The McHenry Inheritance (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “So are you just going to do nothing?”

  “Hardly. We have a crew from our posse searching both sides of the road from the McHenry ranch to town, looking for the murder weapon.” They should cover two miles a day and be done by sundown Wednesday.”

  “If they don’t find it, does it look better for Ellen?”

  “Maybe a little. But it advances the case a lot more if they find something.”

  “How much more would you need to arrest her?”

  Baca leaned back in his chair and deliberately lit a cigarette, blowing out a big plume of smoke. “You know, Gordon, I thought you were here on a fishing trip.”

  “All right. I can take a hint.”

  “To answer your question, in a general sort of way, what I need to make an arrest in this case — or any other — is enough evidence to satisfy myself that I’m doing the right thing and to satisfy a judge at a preliminary hearing to certify the case to superior court for trial. What that amounts to varies from case to case.”

  “Point diplomatically made. Now if I can change the subject, what do you think about the rattlesnake in the McHenry kitchen this morning?”

  Baca took a drag on his cigarette and lazily blew out three perfect smoke rings. “I’d say at least once a year somebody in this county finds a rattlesnake in their house. And those are just the cases I hear about.”

  “So you don’t think it’s suspicious.”

  “Don’t get impatient, now. Let me finish. Usually it happens in the spring, when they’ve come out of hibernation, and usually the snake involved is two feet long or less. So yes, I think it’s suspicious, but proving anything is going to be impossible.”

  “It’s an awful way to try to kill someone.”

  “You don’t want to be bitten by a rattlesnake,” said Baca. “Take my word for it. It’s extremely unpleasant. But hardly anybody dies from it these days. If it is what you think, it was probably more an act of terror than a serious attempt at murder. It’s going to be a long time before she feels comfortable in her own house again.”

  Gordon got up. “You’re probably right, and that just makes it worse.”

  “Listen,” said Baca, “you did a very good job of handling the situation with the finding of the body and answering questions. You’ll make a great witness, if it comes to that, and I appreciate it. And if you should come across any hard evidence, as opposed to speculation, come by the office any time or call me at home. I’ll be glad to hear it and act on it. But don’t go running around trying to solve the case. Do we have an understanding?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Gordon said. “Right now, I’m going fishing.”

  • • •

  The first thing Gordon did when he and Sam reached the Sportsman that night was to take a discreet look into the bar. Radio, Bowen, and Horton were at their customary table in the corner. After placing his dinner order, Gordon told the waitress to take them a round of drinks. Several minutes later, Radio came by, holding a bourbon and water. There was a slight unsteadiness and hesitancy in his speech that showed the drink wasn’t his first. He took an empty chair at their table for four.

  “Thank you for your munificence,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Gordon. “I’ve had two rounds on you, so it’s my turn. Besides, I was wondering if you heard what happened to Ellen McHenry this morning.”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “When she went into the kitchen this morning, there was a rattlesnake under the kitchen table. It almost bit her before she saw it.”

  Radio pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “My, my, my, my, my,” he said on the exhale. “That would have been unfortunate.” He took a sip of his drink. “What happened to the snake?”

  “She killed it with a fireplace poker,” said Sam.

  “I’m not surprised. She’s not the type to show mercy.”

  “It did get me to thinking,” said Gordon, “that your friend Hart Lee was catching rattlesnakes up where you’re camped.”

  “A good man, Hart Lee. Herpetology is only one of his many and varied interests.”

  “I don’t suppose one of them might have found its way to the McHenry Ranch, now?

  Radio laughed. “I’m shocked, Gordon. That’s a wild supposition without an iota of fact to back it up.”

  “You’re good at rhetoric, anyway.”

  “Used to make a living at it. Can’t do that any more, though. Have to be politically correct, and I’m not.”

  “Neither is Rush Limbaugh, and he was making a living at it the last time I looked.”

  “If he was in San Francisco, they’d throw him off the air, too. Only reason they don’t now is he’s national. It’d be bad PR.”

  “Maybe. I’m afraid I don’t see it that way.”

  “That’s ‘cause you have a job. You never got fired for speaking the truth.” Radio took a nip of his bourbon and gave Gordon a hard stare. “Let me ask you gentlemen a question. Do you believe in the Second Amendment?”

  “I do,” said Sam after a brief pause. “But unlike a lot of people, I like to read it in its entirety, beginning with the words, ‘A well regulated militia …’”

  “See, that’s where you damn liberals don’t get it. Militia, militia, militia. What’s a militia anyway except the sovereign people who’ve taken up arms to protect themselves against the government?”

  “But isn’t a militia supposed to enforce lawful authority?” Sam asked.

  “What’s lawful authority when the government’s corrupt itself? They can’t balance their budget, so they print paper money without gold to back it up; and they tax the people who produce to support the people who don’t. Only an uprising of armed citizens can stop that. The country’s just waiting for someone who has the guts to get it started.”

  “Does that mean this is the place and you’re the man?” asked Gordon.

  “This is as good a place as any. Better, maybe.”

  “Why here?”

  “Because there are still some real Americans here who believe in the things that made this country great. ‘Cause this place hasn’t been overrun by the vermin that have taken over San Francisco and all the other big cities. And there’s one more thing.”

  He paused, and Gordon and Sam could only look on in mute discomfort.

  “Gold. People don’t realize it, but there’s still gold in these mountains. And that’s going to be important. You know why?”

  Gordon said he didn’t.

  “I’ll tell you why. The world order that’s been created by the Reds and the Trilateral Commission and the Freemasons is going to collapse. The dark ages are coming, and when they do, this funny money we carry around ain’t gonna be worth squat. Only one thing will be universal currency, and that’s what it’s always been. Gold. Even a small place like Summit County can be a self-contained fortress of enlightenment if it has gold to buy what it needs and buy off those who’d destroy it.”

  “And a militia to protect itself,” Gordon said mockingly.

  “Damn right. And a well-regulated militia, Mr. Bleeding Heart Liberal.”

  “How many guns do you have at your camp, Radio?”

  “None of your business. Or the government’s.”

  “What I’m really interested in is one gun in particular.”

  “I might sell if the price is right.”

  “I don’t want to buy it. I just want to know if it’s there. Did Dan McHenry bring back a deer rifle from his house during the last few weeks?”

  “How would I know? Everybody in the camp has a gun or two.”

  “Or three or four.”

  “Don’t be a smartass. Nobody likes a smartass. Besides, last time I looked it was still legal to own more than one gun. I can’t pay attention to ‘em all.”

  “This could be important. That could be the gun that killed Dan McHenry.”

  “Then it isn’t in my camp unless his sister sneaked up in the middle of t
he night and put it there.”

  “But what if it is?”

  “It isn’t. Look, kid, I kind of get the feeling you’re taking an interest in Ellen McHenry, and that’s none of my business. No accounting for taste, but it’s none of my business. And if she killed her brother, which she did, you won’t find me lifting a finger to help her.” He downed the last of his bourbon and got to his feet. “Thanks for the drink, anyway, and be careful. Deer hunting season is on through next weekend.” Radio pointed his forefinger at Gordon like a gun, then made a cocking motion with his thumb and a clicking sound with his mouth. He laughed when Gordon flinched involuntarily, then he walked away.

  “What a delightful character,” said Sam after a long silence.

  “A real sweetheart. But I don’t believe him about the gun.”

  “I think you’re wearing me down, Gordon. I’m starting to agree with you.”

  “I wish the sheriff would.”

  “You know, I can’t remember. Radio got fired for saying something pretty bad. What was it?”

  The waitress brought their steaks, and Gordon waited until she had gone and they were alone before replying. Even then, he leaned over and spoke softly.

  “He was fired,” he said, “when Louis Farrakhan was making anti-Semitic comments while Jesse Jackson was running for president. And Radio actually said, on the air, ‘Maybe we ought to let the Jews and jigs kill each other off and leave the country for the real Americans.’ I’d say he’s putting a pretty fine gloss on it when he calls that nothing more than being politically incorrect.”

  Tuesday September 14

  Seven miles south of Harperville the state highway veers to the left, crosses a relatively low mountain pass, and makes its way into Nevada. Forking off the highway, a paved county road follows the East Buchanan into the mountains for seven more miles before coming to an end in Bountiful Valley, elevation 7,138 feet. At one time the valley sustained a ranch, but the ranch buildings have been converted to a pack station that serves as a base for back-country camping trips. The remainder of the valley is owned by a utility company, which leases it for cattle grazing and allows the public to fish the river.

  Most of the valley consists of a long and broad meadow, through which the river — more of a creek this far up — meanders in a series of horseshoe curves. In cooperation with the California Wild Trout Project, the utility company several years ago donated materials to build protective fences to keep the cattle away from the water, except at a few selected areas. This prevents streambed erosion, and the fences, made of rough-cut logs carefully notched together, are both effective and visually pleasing.

  Gordon and Sam arrived in the valley shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. There was frost on the ground still, and a distinct chill, which the sun had yet to cut through. At the pack station, horses were being readied for the penultimate trip of the season, but otherwise the two men had the valley to themselves.

  They began at the end of the road, and fished their way methodically upstream, leapfrogging each other to fish the next likely spot, each man giving the other the full measure of his own space. Sam fished a dry fly on the water, while Gordon, reasoning that it was too early for the fish to be surface feeding, worked below the surface with a Hare’s Ear nymph. When he caught and released three fish to Sam’s none in the first half-hour (including a 14-inch rainbow trout), Sam switched his fly and began enjoying some success. By eleven o’clock, the sun had warmed the valley considerably and Gordon and Sam had fished about half the section of water running through it.

  Gordon decided it might be time to try a dry fly, so he tied a size 14 Yellow Humpy to the end of his leader and cast it to the moving current where the water rushed by and under an overhanging bank. He put the fly just where he wanted — on the inner edge of the current — and three feet below where it landed, it was clobbered by a trout. The fish was a handsome native brook trout, ten inches long, and Gordon held it lovingly for a few seconds after taking the hook out.

  “He take a dry?” asked Sam, who had come over to look.

  Gordon nodded, then kissed the fish on top of the head and put it back in the water. “Go tell your grandpa we want to see him” he said as it swam off.

  They sat in silence for several minutes on the grass by the side of the river. Gordon seemed lost in thought, and finally put a question to Sam.

  “When we were talking to Radio last night, did anything he said strike you in particular?”

  “Just about everything. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about gold. Do you remember what he said about it?”

  “What — that we shouldn’t have gone off the gold standard?”

  “Partly that, but I was thinking more about something else. Didn’t he say that one of the reasons for being in Summit County was that there was still gold in the mountains here?”

  “Now that you mention it. He seemed to think it would get him through the new world order or something.”

  “Exactly. And I wonder if we might not be able to get to the bottom of all this by taking him literally.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where is it? Where exactly is the gold? When I talked to Baca at the barbecue a few days ago, he seemed to think the mines here had all been picked clean in the last century.”

  “Are you saying Radio came across a vein of gold somewhere?”

  “Could be. You know, if these characters have been hanging around and exploring this county for half the summer, one of them could have checked out a few of those old mines and noticed something. Or maybe they went up a canyon somewhere and found something.”

  “So what?” said Sam. “I’m not an expert on mining law, but wouldn’t he have to file a claim somewhere to get at it?”

  “Maybe, but I have another idea. There’s apparently an abandoned mine on the McHenry ranch. Baca said so. From his description of where it was, it sounds as if almost anybody could probably get to it without being seen. What if Radio or one of his men did that, and found a gold deposit nobody knew was there?”

  “So if you own the McHenry ranch you owned the gold, too?”

  “Or if you don’t, who’d stop you from mining, if you were discreet. I understand it’s fairly isolated. That would definitely add something to the McHenry inheritance.” Gordon got to his feet. “Let’s fish back to the car and head to town for lunch. I’m sorry to do this to you, Sam, but would you mind fishing alone this afternoon? If Ellen’s at home, I’d like to ask her about this.”

  “Go ahead,” said Sam. “I’m getting used to this.”

  • • •

  Thunderclouds were massing over the mountains to the west as Gordon drove across the cattle guard at Twin Creek Ranch shortly before two o’clock. Ellen McHenry was at home, and he laid out his theory over a cup of coffee. She seemed dubious about it, but agreed to show him the abandoned mine. “I was planning on being in court this afternoon,” she said, “so all the chores have been assigned to someone else.”

  The two of them donned parkas in the event of rain and set out across the meadow. She was wearing blue jeans (as was Gordon) and had tied her hair in a bun under her Stetson; anyone seeing them from behind at any distance would have imagined them to be a pair of cowboys heading out to check the cattle.

  “It’s funny you should make that suggestion,” she said as they reached the bend in the creek where Dan McHenry’s body had been found. “Whenever the cattle market was rough, which it is about two thirds of the time, Dad always used to say it was too bad that mine was worthless. He said it would have been his salvation from the curse of being a cattleman.”

  “He didn’t mean it, did he — about being a cattleman?”

  “Of course not. He griped a lot, because that’s what you do when you’re in the business and feel like you’re always working for the bank. But he wouldn’t have done anything else for the world.” She paused for a moment. “Neither would I.”

  They walked in silence for a few min
utes more. As they reached the top of the meadow, Gordon noticed a cattle pen and the end of the dirt road that wound along the meadow’s back side, the road from which Dan McHenry’s killer had presumably fired the fatal shot two mornings ago. He thought to himself that it would be fairly easy to drive up that road unseen and slip up to the mine. Ellen McHenry looked at the road as well.

  “You know,” she said, “I was just thinking. I haven’t been up to that mine in years, but I remember the last time like it was yesterday. It was the Friday before Memorial Day our senior year in high school. Margie Baxter, Pam Gibson, Terry Lee Parmalee and I all squeezed into that little Honda Pam had and drove up the back road after school. Terry Lee had bought two packs of cigarettes from a vending machine and we wanted to smoke them some place where we wouldn’t be seen. It was a hot afternoon, and the creek was running high and fast from the snow melt. We had to cross it further up to get to the mine, and the water was so cold. We settled in and for a couple of hours we talked about boys and what we were doing after high school, and just smoked cigarette after cigarette. God, did we feel grown up! Then on the way back, I stepped on a slippery rock as we were crossing the creek and fell right in. It just took my breath away. Like I said, the water was cold, and I came out looking like a drowned rat, and the wind had picked up so I started shaking really bad. I thought we’d never get back to the car. When we did, Pam drove me up to the front of the house and took off laying rubber as soon as I was out of the car.”

  “Leaving you to face the music by yourself,” Gordon said.

  “Exactly. At least the water pretty much washed away the smell of the smoke. My mother was all agitated about the way I looked, and I was still shivering pretty badly, and she kept asking how it happened, and I didn’t know what to say. About the fourth or fifth time she asked, Dad put his hand on her shoulder very gently and said, ‘Liz, maybe we should change the subject and get her dried off.’ I was so grateful. That was just like him, too. He understood, somehow, that it was embarrassing but not serious and decided to let it pass.”