Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  I looked back at the pack station, seeing a picture right out of an old Western movie. The two-story shingled lodge building, with its long front porch and gray stone chimney, was outlined against a towering granite cliff. Scattered clumps of pines surrounded it, and the meadow spread out like a carpet in front of it. Add in the old barn and wooden corrals with their granite troughs, and picturesque was a mild description.

  Turning, I gazed up the valley to where Relief Peak raised a snowy head in the sun, feeling a sense of amazement that I was actually here, riding down this trail on Gunner. I still couldn't quite take it in.

  Lonny and Ted rode ahead of me, Roey scampered alongside, and Plumber plodded behind. I watched Gunner's black-tipped red ears, seeing them flick forward curiously, cock back toward me, and flick forward again. The old cowboys used to say that you could tell a good horse by the way he "works his ears."

  Ted had fallen back beside me, and I glanced over at Hank. His ears moved forward and back, like Gunner's. I smiled at Ted. "How come you always ride him?" I asked.

  "Oh, I like him," Ted said, a little sheepishly.

  I studied the horse. He had some obvious faults; he carried his head too high on a neck that was too straight, and he had one front leg that was noticeably turned out. On top of which, he was jigging a little as we moved along the trail, and I'd noticed before that this habitual prancing was a trait of his-a trait most cowboys are not fond of. But he did, indeed, seem likable, with his bright gold buckskin color, kind eye, and good attitude.

  "He's not too smart," Ted said, "but he's willing." He laughed. "He's a good son of a bitch. I tell the kids I keep him for my own riding horse 'cause he's got a smooth trot. But I just like him."

  I smiled back at him, knowing what he meant. Liking a particular horse was a lot the same as liking a particular human. Often the feeling was inexplicable, as much because of as despite what others might regard as faults.

  We were almost at the end of the meadow now. I glanced at the spot where Bill Evans's sports car had been, and noticed that Lonny turned his head away, keeping his eyes on Relief Peak. None of us said a word.

  We started up the steep piece of trail that led out of the meadow. The horses were on granite now, but the trail had been blasted out by crews with dynamite and carefully built, and the footing was good. Gunner seemed confident, following Hank and Chester. I kept a careful eye on Plumber, but the sheer drop off one side to the boulder-strewn creek below didn't seem to intimidate him any more than it did the others. Like Gunner, he cocked an alert ear at the noisy water occasionally, but both horses picked their way over the rockier sections of the trail like good mountain ponies and seemed happy enough to be there. Gunner stopped dead when he saw the bridge, though.

  I couldn't really blame him. It was a narrow one-horse-wide wooden ramp, and the railings only reached about to stirrup height. It looked insubstantial as hell, stretching from one rim of the canyon to the other, with the long drop beneath it to the cascading roar of the creek. At first sight most people tended to stop, as Gunner was doing now, and stare at it apprehensively.

  Lonny smiled back over his shoulder at me. "He'll follow the other horses," he said reassuringly.

  I nodded. Hank was on the bridge now, and Chester followed him. I clucked to Gunner and urged him forward. He obeyed, but I could feel his trepidation. Plumber was leaning back a little on the lead rope, but he was coming, too. No horse likes to be left behind.

  The bridge was spooky enough, even for me. The horse's hooves banged hollowly on the wooden floor, the water far below crashed and echoed on the canyon walls, and the sense of being exposed and vulnerable, high above the railing, was extreme. If a horse did jump, and either he or you went off, you'd be dead for sure.

  We made it across with no problems and began the mile of steep switchbacks on the other side to reach the top of Camelback Ridge.

  "Are there many bridges like that in this part of the Sierras?" I asked Lonny, as we climbed.

  "A few. You're liable to meet a couple of them, the way you're planning to go." Lonny knew my proposed itinerary; he'd helped me plan this trip last winter. I wanted to get to several of the high mountain lakes that I'd heard about for years but never seen. And I wanted the easiest possible route. After all his years of packing, Lonny was a veritable mine of information.

  "Sure you don't want some company?" Lonny grinned at me; he knew what my answer would be. It had been somewhat of a sore spot initially, but as time had passed Lonny had accepted and understood my need to go on this trip alone. Goal-oriented himself, he had a lot of sympathy for my desire to achieve a dream I'd held for so many years.

  I smiled back at him as the horses worked their way up the ridge. All the time, half my mind was on Gunner; I kept a light feel of him through the reins, guiding him to the easier side of the trail, checking him when he started to hurry. Lonny, in contrast, left Chester's reins completely slack, allowing the horse to pick his own course and speed. Chester had been up in these mountains several times in the last few months; he understood about rock.

  But Gunner didn't. Nor did Plumber. All the intricacies that to a mountain horse like Hank were automatic reactions, were uncharted territory for my ponies. Avoiding V -shaped clefts, stepping slowly and cautiously through scree, being wary of loose rock, and above all, staying off the slickrock, were things they were learning as we proceeded up the ridge.

  I tried to help, guiding Gunner toward better footfalls, making sure Plumber had plenty of slack in the lead rope and wasn't hurried when we crossed rough ground. And the horses did well, seeming, in my estimation, to gain a sense of how to move on rock as we went along.

  We stopped twice to let the horses breathe before we reached the top of the ridge. The pass, such as it was, was inconspicuous, but the views as we started down the other side were wonderful. All around us the granite glowed with light. Pine trees lined the distant ridges, blue-green in the sunshine, stiff and erect like soldiers. The sky was an endless, clear Sierra blue. I smelled the sharp scent of pine resin and dust and felt completely happy.

  Gunner picked his way down the ridge like a pro, following Chester. Plumber seemed to be doing fine. Roey was following the pack horse now, tongue hanging out, a grin on her face.

  The wind made a rushing noise in the pine trees, like big trucks on some distant highway. I thought of my friends in Santa Cruz County, perhaps driving to work right now on just such a highway. And here I was, I thought in amazement, here I was.

  The trail forked when we reached the creek in the bottom of the canyon. The main trail continued on toward Relief Peak and Brown Bear Pass. Wheat's Meadow trail crossed the creek and headed over a different ridge.

  We let the horses drink; Roey splashed about happily. Neither Gunner nor Plumber turned a hair when we waded across the creek. Fording creeks was a routine part of our trail rides back in the coastal hills. This was a good ford, shallow and not too rocky. No problem.

  One more ridge, and then through a shadowy pine forest. A sudden dazzle of light and openness ahead, and we emerged from the trees into Wheat's Meadow, as from dark to daylight-the wide, sunny grassland was so vastly and dramatically different from the dim, shady silence under the pines.

  Wheat's was a green jewel of a meadow in a setting of silver granite. There was an old cow camp at the north end-a log cabin and a barn-which was deserted. The uneven chiming of bells marked the presence of Ted's cattle in the trees behind the barn.

  We reined our horses to a stop, standing in the bright, breezy openness of the meadow. Lonny smiled at me and I smiled back. "It's great, isn't it?" I said.

  "It sure is."

  Ted said nothing, just gazed out over the grassland. After a minute, he reined Hank toward the barn. "Let's go have a look at those cattle."

  The cattle were in a little grove of willows on the other side of Wheat's Meadow Creek. We rode around and through them, while Ted counted heads and checked to make sure all were healthy. They looked g
ood, their red and black backs sleek and shiny, and we could all see that there was plenty of feed left in the meadow. A Brahma cross heifer stepped toward Plumber and sniffed noses with him curiously. Plumber snorted and pinned his ears. I laughed.

  "I love the bells," I told Lonny.

  He nodded, a brief downward motion of his chin, his eyes on the cattle. The cowbells were hung around the necks of the older cows with leather straps like collars. They clanked and chimed with every step, helping the cowboys to locate strays that were holed up in the brush. Up close as we were, the noise could be cacophonous when the whole herd was moving, but from a distance it made a strange music, half-harmonious, half-discordant, almost eerie. Fairy music.

  "Ready for lunch?" Ted asked.

  "Sure," Lonny answered for both of us.

  We tied the horses to some pine trees by the old barn and sat down by the banks of the creek to eat. Ted had packed us each a sandwich as well as a beer apiece, wrapped in a plastic garbage bag full of ice. The beers were icy cold and perfect. We ate and drank contentedly and watched the creek. When we were done, Lonny broke down his case and put two fishing poles together.

  Ted declined fishing in favor of napping, so Lonny and I creek-stomped together for an hour. Wheat's Meadow Creek was full of trout, and they were quick and eager. I got at least one hit at every hole. Ten inches was a big fish, but they fought hard and were fun to catch. We hooked a dozen or so apiece, on lures, turned them all loose, and went back to the horses and Ted.

  The ride out was pleasant and uneventful; I slouched a little on Gunner's back as we worked our way down Camelback Ridge, feeling confident in him. Plumber, too, looked sure and poised as he picked his way over the rock. It was all going to be fine, I told myself.

  This trip, the trip of my dreams, was coming off just as I'd planned. Everything would be great.

  In retrospect, I can't remember when I've ever been so spectacularly wrong.

  SEVEN

  Once we were back at the lodge and the horses were unsaddled, turned out, and fed, Lonny was keen to go to the bar and have a drink. I acquiesced, not altogether enthusiastically. I enjoy a cocktail in the evening as much as anyone, and mostly, I find bars pleasant. But the Crazy Horse Creek Bar on Saturday night was often a madhouse, and I wasn't sure I was up for it.

  Stopping to put the dog in the camper and give her food and water, I arrived at the bar a few minutes after Lonny to find my fears confirmed. The place was a zoo-the tourists three-deep at the bar itself, the few tables full. Several couples were dancing-well, frugging in place-to Johnny Cash on the juke-box. I scanned the crowd for Lonny.

  He was in the comer, talking with Ted and Luke. I made my way toward them, pushing gently through the throng. Chatter and laughter roiled around me; I heard the cowbell over the bar ring, a signal that somebody had bought the place a round. A rich somebody, I reflected.

  Which wasn't surprising. Most of the folks who were up here to be packed into the mountains by the pack station crew had plenty of dollars. Horses, mules, and packers did not come cheap; those who weren't long on money carried their gear in a backpack. Shoe buckaroos, as the cowboys called them.

  There were probably a few shoe buckaroos in the bar tonight, and some who were just car camping in the Forest Service campsite at the other end of Deadman Meadow. But the majority would be what Ted called "customers," heavily emphasizing the first syllable. Most would be staying in the cabins that clustered around the lodge, eating in the cafe and drinking in the bar, en route to being packed into a mountain lake. These were the people who made Ted a lot of money, and he was always very happy to see them.

  On the other hand, he didn't much like to talk to them, and usually avoided the bar. Lonny's presence had created the exception, I surmised.

  I started to work my way as unobtrusively as I could between two men in cowboy hats in order to get to where Lonny was standing.

  "Excuse me," I said, as one of the men turned around.

  He was in his late twenties, blond and handsome, and arrogant with it. He was also, I realized a quick second later, very drunk.

  He looked me up and down. I was pinned by the crowd behind me, and he was firmly blocking the route to Lonny.

  "Excuse me," I said again.

  "Well, you're a pretty thing." He drawled it out.

  I sighed. "Thanks. I need to get through here, if you don't mind."

  "I don't mind at all. Just you squeeze your pretty backside right in." He shifted slightly to one side, leaving a six-inch gap between himself and his neighbor.

  I shrugged and insinuated myself shoulder first; at the same time I felt him grab my ass-hard. It pissed me off. I'm used to drunks and I'm used to cowboys; I'm used to drunk cowboys, for that matter. But I didn't like this guy. I kicked him in the kneecap with the pointed toe of my boot.

  "Fuck off, asshole," I said clearly. I wasn't prepared for his reaction.

  He yelped and grabbed me by the breasts. "You like this better?" His eyes were mean.

  "You son of a bitch." I said it loudly enough for the people around us to hear.

  The cowboy-hatted man next to us turned, took a look, and said, "Knock it off, Steve." His voice was deep and hard and familiar. Dan Jacobi, I realized.

  Steve let go of me.

  Dan Jacobi gave me another glance, in which recognition dawned. "Apologize to her," he said to his companion.

  Steve looked sulky. "The hell I will. I work for you; you don't own me."

  "Apologize to her." Dan Jacobi enunciated each word clearly.

  Steve shrugged and turned back to the bar. "The hell with it.”

  Dan Jacobi put a hand on his shoulder. Steve looked at him. Effortlessly as an ax splitting firewood Dan drove his fist into Steve's gut.

