Red, Green, or Murder

by Steven F Havill

  “Dennis says that there’s a dog herding them.”

  “Well, crap,” I said, starting the truck and turning on the air conditioning. “Well, have him ask the dog for the papers then. Whose cattle are they?” The county was small enough that coincidence was rare. I knew whose cattle they were.

  “I don’t think he knows, sir.”

  “Tell young Dennis to look on the left rear hip somewhere. There’ll be a brand.” Apprehension reared its ugly head, and it wasn’t from the tostada.

  “Hang on, sir.”

  Traffic was light when I pulled out of the Don Juan’s parking lot, and even though I had far, far better things to do than worry about loose cattle, I headed east on Bustos. By the time I’d covered the twelve blocks to the intersection of Bustos and Grande—the heart of Posadas—Gayle was back.

  “Sir, he says that the brand has an H, and then a dash maybe, and then he thinks a T. He wonders if that’s Herb Torrance. There are twenty-five or so.”

  “Chances are,” I said. What had Patrick Gabaldon done now, I wondered. After I left the ranch, Pat would have had plenty of time to drive up on Cat Mesa, release the critters from the stock trailer, and head home, closing the gates behind him. It was no big deal. The pasturage was less than a mile beyond the intersection of County Road 43 and Forest Road 26, where the pavement turned to dirt.

  It was conceivable, although as unlikely as rain, that Pat might have left open a gate, or thought it was secure when it really wasn’t. Dumb as they were, cattle had a sort of persistent, dim curiosity about their world. If they could wander without interference, they would. If a gate yawned open, they’d drift through it.

  But the last thing Pat would do is leave his beloved blue heeler companion alone with the cattle. The dog should have been sitting beside Pat in the pickup, tongue lolling and slobbering all over the seat and dashboard, eager for home and a plunge in an inviting stock tank. Left with the livestock, and left to his own instincts, he would herd the cattle until either they or he dropped.

  “Sir, he says he can’t get the dog to come to him.” I nodded with appreciation. Deputy Dennis Collins might have been a city kid, but he was shrewd and had already figured out who was the trail boss of this wandering outfit.

  “I don’t doubt that,” I said. “Tell him I’m on my way up. In the meantime, tell him that the dog’s name is Socks. What Dennis needs to do is get near enough, and shout the dog’s name to get his attention, then command lie down. He has to sound like he means it and knows what he’s doing.”

  “Socks, lie down,” Gayle said. “Yes, sir.” I could hear the amusement in her tone.

  “It probably won’t work, but there you go. That’s all the dog lingo I know. I’ll head up that way. The cattle are on the highway right of way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, if he can get the dog to take a vacation, they’ll stop. Pat Gabaldon trailered them up there a little bit ago, and he’ll be on his way back to Herb’s. He may even be running some errands here in town. I’ll find him and let him know.”

  “Thanks, sir. Should I tell Dennis you’re headed up the hill?”

  “Yep.” I pulled over and parked across from the Chevy dealership, leafing through my paperwork. Herb Torrance’s cell phone rang half a dozen times, and I could imagine him sitting there in the Las Cruces hospital waiting room, trying to shut the thing up while the rest of the folks glared at him.

  “Yeah, this is Herb,” he said.

  “Herb, Bill Gastner. How’s Dale?”

  “Well, I don’t know yet,” he said slowly. “They said it went all right. He’s still in recovery. Annie’s with him.”

  “Good deal. Look, do you have Patrick’s cell number handy?”

  “Well, sure. I got that.” He rattled off the number. “He moved the cattle all right?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “He got ’em up there just fine. Apparently somebody left a gate open, though, and one of the deputies found the herd walking along the highway. I’m in Posadas right now, and wanted to find Pat so he could shag ’em back to pasture.”

  “Well, yeah,” Herb said. “Now that’s a nuisance. Sorry ’bout that.”

  “It happens. Look, Herb, while I have you on the line…George Peyton died this morning. I thought you might like to know.”

  A long pause greeted that news. “Well, hell,” Herb said finally. “At home, did he?”

  “Yes. It looks like he just sat down to lunch, and keeled over. His son-in-law found him.”

