by M. K. Wren
“Hello, Mano. Where’s everyone gone?”
His manner was diffident, but underlying it was a defiant suspicion subtly different from that of the family and hands; Mano was even more an outsider here than Conan.
“Mr. McFall and Ted, they are out with the bookaroos working the cattle. The women are in the cooking house, except Mrs. McFall. She has gone riding.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and continued up the walk to the porch.
“Thanks, Mano.”
“De nada” The inflection was cold, but it didn’t register; Conan was too distracted by another sound as he entered the foyer. Music. The style was distinctly Western; a plaintive solo accompanied by the rhythmic strumming of a guitar.
It was coming from upstairs, and it wasn’t a recording. Linc. Conan started up the stairs, drawn by curiosity, but halfway up, stopped by wonder. A simple melody, as were all the great and haunting melodies in history, cast in a minor key, tapping the springs of joy and grief common to the human experience.
It stopped, but only for an experimental humming with a slight change in the chording, then began anew, and Conan moved slowly up the stairs, listening to the words.
She never was a country girl,
Was only love that kept her here,
Made her stay the long, still nights,
Say, oh, love, oh, hold me near.
Every dawn she sang awake,
The light made sunrise in her hair.
All day long she rode the hills,
Findin’ nothing there to care.
All the hills, they turn their backs,
And the only voice she’d ever hear
Was the lonely echo of her own,
Every day and every year.
Oh, I want lights in the night
And laughter all around me,
The moon with neon stars
And a neighbor I can see.
Oh, love me, love; I love you, love,
But it’s loneliness, loneliness kills,
And she never was a country girl…
Conan stood transfixed as the last chord died, trying to sort surprise and delight from regret and bewilderment. A country girl. He remembered Laura smiling over the phrase. Laura with her copper hair—did the light make sunrise in her hair? But Bridgie had described her sister with a strikingly similar phrase: hair like a sunset.
The song began again, and Conan felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if he were eavesdropping. The politic course would be to slip downstairs and come up again with enough noise to advertise his presence, yet he was drawn to the open door of Linc’s room, and there he stood watching Linc make music of plucked strings as if it were an act of love. Linc don’t belong here. Bridgie’s words again. Where did he belong? Where do poets and makers of music belong?
The strumming stopped, and Linc’s eyes turned on him, ice blue, taken by surprise and resentful, and Conan could only manage a lame, “That was beautiful…the song.”
The muscles moved under the sunbrowned jaws, and a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes. Then he laughed harshly and struck a clanging chord.
“Well, son of a gun! A music lover, a gen-u-ine music lover, ri’ chere at the old BS. Well, boys, let’s hear it for the lover! A-one…a-two…a-three…” And he launched into twanging song, foot stamping the cadence.
“Oh, bury me not…on the long praireee…where the wild coyooootes’ll howl—”
His hands and foot went still, laughter and mockery stricken from his face, words like an echo he didn’t hear.
“…bury me…”
A moment of taut silence, then he put the guitar aside, eyes averted, and crossed to the door, passing Conan as if he were invisible, the retreating sound of his boots on the stairs like a tumbling boulder.
Only when Conan heard the slam of the screen door did he finally rouse himself. He went to his room, feeling in some indefinable sense defeated, opened the windows to alleviate the accumulated heat of the afternoon, then spread the topographic maps on the bed and forced himself to concentrate on them.
At first, they seemed only random networks of fine lines, but once he located a few familiar points, the lines began translating themselves into the reality of mountain and valley, river and road. Here, angling across the upper left corner of one map, was Highway 20, and striking east from it, the dirt access road that passed the Double D, continued to the Black Stallion, then wandered off the map. To the south, a patch of blue signified a reservoir now nonexistent. If lines were drawn between the blue patch and the ranches, they would form a nearly equilateral triangle.