  The blond gasped and grabbed his stomach and sat abruptly on the floor of the bar.

  "I'll apologize for him," Dan Jacobi said. "He's busy."

  Wheezing and retching, the unfortunate Steve half crawled and half walked to the door, doubled over with both hands holding himself. I had the impression he would be puking for a while.

  "Sorry about that," Dan Jacobi said. "He's had too much to drink. Can I buy you something?"

  "It's not necessary," I said.

  Lonny had witnessed our little scene, along with the rest of the barroom crowd, and stood by my side. "What did he do?" he asked me.

  "Grabbed me." I grinned. "I kicked him; he didn't like it."

  "Good for you." Dan Jacobi smiled briefly. "How about I buy you both a drink?"

  "Sure." Lonny answered for both of us. "Gail, this is Dan Jacobi. Dan, Gail McCarthy."

  "Nice to meet you, ma'am," Dan said. "What'll you have to drink?"

  "A Stoly vodka tonic with an extra squeeze of lime," I said.

  "Jack Daniel's and soda for me." Lonny grinned at Dan. "Gail's my horse vet."

  "Is that right?" Dan Jacobi looked at me with mild curiosity.

  I studied him back. He would be about the same age as Lonny-fifty or close to it. His thick, big-chested body looked powerful, an impression that was bolstered in my mind by his quick dispatch of a much younger man. Everything about his face, from the square, bulldog jaw to the hard, dark eyes, confirmed this sense of inner force. Dan Jacobi was clearly a man to be reckoned with.

  He handed Lonny and me our drinks; we thanked him. I took the first cold, sharp sip and sighed. Dan Jacobi addressed both of us. "That was a terrible thing about Bill Evans."

  Lonny looked somber. I could feel Ted stepping up on the other side of me, a drink in his hand. Dan continued talking about Bill, saying what a nice guy he was, that he'd been his vet for years, that he, Dan, had never imagined that Bill would do such a thing.

  I listened with half an ear, most of my attention focused on Lonny and Ted. Lonny still looked blank and sad; Ted's face was expressionless, but I could feel the tension in his body.

  Dan Jacobi was talking to me now. "I heard you found him."

  "Yeah, I did." />
  "And that he was still alive and talking."

  "Yeah."

  Ted's voice was high and sharp. "So what did he say?"

  "Nothing that made any sense, really. That he was trying to kill himself. That he wanted to die. He said something about horses with fire in their bellies. I guess he was talking about colicked horses, since he was a vet."

  "Did he say anything about any people?" Ted again.

  "No, not that I recall."

  Dan and Ted were both watching me; Lonny was looking at the floor. I took another swallow of my drink and felt it tingle all the way down to my stomach.

  Around us the barroom crowd talked and laughed, oblivious to our strange, tense conversation. I ignored the men next to me for a second, feeling the eager, excitable ambience of the place-everybody here on vacation, ready to have a good time. The cowbell clanged again; I could see Ernie and Luke, who were both behind the bar tonight, hustling to make another round of drinks.

  Next to me, Ted shifted, took the whiskey and water that Ernie handed him, and looked at Dan. "I heard you were looking for Blue Winter."

  Dan's eyes moved to Ted. "That boy owes me some money."

  Ted grinned; all the tension in his body dissolved. "You're too late. He rode in this morning. Nobody knows when he'll come back out." He took a long swallow of his fresh drink.

  "Why does he owe you money?" I asked Dan.

  "That big dun gelding he's riding. He bought the horse from me and he never paid for him."

  "Oh." I took that in. "He didn't seem like that kind of person."

  Dan shrugged one shoulder.

  "Maybe you'll see him while you're in," Ted said to Dan.

  "Do you know where he was headed?" Dan's voice was quiet.

  "Snow Lake, I heard," Ted said. "That's where you're going, too, right, Gail?"

  My turn to shrug. I wasn't real keen on the whole world knowing exactly which lakes I was headed for.

  "Gail's going on a pack trip," Ted went on, seeming unaware of my discomfort. "All by herself."

  "Is that right?" Once again, Dan Jacobi looked at me curiously. "Ted's packing us in next week. To Huckleberry Lake."