  “Well, damn. You know, I’m sorry to hear that. I liked old George.”

  “A lot of us did.” As I drove through Posadas, I kept an eye out for the H-Bar-T pickup and stock trailer—it would be hard to hide that rig. “I’ll let you go, Herb. I’m headed up the hill right now, and if there’s any kind of problem, I’ll get back to you.”

  “Well, okay,” Herb said doubtfully. “You could have Patrick call me, if you wanted. Or I’ll try after a bit.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Damn all to hell, I’m sorry to hear about George,” he said, and I could imagine the rancher’s slow shake of the head. “Hell gettin’ old, ain’t it.”

  Chapter Seven

  I dialed Pat Gabaldon’s number, and for a moment, it sounded as if it had connected. Then an odd click, then nothing. Three tries later, still no Pat, and I gave up.

  County Road 43 wound out of Posadas northbound and in three miles intersected State 78, the main arterial that passed by Posadas Municipal Airport and then headed out of the county to the northwest. There was no reason I could imagine that Pat would have taken the state highway for the 18 miles to the intersection with CR 14, the Torrance ranch road, where the trip south on the rutted gravel would rattle Pat’s teeth, truck, and trailer to pieces. He’d stick to smooth pavement, passing through the village.

  Just beyond the state highway, CR43 started its meander up the flank of Cat Mesa. On the right, the fenced-in remains of the Consolidated Mining boneyard were quiet and dismal, a vast collection of junk and detritus from the hopeful decades of copper mining. There had been a time when some of the village fathers thought that Posadas was headed for grand times. I had never agreed, knowing that the influx of workers cared about copper and the money affixed to it, but not a bit about the village of Posadas or the county. The chained gate, topped now with barbed wire, was still secure. Just beyond, no tracks cut off to the east on County Road 6.

  A bit beyond, off to the left, the old quarry was deserted. The Forest Service, who owned this attractive nuisance, had tried for years to fence it properly, but icy cold seep water, so deep that legends abounded about what—or maybe who—lay on the bottom, was an undeniable attraction for partying high school kids. They’d jump the fence, and no agency could baby-sit the quarry all day and all night. In the past few years, as the entire Southwest dried out, the seep had decreased, and it seemed to me that the water level was gradually dropping. If we all just stayed patient, the quarry would both cease to be a drowning threat and would reveal whatever secrets lay at the bottom.

  Pat Gabaldon hadn’t pulled his rig into the shade by the north rim of the quarry for a bite of lunch or a quick plunge. And it was equally inconceivable that all this time he wouldn’t have missed his dog.

  For another few miles, the macadam road switch-backed up the mesa, then would top out at the intersection with Forest Road 26. Sure enough, now more than a mile downhill from the county road’s transition to dirt, I saw Dennis Collins’ county car pulled off on the shoulder, red lights winking. Just beyond, the cattle stood in a nervous gaggle, the routine of their day interrupted, and not a brain in the bunch knowing what to do about it.

  Dennis stood in the middle of the road, hands on his hips. As I approached, the deputy jabbed an index finger at a hump in the weeds by the side of the road, and I could tell that he was shouting something. The hump was the blue heeler, lying flat and poised, a furry arrow about to dart shou
ld a cow finally make a decision.

  I parked off to the side behind Dennis’ unit and got out.

  “Socks, lie down!” Dennis shouted, no doubt for my benefit, since Socks already was.

  “No sign of Pat,” I said casually as I sauntered across the highway, keeping my pace relaxed. I didn’t want to give Socks the notion that the humans wanted something done. The cattle were in a tidy group, wondering. Best that they remain that way. “Good job here, Dennis.”

  “It’s nothing I did,” he said.

  “The gate is a mile on up the road, right by the Forest Service sign. If we can get ’em to move that way, it’d be a good thing.”

  “I don’t know how to drive a dog,” the deputy said, and shook his head in amusement.

  “Neither do I, but once Socks gets the notion in his head about which way we want to go, I think he’ll do most of the work. That’s the theory, anyway.” I turned and looked down the county road, thankfully devoid of traffic. “We can mosey along with the vehicles, and they’ll move along all right. Let’s get ’em moving first, so the dog knows.”

