Oh, Bury Me Not

by M. K. Wren

  “Who’d you think I meant? The President of the United States?”

  “Well, y’know, I gotta be sure I have a case before I take a man to court. If Alvin did kill him, I need a motive. The only one I can come up with now is he must’ve found George foolin’ around with his dam and flew mad over it.”

  “What d’you mean, foolin’ around with his dam?”

  “Somebody blew it up, Aaron.”

  “It sure as hell wasn’t George!”

  “Then what was he doin’ out to the rezzavoy?”

  “I don’t know! But him bein’ there don’t mean he dynamited the dam. That’s what that bassard wants you to think. Mebbe he blew it up hisself so’s ever’ damn fool ’round here would figger it that way!”

  Tate apparently took no insult at being lumped with local damn fools. “Well, that could be,” he conceded, “but it still don’t tell me why Alvin would wanta kill him.”

  “For the same reason he’s been poisonin’ my cattle and burnin’ my haystacks! You want a sensible reason for anything from a man like that?”

  “But you ain’t the only spread around here had trouble lately.”

  “I told you, I don’t know a damn thing about the trouble Alvin’s had. I never so much as set foot on his land.”

  Tate only nodded. “Funny, though, Alvin told me the same thing about the trouble you been havin’.”

  For a moment, Conan thought Aaron would attack Tate physically, but before he could even get a coherent word out, he was distracted.

  “Pa, you know Joe has to get court proof.” It was Ted, miserably apologetic, pleading not so much for agreement as for peace. But he was looking to the wrong source for that.

  Aaron turned on him, his features rigid and crimsoned.

  “Who’re you speakin’ for? Me? Or your brother? Why the hell don’t you jest go on and move in with that little piece of skirt? You can’t even show any loyalty at a time like this! But I guess you already showed your colors when you took—”

  “Aaron, for God’s sake!” Laura pressed her clenched hands to her forehead. “At a time like this—can’t you show any—any feeling for anyone? Any vestige of human—” Then abruptly she rose and ran to the door. “I can’t stand this! I can’t stand it!”

  She was gone before anyone could stop her, and in the ensuing silence Linc glared at his father.

  “You satisfied now, Pa?”

  He didn’t stay to hear any answer Aaron might have made, but turned on his heel and exited, calling Laura’s name. Afterward, there were a few uncomfortable shiftings and exchanges of glances in the room, but Aaron was oblivious to them, staring blankly at the space where Linc had been. Yet if he regretted his behavior, it was obvious he had no intention of admitting it. Conan watched him settle back in his chair in bristling silence, and wondered when Aaron McFall would weep for his son. Only in solitude, if then.

  “So, you figger you got an obligation to George?” After the tense silence, that abrupt charge was startling.

  Conan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then you wanta pl—to get to the bottom of this thing, like George said?”

  “If I’m not stopped.”

  “What could stop you?”

  “Either you or Sheriff Tate. Especially you.”

  “Well now, I can’t speak for Joe, here, but I won’t put nothin’ in your way.”

  Conan studied him skeptically.

  “So. Why the change of heart, Aaron?”

  “Why? Look, I figger it this way, Flagg: you and me is headed up the same pass. We both wanta nail the man who killed George. Right? I know who killed him, but Joe needs his court proof. So, mebbe you can come up with it.”

  “Maybe. Apparently, you haven’t considered the possibility that Drinkwater is innocent.”

  Aaron’s eyes narrowed until the blue was invisible.

  “Consider all you damn please, but if you get the man who killed George, it’ll be Alvin.”

  “I can’t argue that now.” Conan pulled in a deep breath, then nodded. “So, we’re in agreement. Momentarily. But before I go ahead with an investigation, you’d better be sure you understand my terms. First, George is still my client. Not you. Second, this ‘court proof’ you’re so willing to let me search for may not point to Drinkwater, but I won’t ignore or change any facts to satisfy you.”

  “It’ll point to Alvin.”

  “Another thing, you said—” He stopped as Linc returned, gave his father a single cold glance, then resumed his position by the door like a sentry.

  It was Dr. Maxwell who asked, “How’s Laura?”

