The Dark Horse wl-5

by Craig Johnson

“Who?”

  “I don’t remember-I mean, they weren’t there, not really.”

  “You said he.”

  She dropped her head and had spoken softly, looking at the sunshine that was still pounding through the window. “A voice, from my dreams…”

  October 30, 7:52 P.M.

  Hershel glanced over his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

  I continued to allow my eyes to play over the star-sprayed horizon. There weren’t as many as usual and the Milky Way didn’t show its whole stripe, but I felt like I always did when I looked at the night sky, as though I were falling backward. “That boy’s been gone too long.”

  Hershel stood and joined me on my side of the fire. “Probably just dawdlin’.”

  I raised my fingers to my mouth and whistled long and clear. “Dog!”

  Nothing.

  I walked over to my saddlebags and pulled out my. 45 and a handheld radio. I handed him the radio, and he stared at the walkie-talkie. “You stay here in case he comes wandering in, and if I don’t get back in twenty minutes, dial that thing up and call the Sheriff ’s Department.”

  “Which one?”

  I called over my shoulder. “Mine!”

  I scrambled my sore legs and rear end up the pale, moon-glowed surface of the rocks, thankful I’d worn my rubber-soled boots but wishing I had a flashlight of my own. At the top of the ridgeline, the horses stepped back, reading my mood, but then nosed toward me, eager to be a part of whatever was going on and hoping for treats.

  I walked past them, reaching a hand out and steadying the nearest, who was my bay. I stood there for a moment, listening to the soft caress of the high-altitude breeze and then, in the distance, to the unwelcome sound of a great horned owl.

  As I made my way to the left, over the first ridge, I thought about the messengers of the dead and the owl feathers on the rifle that Henry Standing Bear had entrusted to me. I remembered how Dena Many Camps had unbraided her hair in the presence of the old Sharps, and another who, for a different reason, didn’t want the old rifle in her home. Owls were supposedly not a sign that death was imminent, but were envoys from beyond, and I sometimes felt as though I was on their regular delivery route.

  In the faint moonlight, I could see the boy’s boot prints along with the tracks from Dog, whose paws could’ve easily been mistaken for a wolf’s. Benjamin had followed the draw where a few scraggly stands of sage had valiantly attempted to grow, but where the odds and annual rainfall were against them.

  The trail curved further to the left and played out into an open area with a two-track path leading east and, eventually, south and west to join the only road off the mesa. There was an old wellhead on the flat with the usual refuse left from a wildcat operation. There were loose stacks of rusted pipe, lathe, and wire snow fence that gave an indication of the era in which the drilling must have taken place, and a sealed slab where the actual rig must have been.

  The truck skids that Hershel had earmarked for firewood were piled against one of the rock walls, a few of them scattered across the chalky ground and broken apart from the boy’s efforts.

  No Benjamin.

  No Dog.

  I slipped a little on the scrabble of the downslope and started toward the broken woodpile where it looked like the boy had been. What if he’d lost his way and fallen over the steep cliffs of the mesa? What if he’d slipped into one of the deep crags or fissures in the surrounding rock? What if he was hurt? Wouldn’t Dog have returned? Shouldn’t I be yelling his name? Why was I holding my sidearm?

  I knew the answer to all of these things before I saw the dull glow of the Maglite buried in the pile of splintered wood. I crouched down and pulled the flashlight from the debris. I shook it once, and the beam grew brighter as I shined it around the surrounding area. There were prints, a lot of them. The boy’s boot trail led to the woodpile along with Dog’s, but there were others from a pair of running shoes, about a size 11, and a pair of boots, maybe a size smaller. I stood and shined the beam forward and could see that there had been some kind of altercation where someone had fallen, and there had been a struggle and more of a fight leading away.

  The footprints ended at tire tracks left by a large four-wheeler, which must have been parked along the edge of the rock wall. The fat marks of the ATV followed the road heading southeast, and Dog’s prints followed.

  October 30, 8:22 P.M.