He arranged another map so that its top border coincided with the bottom of the first and traced the east-west line of the county road that marked the boundary between McFall and Kimmons land. Rattlesnake Ridge, Carmody Flat, Riddle Butte, Widow Creek, Greenhorn Mountain. Dry Creek wound like a fugue along the road, turned northeast through a narrow canyon, then unraveled across a wide basin. Dry Creek Pasture. “Pasture” was undoubtedly a typical misnomer, but it would be open and offer good grazing, although the approach to it from any direction would be rough, except through a valley called Basco Gap, which angled from the southeast perimeter to the county road. He understood George’s term, “a rattler reserve.” The tortured, close-spaced elevation lines abstracted a battlement of steep escarpments and deep canyons; the kind of rocky terrain rattlesnakes thrive in.
He measured out distances roughly. The imaginary line connecting the Double D and the reservoir was about five miles long, and if it were extended another four miles, would go through the center of Dry Creek Pasture. The distance from that point to the Black Stallion was approximately eight miles. From the basin center south to the county road was about one mile—as the crow flies—and from the point where the crow would cross the road to Highway 20 was nearly ten miles.
His calculations were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats and voices. He went to the window and saw Laura riding in on Molly. Linc was at the barn door to meet her. He helped her dismount, and a short exchange followed that Conan had to read in gestures and attitudes. Laura shook her head repeatedly, but it seemed more an indication of doubt than a strong negative response, and they were standing closer than would be usual in a casual conversation between friends. Linc put his hands on her shoulders once, gently, protectively. She turned, looking behind her, and after a few more words, walked away, apparently to her house. Linc watched her, then took Molly into the barn. A few minutes later, Conan saw what had distracted her: Aaron and Ted riding in with the buckaroos.
He left the window, eyes shadowed, oblique, and sought his cigarettes, lighting one as he returned to the maps. He was still poring over them when the cookhouse bell rang to call the hands to supper and the family to the cocktail hour.
*
Predictably, it could be termed the “happy hour” only in darkest irony, and was a virtual repetition of the day before: Aaron brooding behind a cloud of cigar smoke; Ted locked in silence, casting resentful glances at his father that suggested the aftermath of a quarrel; Linc equally silent, preoccupied with his own thoughts; Laura preoccupied with drinking too much too fast; Potts busying himself noisily with bartending and sporadic attempts at conversation.
Conan wondered why they bothered to maintain the ritual, and was reminded of an observation made by his aunt Dolly many years ago in reference to the Flagg family ritual of breakfasting together no matter what individual schedules might be. “You never nail up a gate, Conan, whether you’re usin’ it or not. You might need it someday.”
Aaron consumed his old-fashioned in bristling silence, but when he started his second, launched a vituperative attack on Conan, questioning him about his day in Burns and his progress on the case, temper flaring as Conan’s evasions became outright refusals to answer. Aaron then turned to ranch business, aiming his questions at his sons or Potts. No mention was made of George or the funeral.
As Aaron reached the bottom of h
is second drink, it became apparent that his testiness was, again, more than bad temper. Conan watched him, noting his pallor, a slight tremor in his hands, the cigar put out before it was finished with a caustic comment on its taste, and when at length he stood up, it was with the unsteady caution of an old man.
“I’m goin’ on up to bed.”
Laura was also watching him. “What’s wrong, Aaron?”
“Nothin’s wrong. I’m jest tired, that’s all.”
“Is your stomach upset?” She studied him intently with a nurse’s eye as he crossed to the door.
“I jest ain’t hungry, Laura. Now, don’t you start mother-hennin’ me.”
“Heaven forbid,” she murmured into her glass.
Conan asked, “Aaron, did Dr. Maxwell prescribe something for your heart condition?”
He turned and scowled. “I don’t see how you figger that’s any business of yours.”
Laura answered the question, looking up at Aaron with a curiously detached air.
“Doc prescribed a maintenance dose of Digoxin and a salt-free, low-cholesterol diet—which Aaron refuses to take or follow.”
“Damn it, I can’t be bothered with them fool diets and pills. I don’t need ’em. I been feelin’ fine.”
“Have you?” she asked.