  “She’s all right. Said she’d be out to the cookhouse.”

  Aaron seemed even less inclined to show any remorse in Linc’s presence, ignoring his return entirely.

  “So, what’s the other thing?” he asked of Conan.

  “You said you wouldn’t put anything in my way. I’ll interpret that as an offer of full cooperation.”

  “Whatever you want. I mean, within reason.”

  “No. Not if you expect to draw the boundaries of reason. You have my word, I won’t ask anything I don’t consider necessary to the investigation, but I’ll draw the lines.”

  Before Aaron could protest, Linc burst out, “Investigation? What’s goin’ on here?”

  Aaron said curtly, “George hired Flagg to get to the bottom of this trouble. I know who’s at the bottom, so if he can come up with any proof of it, well and good.”

  “What? Damn it, we don’t need some outsider stickin’ his nose into—”

  “Listen, boy, it ain’t up to you to decide what we need.” Then as Linc lapsed into smoldering silence, he turned to Conan. “All right, you got your cooperation.”

  Conan made no response to that, addressing his next question to Joe Tate.

  “Laura told me George worked late in the office last night. Did anyone see him leave it?”

  “No, but Morgan Hayes—he’s one of the buckaroos—says he seen a light in the office right before he turned in. That was about eight.”

  “The door was locked when Laura came looking for George early this morning. Has anyone been in the office since?”

  “Don’t guess anybody’s had time to. Far’s I know, it’s still locked. Harley, give that door a try.”

  The deputy went to the door on the left-hand wall; when it refused to open, Conan turned to Aaron.

  “Who has keys to it?”

  “Well, I do, and the boys. And Gil, naturally.”

  “May I have them?” It wasn’t a request; it was a demand and a test, and Aaron seemed to recognize both.

  “Now listen here, I got a ranch to run, and I can’t—”

  “George spent the last few hours before he died in that room; there may be evidence bearing on his death in there, and if so, I want to be sure no one gets to it before I do. And that’s the last time I’ll explain myself to you. You offered cooperation, and I’m calling you.”

  Aaron’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line, but at length he reached into his pants pocket, removed a key from a jangling ring, and tossed it to him. It fell short, forcing Conan to pick it up off the floor. Gil Potts was more courteous, rising to dig into his pocket, even offering a brief smile as he presented his key.

  “Don’t have much use for the thing, anyhow.”

  Ted was equally cooperative; it was Linc who threatened real resistance.

  “He’s got no right comin’ in here and—”

  “I give him the right,” Aaron said testily. “Let him have your key.” Then, when Linc had complied, “All right, Flagg, anything else you want in the way of cooperation?”

  “Not at the moment. Sheriff, what about George’s horse? Where is it?”

  “Out to the barn. Nobody’s touched it ’cept my deppity. I had him look her over.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “Don’t know yet. Haven’t talked to Ollie.” He rose, took a last puff on his cigar, and tossed it into the fireplace. �
��Come on, we’ll take a look. Aaron, you can go ahead with the funeral arrangements. Have Roy get in touch with me. Doc, any idea when you’ll be finished?”

  Walter Maxwell had also risen and stood working the brim of his hat in his hands, regarding Aaron with the tired, cognizant eyes of one familiar with every form of grief.

  “I’ll take care of the autopsy today. Aaron, I’m going out to see Laura, and I’ll leave some pills with her; something for both of you, to help you sleep.” Then with a glance at Ted and Linc, “You boys, too. Won’t hurt you, and it might help.”

  Ted said, “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Sure. Aaron…I’m sorry.” Then with a long sigh he turned to the door. “Just don’t get yourself riled up.”

  As he shuffled away, an unknowing observer would guess him to be the bereaved father, not Aaron McFall.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Mr. Flagg, I don’t know you from Adam,” Tate observed as they crossed the graveled yard between the house and the barn with a pair of shaggy, mongrel dogs tagging along curiously. “Guess I better give Steve Travers a call.”

  “I don’t think you have any alternative, in your position, Sheriff.” The wind had died and the air felt hot to the touch. Conan looked ahead to the barn, eyes aching with the harsh sunglare reflected from its whitewashed walls.