  The radio wouldn’t reach the repeater-tower across Antelope Basin and only mocked us with a crackling static; maybe it would get reception farther south. I clicked it off to save battery power and handed it up to the old cowboy.

  Hershel watched me from horseback as I finished saddling the bay and tied off my saddlebags. I pulled a large-frame clip-on holster from the closest bag and slipped it at the small of my back. It was getting gusty and almost cold, so I put on my jacket. “You’re going to be a hell of a lot faster than I am across broken ground; just don’t break your neck in the process.”

  He looked apprehensive but nodded. “I’ve got a tough neck.”

  I steadied the bay and checked the reins on the packhorse and Benjamin’s pony. Hershel had already had the majority of our gear loaded up and ready to go by the time I’d gotten back to our camp; evidently, he had come to the same inklings I’d had. “The service road from the abandoned drilling site appears to go southeast but turns and arcs back toward the main road where we parked the truck and horse trailer?”

  He nodded. “Yep. It’ll take longer for you, especially trailin’ a pack line.”

  I pointed at the device. “Then check that radio and see if you can raise my department. If you can’t get anything, load up your horse, get in that truck, haul your ass down to Absalom, and start making phone calls to get us some backup.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll follow the tracks and see where they took him. I’ve got a suspicion Dog trailed after them.”

  He looked down the ridge that fell toward the dark and endless surface of the mesa, his hand playing on the old brass receiver of the Henry, still in its sheath. “That’s a lot of territory.”

  I slipped a boot in the stirrup and saddled up, the bay pivoting right but not so much this time; apparently he was getting used to my weight. “I’ve got tracks, and there’s only one way off this rock.”

  The old cowboy sat there in the saddle. “Well, there’s two, but let’s try and stick with the one.” He didn’t look up and, after a second, he slapped the worn leather reins against the gelding’s rump and the powerful horse leapt forward, the shoes on his hooves raking sparks from the rocks as he disappeared across the ridge west and into the night.

  I led my horse forward, along with the packhorse and the silent reminder of the riderless pony, and they steadied only when I pulled us east along the rocks in the opposite direction. We picked our way down the same draw that I had covered on foot, past the struggling sage, and I think the horses were as relieved as I was when we got to the flat area at the wellhead. I strung us toward the woodpile, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, but the site looked just as it had.

  I pulled the flashlight from the saddlebag and checked the far side of the well where the pipes were stacked and a few fifty-gallon drums lay rusting on their sides. I circled back to the tracks to my right and stopped where the four-wheeler had been parked. I shined the Maglite along the patterns in the dirt, and I could see that the driver had hit Dog, but not badly enough to keep him from following. I could see the spot where he’d rolled and then where he had righted himself. He must have hurt his right rear leg, but a contract is a contract and he had limped off after the ATV.

  October 30, 8:40 P.M.

  About a mile down the two-track and between the buckshot breaks, it had begun to snow-not hard, but enough so that if it increased, the ground would be covered and the tracks would be lost. I spurred the horses forward.

  I thought about the running-shoe prints at the wellhead and tried to think whom I’d seen lately
with that style of footwear. Cliff Cly had on motorcycle boots the first time I’d met him in the bar but was wearing tennis shoes during the fight. Bill Nolan had worn boots the entire time I’d seen him and, as near as I could remember, Pat from the bar had also worn hard shoes.

  I rode on and thought about the latest turn of events. Why take the boy? Had he seen something? Was he leverage against Juana because she’d seen or done something? Was it about Hershel, since he and the boy were so close? Was it about me?

  One thing was for sure, it was an open declaration of war. Whoever was doing these things wasn’t locked up in the Absaroka County jail, and whoever it was couldn’t stay behind the scenes any longer. I’d turned up the heat, and now a boy was missing, and possibly dead due to my efforts.

  I turned and looked at the empty saddle on the grulla.

  I felt miserable, cranked my hat down against the increasing wind, and followed the single road that emptied itself onto the hardpan surface of the dry, endless stretch of flat badland called the Battlement.

