by Gwen Moffat
‘So am I.’ Miss Pink was thoughtful. ‘Did you know that Shawn told the police he saw a man carrying Birdie, or her body, away from the Estwick place and towards the creek?’
The Stenbocks fidgeted and avoided each other’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ Lois said. ‘We heard that.’
‘Shawn didn’t identify the man.’
‘There’s the knife,’ Stenbock pointed out. ‘Evidently it’s Estwick’s, and he admitted his was missing. He was mending a halter and he put the knife down on the table and went outside because he thought he heard a dog or a coyote upstream. And that reminded him of a deer carcass and he went straight to bury it and forgot the knife. He reckoned it went missing then. Now, that’s just his story.’
‘It’s plausible,’ Miss Pink said.
‘All child molesters will be plausible,’ Lois told her.
‘That confounds your theory that children should be brought up to trust strangers.’ Miss Pink could not resist that.
‘Not at all. For one thing, Estwick is no stranger – and no one can guard against abuse inside the family; for another, he’s aberrant. I still maintain that children should trust normal people.’
‘Did you suggest to Shawn that it might be wiser not to be alone with Sam Estwick?’
‘As a matter of fact, he didn’t come – he wasn’t allowed to come here any more, after I called his mother and told her she had a pervert frequenting her house. But I was satisfied in my own mind that Shawn would be on his guard; he was quite terrified of the man.’
‘How curious,’ Miss Pink murmured. ‘When I arrived here I thought that the canyon housed a peaceful, integrated community, and you’re telling me that beneath the surface there was child abuse?’
‘It certainly wasn’t peaceful,’ Lois said, ‘nor integrated. There was Birdie running away from home frequently – now, why was that, d’you suppose? Estwick was drinking in another woman’s house, waiting his opportunity to corrupt a little boy; there was Glen Plummer— ’
‘He doesn’t come into it,’ Stenbock said quickly.
‘Everybody’s a suspect,’ Lois began, then corrected herself. ‘Everyone was a suspect before they arrested Sam Estwick. Why, even you had to prove your alibi!’ She gave him a wry smile.
‘You have an alibi?’ Miss Pink asked politely, not troubling to inform them that Estwick had not been arrested, at least, not initially.
‘I offered them my coveralls,’ Stenbock said. ‘I’d washed in the creek after I cleaned the flues – that’s what I was doing Saturday afternoon: cleaning the cookstove. The soot was still on the coveralls – soot stains, I mean, so I figured that since blood stains can be detected in a laboratory, they’d better have the coveralls to prove my innocence. The police wouldn’t take them. I knew I wasn’t a suspect then even though I didn’t have an alibi.’ He looked at his wife with a kind of defiance.
‘You still have the coveralls?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘I’ve burned them now,’ Lois said. ‘They were too filthy to keep and no way was I going to wash them. He’s got plenty of old clothes he can use cleaning flues. Why, I’d rather go to the Thrift Store, pay a few dollars for old pants and a shirt than wash coveralls every time I have my cookstove cleared of soot.’
Miss Pink nodded agreement, reflecting that murder, that being in the vicinity of a murder, made some people extraordinarily garrulous.
Chapter 10
At eight o’clock in the morning the Forset place was already astir. Saddled horses were tied to rails and Forset was conferring with Bob Duval and Erik Olson. He was surprised to see Miss Pink this early but she pointed out that morning was the best time to ride, that although she planned to stay out all day, she would rest her horse during the hottest hours. He apologised that she should have to catch and saddle Yaller; if he’d known … ‘It’s no trouble,’ she assured him. ‘Don’t let me hold you back.’
‘We’re bringing some cows out of Gospel Bottom, putting ’em up Mormon Pasture. Now tell me where you’re going, eh?’
‘I’m going to follow the creek out into the high country above the narrows, parallel with the road.’
‘That’s right; don’t lose sight of the road when you’re on your own.’ He smiled. ‘That way we won’t have to come so far to look for you if you don’t come back.’