  It was an old building of beautiful proportions, the roof coming to a point over the loft in the center, then breaking into a shallower angle at each side. A louvered cupola sat the ridgepole, graced by a weather vane on which an ebony-enameled stallion pranced. Surrounding the barn on three sides was a maze of corrals with skinned posts weathered to satiny silver. To his left, beyond the corrals, Conan saw a pair of buckaroos lounging on the bunkhouse porch, but no one else was visible except the deputy standing in the barn door by a sorrel mare.

  “Guess Ollie unsaddled her,” Tate commented. “Told him to keep ever’body away from her. Yep, I better have a word with Travers, but I don’t figger it’ll change my mind none.”

  “I suppose I’d have to know how your mind’s set before I take any encouragement from that.”

  Tate shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t usually take to any outsider hornin’ in on somethin’ like this, but y’know, I always admired young George. Smart as a whip, but he kep’ both feet square on the ground. So, I figger he had his reasons for callin’ you, and they’d be good ones. And then—how much did he tell you about the trouble here?”

  “Quite a bit in general terms, but not much in detail.”

  “I can give you plenty of details; got a file a foot thick on this jackpot, and I never got a handhold on it. Like chasin’ smoke. But you, now, mebbe you can get a bead on it from another slant. I figger it’s worth a try.”

  Conan smiled obliquely. “Desperation makes strange alliances. Well, I’ll try not to get in your way, and if I can help you, that’s only fair. I won’t get far without your help.”

  “Well now, that’s sorta what I was hopin’ you’d say. Mebbe we can scratch each other’s back.” He tilted his head to give Conan an amiable grin. “But you take one step out of line, Mr. Flagg, you’ll find out your welcome in Harney County’s run out.”

  Conan nodded acceptance, knowing full well the threat wasn’t idle. The sheriff was on home turf here; he could close almost any door at which Conan might knock.

  “Ho, Ollie.” Tate touched his fingers to his hat brim as they approached the deputy. “This here’s Conan Flagg. He was a friend of George’s. Ollie Cartwright.”

  The deputy offered a terse acknowledgment while Tate ran a hand along the horse’s neck.

  “Easy, girl. Got herself purty well lathered up sometime or ’nother. Where’s her saddle and riggin’, Ollie?”

  “Jest inside the barn there. I looked it over.”

  “You find anything on it?”

  “Nope. If George left here carryin’ anything, it was in his pockets. Wasn’t even a lariat on the saddle.”

  Conan frowned at the white mud caked on the hooves.

  “Was she curried before George took her out last night?” Cartwright glanced at Tate before answering.

  “She took outa here clean. I asked some of the hands.”

  Tate pushed his hat back to scratch his forehead.

  “Wonder where she got into all that mud. Mebbe the rezzavoy. Almost have to be; most of the cricks is dried up this time of year, and we didn’t have no rain last night.”

  Conan searched his pockets for a container, but the plastic evidence bags he usually used were still in his luggage. Finally, he took out the envelope containing George’s letter.

  “Sheriff, I want to get a sample of that mud. Will you hold her head for me?”

  Tate reached for the reins, cautioning, “Jest don’t move too quick and get her spooked.” Then he added with a short laugh, “Sorry, forgot you ain’t a greenhorn.”

  Conan kept a wary eye on the mare’s hind legs as he scraped some mud from her forefoot into the envelope. She wasn’t pleased at a stranger taking such liberties, but restrained herself to nervous shiftings. He gave her shoulder a grateful pat as he straightened and turned to Tate.

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I’d like to see that saddle now.”

  “Come on, we’ll both take a look.”

  If Ollie Cartwright had missed anything, it also escaped Conan’s eye. There were no saddlebags, nor even a toolbag tied to the leather strings; nothing in which anything might be carried. Finally he rose, frowning.

  “You know, if George went to the reservoir intending to blow up the dam, he couldn’t have gone empty-handed.”

  Tate nodded agreement. “I know. Course, I’m not so sure it was him who blowed it up. It looks bad, the way this damn feud’s been goin’. Most folks’ll figger it that way. But there wasn’t nothin’ in his pockets ’cept a pack of cigarettes. If he did handle any dynamite, though, we can mebbe get some traces off his hands.”

  “What about gloves?”

  “We didn’t find none on him nor anywheres near. Ollie, get somebody to see to that mare, then round up Harley and Cece. We better get back to town.” Tate began walking toward the two county cars parked in front of the house. “’Nother queer thing, Mr. Flagg, somethin’ else we didn’t find. Wire cutters.”

  Conan looked at him sharply, no doubt asking the same question Tate had already asked himself. How did the fence crossing Spring Creek get cut if George didn’t do it?

  “Interesting, Sheriff, but a pair of wire cutters could get lost in the debris from the explosion, and when was the fence last seen intact?”

  “I know. I could give you half a dozen mebbes for that. For almost ever’thing that’s happened ’round here this last year.”

  “Right now I’d just like a maybe to explain why George went to the reservoir. When I talked to him last night, he mentioned it, but only as an example of past cooperation between Aaron and Drinkwater. He didn’t seem at all concerned about it, and he said nothing to suggest he intended going out there.” Conan sank into musing silence for a moment, then, “How long a ride is it to the reservoir?”

  “A good hour ’n a half at a walk, and there ain’t many stretches you could go any faster ’less you wanta break your horse’s leg. ’Specially at night. There was a full moon, but it’d still be a slow ride.”

  “One of the hands saw a light in the office at eight o’clock. Did anyone see a light later, or see or hear George ride out?”

  “If they did, they ain’t sayin’ so.”

  “Have you some idea where everyone was after eight?”

  “You mean like alibis? Well, the buckaroos was in the bunkhouse. Some of ’em got up a poker game, but they’d all turned in by nine. Days start before sunup out here; ain’t many night owls around. Lessee, Laura went out to her house at seven-thirty, and Aaron and Ted turned in ’bout then, too. Wil Mosely was down to Jenturer to pick up some auto parts.”

  Conan was having a hard time translating, “Jenturer,” finally connecting it with the nearby tow
n of Juntura. “Oh, yes, Wil Mosely. Shop foreman, isn’t he?”

  “Yep. His wife Irene’s ranch cook. She went to bed soon as she got supper cleaned up; little before eight. She says Wil come home ’bout nine-thirty. The Moselys been workin’ here for near twenty years, y’know, and they never would even listen to a bad word ’gainst the McFalls.”

  “Was George in the office when Wil came home?”

  “He says he didn’t see a light in the windah. Lessee, the Messican couple turned in at eight, too, but they’re out anyhow. Neither one ever sat a horse; scared pink of ’em.”

  “And that leaves Linc and Gil Potts.”

  “They went into town last night. Left here at seven.”

  “Into Burns? Why?”

  “Oh, jest to kick up their heels, mostly.” He came to a stop, putting his back to the house, frowning absently up at the sky. “Anything I despise, it’s gossip, but you’ll be hearin’ plenty of that. ’Specially ’bout Linc.”

  Conan nodded. “When I was here five years ago, George was wondering when—or if—Linc was going to settle down.”

  “Well, he ain’t settled yet. Fact is, he’s jest got wilder. Aaron sent him off to Oregon State a couple years back. Prob’ly George’s idea. He took so well to college, guess he figgered it’d be good for Linc, too.”

  “That’s usually an error. What happened?”

  “Oh, Linc come home after two quarters. It ain’t that he’s dumb; jest seems like a fish outa water wherever he happens to be. And he had somethin’ eatin’ at him then. Y’see, Linc and Alvin’s oldest girl, Charlotte, used to see a lot of each other.”

  Conan raised an eyebrow. “When was that?”

  “Since they was kids, really. I always sorta hoped Charl would settle him down, and I still think she might’ve, but Aaron and Alvin weren’t neither one too happy ’bout them pairin’ up. I don’t know what happened, but they split up right before Linc went off to college, then while he was gone, she come down with diabeteez. Real bad, too. Doc said she was walkin’ a tightrope ever’ minute of her life with the ins’lin and all that.” He paused, briefly distracted. “I guess she finally took a step the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean?”