by M. K. Wren
“Well, what makes you think—” She stopped as the waitress brought their eggrolls, and for the next few minutes the conversation lagged as Conan surrendered to appreciation of the golden-crisp delicacies; they lived up fully to the promise of the green dragon and the embroideries.
Finally, Jesse paused in her own hearty appreciation, giving him a smug smile.
“They ain’t bad, are they? Now, back to Dry Crick. How come you think George was killed out there?”
He explained Cliff Spiker’s analysis of the soil samples, adding, “He also told me that rock, the murder weapon, did not come from the reservoir, but there are tons of that type of basalt around the pasture.”
She ruminated on that, chewing stolidly.
“So, you figger George headed out that night for Dry Crick ’stead of the rezzavoy? I don’t see how he’d have any more business out there than at the rezzavoy.”
Conan applied a cautious dash of hot mustard to a forkful of egg-roll while he considered how much to tell her.
“Jesse, nothing at the Ten-Mile induced me to take a ’copter flight at dawn.”
She laughed. “You had business at Dry Crick?”
“Yes, but if you tell anyone I was out there, so help me God, I’ll personally run you through your own presses.”
“Conan, it’s a bit late to fret about trustin’ me.”
“I know, and I learned one lesson the hard way: it isn’t always smart to keep everything to yourself. A client of mine once spent two days in jail because I happened to be in a hospital, unconscious. Anyway, I found out someone else has business at Dry Creek.”
“Like rustlin’ cows, mebbe?”
“Yes. I found a box canyon furnished with a good spring, plenty of grass, a couple of horses complete with saddles and rigging, and thirty-four head of cattle.”
Her eyebrows went up in unison. “What brands?”
“Running S and K-Bar.”
“No Double D?”
“No.”
She considered that for a moment, then nodded.
“You figger George found the’ box canyon, then somebody found him and made sure he wouldn’t tell nobody about it.”
“Then took his body to the reservoir and blew it up for the sake of confusion. There’s dynamite stored in the canyon, by the way.”
“But why’d he ever go out to the pasture that night?”
Conan leaned back, frowning.
“I don’t know. He was worried about rustling and possibly in connection with Dry Creek Pasture, but I doubt that induced him to ride out there alone at night. I think it was a sudden decision; he left his desk in very atypical disorder. A phone or radio call, probably; a plausible story from someone he trusted or at least believed. That would mean he was deliberately lured there.”
“You think it was Linc did the lurin’?”
The initials A.L.M. hovered in the eye of memory.
“I’m only saying it could be Linc, since Sylvia’s blown his alibi.”
“What about the alibi Gil give him?”
“You mean the alibi they gave each other.”
“Well, a person could ask around the bars, see if anybody remembers seein’ ’em together that night.”
“Not this person. I’m an outsider, remember? I’d get whatever line Linc and Gil put out.” He frowned irritably at an inadvertent overdose of mustard. “Anyway, I can’t eliminate them from the suspect list.”
“Who’s on that list?”
“All the McFalls, and Gil Potts—who’s one of the family—and Alvin Drinkwater. You know about his alibi?”
She snorted. “You mean that story ’bout him gettin’ th’owed off his horse? It ain’t much of an alibi. ’Sides, it makes you wonder, not findin’ any Double D brands in that canyon.”
“I know, and Horace Foley tells me Alvin’s in a precarious financial position. At least, that was his excuse for refusing the loan before he finally admitted that Aaron has a ring through his nose.”
“Well, it ain’t no secret Alvin’s had a couple of bad years, so mebbe he is cadgin’ some cash rustlin’ cows.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
She shrugged uneasily. “Oh, hell, Conan, I don’t know what to b’lieve anymore, what with this feud ’n all.”
“Yes, it’s been quite successful in creating general doubt and confusion.” He polished off the last of his eggroll and leaned back with a sigh of repletion.
“You think that’s the real reason for the feud?”
He nodded, and seeing the waitress bearing their way with a pot of coffee, stopped to light a cigarette while she filled their cups, then continued on her rounds.
“Jesse, I think diversion is probably the primary purpose, but there’s more to it. A vendetta; something vicious. But I’m sure the feud, the rustling, and George’s murder are related; I just don’t know exactly how. On the surface, it looks like he was killed simply because he discovered that box canyon, but too many people have other compelling motives, so I’m wondering if it’s really that simple.”
Her eggroll demolished, she accepted a light for her cigarette, letting it hang on her lip, bobbing as she spoke.
“What kind of motives you talkin’ about?”
“Well, money, for one. Like the half million in insurance Laura will collect.”
“Mm. Yes, half a million makes a purty good motive.”
“She has another. Freedom. She wanted a divorce, but George wouldn’t give her one, and if you believe the local gossip, her freedom could also be a motive for Linc. He has a financial motive, too. I saw Aaron’s will. Ownership of the ranch goes to the eldest surviving son, and as a result of George’s demise, Linc is now the eldest surviving.”
Jesse frowned at that. “I never noticed him showin’ much interest in runnin’ the ranch.”
“No, but it’s worth a sizable fortune if he wanted to sell it, or if he opted to make a deal with Ted. He’s the one with the interest in running it.”
“Lordy, it’s really gettin’ complicated, ain’t it?”
“It’s even more complicated when you get to Ted. Maybe he made an agreement with Linc, or is simply banking on his lack of interest to make a deal with him in the future. Ted has his reasons to be bitter toward Aaron, because of his opposition to his marriage to Bridgie, but he also had reason to be bitter toward George. You know about the money he supposedly stole from the ranch. According to Laura, Aaron set him down good over that. She compared it to seeing someone flayed alive, and it was George who told Aaron about the loss. If Ted happens to be innocent, that would only make him more bitter.”
“Yes, but…” She paused uncertainly and took a puff on her cigarette. “Conan, I jest can’t swaller Ted rustlin’ cows or bashin’ George’s head, even if he was bitter.”
“Sure, he’s such a nice kid; quiet, dependable, well mannered. And Saturday night you saw him on the verge of burying a knife in one brother.”
“I saw it,” she admitted reluctantly. “I guess you jest never can tell about people.”
“Still waters run deep, as someone’s bound to say.” And he hadn’t forgotten the $1824 hidden in Ted’s room; still waters run much too deep sometimes. “But there’s another possibility. Alvin has no one to take over the Double D except Bridgie—his son apparently signed up for life with the Army—and she wants to marry Ted, an excellent match if he had control of the Black Stallion; a dynastic merger in the grand manner. Consider the possibility of a conspiracy that includes the star-crossed lovers and this rural Capulet.”
“You ain’t sayin’ Bridgie’d be in on this, are you?”
“I’m not saying anything; only speculating. Bridgie might be a conspirator, but she took no direct part in the murder. She says she was home with her mother that night, and I balk, even in hypothesis, at including Emily Drinkwater in the conspiracy.”
“Glad to hear you balk some’eres. What about Laura and Ted? They was home, too. And Aaron? You leavin’ him out?”
/> Conan laughed. “Yes. Aaron’s done nothing to make himself popular with anyone, including me, but I can’t come up with a motive for him to initiate the feud, assuming it’s a diversion for the rustling, in order to sell his own cattle at half the over-the-counter price, nor to kill George, who apparently lived up to his expectations as son and heir in every way. But the fact that Ted and Laura were at the ranch that night doesn’t eliminate them. Laura would have no trouble slipping away without being seen, nor would Ted.”
“Damn, you should’ve been a lawyer.” Then she frowned. “One thing, though, all this conspirin’ over the Runnin’ S ain’t gonna do nobody no good long as Aaron’s still alive ’n kickin’, and he’s such an orn’ry cuss, he’ll prob’ly be kickin’ for a long time to come.” Conan paused as he was about to light a cigarette, staring at her while the lighter burned futilely in the air. Then his eyes slanted as he made contact with the flame.
“Maybe you should’ve been a detective. With all my convoluted hypotheses, I lost sight of that little fact.”
“Well, I’m sorry to blow holes in your hypotheses.”
“You haven’t. You’ve only given me something else to worry about”
“What d’you mean?”
“Aaron. About how long he’ll still be kicking.”
Jesse turned pale under her weathered tan.
“You mean somebody might…might try to kill him?”
“Possibly.”
“Mebbe you oughta talk to Joe Tate about that”
Conan shook his head impatiently. “Even if he agreed with me, what could he do? Put Aaron under protective surveillance? It probably wouldn’t help anyway—and can you see Aaron accepting a police guard?”
“Not hardly. So, what’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Keep digging, I suppose.”
“Anybody in particular you’re diggin’ for? I mean, you got any fav’rites in this conspiracy race?”
The initials A.L.M. came almost inevitably to mind, but with it a plaintive song that touched the heart. He wondered if he resisted accepting the possibility of Linc’s guilt in the murder because he didn’t like to believe a maker of songs could also be a killer. And the two horses, two saddles, the five-thousand-dollar checks to cash—Linc had at least one accomplice in the rustling.
Still, that wasn’t what made Conan hesitate. There was more under the surface here, factors he sensed but didn’t understand.
“No, Jesse, I don’t have any favorites. Not yet.”
CHAPTER 20
He’d been cold enough for the heavy sheepskin jacket in the chill of today’s dawn, but as he drove along the dirt road to the Black Stallion, wheels rumbling up a storm of dust, Conan was down to his shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Cottony cumulus clouds patched the landscape with shadow. Wind clouds, the natives would say. Not a drop of rain in ’em.
But again, he wasn’t enjoying the scenery, his thoughts casting back over the events of the day. The conference with Joe Tate and Cliff Spiker was only a bone to satisfy Tate with his good intentions. Conan didn’t mention his dawn helicopter flight, and Tate apparently hadn’t heard about it. Dry Creek Pasture was referred to only as one of the many possible sources of the mud on the hooves of George’s horse, and Tate seemed to find that piece of evidence inconclusive. Conan didn’t argue the point.
After he left the courthouse, he drove west on Highway 20 to the cemetery where George McFall was buried, and stood awhile by the mound of withering flowers. There was no headstone yet. When he drove back into town, he wondered why he’d been impelled to the grave. Not to pay his respects; his debt to the dead could only be paid with answers.
He passed the high school, a rambling buff-brick building flanked by a parking lot full of shining machines, and he was reminded of another death: Chari Drinkwater’s.
Her car was found here the night she died. She’d come to town for a basketball game, a very social event. How did she end up alone and on foot in a phone booth at the other end of town? People going into diabetic spells sometimes do queer things—Maxwell as quoted by Tate. But why was she alone?
He pulled into a Shell station across from the school, relieved that the attendant went about his business in taciturn silence. But as he idly examined the sign above the pumps, he frowned, and it was he who initiated a casual dialogue when the man collected for the gas. The sign announced the owner’s name, P. T. Gormer, and it rang a bell.
“I know a guy who used to work here,” Conan said as he handed him a ten-dollar bill. “It was a couple of years ago.”“Lotta guys used to work here; come ’n go all the time.”
“His name is Gil Potts. Maybe you weren’t here then.”
“I was here. I own this place.” He counted out Conan’s change carefully. “Sure, I remember Gil. Nice feller. Customers liked him.” Conan got the impression Mr. Gormer didn’t, but the arrival of another customer precluded further conversation.
It was nearly four-thirty when he reached the Black Stallion. As he made the double stop to open and close the gate, he saw Linc and Laura on the front porch, but by the time he put the car in the garage, only Laura was waiting for him there.
“Well, the wanderer returns. I was worried about you.”
“About me? I told you last night I had to take care of some business at the Ten-Mile.” He studied her, noting the brittle strain under a smile as carefully applied as her make-up. “I should’ve left a note this morning.”
“No, I remembered what you said, even if I wasn’t tracking too well. I’m afraid I was rather rude to you.”
“You weren’t rude, Laura. I’m only sorry there was nothing I could do.”
“Thanks for trying, and I’m glad you’re back. I decided you’d given up on the whole hopeless mess, and I wouldn’t blame you. Let the inmates fight it out among themselves.”
She’d been drinking, but it was evident only in her cavalier irony; otherwise, she was in perfect control.
“I don’t give up that easy.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.” A long pause, then finally, “Is it hopeless, Conan?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, have you found any answers?”
He shrugged and said lightly, “I’ve collected a plethora of facts, and perhaps some of them constitute answers.”
“And you don’t want to discuss it with me.” She laughed and started for the door. “So be it. You’re almost late for the cocktail hour.”
“I didn’t hear any bells.”
“It’s early today. On Mondays I disrupt all the hallowed schedules for my 4-H class in Burns. I leave at seven, so we have to get supper out of the way early.”
“Can’t you call off the class tonight?”
“I don’t want to. My last class. Mrs. McFall’s last act of civic duty in Harney County.” She gave him a wry smile as he opened the door for her. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quite all right, and Ted always goes with me. The class isn’t over till ten, and none of the gallants around here would let a mere woman drive alone at night I might get r—have a flat tire. Well, Gil, that’s an inviting lineup.”
That referred to the old-fashioneds arrayed on the bar while Potts added the garnish. Linc and Ted leaned at either end of the bar, turning bruised faces toward them. Aaron occupied his customary chair, his overstuffed throne.
“Where the hell have you been, Flagg?”
Laura murmured, “Home sweet home,” as she went to the bar. “All finished, Gil?”
“Jest one more slice of lemon…there, now. You wanta pass ’em around? That one’s Aaron’s. Hold the cherry, light on the sugar.” He was putting up a convivial front—like a good bartender, Conan thought uncharitably—but sending uneasy glances behind his smile at Linc and Ted as they took their drinks and retired to separate corners.
Laura was also playing at conviviality as she presented Conan with a glass, then took another to Aaron, who still glowered at him, ignoring her smiling service.
“For you, Aaron,” she said, “virtually fruitless.”
Her irony escaped him. “Flagg, I asked you a question.”
He leaned an elbow on the bar. “So you did.”
“Damn it, a man’s entitled to a civil answer in his own house!” This with a cold glance at his sons, and Conan realized he was getting some of the backwash of another argument Aaron turned on him again.
“I want to know what the hell you been up to! Hor’ce Foley called me today, and you got some explainin’ to do.”
At that name, Conan’s mouth tightened, and he was as angry as Aaron, but not at him. He knew why the banker had called. But this was not a family affair.
He still had his drink in his hand as he went to the office door and unlocked it, pushed it open, then said coldly to Aaron, “If you want any explanations, I’ll make them in private. Otherwise, you can do without them.”
Aaron digested that ultimatum in fuming silence; then, apparently realizing no compromise was forthcoming, he took his drink in one fist and strode into the office without a word. Conan closed the door and watched him seat himself in imperious command behind the desk.
“Sit down,” he said, peevishly motioning toward the chair across the desk from him.
His tone inclined Conan to automatic resistance, but after a moment, he went to the chair and sat down, absently putting his glass down on the blotter near Aaron’s. “All right, Aaron, what did Foley have to say?”
“He told me all about that loan for Alvin. You’re s’posed to be here to nail George’s murderer. ’Stead of that, you’re passin’ out money to him behind my back!”
Conan laughed. It was either that or give way to futile rage. But he couldn’t contain himself enough to stay in the chair; he rose and went to the window.
“Aaron, I understand why you like to deal with the locals; good public relations, and all that, but I’d advise you to find another bank. Foley has a big mouth.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Foley. He jest figgered I had a right to know what you was up to.”