by Neil Mcmahon
The creases in his forehead deepened. "I didn't hear nothing about it. Thoroughbreds?"
"I don't know, but they didn't go to the new stables. They got put in that calving shed at the north end, and they were gone next morning."
He pushed his hat back with his knuckles. "Well, I promised I wouldn't get nosy, so I won't ask how the hell you know that. But I don't see how it could of got by me."
"Maybe it was set up that way," I said.
I could see that he wasn't just puzzled now-he was real unhappy that something like that had happened on his turf.
"Anybody moving stock on or off the ranch is supposed to come to the office and file a record," he said. "It goes into a computer now, but I don't get along too good with that, so I get a paper copy, too. I look them over every day before I leave, same as I always done. And I'm damn sure there ain't been nothing about horses."
So-it sounded like they'd been sneaked in, probably at night. I doubted Balcomb had brought them himself. Unloading horses from a trailer was no job for somebody who didn't handle them well. It might have been Kirk, or another accomplice, or just a delivery driver who wouldn't have had any reason to suspect anything was out of the ordinary.
But there was still no hint about where they'd been brought from, or why.
"Anything else that's gone on around the ranch that seems, you know, not right?" I said.
"'Not right,'" he said musingly. "Well, nothing flat-out wrong, at least that I know of. There's plenty that don't make sense to me."
"Such as?"
"Their thoroughbred operation, for one thing. It don't much exist."
I'd been aware of personal tensions on the ranch, but this was the first I'd heard that things weren't going well inside the inner sanctum of the Balcombs' compound. Elmer was the only person I knew who had access to it, and I'd never talked to him about it before.
"I thought that was the whole point of them buying the place," I said.
"That's what they told everybody, all right. Big-time breeding, and selling all over the world. But there ain't any horses there, to speak of-just their own two, and a couple it seems like they keep more for show than anything else. Not a one bought or sold yet, or bred, neither. Stands to reason they'd take a while to get started, but it's getting on two years now."
It seemed clear that Balcomb didn't care for horses, and the reason Laurie had given for his wanting to raise them seemed supplied. Still, it was hard to understand why a shrewd businessman would sink a ton of money into a setup and then sit on it. There was plenty of expert help available, and the word was that Laurie's family connections would provide a springboard to the high end of the market. A top thoroughbred could sell for millions of dollars. A stud fee could go well into six figures.
"I guess they must have enough of their own money," I said.
"I guess. The cattle operation pays for itself and then some, but it sure ain't paying for all that new building. Well, I'll double-check about them two horses, Hugh. Balcomb probably just didn't bother to tell me. Seems like the only reason he even keeps me around is so when he gets visitors, he can trot me out like I'm Buffalo Bill or some goddamned thing."
"I can see where that wouldn't sit too well," I said.
He shrugged. "At first I kept thinking I didn't mind too much, but then I started minding thinking that, if you know what I mean. Anyway, it just don't feel right any more. I'm about ready to get out-probably should have when it sold. Reuben treated me real good, so I'll get a couple thousand a month as long as I live, plus Social Security and the VA. It's just-"
He lifted his Stetson with his right hand, smoothed back his hair with his left, and replaced the hat, a gesture as unconscious and automatic as breathing. His face looked weary and disturbed.
"That's been my life, pretty much," he said. He raised his glass and drained it, the ice cubes gently rattling. I signaled the bartender for refills.
There went another piece of the real old west.
29
I got back to my place about five o'clock, parking down the road in the trees and looping around the back on foot like Madbird and I had done earlier. Everything was quiet and seemed untouched. I was starting to feel the strain from nerves and lack of sleep, and the temptation to crash came down hard on me. But-especially if I was going to end up back in jail soon-I had more ground to cover.
I wanted another look at the calving shed where the horses had been killed, this time with good visibility. And as long as I was at the ranch, I might as well try making a peace offering to Doug Wills, the man I'd fought with yesterday, and take a shot at picking his sullen brain. If I'd had my preference, I'd never have laid eyes on him again. But he was the foreman-out and around the place all the time, handling stock and privy to business dealings-and the other person besides Elmer most likely to know something about those horses.