She returned his smile and went into the barn for a halter.
They were gone by the time she had saddled Yaller; they had even taken the dog. As she led the horse to the mounting log she felt as if she had been abandoned. She thought of the route she had sketched to Forset and wished she were taking it: a quiet hack compared with where she proposed going. She had a map but maps were one thing, the terrain another. Maps seldom showed cliffs and never conveyed atmosphere; today she would be in unknown country in more ways than one.
She must have communicated something of her uneasiness to the horse because he turned skittish once they were clear of the corrals. This had the effect of concentrating her mind wonderfully and, since she was in something of a hurry, she was forced to devote all her attention to controlling him at a trot.
She followed the route she had taken with Dolly four days ago. At the creek below the great cove, Forbidden Creek, she slowed down. This was one of the places where the trail came close to the water, and Yaller, although sure-footed on mountain trails, had little regard for where he put his feet when he was in the valley. Edging him away from the eroded bank, she paused at the little side-creek and studied the gouge in the cliffs above.
It was curious how the rock literally encircled the floor of the bay, rising to towers on one side of the lowest point (where water from flash floods had stained the sandstone); even part of the cliff on that side, the Maze side, was hidden, as if the towers were protecting it. She looked around. No houses were visible; all were obscured by their own clumps of cottonwoods or the trees on the banks of Salvation Creek. But the cove was high in the cliff and that part which was invisible from below might be visible from her own cabin, which stood somewhat above the road and at a distance. This evening she might see more with the aid of binoculars. And then she wondered why this was important. It was not because she wanted to get into that place but because no one could. Had other minds worked like hers, wondering if the Anasazi had been there, if the Cave of Hands was against the hidden wall of the great cove?
She came back to the trail and pushed the horse into a lope, slowing to a walk as she passed the Olson place, not wanting to attract attention with the sound of pounding hoofs. She skirted the loop of the creek where it contoured the plinth that supported the Blanket Man. She looked up at the Stone Hawk on her other side and reflected that, if it was in the cove, the Cave of Hands could have nothing to do with the secret way down to the valley from Rustler Park; she was nearly two miles from Forbidden Creek.
Beyond the Olson and Estwick homesteads she resumed a gentle canter, came to the Duvals’ property, which appeared deserted, and left by way of the gate in Horsethief Canyon. She was fastening the gate when she saw a familiar flash of colour at the back of Wind Whistle: brown and white, a pinto pony. It was a poignant moment, mistaking it for Birdie’s pony, and then she realised that it could well be the same animal; Paula might have asked the Duvals to look after it. She turned to her own horse, wondering why the pinto was standing at the back door of the house instead of grazing in a meadow. She looked back. It had not moved. She focused her binoculars.
There was a saddle on the animal. Could Alex have been in the house when she passed? No, Alex was much too heavy for the pinto. Of course – one of the Olsons, probably Mike, had borrowed it, and he worked at Wind Whistle, had probably gone indoors for a can of pop or something. The blob of colour changed shape. A figure had emerged from the house, mounted, and was moving fast through the corrals and across a meadow towards the Horsethief trail.
She mounted and rode to the first thick clump of pinyons. She was sitting on the bank watching a turkey vulture when the pinto approached. She lowered
the binoculars and turned to the rider. ‘Why, good morning, Shawn,’ she said, unable to conceal her surprise. ‘Isn’t that – an Estwick horse?’
‘It’s Birdie’s,’ he said. ‘Her mom said I could ride him.’
‘And where are you going on him?’
‘I’m going up Rustler, ma’am. The others were there yesterday but my mom wouldn’t let me go, so I’m going today on my own, try and make up for it.’
‘Make up for what?’
‘Being left out of the picnic.’ He bit his lip.
‘Do you feel safe on your own?’
‘Birdie could do it. She was only six. So’s Shelly, and she come up here yesterday too.’
‘Shelly was with Sarah and Jen.’