  I had to admit that in my current mood, it was the perfect place for me.

  My horse’s ears pricked and something blew up from one of the clumps of sage and came straight at us in a monumental burst of gray feathers and talons. The bay went berserk and reared on his hind legs and the two other horses tried to bolt, but I held on and was able to withstand that little rodeo. After I got them turned and settled a bit, I watched as the great horned owl I’d been hearing flapped his way south and across the hardpan of the Battlement with a five-foot wing-span.

  I took a deep breath and watched him, the messenger from beyond, as the Cheyenne called them. “Hold all my calls, will you?” The bay was still a little skittish but settled back into a steady walk as I rolled my hips and tried to gain a new seat that would give my own seat a little relief.

  It was a partially moonlit night; the pale deadness of her heavenly body pitched back and forth between the clouds, one minute illuminating the scrub sage and sparse tufts of buffalo grass, and the next, hiding her face completely. The snow had slackened for the moment, but I was betting that wouldn’t last.

  The road was slightly rutted and nothing had attempted to grow again in the running depressions that the oilmen had grooved in their hurry to drill. Environmentalists had pointed out just how fragile the crusted surface of the high desert is and how it would take hundreds of years for the land to repair itself. I could see where the drillers had forged new roads across the tundra in an attempt to make money in a place where time equaled cash and expedience meant jobs. I hoped that they had blown an engine.

  The four-wheeler had made my tracking a little easier by staying on the main road, but I figured with the advantage of an internal-combustion pace, they had a good forty minutes on both Hershel and me. Dog’s prints came and went as if he’d been trailing the ATV but hadn’t wanted to be seen-that, or I’d watched too many episodes of Rin Tin Tin.

  I let out a deep sigh and watched as my breath joined with that of my horse and trailed southeast, following the road. My hands and face had gotten a little numb, which at least made my cheekbone feel a little better, if nothing else. It was snowing harder and the flakes stuck to the right side of everything, including the horses and me but, with the perversity and volatility of Wyoming weather, it seemed to be getting a little warmer. There were flashes of lightning in the clouds to the west, and it was possible that the wet snow would turn to rain.

  I switched hands and discovered an old pair of buffalo gloves my wife had given to me decades ago in my between-seasons jacket pocket. I pulled the gloves on, tied off my scarf at my throat a little tighter, and cranked my hat down again, dipping my head a little to protect my exposed ear and busted cheek. Now I looked the part completely and remembered why I didn’t like cowboying.

  I pulled at the stiff collar of my jacket to try to protect the side of my face and could feel the ache at the top of my once-frostbitten ear.

  The road turned west after a few miles, and it was a relief to be facing the wind. I dipped my head down and rocked back and forth as the bay plodded on. The urge to hurry ran through my blood like fractured streaks of lightning imitating the bursts overhead, and I thought about Benjamin and the dust devil; but the packhorse couldn’t take speed, and all I’d find was an empty trailer for my troubles anyway.

  We continued on, and I could just see something in the sporadic lightning that continued to illuminate the mesa.

  It had to be the horse trailer.

  I nudged the bay, and we came to the wide spot of the road at a trot. The trailer was as we’d left it, except that there was a pile of blankets, some feed buckets and ropes, a half bag of oats, and Hershel’s prized canteen near the back of the end stall. The rear door of the trailer was held open with a hooked rubber strap, but not enough to stop it from rhythmically tattooing against the metal flanks.

  Upon closer study, there was also a fluttering piece of paper on top of the blankets with a large rock holding it as a paperweight.

  Something moved on the top of the trailer, and the bay spooked again. I reeled him in with a wrap on the reins, my free hand on the Colt at my back. The next uneven streak of lightning revealed the horned owl. He was seated on the sliding rail of the horse trailer, and he was about half the size of Benjamin. He turned his gigantic head and stared at me with eyes as gold as others I knew.