Aaron shrugged uneasily. “Well, I jest didn’t sleep too good last night. That’s all’s wrong with me.”
“All right, but I’d like to have Doc make sure of that. We could stop by his office tomorrow while we’re in town for…the funeral. Please. Just to ease my mind.”
It was revealing, perhaps, that he didn’t argue, but only nodded absently as he shuffled to the door.
“Whatever you say, Laura, but he’ll jest tell you the same thing. Nothin’ wrong with me.”
“Shall I bring you…” But he was out of earshot. She vented a sigh of resignation. “I’ll fix some soup and try to get it down him.” Supper was also, in many respects, a repetition of the night before, the tension unallayed by Aaron’s absence. Laura took a tray up to him, then called Dr. Maxwell, taking her place at the table when the rest of them were nearly finished. In answer to Conan’s query, she shrugged, mechanically cutting a chop into mincemeat, forgetting to transfer even one piece from fork to mouth.
“Maybe it is just lack of sleep and indigestion. I wonder if he’ll ever be honest enough to admit to grief.”
That comment created a silence even Potts didn’t try to leaven. Linc broke it with a complete change of subject, his hotly sarcastic tone reminding Conan that he, like Laura, had indulged heavily at the cocktail hour.
“Saturday night,” he said, apparently addressing Ted. “The Grange is puttin’ on a dance over to Drewsey, y’know.”
Ted didn’t look up. “I heard about it.”
“I’ll jest bet you did. Bridgie and her ma’s in charge of the refreshments. You hear about that, too?”
Before Ted could respond, Potts put in mildly, “You figger you should go, Linc? I mean, tomorrah’s the—”
“What d’you want me to do? Sit home and cry?” He sent Laura an apologetic look, then, undaunted, asked, “How ’bout you, Laura? We ain’t missed a Grange dance for years.”
She smiled stiffly. “Well, I think I’ll pass on this one, Linc, and not because I feel obliged to sit home and cry. I’m a little worried about Aaron.”
That reason pleased him no more than the other.
“Well, I’m goin’! You can set here and hold Pa’s hand, and, Gil, you can set here and cry, for all I care.”
He stormed out of the house, and in another repetition of the night before, Potts followed with a hasty apology to Laura. In the ensuing silence, Ted stared miserably at his plate, unaware of Laura’s pensive, cognizant scrutiny.
“You know, Ted, he’s right. There’s no use sitting here crying. Why don’t you go to the dance?”
He looked up at her, his face reddening.
“I—I jest don’t think it’d be right….”
“Because of George? Do you think he’d care? As for me, I’d be happy to see you have a good time.” She didn’t mention Bridgie, but undoubtedly knew that was the real, and compelling, attraction for Ted. But he still hesitated.
She turned to Conan. “I’ll bet you’d enjoy it. A real Saturday-night shindig, a bit of vanishing Western Americana.”
He took her cue, considering the possible advantages of an opportunity to talk to Bridgie and Emily Drinkwater.
“I haven’t been to a Saturday-night dance since I was a kid. Ted, are you willing to be seen in the company of a rank greenhorn?”
He laughed uncertainly. “Well, I wouldn’t exac’ly call you a greenhorn, Mr. FI—uh, Conan.”
“But I am a stranger here.”
Ted pondered that and apparently found it a satisfactory rationale. He rose, signaling concession with a studied sigh.
“Well, all right, then. Laura, you’re sure…”
“Yes, I’m sure. Now go on and enjoy yourself.”
He was having a hard time restraining his anticipation.
“Thanks. We won’t stay late.”
CHAPTER 16
The Grange Hall in Drewsey was a two-story falsefront of elegant proportions, which were generally lost on the residents, who also seemed blithely indifferent to the fact that since being bypassed bythe highway years ago, the town was sinking not into oblivion but into the golden limbo of a ghost town, a concept more relevant to city dwellers, who viewed it through the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia.