If I hustled, I could make it to the shed before dusk, but there was still the problem of getting caught. Besides the Balcombs, only a few hired hands lived on the ranch, and none of them would be working now. But somebody might be driving to town or out on another errand.
I'd been thinking hard, and I'd come up with a possible answer-to go around the ranch instead of on it. The shed was just inside the north border. Beyond that lay a couple of miles of empty grazing land, with no roads or people. I knew where I could cut off the highway and cross it-except that darkness would fall long before I could make the hike, and even a four-wheel-drive pickup would be stopped by deadfalls and rock slides. But a motorcycle would be just the ticket.
I went out to the garage my father had built. Occasionally I still worked on the truck or dressed game in there, but mainly I used it for storing stuff like tools and camping gear. It also housed a 1966 BSA Victor that I'd bought in high school for a hundred and fifty bucks. The previous owner had stripped it down into a bastardized dirt bike, a beefy, dinosaur four-banger that couldn't begin to maneuver with the newer two-stroke MX models. But I loved its deep rumble and solid feel, and I'd gotten to where I could horse it around pretty well up hills and over trails. Riding with my friends I was usually last in the pack, but for a couple of summers, I'd had a hell of a good time on it. When I'd gone to college I let it fall into neglect. Then, during my first solitary summer back in Montana, I'd refurbished it, spending weekends learning about the marvels of British engineering and finally turning it over to a pro for fine-tuning. It had been another part of that illusion of freedom, but a good one. For a while I'd ridden a lot, mostly in the back country nearby, where I could cruise for hours on the network of trails and disused roads without seeing a soul. That had fallen off again, but there were a couple of days every summer and fall when taking it out for a spin was the only right thing to do.
This was one of those times, although not for the same reasons.
I topped off the tank and stomped on the kick-starter. I'd taken it out not long ago, and it lit right up. I didn't have license plates for it, which didn't particularly worry me; but I didn't have lights either, which did. Getting that far meant riding on highways, and I'd be coming back after dark. I got my best flashlight, a big bright mag that I carried in the pickup, and duct-taped it onto the handlebars. It wouldn't help much in terms of my seeing the road, but at least oncoming drivers would see me. I stuffed some extra batteries into a rucksack, then added an unopened fifth of Knob Creek bourbon that my crew had given me last Christmas, and that I'd been saving for a special occasion. I hated the thought of wasting it on Doug Wills, but it was the best overture I could think of.
I put on a hooded sweatshirt and a fleece-lined thigh-length brown duck jacket, good protection against wind and rain, and boots with a waterproof Gore-Tex lining. I added a pair of old ski gloves. Anybody who'd ever spent much time on a bike knew that your knuckles would freeze even in comparatively mild weather.
Finally, I rooted around the cabin until I found an old baggie of crosstops, stuffed in a drawer with some other things, like my wedding ring, that I
didn't really want to keep but hadn't been able to make myself get rid of. I hadn't touched them in years and you didn't see them around any more, but in the past a lot of working guys had used them-small tabs of clean mild speed, nothing like meth, just enough for a smooth energy charge to get you through a wearying afternoon and a long drive home. I took two and shoved the bag into my pocket.
Heading down Stumpleg Gulch, I got another little glimmer about the way I was starting to think. I'd never been a high-powered investigative reporter, and I hadn't done anything of that kind since I'd left journalism. But I'd spent plenty of time in those days trying to get information from people who didn't want to give it or, if they did, were determined to shade the truth. I'd learned to size up the situation pretty fast when I started an interview, and to tailor my own approach accordingly. It was something I hadn't been comfortable with, like lying to my friends.
But the stakes were way different now, and I was slipping back into it like putting on a well-worn favorite shirt.
30
I stashed the Victor in a stand of quaking aspen a quarter mile short of the shed and walked from there. The ride had gone about like I'd expected, starting out in prairie and sparse timber and then getting into rougher country, including one narrow rocky defile that almost turned me back. But the bike had run like a champ, and the reason I'd stopped short wasn't a physical obstacle or worry about somebody hearing me.
The storm-thick sky had brought a premature twilight bearing down on the land, a restless tapestry of shifting clouds, driven by a wind that grabbed at my hair and clothes. Maybe it was only because the lift I'd wanted from the crosstops had kicked in by now, heightening my senses and probably also my imagination. But moving through that kind of weather in that kind of country at dusk was like being in a thrilling dream that hovered on the edge of turning frightening at any second. I had become aware of that feeling early in childhood and had felt it on a thousand occasions since, and I'd never gotten over its message-that extremely powerful forces were aware of my being on their turf, and while they might tolerate me, they didn't like it and they were capable of changing their minds completely at any second.
The instinct that had arisen in me was to pay the toll with respect. That was why I'd decided to hike the last stretch. There was something arrogant about speeding through on a noisy machine. Going on foot was humbler and gave me a deeper appreciation, even awe, of my surroundings. It was a small gesture-I could only hope the thought counted. In general, I spent a fair amount of energy in my daily life trying to find little ways to propitiate those powers in advance for times like this, when I had to cut corners.
The ranch's electric fencing didn't extend this far into the hinterlands-there was just old-fashioned barbed wire strung on posts of lodgepole pine. I climbed over it, waded Lone Creek without taking off my boots, and stopped inside the edge of the sheltering line of trees along the stream.
The shed was about a hundred yards away, a dark bleak mar against the horizon, underscoring the solitude in the way that abandoned signs of human presence sometimes could. Nothing moved in the surrounding stubbly hay fields except some scatterings of alfalfa and timothy that the swather had missed, their fronds dipping and tossing in a submissive little dance to the wind.
When I got there everything looked the same as when Madbird and I had left last night, with the hay bales still at the ambush site. I opened the barn doors to let in light and started prowling. I didn't have any specific ideas of what to look for-only the faint hope of turning up something we'd missed.
He was right about there being shotgun pellets in the walls-I found a few right off. But like the organic residue, they were worthless as evidence-a ranch hand could have been hunting rats or just expressing himself after downing a six-pack or two. It didn't offer any hints about what was behind this, either. I kept looking, but I didn't see anything else that seemed out of place.
I'd been there about ten minutes when I thought I heard a faraway sound deeper than the wind. I strode to the doors. I couldn't see anything new moving out there.
But my eye was caught by a strip of bright blue embedded in the ground a few yards in front of the shed. I'd missed it on my way in-it was tiny and hidden, from most angles, by a ridge of dirt.
A ridge, I realized, that had been made by the Cat's blade.
I knelt beside the blue strip and pulled it free. It was a shred from a nylon tarp-like the one that had been wadded up with the carcasses in the dump.
Then I heard the noise again, a low rumble like an engine's. It might have been a passing plane or even thunder, but I couldn't take the chance. I slammed the shed doors shut and ran in a crouch for the trees. My wet boots were heavy to pick up and slogged down with ankle-turning clumsiness, and the distance seemed a lot longer than a hundred yards. I got behind a good-size bull pine and leaned against it, breathing hard. The sound was clear now, even over the pounding of my pulse. I edged my face out for a look.
Sure as hell, a pickup truck was approaching on the dirt road. It looked like one of the several almost identical gray Fords that belonged to the ranch.
I sagged back against the tree. I couldn't believe that anybody had seen or heard me coming here-the country I'd crossed was as deserted as the dark side of the moon. But it was almost as hard to believe that somebody would happen along, in this blowy Sunday twilight, for any other reason. Maybe I'd tripped some kind of security device I didn't know about. I faded another twenty yards into thicker cover. But I couldn't resist getting a look at who was in that truck.
