Cooksin

by Rick Alan Rice

  "Pete, I think we've done all we can do here," Ben said, going over to where Pete still stood talking to Jess Willingham. "Hi, Jess," he said as an aside, shaking the farmer's hands. "Sure terrible what's happened here," said Jess. "I hope, for Pete's sake, that you can find who did it." "I do too," Ben said, and then he looked at Pete. "I'm going to talk to a few people who might have seen or heard something last night," he said. Pete knew full well whom he was talking about. "I'll be glad to contact the rendering service to send a truck out for the carcass, if you'd like."

  "I'd appreciate that, Ben," Pete said.

  Some of the neighbors milled around for a while after the sheriff and his deputy drove off. A funereal atmosphere had settled over the place, and people were talking to

  Pete as if a family member had died, offering condolences and encouragements that somehow things would get better. "You still got your yearlings," said Jess Willingham, knowing that Pete's spirits had been crushed, and he needed to be reminded that Cooksin had not been the only iron he had in the fire. But now Pete and Jess' business arrangement was off: there was no reason now for him to be delivering cattle. The fulcrum for Pete's reentry into the cattle community was gone, and there was no ignoring that. The yearling herd would never generate enough income for Pete to again afford to buy a registered bull, the likes of which he had in Cooksin. Everyone, especially Pete, knew that. Little by little they all shook his hand and patted him on the back, and then left.

  About two o'clock that afternoon the rendering truck showed up, pulling into the yard, bringing with it the putrescent odor that followed it wherever it went, along with its entourage of flies, mostly born amid the decay that was the truck's usual cargo. Maggots wriggled among the cracks in the wooden bed and side panels. Henry Fuchs, whose job it was to drive the countryside, collecting dead stock, backed the truck into the corral, and then raised its bed so that the back end nearly reached the ground. He had a wench at the front end of the bed, which was geared so that one man could run the hand-crank and drag even a two-thousand pound animal up into the truck. He wrapped a chain around Cooksin's hind legs and, in turn, hooked that into the chain that ran to the wench.

  Pete watched as Henry went about his work, unbothered by its unpleasant nature.

  The carcass collector carried on a steady stream of insignificant small-talk as he went about his business, most of which Pete just ignored. He just stared as Henry unceremoniously pushed his prized bull over on its side, and secured its legs. Then there was a sharp tug as the chain wrenched tight, and Cooksin’s body was dragged without dignity across the ground, his head trailing gruesomely, angling oddly as his tongue lolled from his mouth and furrowed a path through the dirt. The animal was drawn up onto the bed of the truck, and then Henry lowered the box to level, and went about closing the gates at the back, concealing the carcass inside.

  "Thanks, Pete – appreciate the business," Henry said, with a bon vivant that seemed entirely inappropriate, and certainly oblivious to the mood of those who watched him finish up his work. Then he crawled into the cab of his truck, cranked the engine, and drove Cooksin off the property, heading toward the plant, where the huge white bull would be melted down in huge vats, reduced to oil, fat and bleached bone. It was an ignominious end for a great and powerful creature. Cooksin was gone before ever having once fulfilled the purpose for which he had been created. There would be no line, descended from his loins, no Charolais-Hereford crossbreeds, brought to auction by Parker Ranch. All the hopes and plans that had swirled around him were gone, and in their absence a huge depression descended over Pete and the others. The flagship had sunk into the sea of despair, taking all their hopes down with it.

  CHAPTER 30 – Frank Conversations

  "I want you to book into different hotels – I mean right away."

  Wynn Frye let out a groan. "Oh, come on. I'm finally getting comfortable here."

  Pico wasn't kidding around. "That's the problem. We've been here too long already. Different hotels, different names. You got it?" Frye and his partner, Tom Larson, nodded that they understood. "I'm going back east, first thing in the morning."

  "What's up?" asked Larson. Something he saw in Pico's behavior put him on alert. He'd been jumpy since receiving Jake's telegram, but today it had gotten worse.

  Every Wednesday a Denver newsstand supplied Pico with a fresh issue of that week's Longmont Observer. He had opened this morning's edition to find a story about the shooting on Parker Ranch, about as fresh a piece of news as the little weekly had ever carried. The headline read: RARE BULL FOUND DEAD. Contained in the story was a brief quote from none other than Jake Jobbs, who was identified as "a ranch employee, who lives on the property," and "who said he had no idea who would do such a thing." Pico saw the story and immediately thought it smelled funny, like something Jake might've somehow manufactured. It'd be just like him. Pico wondered if it wasn't a trick, a maneuver of some kind, on Jake's part, to leverage his way out of their deal.

  Maybe he was trying to raise his visibility and make himself a still greater liability to their partnership. Pico was neurotic, especially where Jake was concerned, always suspecting that Jake thought he was just a brainless thug, whom he could eventually outsmart. Was this a ruse? Pico wondered, because somehow it seemed like the whole sting was gradually going wrong, developing dangerous tics. First there was Jake's fallout with Frank Walker, which had taken him out of position to handle his part of the operation. Now he was on the front page of the local paper. Jake was a shifty bastard, that's all Pico could think. He wondered if Jake hadn't shot the animal himself, just to create an incident.

  Pico had quickly developed a new plan of action. He wanted to keep Frye and Larson in Denver to coordinate the chop-shop and distribution activities. He needed some cushion for himself – some distance from the heat – and determined that it was best for him to return to Cincinnati. He maintained a residence there, as he did in St. Louis and Kansas City. It was the coolest of his possible retreats, the one least recently visited. Before going, however, he had a few stops to make. The first one was down south, in Louisiana.

  * * * * *

  Ben Miller pulled his car to a stop out on County Road 6, driving half-way down the side of the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the road. The dirt route was narrow and frequently traveled by large trucks and tractors, pulling farm implements, so he wanted to leave plenty of room, expecting that he would be some time away from the vehicle. He got out and walked down into the ditch, then bent over and edged his way through the four-strand barbed wire fence that marked the perimeter of Frank Walker's western-most pasture land.

  In the distance he could see another fence, at the far side of the quarter, which fronted the access road connecting Walker and Parker ranches. In between the two barriers about two hundred Hereford steers grazed on the grass, burned golden from the summer heat, now growing in patches. He looked up at the afternoon sun, blazing in the cloudless sky, and he raised his forearm to his face, using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. It was going to be a long walk, but he wanted to have a look at that access road, and he didn't really want to go through Walker Ranch to do it.

  It took him nearly thirty minutes to reach the interior road and the spot where he figured the gunman would have likely parked his getaway vehicle. He could see the back side of Parker Ranch, including the hay barn, the windmill, the windbreak rising up behind the house, and several other out buildings. He could even make out the high railed corral, where the bull had been confined – and shot. Using his mind's eye, he tried to imagine the movements of the gunman, moving in the moonlight to his position in the killing zone. All the while he walked up and down the field road, bordered on the east side by Pete Parker's fence, and by Frank Walker's on the west. He was looking for anything that might indicate activity as recent as last night.

  Not too far from where he expected to find it, Sheriff Miller found an area where the weeds and grass on both sides of the road had apparentl
y been matted flat under the tires of a truck, or car. The ground in that area was hard and dry, but as he walked the road to the north, following it toward Walker Ranch, he found an area where the ground was more powdery. There, already slightly obliterated by the shifting sands, were tire tracks that appeared fresh enough to be suspicious. He continued following the road, looking for where the tracks might lead, until finally he was within a half-mile of Walker Ranch. He looked back toward Pete Parker's property, trying to get a fix on their relative locations, and proximity, but Parker Ranch was now out of sight, beyond a rise that was so gentle he had not realized it was there as he traversed it.

  Sheriff Miller continued walking, paying close attention to the dirt path beneath his feet, occasionally coming upon another patch of soft dirt, where once again he would recognize the tread he was tracking.

  About a quarter mile from the back entry to Walker Ranch, he came upon a find of interest. There was a turn-off from the field road that opened to a fence-gate. The tracks he had been following went right through that section of fence. Sheriff Miller undid the top and bottom wire loops that tied the gate upright and let himself into the pasture, closing the gate behind him. He began walking across the pasture land, toward Walker Ranch.

  He didn't go far before the contour of the countryside changed from flat pasture to deep ravine. At the bottom of the draw, sitting beneath a small grove of cottonwood trees, he found an old, rusted-out pickup truck – one of several such vehicles Frank Walker called his "field trucks," which were used to haul fencing materials and the like around the ranch. Frank tended to assign these old vehicles to the various quadrants they were intended to serve, and to leave them positioned at outposts remote from the main residence. That way all the cowboys on the ranch had access to them and could use them as needed.

  Sheriff Miller crawled down the bank of the ravine to get to the old pickup, thinking as he did that there must have been an easier way to reach the bottom.

  Obviously the driver had somehow gotten the vehicle down here. When he reached the pickup he saw that there was a washed out section of the ravine that, though sharply angled, appeared to have been regularly used as a vehicle path. He squatted down behind the truck, examining the tire tracks, which he had no doubt were the same ones he saw out on the field road.

  Ben Miller stood upright and shook his head, not really happy with his find.

  Frank Walker was the only suspect he had in the shooting of Pete Parker's animal – the only person whom he could identify as having a motive. And now these tire tracks: they weren't conclusive of anything, but at least there was circumstantial evidence that this truck, owned by his main suspect, was on the field road leading to Pete Parker's property in a time period that may coincide with the killing. It wasn't admissible evidence Miller wasn't even legally on Walker property – but it would be something he would keep in the back of his mind when he questioned Frank. He planned on asking Frank's permission to have a look around his property as part of the investigation, partly just to see how the rancher would react. Then the sheriff could come up with a reason to look into the possibility that this truck was used in the execution of a crime.

  As he began retracing his steps, heading back across the pasture toward the spot where he had left his vehicle, Miller wondered about Frank Walker, and how far he might carry a vendetta against a neighbor.

  * * * * *

  "G'd afternoon, Frank. I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I was hoping to have a word with you. It's about something that happened over a Pete Parker's place."

  "Come on in, Ben," Frank Walker said, pulling the front door open wide, so the Sheriff could enter.

  "Thanks, Frank," Miller said, as he removed his hat and stepped into the Walker home. "I don't know if you've heard, but Pete's Charolais bull was shot last night."

  Frank frowned concern and shook his head. "Arnell Jordan was over this morning and told me about it. That poor damned Pete . . ." Frank left the thought open for Miller to fill in the condolences.

  Ben Miller was being careful not to let it be seen, but he was watching Frank's expression for anything that might give him away, or indicate complicity of any kind. It didn't seem to be there, at least not in any way obvious.

  "Can I get you an iced tea?" Frank asked, leading Miller into the kitchen. "Sounds good – thanks," the Sheriff said. "It's hot as hell out there today." "Yeah seems like summer just doesn't want to end this year." Frank produced a pitcher of tea from his ice box and poured a glass for Miller. "That ought to hit the spot," Frank said. "Rosa brews this in jars out in the sun – and, brother, it is good."

  Miller took a drink and nodded his approval. "Sugar?" he asked. "Oh, yeah sure," said Frank, opening a cabinet and getting a small, silver server down. "I'll get you a spoon to stir that with," and he went about rummaging through a drawer to find one.

  While Frank was retrieving a stirrer, Ben Miller glanced around the house. It was in perfect order, spotlessly clean, the cabinetry and paneling shined to a high gloss. He could see into the dining room, and noted the huge table, with eight chairs tucked neatly around it, a square Navajo cloth under a centerpiece of lacquered soap weed. The whole scene seemed remarkably pristine and unlined in, all a testimony to Frank's control.

  As Frank handed him a spoon, Sheriff Miller nodded his appreciation, then asked – "Frank, I'm wondering about that field road that runs between you and Pete's property. I know it runs into the back of your spread here, but is there any other way to access it?"

  "Why do you ask?" Frank wondered.

  "Well, it's just speculation but it looks like whoever shot that animal may have come onto Pete's property by that back way. Is there a way to get to that road other than to go right through your yard here." As an after-thought, Miller asked – "You didn't hear any activity out there last night, did you?"

  Frank shook his head. "No, I didn't hear a thing – and you couldn't drive through here at night without me hearing it. I sleep up on the second floor at the front of the house, so I hear everything that goes on out here. As for other access to that road, well . . . let me see. There used to be a way to get to it from County Road 7 – there was a road across Jess Willingham's property – but that's been plowed under for quite a long time. If you knew where it used to be, you might still be able to get through there. We could go have a look, if it'd be of help."

  Sheriff Miller raised his eyebrows. "If you wouldn't mind. It might be of some help."

  * * * * *

  "There it is – but there hasn't been anyone through there lately." Frank looked out to the place where the field road ended, and where a tilled field began. This stretch of land was owned by Jess Willingham, and he would be putting it in wheat this fall. Frank pointed to the horizon. "If you look right over there, you can see the county road. A guy could just drive right across here, I suppose. All this area here. . ." Frank pointed to a swath of tall weeds between the field and the access road. "This is open, really. A person could drive right through there, though obviously no one has."

  Ben Miller looked out toward the far road, then back up the access road, toward Walker Ranch. "That's a pretty good stretch over there. How far is it to the next crossroad to the north?"

  "Three miles, from that road there," Frank said.

  "I didn't really realize that before, that these sections are joined like they are for such a stretch."

  "Well, see, Pete Parker and I share a parcel here that's three miles long and two miles wide. Some of it's farmed, like this section right here, but mostly it's either Walker or Parker ranch property. It's mostly pasture."

  Miller was thinking about the general layout of the countryside, and after a moment he started doing so out loud. "So, a guy could conceivably park his car over there on that county road, and hike back in here to this access road, and then on over to Pete's place."

  "I suppose it could be done – but in the black of night? Across that clod field?" asked Frank. "He'd have to know this section
of land pretty well and want to do it pretty bad. Personally, I doubt it. It's been years since this was open through here all the way to the road. I can't imagine anyone other than Jess Willingham, and Pete himself, ever knowing it was here." Frank allowed Ben Miller a few more minutes to imagine the movements of the killer, and then asked – "Have you seen enough?"

  "Yeah, I guess so," Ben said.

  Frank turned his car around on the field road, and started slowly back toward his ranch. Within a few minutes they had reached the place where they could see the back side of Parker Ranch. Ben rode silently, looking out the window, thinking about the tire tracks he had seen, which were being destroyed as he and Frank drove over them, but he said nothing. He hadn't confronted Frank directly with his suspicions. Instead, he had been waiting to see if there was some crack in Frank's facade of innocence, something he might do or say that would cause him to reveal himself. After all, Frank was the only one with a motive, that assuming that this was, in fact, a crime, and not a freak accident. But Frank revealed nothing. He seemed sincerely sympathetic to Pete's loss, and completely innocent to any knowledge of how to explain what had happened.

  As they reached the place on the road where Ben had earlier discovered the fence gate that opened to the pasture, and where he had found the field truck, he asked Frank to stop. "What about this, Frank? Where does this go?"