family whiles away the time until Irene gets them fed with a little tiddly or two. I introduced that citified custom; my one contribution to local culture. It’s one of the rituals of life now; the family that boozes together…” She leaned hard on the stair rail as they climbed the steps to the porch. “Anyway, Gil makes an elegant old-fashioned; that’s part of the ritual, too.”

  And apparently Potts was definitely part of the family. In the foyer, Conan watched her as she turned on a table lamp. Dusk came quickly here, but it would be a long time before the last light faded. Her hand was shaking.

  “Is there anything you need, Conan? I left it to Ginger to get your room ready, and I haven’t even checked it. I’m afraid I’m not much of a hostess.”

  “I’ve no complaints. Is there anything you need?”

  She almost winced, turning away from the light.

  “Need? Comprehension, perhaps. And…and a clear conscience. But right now, I think I need…not to talk about it. Not yet.”

  “All right, Laura.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him a wan smile, then, hearing voices outside, squared her shoulders. “I must get some ice, and you’d probably like a little time to yourself.”

  It was a dismissal of sorts, and he accepted it.

  “Well, I’d like to wash off some of the dust and horse, at least.”

  Once he closed himself in the guest room, he took time for more than cleaning up. He unlocked his briefcase—steel cased and secured with a combination lock—put the soil samples in marked envelopes, and filed them in one of the flaps with George’s letter. The briefcase held the bare necessities of his trade, or avocation. Chemicals, fingerprint powder and tape, an ultraviolet lamp, microscope slides, a 12X magnifying glass, a case of tools to which few locks were impervious, a tape-recorder and an assortment of tiny monitors, a Minolta 35mm camera, a pencil flashlight, a pair of Zeiss shirt-pocket binoculars, and a Mauser 9mm automatic. The latter he seldom carried with him, but it was always loaded.

  Before he left the room, he put the briefcase in the closet, one of the old-fashioned kind, copiously spacious, with double doors. He hung a tie across the knobs, apparently casually, but if the doors were opened, he’d know it.

  Downstairs in the living room, the cocktail hour was well under way when he arrived; a tense gathering, and as he entered, a silent one. Aaron, wreathed in smoke from a panatela, again occupied the chair to the left of the fireplace. Ted was sitting near the door, working at an old-fashioned, while his brother stood at the front windows, brooding over the golden western sky. Laura was in the chair near the bar, behind which Gil Potts busied himself. She raised her glass with a mocking flourish.

  “Conan, you’ve almost missed the first round.”

  Potts glanced at her, then put away his worried frown to give Conan a smile.

  “Well, Mr. Flagg, the bar’s open, and the drinks is on the house. What’ll you have?”

  “Laura tells me you mix a fine old-fashioned, Mr. Potts, and since that’s what everyone else is having, she must be right.”

  Potts laughed and began preparing the drink with smooth, practiced movements, using a rosewood pestle to crush the sugar cube with the bitters.

  “Far be it from me to doubt Laura’s word, and you might as well leave off that ‘mister’ business. I don’t hardly know how to answer to that.” Then, when he garnished his creation and handed it to Conan, “Give that a try.”

  It was, as Laura promised, an elegant old-fashioned, but light on sugar and long on bitters. He’d been surprised that a mixed drink would find favor in a region where whiskey was traditionally served with no adulterants other than, if necessary, water. Aaron, he noted, took his without the fruit garnish, but still it was an unexpected concession.

  “It’s perfect, Gil, and you might leave off the ‘mister’ with me, too.”

  “Good �
��nough.” Then he added with an oblique smile, “That there’s an o-o-old family recipe. Picked it up tendin’ bar in Winnemucca a few years back.”

  Conan laughed politely, filing that information for future reference as he went to the vacant chair by the fireplace. Potts perched at one end of the couch, seemed to try to think of something to say to lighten the somber mood, then apparently gave up and turned his attention to his drink. Conan lit a cigarette, pointedly ignoring Aaron’s intent scrutiny through puffs of cigar smoke. The only sound was the clink of ice as Laura tipped up her glass.

  “I hear you been out to the rezzavoy,” Aaron announced at length.

  “Yes.” Conan took a swallow of his drink, wondering whether Ted or Laura had been the source of that information.

  “Damn fool thing to do. I told Joe Tate nobody from the Runnin’ S ever set foot across Alvin’s propitty line, and by God, I won’t have nobody makin’ a liar outa me.”

  “I’m not from the Running S, Aaron.”

  “What d’you mean? Ain’t you stayin’ here? Ain’t you signed on for a job of work here?”

  “You aren’t responsible for me any more than I’m responsible to you. I made that clear at the Double D.”

  Aaron put aside his cigar for his glass, which despite its generous size looked as fragile as an eggshell in his callused brown hand. He might have argued Conan’s responsibilities further, but curiosity got the better of him.

  “You talked to Alvin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well? What’d he say?”

  “Very little.”

  “Damn it, what little?”

  “Aaron, you know, that’s none of your business. You aren’t my client.” Then, seeing the angry flush moving up from his neck, he laughed. “But I’d like your response to something Alvin said. He mentioned a man named Foley.”

  “Sure. Hor’ce Foley. Runs the bank down to Burns. Harney Valley Bank and Trust.”

  “You bank there? I mean, for the ranch?”

  He squinted guardedly. “Yep. Always have. Like to do business with the locals whenever I can.”

  “It’s a small bank, then, and your account is sizable; one they’d be reluctant to lose.”