  “Hello again.” He didn’t move and continued to stare at me for a moment; then he looked disgusted and flew off. I watched and listened to his wings slap the air as he circled south. “I was just kidding about holding my calls.”

  There was no dun horse tied off or inside the trailer.

  The tiny alarms began ringing in the distance in my head, and I could feel the familiar cooling of my face and the stillness of my hands. I pulled the big Colt from the small of my back and wheeled the bay into a tight circle where I could see the surrounding area.

  The packhorse balked along with the pony, but then they both circled around and looked off into the darkness south, just as they all had when we’d first arrived and saddled up. I didn’t know what to look for as I peered into the remoteness of the south mesa. I knew that they couldn’t see as well as I could but that they could feel more.

  I wondered what, or who, they were feeling.

  13

  October 30, 10:00 P.M.

  The pencil was blunt and Hershel’s handwriting and spelling was pretty bad, but I could still make out the gist of it.

  Sherif,

  Raydio did not work and truck was gone when I got here.

  Dropped off the xtra stuff and went down hill and back to town. I spose Bill decided he needed his truck after all. Your dog was here, his leg is hurt, and he’s limping bad so I threw him over the saddle and took him.

  Hershel

  PS: I lef the canteen for you but took the radio just in case it works, and will be back soon with the calvry.

  I studied the note. It was odd that he’d misspelled the word “radio” the first time but then spelled it correctly in the postscript.

  I tied my bay and the grulla off to the trailer and unloaded the packhorse. There wasn’t that much water left, so I just emptied the plastic containers into the buckets, collected the canteen for myself, and took the flashlight over toward the head of the trailer. There were boot prints and ones from running shoes, and I shined the Maglite in the granules of gritty snow that had collected in them. I placed one of my feet beside one of the boot prints-it was definitely from a shoe that was a couple of sizes smaller than my own.

  I circled around the other side of the trailer and picked up the four-wheeler’s tire marks, which circled to the left and back to the road. When I got to the two-track dirt road, I could see that Hershel had made for town, but the ATV and duellie both turned and went east.

  Dog’s prints were everywhere, and it was difficult to tell which were new ones and which ones were from before.

  I stood there for a moment, registering wh
at it all meant.

  I walked past the back of the trailer to where Benjamin and I had stood earlier. I looked off to the south and remembered the turnoff that we had seen that was just ahead. I started walking and pulled Hershel’s canteen from my shoulder, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. It tasted like a Civil War mud puddle, and I was immediately sorry I’d given the horses all the water. I screwed the cap back on and slung the canteen over my shoulder.

  The tracks continued to the cutoff and then abruptly turned. Whoever had the boy had gone south, but had the truck met the four-wheeler, followed them, or gone ahead?

  No matter what had happened, the boy was south.

  I went back to the trailer with the idea of writing a note but then couldn’t find anything to write with. I hung the canteen over the horn of the bay’s saddle, pulled the extra ammunition and clip I’d brought in the saddlebags, and dumped it all into the pockets of my jacket. The wind had stopped but the cloud cover was getting heavier, and it looked like there might be more precipitation.

  I buttoned up my jacket, re-gloved, put a foot into the stirrup, and saddled up. I hadn’t been on horseback this much in years. I felt the weight of the large-frame Colt against the small of my back and started off. I followed the road with the flashlight beam leading the way. I looked into the darkness south and watched as the lightning continued to pound the Battlement like artillery fire.

  I clicked the Maglite off, flipped up the saddlebag cover, and dropped it inside.

  No sense advertising.

  October 26: four days earlier, afternoon.

  I had placed my hat on the handle of the semiautomatic, crossed my arms, and softly exhaled, afraid I would break the spell.

  “The voice told you to go in the house?”

  Mary Barsad studied the bedsheets, her eyes wide and staring, as if she was seeing that night over again. “Yes, he said for me to go into the house.”

  “You said ‘he’ again.”

  She thought, and I watched her. “It’s always the same voice, a male voice.”