  Pat Gabaldon, who no doubt did talk dog, might have used whistles, maybe shouts, to get the job done. But, smart as he was, it took Socks only an instant to see that these two humans wanted the cattle to go back up hill. Being a dog, I don’t think he was vexed by the thought that all his previous work might have been for naught. We walked forward toward the herd, and the cattle milled and drifted this way and that until we got too close, and then as a single organism the small herd turned and started back up the county road. Since the road was fenced on both sides, there wasn’t much challenge. The dog shot back and forth to harass stragglers, and both Dennis and I retreated to our respective vehicles, to drive side by side up the road, easy as you please.

  Socks was tired enough that the first blush of frantic joy had evaporated in the hot sun. Now he just worked, looking for the shortest distance between points. I relaxed back in the seat, letting the SUV idle along, enjoying the whole thing—sun, heat, dust, the aromas of both livestock and trampled prairie vegetation, the sharp yip of the working dog. The journey gave me time to think, looking for an easy solution to the puzzle. None presented itself.

  In a half hour, we drew within sight of the cattle guard that marked the Forest Service boundary. Sure enough, the wire gate was flopped to one side. Because the county road right-of-way fence joined the pasture fence, the cattle had nowhere to go except back over the top of us, or through the gate, and even the weary Socks could figure that out.

  “Make sure that damn thing is secure this time,” I said to Dennis, and he wrestled the wire gate closed as the last two calves shot through the eight foot opening. Now they had a few thousand acres to explore, and Socks was out of a job. I whistled sharply and his ears went up, and with a last warning look at the nearest cow, the heeler trotted over to us, tongue dragging the ground.

  “Good dog,” I said, and meant it. Rummaging in the back of the SUV, I found the plastic cubitainer of water, took the cap off my Thermos, and refueled the pup. Water slopped all over through several fill-ups, and if Socks could have fitted himself bodily into the cup, he would have.

  “I don’t get this,” Dennis said, as he watched me loop a short length of light rope through the dog’s collar. “How does a guy forget his dog?”

  “I’m wondering that very thing,” I replied, and tried the phone again. Ten rings and no Pat Gabaldon. I tried the Torrance land line on the slim chance that Pat had driven back to the ranch and was inside the main house. “You have a phone book?”

  “Sure.” Dennis jogged back to his car. He returned with the book and I found the number for the Broken Spur saloon. I’d given up decades before trying to memorize all but the most important two or three phone numbers. After a while, you get enough of them rattling around in the brain, and they all exchange digits.

  I dialed and the phone rang half a dozen times before a truculent voice said, “What?”

  “Victor, this is Bill Gastner. Is Pat Gabaldon there, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  I could picture Victor Sanchez standing in the kitchen of his establishment, cleaver in hand, apron a bit on the grungy side. Victor would be a bit sweaty, in no mood to be chatty-friendly with the cops…and he still considered me one of those, no doubt. He had his own dark, sad reasons, and I always let his attitude slide.

  “Was he at your place earlier?”

  “What do you need?”

  “He just delivered a small herd of cattle up here on the mesa. They got out somehow, but I have his dog.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I’m trying to find Patrick, Victor. That’s all. If you see him, will you let him know?”

  “Yeah,” Victor said. The line went dead.

  “What a charmer he is,” I said. The dog started to fidget as I walked toward the fence, but I glowered at him. “Lie down, Socks,” I said, and he did. Driving a herd of cattle through a narrow gate is an effective way to ruin tracks. The gate’s wire tie was drum tight, and I beckoned Dennis. “Let me in here,” I said, and as the gate came down, Socks spun in a circle, wrapping himself in rope.

  The fresh tracks were obvious, and it appeared that Pat had driven through the gate, then had swung the truck and trailer in a wide arc, stopping when he was facing the gate once again. A blind man could have found the spot where the cattle had disembarked, 96 hooves diving from the trailer into the rocky dirt of the pasture. It was just as easy to see boot prints here and there, especially immediately beside where the trailer’s back bumper would have been, where Pat Gabaldon would have to stand to secure the tailgate.

