by Gwen Moffat
‘Jen’s with him,’ Sophie said with finality. ‘If she’s not, he knows where she is.’
‘Perhaps you should have told him that you know she met her grandfather at the cabin. That’s important.’
‘If she’s with Bret, he knows already. If not — well, he isn’t family.’
‘What difference does that make — in the circumstances? Jen might know something about Charlie’s movements after she left the cabin.’
‘How could she? Listen, Melinda, it could be just an evil joke on Charlie’s part. You don’t know the man.’ Which was not only a contradiction of her earlier statement but a curious choice of words. An evil joke?
They came to rocks and were forced into single file. Now the walls of the canyon were occasionally visible below on their right. They passed groups of antelope and there were bluebirds in the aspens — and still there was no real sense of urgency.
They rode slowly, working sideways to find the way across a draw or to turn an outcrop or a cluster of trees. This wasn’t correct procedure on a search; they should be investigating obstacles, not avoiding them. Miss Pink felt distinctly uncomfortable.
They came to a slope leading to a ridge. ‘This was where Val shot her moose that time,’ Sophie said. ‘You can see miles from the top.’
They crested the rise, emerging to a stiff breeze and a superb view. Way down in the south, in Wyoming, the Teton range sparkled on the horizon, while below them was Mazarine Lake where they’d lunched yesterday: a sapphire set in green enamel. Immediately below there was rock scree under the ragged escarpment. The upper slopes of the corrie held random clusters of fine conifers.
‘They got here before us,’ Sophie said, her eyes fixed. ‘What are they doing over there?’
‘Who? Where?’
‘That is a horse, isn’t it — under the scarp? Or is it a moose? It’s not moving. Maybe it’s a rock.’
‘This is a horse, anyway.’ Miss Pink, unable to see what was attracting her companion, had shifted her attention to the near side of the basin where a rider on a piebald had appeared.
‘That’s Byer,’ Sophie said, ‘he rides a pinto. Ah, there’s Val — and Clyde. And there’s Bret, know him anywhere, he sits so tall. We’d better get down there and — Wait a minute! Then who’s —’ She turned back to the far side of the corrie. ‘Could be Sam Jardine,’ she muttered, raising her binoculars. Miss Pink had hers up already, trying to find the focus.
‘It is a horse,’ Sophie insisted. ‘And it’s a sorrel, but I can’t see… there’s a rock in the way, and juniper. It doesn’t move. That’s weird. It’s standing up but it doesn’t move.’
‘I see it. The stallion’s a sorrel, isn’t it?’
They shouted to Val and started to descend obliquely, the others making their way up the slope to join them. ‘It’s probably a total stranger,’ Sophie said. ‘There’ll be more people around somewhere, and horses. Sorrel’s a common colour.’
The parties converged and everyone fell in behind Sophie. The others hadn’t seen the solitary horse, which was invisible from below. Sophie repeated, diffidently, that there was most likely another party here, perhaps lunching, but everyone knew that with the pretty lake and meadows below no one was going to move up into rocks to picnic.
The horse neighed as they approached, to be answered by a high whinny from Val’s mare. They couldn’t see the sorrel until they came round a spread of junipers. It was the Glenaffric stallion.
He was facing away from them but his head was turned, his eyes rolling. He was bridled but the heavy Western saddle was under his belly. He was filthy with mud and sweat, and there was a nasty cut on a hind leg.
They dismounted. Leaving Miss Pink with the horses, the others moved forward, Val first and talking quietly. The stallion’s head drooped. Val said, ‘There’s a stirrup fast in the rocks. How long’s he been here?’
No one responded. Miss Pink wondered where Charlie could be. And why had the stallion come this way instead of heading for home?
The animal was exhausted. Once the saddle had slipped he would have tried to kick it free and then wandered until the stirrup caught in a crevice among the boulders. Why he should have gone up to the rocks in the first place was a mystery — ‘Unless he were being chased,’ Bret Ryan said. ‘Like a bear was after him.’
They freed him, removed the saddle and took him to the other horses. There was no spirit left in him; he was lame, he’d lost a shoe and there were more cuts on his legs and chest, but he could walk. Both reins had been snapped but the halter was still in place, the end knotted on his neck.
They mounted and fanned out, Miss Pink in the rear, leading the stallion, its saddle in place again, padded where the cinch had rubbed him sore. All eyes were on the ground, looking for his tracks as they tried to reverse his trail. Once, glancing up, Miss Pink caught a flicker of movement and glimpsed a rider on a pale horse turn on the skyline and disappear. Sam Jardine evidently, about to join them, looking for a way down.
The others pushed ahead, drifting lower. The stallion lagged, limping, not wanting to turn downhill, so Miss Pink started to contour the slope on a faint game trail. The sorrel was happier on the level; could he have come into the corrie by this route? She peered at the ground beyond her horse’s head. There were prints of horseshoes in the dust but then she — or Sophie — could have trodden this path as they descended; neither had noticed minor features like a game trail.
Below her Val had stopped. ‘Keep with us, Mel,’ she called.
‘He’s too lame. He doesn’t want to go downhill.’
The others conferred. Miss Pink felt chastened; she was a nuisance, she couldn’t even lead a docile horse.
‘Join us when you can,’ Sophie shouted. ‘If he won’t lead, I’ll come up and drive him.’
Miss Pink would have liked to ask why she couldn’t take the stallion home by way of the easy ground on top, but the others were moving again.
After a few hundred yards the game trail entered a belt of timber and the sorrel pulled back, almost dragging the halter rope from her hand. His feet were planted, his eyes fixed — not wildly, he was past being wild — but he didn’t like those trees.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to soothe him with her voice, ‘no bears are going to hang around with all these people about…’ His ears twitched and then she felt Jake’s muscles harden. Surely this old horse wasn’t going to bolt? She prayed she could hold the two of them. She called to the others but they were out of sight, below the trees. She turned downhill to catch them up and to her relief the sorrel followed, limping but trying to hurry. Bears lying up, she wondered, or lying in ambush?
She rounded the lowest trees. The others were waiting below. She stopped and waved. After a moment Sophie came towards her. ‘There’s something in the timber.’ She pointed. ‘The stud won’t continue along the trail.’
‘There’s no trail except the one by the lake.’
‘A game trail. A horse has come along it. I think he came that way.’
Sophie looked doubtful. ‘There can’t be a bear in the timber, we’d have frightened it off, but if it’s Charlie in there it would explain why the chopper hasn’t spotted him. I’ll tell the others.’
It was unlikely that the chopper had come this far because apparently the crew hadn’t spotted the stallion. Or if they had seen the horse they’d attached no significance to it. A fat lot of good it did to hire such an expensive machine… Miss Pink’s nerves were jangling, backlash to her state of mind earlier when she’d complained that there was no sense of urgency.
The others arrived and they filed up the slope, Jake leading, Sophie crowding the sorrel from behind. They came to the game trail and turned along it. The sorrel stopped. Sophie flicked him with her reins but he wouldn’t budge. Jake’s ears were flat — and now Sophie’s horse was trying to back away.
Bret Ryan stepped down, handed his reins to Byer and walked into the trees. They sat like statues watching him through the tru
nks. He stopped and looked down. Then he came back. ‘He’s there,’ he said.
He’d lost colour under the tan. Sophie made an instinctive gesture towards Val who disregarded it. She was staring at Ryan. He shook his head.
They tied the horses and walked into the trees. Charlie was unrecognisable, but no one questioned the identity of the thing on the ground. He was naked and flayed. Not quite naked, he was still wearing a belt — with a sheath but no knife — and there was a sock on the left foot. He wasn’t completely flayed either; the left leg below the knee was more or less intact although dislocated at the ankle. The sight was reminiscent of a carcass in an abattoir.
Sophie murmured something to Val. ‘It doesn’t matter!’ Val exclaimed. ‘It’s only a shell.’
Clyde was leaning against a tree, his chest heaving. Miss Pink saw that Ryan was watching her as if wondering what she was doing there. They were all in shock. Someone had to say something. ‘How did this happen?’ she asked.
‘He woulda been mounting,’ Byer said doubtfully, not looking at anyone, ‘and his horse spooked and drug him.’
Miss Pink frowned at the body and moved away, not without purpose, following a track that was now all too plain. The body would have been a terrifying encumbrance and the horse had blundered through the timber like a crazed elephant. A few yards away a boot lay on the ground: not greatly worn but the leather gouged like a wound at the ankle where it had been held by the stirrup. Charlie’s foot would have slipped as the stallion threw him and the weight of the suspended body had twisted the stirrup, trapping him until the leg slipped out of the boot. As Byer said, he’d been dragged to death. She shuddered. How long had it taken to die?
They returned to the horses and discussed what action to take, or rather Ryan and Sophie discussed, Miss Pink pondered, while Byer left decision-making to the others, presumably thinking that an employee’s opinion carried no weight when the family was present. As for Val, she appeared to be trying to comfort Clyde. He stood on the far side of his horse, his hands and head on the saddle, the picture of grief — or shock, or both.
A stranger was riding along the trail by the lake. ‘Who’s that?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘Looks like Sam Jardine,’ Sophie said.
‘Jardine?’ Miss Pink echoed. ‘I thought —’ She looked towards the escarpment. That horse had been pale. Jardine was on a dark bay. She observed him curiously as he came up. He was a small, spare man with a grizzled beard and surprisingly delicate features for one who was a ranch hand, or had been until he ran off with Val. She watched with interest as he received the news. He dismounted and entered the trees. He came back visibly shaken — as who wouldn’t be?
‘Sorry about that,’ came Sophie’s voice, ‘but Jake’s the only horse will tolerate it. Is that all right with you, Melinda?’
‘What was that? I was miles away. Do what?’
They had decided to take the body out themselves because they had no way of contacting the helicopter; in any event, there was nowhere for it to land except on top and once they’d put the body on a horse the easiest option was to continue to Benefit. They would avoid the canyon and go back by the route that Miss Pink and Sophie had followed this morning. Someone must go down to the cabin for blankets and to leave Charlie’s saddle there. The stallion was too sore to carry it to Benefit.
Jake was the quietest animal so he was to be the pack-horse. Jardine and Ryan started to lash the spare saddle on top of Miss Pink’s. Val said she would go down to the cabin as well, while the others were looking for Charlie’s rifle.
‘His rifle?’ Miss Pink echoed. She had overlooked the fact that there was a scabbard on the saddle.
‘Of course.’ Sophie was impatient. ‘He brought one. Had to, with bears about. It’ll be somewhere nearby.’ She came closer. ‘And his clothing,’ she murmured. ‘We can’t leave that lying around.’
‘But his clothes will be strung out for miles,’ Miss Pink whispered.
‘It gives us something to do while you’re gone. And Lord knows, this track’s easy enough to follow.’
‘What about Clyde?’ He had moved away to sit on a rock and stare at the lake.
‘I’ll look after him. You two get off now and fetch those blankets.’
Miss Pink walked, leading Jake. Val followed, keeping an eye on the ungainly load, so there was no opportunity to talk until they reached the cabin. When they arrived Val retrieved a key from a crack in the logs and unlocked the door. ‘So he had locked up,’ Miss Pink observed, stepping over the sill. There was no response from Val who had gone back to Jake for the saddle.
It was a one-room cabin with four windows, all shuttered. Either Charlie had put the shutters up as he was about to leave or he’d never taken them down. The light admitted by the open door showed a stove, bunk beds, a solid table and a number of folding chairs stacked against one wall. There was an armchair with its stuffing protruding, shelves with cans of food, saucepans, crockery and a large blue enamel coffee pot.
Val came in, dropped the saddle on the floor and picked up several neatly folded blankets. ‘Do you need more?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘No, this is enough. Lock up, will you?’
She took one last look round. The term ‘spick and span’ came to mind and she wondered why. Such an old-fashioned phrase, almost archaic, inappropriate. But was it? It meant tidy, clean or cleaned up, and that was what this cabin was.
‘Are you coming?’ The tone was harsh. The woman was still in shock, of course; after all, she was Charlie’s daughter.
‘Was your father a domesticated man?’ she asked as she untied Jake’s halter. As if she’d not witnessed the man’s behaviour at home, had heard no gossip from Sophie.
‘God, no! Why?’ It was barked out.
‘Because he left the place like — well, like a woman would.’
Val snorted angrily. ‘Wilderness manners; you have to leave a cabin clean for the next person to use it. You should know that, for heaven’s sakes; you’re a mountaineer.’
She was rigid with hostility, as if she’d reached the next stage of shock: determined to whitewash the image of Charlie, the ogre of Glenaffric. Odd, then, that she should seize on such a trivial feature, maintaining the old autocrat was house-trained. Such an obvious lie.
6
In the middle of the afternoon, the hottest part of the day, the cortège started back to Benefit. Miss Pink was still on foot, having ridiculed the suggestion that she might find the walk tiring. Jake plodded behind her, not bothered about his load once it was on his back. They’d tied a bandanna over his eyes as the blanketed form was heaved across the saddle, and boxed him in to prevent his moving. But Jake was no kicker; he’d had deer carcasses on his back, a corpse didn’t make all that much difference. In addition he carried the remnants that had been found along the stallion’s back-trail: a shirt that was no more than a bloody rag, a stained bandanna, Charlie’s wallet: open but with credit cards in place, and some dollar bills. These, and the boot, had been crammed into a plastic bag from Safeway’s supermarket, adding a bizarre trim to the gelding’s load. The rifle had not been found, nor the other boot.
Val led the stallion, bringing up the rear with Clyde. Sophie was with Miss Pink. The rest rode ahead in a bunch, giving an impression of distancing themselves from the women and their burden. Close to Benefit Ryan broke away and cantered ahead. Watching him go, Miss Pink said, ‘There was a rider on a pale horse, a buckskin probably, on the rim above the lake. D’you think that was Jen?’
‘I guess.’ Sophie sounded tired. ‘Could be her on one of Bret’s horses. Did you mention it to Val?’
‘No, because I thought it could well be Jen, and we don’t need any more complications today.’
‘Thoughtful of you. Jen has to be with Bret. She’d have wanted to help search for her grand-daddy but she’d be bothered about meeting her mother at this time, not to speak of all the rest of us. I wonder if this’ — she glanced at Jake’s load — ‘if it’ll af
fect her… I mean, her relationship with her mother. Will it heal the breach?’
‘It could depend on why she went in the first place —’
‘But we know that. She went because —’
‘— and what was said when they met.’
‘When — they — met?’
‘Jen and her grandfather. At the cabin two days ago.’
Sophie’s horse stumbled and she pulled him up so jerkily that he jumped in surprise. Miss Pink waited for him to settle, aware that the stumble could have been the result of a sudden tightening of the rider’s muscles.
Sophie took her time, walking carefully round a sprawl of sage, coming back, looking ahead. ‘Bret’s away to telephone the chopper people,’ she said. ‘You can’t take the body into town on the back of a pick-up.’
Miss Pink reflected that it was more likely Ryan had gone ahead to warn Jen of the approach of her mother. As if telepathic, Sophie said with sudden vehemence, ‘It could be a total stranger you saw on the rim. Jen doesn’t have to be in the area at all, she could be miles away. We know she called Charlie but she could have changed her mind about meeting him. You didn’t find anything to show she’d been in the cabin, did you?’
‘No. Have you asked Sam about her? Surely the first person she’d contact on her return would be her father, given that she hasn’t been in touch with Val?’
‘Well’ — Sophie avoided Miss Pink’s eye — ‘I’m just the great-aunt, you know? And neither Sam nor Bret had anything to say about Jen when Val spoke to them last evening, only that she was around. We’ve been more concerned with Charlie, haven’t we? Like now’ — she glanced over her shoulder — ‘I wouldn’t have expected Clyde to take it so to heart, but he always was highly strung, even as a kid.’
Actually, Clyde was in better shape now, taking the stallion’s rope from Val who trotted past the women to overtake Jardine and Byer. She didn’t stop there but drew ahead with Jardine, leaving Byer on his own.
‘Private business,’ Sophie observed, and then, ‘We have to think about Edna.’