He muttered something and moved his hands. The pinto took a step forward.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said you’re not always safe with other people.’
She saw the fear in his eyes. Was he frightened of her? ‘Get down, Shawn,’ she said, and patted the earth. ‘Sit here and— ’
‘No, I can’t! I have to— ’
‘Sit down and tell me about Sam Estwick.’
That cut across his protests and he gaped at her, his eyes wide. For long seconds he stared, then pushed his pony up the bank, slid off and tied it in the shade beside Yaller. He came back and sat about six feet from her.
‘I told the police all I know,’ he said.
About to speak, she changed her mind and watched the vulture come in to land on a tree above the Lower Jump.
‘I never said it was Sam,’ came the small voice.
‘No, that was nice of you.’
‘I like Sam. I respect him.’ Miss Pink remained silent. ‘I wish he was my dad.’ He seemed to be thinking between each utterance. ‘Sometimes,’ he added.
‘And is he fond of you?’
Delicately he started to pick the flowers from the stem of a lupin. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think he is, sometimes I don’t, but then I don’t always like him; when he talks about whipping I hate him.’
‘I’m not surprised. So what do you do then?’
‘What could I do?’
‘I don’t know. It takes an ingenious mind; you might, say, put something nasty on his saddle.’
His eyes danced. ‘Like super glue?’
‘Or make up stories about him.’
‘Such as?’
‘Stories that would make other people despise him.’
‘Such as?’
‘That he likes little boys.’
He had destroyed the lupin and now his hands were still. He was a beautiful child; in profile the lack of expression was not obvious. He turned to her, and his face was full of expression. ‘It was what I wanted!’ he said earnestly. ‘I wanted him to like me but I didn’t – I don’t think he does, so I told a lie.’
‘You wanted him to kiss you.’
He squirmed on the bank. ‘No, that’s kid stuff; my mom’s always holding me tight and stroking my hair and stuff, I hate that, I’m not a girl. But I never had a dad; I got lots of uncles, they’re her boy friends, so it’s not the same thing. I want a dad. Mr Plummer’d do, I s’pose. I get a bit mixed up with all of them, don’t know which is for the best.’ He looked very small and helpless.
‘Let’s get this straight; when you told Mr and Mrs Stenbock that Sam kissed you, it was a lie?’
‘Right.’
‘And that he liked little boys?’
‘I want him to like me!’
‘Who told you that some men liked little boys?’
‘It were in a movie.’
‘So you were getting your own back at Sam because he didn’t like you enough, is that it?’ He nodded miserably. ‘And when you said you saw a man carrying Birdie towards the creek, that was a lie too?’
‘No, no, no! That were true!’
‘Who was it?’
He was still as a rock, even holding his breath, then he glanced at her and spoke jerkily as he had done at the start of the encounter: ‘I don’t know. I were too far off. It were dark, and raining. There were no way of knowing.’
‘So it could have been Sam.’
He looked away, squeezing his hands between his knees, the picture of misery. There was no lack of expression now. There was too much.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a hard time. You’d better go on now. And enjoy your ride.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ It was a whisper.
He untied the pinto and rode away up the trail.
The yellow horse had a longer stride than the pony and would have overtaken him had she not held back. From below she caught glimpses of the pinto climbing the ledges towards the Barrier and when she could see him no longer and knew that they had entered the Twist she pushed forward, past the fork in the trail.
The way to Rustler bore the tracks of a number of horses, but the path that continued up Horsethief had seen little traffic since the rain. A few yards beyond the fork there were marks of deer and, speculating on their sudden appearance, she realised that the trail had been joined by a narrow path coming up from the bottom of the canyon. Below her now was the Upper Jump, the sun shining on a pool under the waterfall. The path did not end at the pool but climbed the opposite side of the canyon by way of an obvious break: a steep gully, sparsely vegetated, that cut through the crags to emerge on the rim about half a mile away. She considered, and then dismissed the route. She might explore it in company but not alone; it was too steep.
Her trail continued to climb; there were no hairpins, only a steady rise for a mile or so, and she saw that she was approaching a corner of the headwall. At that point the outer rank of the needles was close to the canyon but in the corner, between headwall and cliffs, there was a dip in the rock, more scoop than saddle, and on the skyline stood a small cairn.
She rode through the notch and the trail dropped easily to a narrow valley that was long and straight, and dead flat. The bottom was green with new grass except for the pale sand of the wash and the threads of game trails. The far side of the valley was craggy, and when she descended to the wash and looked back she saw a long reef clumped with ragged buttes, which had an air of familiarity. Light showed through holes. She was looking at the back of the reef that formed one side of Rustler Park.
People had said that there was no way to the park except by the Twist and yet, looking at that reef from this side, the slickrock appeared to be no more than a scramble for a tolerably agile person on foot. Tracing a line carefully with her eye, retracing it downwards, she saw that trees at the base of the rock were bright green, not the bottle shades of pinyon and juniper but the green of hardwoods. That must be the spring in Sheep Canyon.
She studied her map. There were three ways out of this canyon, if you were mounted: north, following the wash to the river, eight miles distant and a dead-end because you could not cross the Colorado. You could go south into the empty country or, less than half a mile away, take a low pass that led to the next straight canyon.
She folded the map and headed for the pass, noting with satisfaction that it was marked by the prints of a horse coming towards her, into Sheep Canyon. Shortly she joined a wide track coming in from the left, and then she reached a rocky defile through which she rode for several hundred yards until she could look across another rift of a valley parallel to the one she had just left. This was Antelope; beyond it was Ringtail Canyon.
The country seemed deserted and there was very little sound. Small brown birds rose from the sage with a twittering like that of pipits. Occasionally a speck in the sky marked the presence of some large raptor, but generally speaking the Straight Canyons seemed as empty of wildlife as they were of people. The day was hot and no doubt the animals would emerge from cracks and burrows as the sun sank. Now, at noon, it seemed wise, like them, to seek shade. She turned back to Sheep Canyon and rode across the flats to the spring.
Two hundred yards from the cottonwoods, Yaller, already stepping out as
he smelled water, threw up his head and whinnied. There was an answering neigh from the shadows. Miss Pink rode forward, a look of bright enquiry on her face. Alex Duval was standing, brushing leaves from his hair, smiling diffidently. A horse was tied close by, a rifle in the saddle scabbard.
‘How do, ma’am.’ He nodded and blinked at her. ‘Nice day.’
She enthused about the weather as he led her to the spring: a scummy place of water-weed and tadpoles. The horse did not seem to mind but she was glad that she had brought water with her. She chatted about springs and wildlife as Yaller drank, then she removed the bridle and tied him to a tree by the halter. She loosened the cinch, aware that Alex was watching her with mounting uneasiness. Taking her saddle bags she moved away from the horses, talking, drawing him with her.
On a red-checked cloth she set rolls oozing with butter and ham and breasts of chicken, lettuce – limp but green – brownies, bright red apples, cans of beer. Alex stared, and grinned with delight. He said wonderingly: ‘Bob told you I was here?’
‘I didn’t know you were here.’
He laughed. ‘You always eat this much on your own?’
‘Not at all. I thought I’d meet someone, lovely day like this. And I did, but he wasn’t coming this way. Shawn was at Wind Whistle.’
‘You mean he was at the house? What was he doing there?’
‘I didn’t ask him. Bob is helping John Forset get his cows out of Gospel Bottom. No doubt Shawn called to see if anyone was home.’
‘That would be it.’
‘And then he came up Horsethief and we had a long talk.’
‘You and Shawn?’ Alex was surprised, his ingenuous eyes studying her face. ‘He talked to you?’
‘I’m used to children.’
He shook his head. ‘You must be good with ’em. I can handle animals and I love kids but I don’t know how to handle Shawn.’ He thought about that. ‘He’s not at all like the Olsons.’
‘In what way?’