  I ambled around the area, hands in my pockets.

  “He’s got a girl friend?” Dennis said, and I looked up. “Kinda small feet.”

  Someone had planted a foot on the edge of an ant circle, those huge platters of bare ground with a mound in the center, the hub of industry for the little harvesters. I crossed to where the deputy stood, and sure enough, the shoe print was no rancher’s big hoof, nor characterized by high heal or pointy toe.

  I straightened up and pivoted at the waist, surveying the country. This was not the sort of place frequented by tourists, or hikers from the village, or morning power walkers. The print could have been fresh, but I was no Daniel Boone, and Dennis Collins certainly wasn’t…neither one of us could be sure. Still, the most obvious explanation was that Patrick Gabaldon had not been alone for this chore.

  We found no other tracks—the cattle plunging through the gate had made sure of that.

  There was nothing sinister about Pat Gabaldon having company on this particular task. He was a young, good-looking cowpuncher, and a picnic with an obliging young gal up in the perfume of the piñons, junipers, and scrub oak, serenaded by the jays and ravens, sipping a cool brew while his boss was preoccupied a hundred miles away—what could be better than that? His route with a trailer-load of cattle took him right through Posadas, and picking up a friend was easy enough.

  Then later, with the cattle off-loaded and the picnic over, he’d driven back down the hill. Maybe at that moment, his mind wasn’t on his job. He had not made double sure that the wire gate was secure. And worse than that, he had abandoned his dog. The whole scenario was likely—but he’d left Socks behind. Nobody does that, no matter how love-smitten.

  Chapter Eight

  Pat Gabaldon’s personal life was none of my business, unless he was a cattle thief. But all twenty-four head of Herb Torrance’s cattle grazed safely now, so purloined livestock wasn’t the issue. I reflected that had the cowpuncher here in question been the lad with the shattered knee, that might have been a different matter and a cause for real concern.

  Young Dale Torrance wasn’t long off probation after pulling a stupid stunt a year before. Desperate to win the heart of a young gal, Dale had heisted a few head of cattle from a rancher up in Newton, just over the county line. He’d driven
the trailer load of steers to Oklahoma and sold them to a dealer who didn’t ask questions. Dale would have blanched at hearing himself called a “rustler,” an old frontier term synonymous with “hanged”. He had some vague notion that he was going to repay the rancher somehow, but first he intended to buy the girl of his dreams a new truck. Perhaps in his mind, a Ford beat a diamond ring all hollow.

  We recovered those cattle well-traveled but unscathed, and the rancher, Miles Waddell, decided not to press charges. The District Attorney, Judge Lester Hobart, and I conferred about the other charges that the state thought it might press against the kid. The upshot was that Dale was slapped with probation. Call us old softies. Dale’s rejection by the dream girl was worse punishment, no doubt…that and the ferocious licking he’d taken from his old man, who wielded a chunk of 2x4 with mean effect.

  On the other hand, Pat Gabaldon was as steady and diligent as Dale was rowdy and undisciplined. Dale would disappear without a how-do-you-do, but Pat wasn’t the type. He appreciated a job and a place to live, and he liked the Torrance family. So, until an innocent explanation presented itself, my curiosity was a powerful motivator. I tried Pat’s telephone half a dozen times with no result. One logical explanation was that the young man, concerned about a badly hurt buddy, had driven Herb’s big rig back to the ranch, then hopped in his own pickup and headed for Las Cruces.

  It was comfortable to think that the boy had done that, except for two things. He could have used the telephone to check up on Dale—I couldn’t imagine Pat electing to mope for hours around a smelly hospital waiting room. Secondly, Socks fidgeted on the passenger seat of my Chevy, his head thrust out the partially open window, tongue flailing like a wet rag in the breeze.

  I took a route through Posadas that allowed me to glance down ninety percent of the side streets, but the big white H-Bar-T rig wasn’t parked anywhere obvious—not at any of the service stations, not at Posadas Lumber and Hardware, not at one of the four bars or the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant.