by Lisa Preston
The connection kept cutting in and out as my mama got us nearer and nearer the Beaumont ranch. But I heard enough to get the gist. Melinda’s theory was that the police had turned Solar, figured the girl was wearing a wire, and was supposed to have made Ivy incriminate herself on the drug business. Mercy.
“I’m losing you, Mel.”
There was no answer, just silence. Mama filled the air with recriminations of how I should have never set foot on Milt Beaumont’s property.
She asked, “Now which one of all these people you mentioned is it who did in the poor man you found on the hilltop? The young woman they have down at the police station?”
I wondered if there could be another explanation for Eliana failing a lie detector test. What if she felt guilty about something else? I thought about the store where Oscar wired money home to Jalisco. Did Eliana wire someone else’s money? Vicente only had seventeen dollars in his wallet. He had no expenses and had earned a steady wage for a long time.
A big pickup with dually exhaust roared by us, raising a dust cloud as it charged the Beaumont ranch. Robbie Duffman. My mama peered at the white rental car at the side of the road. The ranch’s open front gate loomed ahead.
“I should talk to the dude in that car,” I said. “His uncle is the one who worked on the ranch and died here. Been avoiding it.”
“How did he die?”
“Pretty sure he was poisoned,” I told her.
“Accidentally?” she asked. “People do that. Maybe someone buried him at his home, a peaceful thing. But now that you discovered it, it looks bad, so they’re afraid to say anything.”
The notion of accidental poisoning started me to thinking about the bracken fern and horsetail back home in Butte County, john-songrass and locoweed where I’d grown up. There’s worse things, for horses and people, like oleander and castor. There were plenty of natural poisons growing in the dirt. I could be all wrong about the Compound 1080 answer. A natural death?
Maybe no one had any ill intentions, and someone buried a shepherd where he was happiest.
Suppose Vicente’s burial had been an act of kindness.
“Pull over, Mama.”
She probably thought I was going to be sick. She braked hard enough for me to open the door and step out. The soil crunched under my feet, bitterly dry on the road edge.
If my heebie-jeebies were to be believed, someone was watching over me, like the song says, but not in a good way. I figured the time for a talk with Sabino Arriaga was way overdue. We needed to settle up.
I hadn’t been honorable.
Chapter 27
SABINO ARRIAGA SENT A HARD STARE my way. “You. I found you. And you found my uncle.”
“Rainy Dale,” I extended my right hand, not recalling if we’d actually introduced ourselves outside the east end of the Beaumont spread on Saturday morning.
He was past the point of polite introductions. “Did you see him? You saw my uncle’s body?”
“The police covered him up. It was respectful.” His face changed, softened. I tried not to cry as I pointed at Charley in the front passenger window of my mama’s coupe and told Sabino Arriaga, “I found this dog two years ago, along the interstate. Piecing things together over the last couple of days, I think what happened is someone here killed your uncle. After a time, the dog came down the hill, and I found him. But he was your uncle’s dog, there’s no doubt about that.”
“Why?” Sabino spread his hands wide as he demanded understanding. “Why did someone kill him? For what grudge?”
I exhaled several seconds. Fair enough. “I don’t rightly know but, your uncle, did he know plants? Like, dangerous plants and things?”
He cocked an eyebrow at me and gave a quick shrug. “Sure, he knew plants. My uncle would have treated animals with them. He knew comfrey and willow and others.”
I nodded. Nice try, Mama, but no way had Vicente accidentally killed himself with a bad plant and then been buried by a caring fellow employee trying to do the right thing and now scared to say so. “It seems they used Flame—the dog I call Charley,” I pointed at my old fellow, met his eye when his face studied mine from Mama’s front seat. “They used him as a stud dog in place of Fire, the big champion. They cheated on the last breeding and that was to the neighbor’s female.”
“My uncle had nothing to do with such a deception.”
“No, I don’t reckon he did. Beforehand, they cut the dog’s ears to stop identification. The way I figure it, he didn’t like them messing with his dog.”
It was the last two words that were going to finish ruining my day. I’d gotten Ivy’s blessing to keep Charley, but it didn’t add up. Charley had belonged to Vicente, a gift from Ivy. But the dog wasn’t Ivy’s to give away now. You don’t get your gift back when the person you gave it to dies. Having gotten used to the fact that Charley had belonged to Vicente Arriaga, I’d come to realize that I was every kind of a moron to not have seen this plain.
The heir owned him. Sabino had a claim on my dog, on Vicente’s dog.
And now that I thought I knew all of Vicente’s secrets, I was afraid Sabino would want to keep Charley. I realized that this was why I’d been avoiding him.
“They gave your uncle this dog and a donkey. Pretty standard stuff for a herder.”
Sabino waved a hand with impatience. “I have no use for a donkey.”
“It sired a mule there, too, though maybe she’ll lay claim to that as it was her mare that carried the baby. Maybe not. They’re not doing anything with that mule john.”
Sabino’s face clouded some more. “A mule?”
Dancing around the subject on my heart was only making things worse. I cleared my throat and pointed at Charley again. “Your uncle got himself stirred up over that dog. My dog. What do you want to—”
“I want my uncle back.” He paused long enough for us to both acknowledge, without saying it, that he wasn’t ever going to get what he wanted.
“His sketchbook is in his old bedroom. That might have some meaning for you.”
“I want to see where he lay.” He cocked his head. “Even the police say I cannot go and see where my uncle lay in the ground all this time.”
Pursing my lips, I considered the problem now before me, then nodded up the solution. “There’s a place on the interstate, the northbound side, with a little pull-off. It’s not an official rest stop, not marked, not even a milepost. But you’ll see it next to a really steep slope on the private land.”
“And?” The clouding sky reflected in Sabino’s dark eyes, and the air smelled like rain was coming.
“And it’s exactly down the hill from where I found your uncle. They’d never see you on the ranch if you took that route. Climb up that really steep hill from the pull-off on the interstate. You’ll know you’re at the right spot when you see the rock cairn.”
“Harrimutilak,” Sabino said. “The rock cairn. It is also called a stone boy.”
I’d heard that phrase somewhere, and recently, but all I came up with at the moment was, “Huh?”
Sabino said, “A harrimutilak is a marker made of a pile of rocks. It is a Basque thing.”
“Climb the hill from the interstate. It will be very, very steep, but it’s doable. Your uncle was buried next to the harrimutilak.”
***
Gabe drove out, holding up one index finger in a quiet salute over the navy blue baseball cap in the middle of his dashboard. My daddy does the same thing in his truck—the cap covers the radar detector.
Stuckey wasn’t with Gabe, unless he was ducking down avoiding Sabino in shame.
So, Gabe was going to his appointment with the police, but Stuckey was skipping out. I wondered if Ivy knew. And if she’d abandoned Eliana completely.
Duffy’s truck sat alone between the barn and the bunkhouse. Was he picking Stuckey up?
My mama parked next to Ol’ Blue. At the big house, I tried the front door, expecting nothing but getting a knob that turned. I wondered if the sto
ne boy up on the hilltop was built before or after Vicente disappeared, and what Ivy would say if I asked.
***
Eliana’s room smelled like candles. Burned stubs lined her dresser under a picture of Jesus. In the top right drawer, I found receipts for money transfers, just like Oscar had. A steady stream of Eliana’s little income that probably meant the world to someone in Guanajuato. But one of those deposits was in five digits, made a month after I’d found Charley and made him mine.
Outside, hoofbeats and hollers were followed by more shouts and a four-wheeler revving.
I went to the kitchen and dialed fast.
“Steinhammer.”
“Rainy Dale again,” I said. “Look, I just searched Eliana’s bedroom. She made a big transfer of money, twenty thousand bucks, to Guanajuato in May, just under two years ago.”
There was a silence on the line.
I kept going. “I already had my dog by then. I was living in Oregon. So, it was after Vicente died. I’ll bet it was Vicente Arriaga’s money that she wired. That’s what she’s hiding from you guys. She always kept Vicente’s money for him, whatever he didn’t hide up on the summit. And after he was gone for a while, she wired his money off to her family. But she feels bad about stealing his money, so she’s failing your polygraph. Ask her. Ask her about Vicente’s money. She wired it out of La Tienda.”
A police radio crackled in the background. Steinhammer said, “Ten-four,” then spoke to me again. “The Mexican store in town?”
“Right.”
“I’ll let them know. Are you leaving the ranch?”
“Soon as I can.”
But I couldn’t. Outside, my mama stood with her hands on her hips in a cloud of dust. “What on earth is going on? A man on a horse took your dog and rode off. That big lad got a rifle and zoomed after him on a four-wheeler.”
“With Charley? A man rode off?”
Duffy ran up. “Where’s the other four-wheeler? I’ll back Stuckey.”
“Which way?”
My mama pointed east.
“The neighbor,” Duffy snarled. “Trenton? Is that his name?”
Reese Trenton had ridden in and grabbed Charley? Stuckey had peeled out after him? How wrong had I been about everybody?
“Charley!” I lunged past Ol’ Blue, ignoring Duffy and the bunkhouse, charging the barn.
Duffy caught me, grabbed my arm. I smelled the booze on him. By now, he should have discovered that whiskey did not improve his talent at getting along, fighting, or shoeing. I yanked free, bolted and grabbed the halter and lead rope hanging on the first stall door but scared the hooey out of Decker as I flung myself into his stall.
“Easy, easy.” I tried to slow my movements enough to not further spook the horse. Quick as I could, I haltered Decker, tied the lead rope end to make a loop rein, and took him out bareback. We galloped east, leaving my mama and Duffy in the dust.
***
Reese Trenton’s mind must have jumped a fence. He stole my dog. Stuckey had gone after Trenton and Charley with a rifle. But Oscar, what about Oscar? Where had he gone? I remembered Trenton saying he’d seen a black baseball cap on the fellow who’d come onto his ranch, probably the fellow who’d prepared a fresh grave under the manzanita.
Adjusting to Decker’s fast lope, I wished I’d asked my mama which happened first: Stuckey on the four-wheeler, or Reese Trenton on the ranch grabbing Charley.
Or, maybe it wasn’t Reese Trenton. Did Oscar ride in? Had he been hiding out and now made a move for Charley? Why?
I rode and considered Sabino Arriaga and how I was afraid he’d lay claim to my dog. I thought about Steinhammer asking me who was in the car at Starbucks. She hadn’t asked who the waif was who had just popped in on Ivy and me.
She’d known. So, probably Melinda was right about the cops turning Solar into an informant.
Things were not fitting like my favorite old jeans.
The dust cloud from Stuckey’s four-wheeler pretty well took the course Decker and I had ridden before—the fast way to the place where someone had snuck onto Reese Trenton’s property the day before. Maybe I’d believed too much of what Trenton had alleged.
Decker was not feeling inspired under me. I reckon the multiple hill rides I’d given him had taken a toll. It felt like I was running out of horse.
The sound of the four-wheeler roaring ahead suddenly stopped dead. Stuckey had shut it down. I squeezed Decker harder, eking another trot out of the boy, and we reached the edge of the Beaumont ranch. Between the thud of hoof falls flickered men’s voices, full of anger, though I couldn’t make out the words.
Rounding some scrubby oak and manzanita, I saw Trenton’s upper body first. Behind him, the fence had been cut and peeled back enough to allow a horse. Trenton was ahorseback and didn’t have Charley, but his right hand held a pistol, resting on the wide horn of his saddle. I wondered if his horse could possibly be so steady that he was planning to fire. In two more strides, the brush blocked my view of Trenton’s horse briefly, but I saw Stuckey, still atop the four-wheeler, drawn down on.
It had been Reese Trenton all along, I realized way too late. The brains, the one who was calling the shots, in on all the goings-on. Everything? Vicente’s murder, hurting dogs and doing bad breedings? Dope, too?
Somewhere in this world is a woman who brawls but doesn’t want to. In the personality lottery, she somehow got my willingness to fight. I know this to be true because here I am, regularly wanting to fight, but never taking a swing. Doesn’t keep me from itching to sock someone now and again and again, though. And that kind of fury either gets me to yelling or shuts me up cold, like now. I eased Decker past more brush and wondered if Duffy was going to show up, and if so, whose side he’d be on.
Stuckey was frozen closer to me, downhill from Trenton, stopped halfway to reaching for the rifle on top of a long shovel, both wedged across the handlebars.
Trenton called out. “And you. You back on out of here.”
I was some distance from their standoff, so it took me a breath to realize Trenton knew I was there, and his order was directed at me. I pushed Decker forward one more stride, cleared the bushes, and saw Charley on the ground, panting at the hocks of Trenton’s chestnut gelding.
“Charley, come.”
Charley scooted to join me.
Trenton took his time swinging off the horse, keeping the pistol on Stuckey.
Stuckey reached forward. I expected he was going for the rifle, but he fired the ignition then twisted the throttle hard as Trenton headed down the slope on bowed, rickety legs.
Turns out Trenton’s a whole lot less steady unhorsed. Slick-soled cowboy boots are no good on scree anyways. His feet slid forward, throwing him on his back in front of his horse. The gelding didn’t shift a foot.
Stuckey lurched the four-wheeler uphill, past me, a cloud of dust following him like Pigpen.
Decker swerved, unsteady and dropping a shoulder as he mis-stepped on the slope, and damned if I didn’t slide right off him, landing hands and feet on the dirt. I reached for the lead rope, but he swung away, out of my grasp.
“Whoa, easy, easy,” I whispered, but he took fast steps away. I hollered, “Stuckey, wait. What’s going on?”
Thirty feet up the hill, Stuckey eased off the four-wheeler’s throttle. The tires locked up, raising another dust cloud. Looking back at me through the murk and the dying roar, Stuckey eyed me, shook his head, and mouthed one word.
Sorry.
“He’s the one you want,” Trenton croaked from the ground. “I had this handled ’til you showed up. He hurt the dog. And tried to frame a good man. I’m not putting up with this nonsense, and neither should you.”
I looked from Trenton to Stuckey and back again. “As I rode up, I thought it was you.”
Trenton rolled onto his knees, trying to keep the pistol on Stuckey as he got unsteadily to his feet. “It’s him, Missy. He’s the one.”
Stuckey gunned the four-wheeler straight up the h
ill, throttle wide open.
Reese leveled the pistol at Stuckey’s back, then slowly lowered the sights. He kept his eyes on the ground a second before he turned to look at me. He shook his head and winced an apology of sorts.
“I can’t shoot a man in the back.”
***
People sometimes accuse others of doing what the accuser has actually done. And others think the wrong person’s guilty of something another fellow’s done. Guy calls it proxying or transference or something like that. He learned this stuff from his folks and college, and he explains it better than me, but it makes enough sense without more big words.
I’d figured things wrong is all. That whatever hinky business was going on at the Beaumont ranch involved more than one liar, okay. That Oscar was in on everything or anything Gabe and Stuckey and Ivy did, well, maybe not after all. Or Trenton. Stuckey’d looked bad enough often enough.
I raised my chin toward Reese Trenton. “You got proof about him being the one?”
“Not actual proof, no. Never seen him and Elmer Fudd in a room at the same time, but that don’t mean they’re not one and the same. I can look a man in the eye, know the whole story. The wrong man’s not taking the fall for all the mischief on the Beaumont ranch. Not if I can help it.”
“I think police proof’s a little different,” I said.
“I talked to the De La Rosa fella enough to know.”
“Who?”
“Oscar.”
So that’s where Oscar went. To go plead his case with the neighbor. “He’s with you?”
Trenton spat tobacco juice and wiped his chin. “He told me everything, so I come to save the dog. Those other yokels don’t hold a candle to Oscar.”
I’d have like to held a candle under Trenton, and I pointed up the hill. “We’ve got to catch Stuckey. I think he’s the one who hurt my dog.”
“Well, hell, young missy, all pardon, but that’s what I tried to tell you.”
Trenton mounted up and let his good horse fire through the open section of fence. Maybe he knew another way to the summit, or maybe he was leaving me on my own. With Charley’s help, I caught Decker, positioned him across the slope, then jumped from the uphill side to get aboard, fingers laced through Decker’s mane.
