by Gwen Moffat
‘It’s immaterial. I was merely surprised that Pat should know Charlie was missing virtually as soon as we did.’
‘Not missing,’ Sophie corrected sharply. ‘A bit late coming home, that’s all.’
But they both knew that every hour that passed without his showing meant that for some reason he was prevented from coming home.
5
Miss Pink tipped her hat brim to shield her eyes from the brilliant sun. ‘I have no sense of urgency,’ she complained. ‘Is it possible that Charlie can be playing some kind of practical joke?’
‘He’d never dare go this far.’ Sophie was grim. ‘It’s too public and the guy’s vain. Folk would say he was senile if he’d planned a disappearance just in order to annoy his family. And there’s the packhorse: what self-respecting rancher is going to leave an animal tied without food or water?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t.’ Miss Pink wasn’t really listening, nor was she attending to her horse. Aware that the search could take them over even rougher ground than yesterday, she was mounted on Sophie’s grey: old Jake, who plodded like a carthorse and could be trusted to avoid holes. So she wasn’t watching the ground, she was thinking. ‘In different circumstances,’ she said, ‘you might suspect a staged disappearance to avoid creditors or as an insurance scam, that kind of thing. But Charlie’s a rich man.’
‘He’s had an accident. We’ll find him; we have enough people looking.’
That was doubtful. Hundreds wouldn’t be enough to search the Black Canyon and they had around eight — ‘around’ because Edna was covering the ground between Glenaffric and the river in a Jeep, which couldn’t really be called searching. They did have a helicopter, privately hired. The sheriff had been informed that Charlie was missing but, with no chopper at his disposal, he was relieved when Edna said she’d hire one herself. As for the ground search, the trail was being covered from Ballard to the hunting camp, even beyond, to the lake.
At first light Miss Pink and Sophie had ridden the section between the swing bridge and the town on the premise that Charlie, after a fall from his horse, could have been disorientated, or the horse, riderless, could have gone that way because it wouldn’t cross the bridge. They’d found nothing, however, and were now riding over the grasslands above the canyon, making for the lake.
‘This country is too big,’ Miss Pink protested. ‘Look at it. Eight people and a helicopter: what can they do?’
‘You’d be surprised. People do go missing and are never found, but that’s way back in the high country. The canyon’s wild and dangerous but we know where he is, even if we can’t pinpoint the place. We’ve only just started — and here’s Bret Ryan. Now I wonder —’ A lone rider was approaching. ‘If Jen’s at Benefit she’s keeping clear of the family,’ she went on, ‘except for Charlie.’
‘We have to find her,’ Miss Pink said. ‘She could have been the last person —’ She stopped, appalled.
Sophie seemed not to notice any sinister significance in the words. ‘Bret will tell us where she is,’ she said firmly. ‘He has to tell us. Val says both he and Sam are being cagey. I won’t have that.’
His horse was tall but the man suited it; long and lanky himself, he appeared relaxed as he pushed through the sage but the eyes under the dark hat were intent. He sported a thick moustache, which gave him the air of an old-timer, accentuated by the buttoned-up, long-sleeved shirt and fringed chaps. He acknowledged Miss Pink with a nod, unsmiling, and shook hands.
‘Is Jen coming?’ Sophie asked.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Jen — Jardine, ma’am?’
‘We know she’s here.’
‘I guess she’s about somewhere.’ He held her gaze but he was defiant rather than honest. ‘Maybe she’ll meet up with us. How many people do you have and where are they?’
That, at least, was authoritative and Sophie had to back down, allowing the problem of Charlie to take precedence. She filled him in on the disposition of the searchers. Val and Clyde were concentrating on the area of the landslide, Clyde having driven back last night from Billings; Erik Byer was on his way to the hunting camp. He had been told to go there last night, she said, but he retreated from the landslide saying he was unable to see anything below the trail for the moon shadow. Actually, Miss Pink thought he would have had the last of the daylight when he reached the landslide but — a foreigner and a stranger to the canyon — she said nothing.
Sam Jardine would be joining them, Sophie told Ryan; as for himself, he was to do what he thought fit but they were all to rendezvous at Mazarine Lake and decide what to do if nothing had been discovered by that time.
He looked thoughtful. ‘Where will you guys be?’
Sophie hesitated. ‘If I have a choice,’ Miss Pink put in, ‘I’d prefer not to go over the landslide, nor down that steep bit we came up yesterday.’
‘Someone should do it,’ Sophie said. ‘Bret, would you? You know: the cut-off that goes down the escarpment upstream of the landslip?’
‘If you came up it yesterday —’
‘We weren’t looking for a sign. You take that section and we’ll go along the top to the lake. I think I can remember the line. I was with Val when she got a moose up there one time.’
Ryan opened his mouth, caught Miss Pink’s eye and thought better of it. He chewed his moustache. Miss Pink realised he was considerably younger than he appeared: late twenties, she hazarded; the clothes and his bearing disguised his youth.
Sophie stiffened. ‘I can hear the helicopter. We’d better split or they could think we’ve found something, bunched together like this.’
They moved off, the horses alert as the helicopter flew up the canyon, hidden from view but noisy in that confined space. When the upper band of cliffs showed ahead Ryan left them, making for the precipitous drop into the canyon; the others stayed high, walking side by side where it was possible.
‘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 B
yer,’ 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 trunks. 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 stran
ger 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.