The driver was just stepping out-a fit-looking man wearing jeans and a cowboy hat pulled low. But I didn't recognize him as any of the hands, and he seemed to walk a little awkwardly, like he wasn't used to his boots.
It was Wesley Balcomb himself.
Ordinarily, he drove a sunburst orange Humvee. I'd never seen him in one of the ranch rigs. The Humvee was a glossy, pristinely kept showpiece-maybe he hadn't wanted to take it over rough dusty roads. But my stronger guess was that he didn't want to be recognized by anybody who might glimpse it.
Instead of going to the shed, he walked away from it until he had a clear view in all directions. Then he turned slowly in a full circle, taking in the wide horizon of what he owned. There was no way in hell he could have seen me, crouched in the timber almost two hundred yards away. But I'd have sworn that his gaze paused for a couple of seconds just after it passed.
I didn't move again until he'd driven away.
31
The hired hands' trailers lay deeper into ranch property, but I was able to ride most of the way there still staying outside the boundary. I stopped just short of where the electric fence started. This time when I cut the engine I spent a good long minute listening. The trailer settlement was the one place on the spread where people would definitely be around right now, and the coincidence of running into Balcomb, if that was what it was, had me feeling extra edgy.
No man-made sounds broke the evening stillness. Everybody was probably inside. I climbed the barbed wire again and quietly walked the half mile to the trailers' lights. There were half a dozen double-wides, set far enough apart and shielded by trees to give reasonable privacy. It looked like Doug Wills was home-his big red pickup was parked outside.
I spent another minute thinking about what-ifs. It was all too likely that he'd take one look at me and call the sheriffs to bust me for trespassing, or even try to regain some of the macho turf he'd lost yesterday. I was banking on the good Knob Creek bourbon I'd brought to soften him up. But I was ready to bail out fast, too.
I hyperventilated a few times, then climbed the few steps and tapped on the trailer's flimsy aluminum door.
Doug answered the knock himself. His badly swollen nose stood out like a hazard light, and he had deep purple bruises under both eyes. I swallowed hard and held up the bottle in offering.
"Look, I know you're really pissed at me, and I know I'm not supposed to be here," I said. "I came to apologize." I'd
taken that cue from Kirk. Even though I hadn't believed him, it had lulled me into dropping my guard.
Doug glared at me, then at the whiskey, then at me, then at the whiskey again. Finally he took the bottle in his fist and stepped back, leaving the door open.
"All right, I ain't holding any grudges," he said gruffly.
I exhaled quietly in relief, but I stayed wary as I followed him inside. It felt too easy-I'd expected at least a show of teeth. But the fight seemed to be out of him. No doubt the broken nose figured in-that would leave a man sore all over and laboring to breathe for some time to come. And yet, he looked puzzled, distracted, rather than whipped. Maybe it was because in his own mind he'd been the kingpin of his little world, and that idea had been shaken enough for something else to start working its way in.
The trailer's inside was cramped and noisy, with a huge satellite TV screen blaring a reality cop show and kids running around hollering. I knew there were only three, but the place seemed to be full of them. The diaper smell and clutter were the same as I remembered from the time I'd come in to unjam the cheap pocket door to the bathroom.
The living room and kitchen were separated only by a counter, where Tessa-Doug's wife and occasional horizontal passenger in Madbird's van-was chopping vegetables for dinner. She gave me a brief cool stare, but if she recognized me, it didn't show. She was tall and angular, with wide flat hips and a blond shag hairdo bleached almost stiff. Her mouth had a tough set to it and her face would have been prettier with a few corners knocked off. But that made it more attractive in an odd way-for sure, more interesting, with a hint of wildness. I didn't have any trouble seeing why she appealed to Madbird.
Doug walked on to the kitchen, automatically stepping over children and piles of stuff. I stayed just inside the doorway, still nervous that he might pick up a phone or gun. Instead, he got a couple of tumblers from a cupboard and filled them with bourbon. Tessa ignored him completely.