On any other night, Drewsey would be as quiet as the hills around it, but tonight the sounds of revelry were audible to the farthest house. Conan had to park some distance away; every open space around the hall was filled with an assortment of vehicles ranging from pickups to Cadillacs. Light flooded from the windows and music gushed into the chill night. Local talent, Conan guessed; a fiddle, percussion, and a couple of guitars with an electric twang.
The cool air at the open door had attracted a cluster of revelers. Ted worked through the greetings and condolences nervously, repetedly introducing Conan as the reason for his presence at this festive occasion. Inside the hall, the music reverberated from the high ceiling, the wooden floor shook with the stamp of dancing feet, and conversations were carried on in amiable shouts. The style of dancing on this number, which had a strong, fast beat, varied from rock to jitterbug to fox trot.
Off the dance floor, the sexes tended to segregate, the women gathering around the refreshment table, elderly matrons in their flower-printed dresses, their daughters and granddaughters garbed in a variety of styles from conservative Sears-Roebuck to name-label chic. The men gravitated toward the doors and windows, cigars and cigarettes thickening the air; a few Copenhagen snuff or Bull Durham tins appeared. Occasionally, some of the men wandered outside to meet at the side of the building and pass a bottle around. No alcohol was served inside the hall, but the good spirits weren’t due entirely to the music or convivial atmosphere.
Most of the men wore boots and Levis or twills with pearl-buttoned shirts, and some sported dress suits of the elegant, nearly Edwardian Western cut. String tie slides and wide belt buckles decorated with polished stones or fine silverwork were proudly displayed by men who would consider wearing bracelets or necklaces degenerately effeminate.
“There’s some of the guys from Crane,” Ted said, or rather shouted, looking toward a group of teen-agers gathered in one corner. Crane was the county’s boarding high school; Ted’s alma mater. Conan took the hint.
“Go ahead, Ted. I’ll see what the refreshment table has to offer.”
Ted hesitated, well aware that among its offerings was Bridgie Drinkwater, who stood beside her mother, filling paper cups with punch. But he turned the other way, apparently overcome by a case of adolescent nerves, and pushed through the crowd, which was dissolving with the cessation of the music, toward the corner and his school friends.
Conan made his way to the table, looking for other
familiar faces. He saw Jesse Broadbent near the door and hoped she was distracted enough by the woman she was talking to not to notice him, but doubted it. Sheriff Tate was here, too, but two familiar faces weren’t in evidence. Perhaps Potts had succeeded in talking Linc out of coming.
The music resumed, a slow number with a nasal tenor accounting a tracker’s unrequited love, and the dance floor began filling again.
“Hello, Mrs. Drinkwater—Bridgie.”
They both smiled courteously, but Bridgie’s gaze kept straying past him toward Ted. Emily offered a cup of punch.
“Glad you could come to the party, Mr. Flagg.”
“So am I; it brings back memories. But I had a hard time talking Ted into coming with me.”
She glanced at Bridgie with a smile of fond cognizance.
“Well, I’m glad you got him to come. Time like this, a person needs a little leaven in life. How’s Laura?”
“She’s all right,” he said, repeating Laura’s own repetitious assurance. Emily’s smile faded with a long sigh.
“I sure miss seein’ her here. She was always one of our reg’lars at the dances. Why, her and Linc used to—” She stopped, succumbing to a flush of embarrassment.
Conan casually tasted his punch. “Dancing was never George’s forte, but Laura loved it. I’m sure she appreciated having Linc as an escort.”
That this was considered something other than a convenience was verified by her constrained attitude; a gentle woman, he thought, transparent as glass.
“Well, George wasn’t…I mean, he—he never was one for kickin’ up his heels much.”
Conan spared her further explanation by turning to Bridgie and offering his hand.
“Well, I’m here to kick up my heels. Bridgie, would you dance with me?”
She accepted with the willing tolerance of youth for a surprisingly active octogenarian, and if she was a little stiff in his arms, he suspected it wasn’t a reaction to him, but to Ted’s presence. And perversely, perhaps, Conan set a gradual course toward the corner where Ted was pointedly engrossed in conversation with his friends.
“How’s your father, Bridgie?”
