Ground Money

by Rex Burns

  “That’s not what you told Bob Schrantz. You are the same Detective Wager from Denver who called a while back and asked if we knew of anything going on out there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the river just happens to go through T Bar M property, and you just happened to be there. Why don’t you just happen to tell me what’s going on?”

  He did, starting with the part about Tom wanting him to look into his sons’ activities.

  “But this Tom Sanchez hasn’t found out anything more?”

  “Nothing he told me about.”

  “Where can I get in touch with him?”

  “He’s dead. He was found beside a road near Salida. The sheriff there calls it a robbery and beating.”

  “Oh? Now this is starting to get curiouser and curiouser.” He splashed more whiskey for both of them. “And you think his boys had something to do with it?”

  “As far as I know, they were up in Montana when it happened. But I wanted to check out the ranch.”

  “You went to the ranch to look it over?”

  “Yes. Jo … we rode over a week or so ago. To say hello to the boys.”

  “So they knew you were here.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you took that raft trip to look some more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No.” He gazed levelly into the sheriff’s eyes that looked as round and black as two dots on a pair of dice.

  “I see. I guess I see.” He held a mouthful of whiskey for a few minutes before swallowing. “Did they know you were rafting?”

  “John came into camp last night.”

  “Oh?” Akridge scratched at one wing of his mustache. “You think maybe Ron’s got the right idea?”

  “I don’t know. It might not be him. It might not be anybody.”

  “Yes, that’s true—it’s a mean river, this time of year. And there’s no motive, either.” He looked up. “Is there?”

  “No.”

  Akridge set his glass down. “You know, it sounds to me like you were running an investigation a hell of a long way outside your jurisdiction, Officer Wager.”

  “We came up here on vacation. I didn’t do anything any other civilian couldn’t do.”

  “By law, I suppose that’s so. But you’re a cop. You know that and I know it, and so do those people out at the T Bar M. Didn’t that cross your mind, Wager? Didn’t you ever stop to think you were involving that boy and Miss Fabrizio in a criminal investigation? One man’s already dead, and now—if Ron’s theory is right—two more people have been killed.” He leaned forward to stare at Wager. “Didn’t it cross your mind that it could be very damned dangerous, and not just for you?”

  There wasn’t much to say to that; Wager had not thought. He had led them into harm’s way and had been careless with their lives.

  “Well, we’ll leave it at that for now—a theory. I’ll list the deaths as accidental drowning.”

  “I understand.”

  “But if you turn up any information about the T Bar M or what happened today, I want to be told about it.”

  “Yes.”

  Sheriff Akridge said that Wager, too, was welcome to join the search party tomorrow, but advised him against it. Then they drove the few blocks down to the river and Wager’s car parked beside the dark Quonset hut of the Foamy Rapids Rafting Company.

  “We’ll do our best to find Miss Fabrizio, Wager. But like I said, it may not be until September. If ever.”

  “I understand.”

  “It’s too bad all this happened. I’m mighty sorry about it.” His silence indicated that he wanted to say more. “A lot of people come out here thinking they’re going to conquer nature or grizzly bears or some such. But it isn’t so.” He tapped his khaki shirt. “Right here’s the real fight—your own self. And I don’t think too many people win that one. Goodnight.”

  Wager stood beside his Trans-Am as the sheriff’s boxy vehicle rattled away. In the silence and dim twilight, he could hear the rustle of the river and the dry, chattering rattle of two twigs vibrating against each other in the current. The surface of the water seemed to glow as it gathered the sky’s final light into a smooth, broad sheet that looked almost motionless here where the water was deep and the banks sandy. He listened close for any note of sadness in the soft murmur, for a muffled sob or a sigh from the water gliding among the grasses. But there was nothing; there was only the sound of water, and in the distance—from the other side of town—a semi-truck’s hard wheels making a tiny, fading scream into the darkness.

  Dee Volker insisted that Wager stay at the ranch house instead of the empty cabin. “We already made up the guest bed,” she said. “And I’ve got some supper kept warm in the oven—you must be starved.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Of course you’re not.” She patted his arm gently. “But you should eat anyway.”

  It helped her to keep busy, so Wager let her sit him down at the kitchen table and pile a plate of food in front of him. Rusty squeezed Wager’s shoulder with a calloused hand.

  “The sheriff’s called out the posse to help search the river tomorrow. I’m going, if you want to come along.”

  Wager nodded yes, his stomach suddenly aching with hunger as he tasted the food, and he thought ironically of all the routine things that never paused for death—not the river, not his own body; not even John or James, who had probably finished a fine dinner and were now settled down in front of the bunkhouse television set waiting for the regional news.

  “Can I use your phone to call Denver? Jo’s parents—I don’t think anybody’s told them yet.”

  “Sure you can,” said Dee. “I guess we should have called, but we don’t know their number.”

  Neither did Wager, but the department would have it in the who-to-notify file. And he wanted someone to tell them personally, someone who could do it with gentleness. Max answered on the first ring.

  “Gabe! How’s the vacation? Don’t tell me you’re homesick for this place already.”

  He told him about Jo.

  “Aw, God, Gabe—I’m sorry.”

  “We haven’t found her body yet. I’m going to be out here a while longer. Max, can you tell her parents?”

  “Of course. I’ll go over there. God, Gabe, I just don’t know what to say to you.”

  “There’s not much to say. Tell her parents that her body’s still missing—and that I’ll call as soon as we know something. And I’ll be by when I get back. Tell them …” He hesitated. “Tell them it was very quick. An accident.”

  “I will, Gabe. I’ll go over there now. You take it easy, partner, and call me as soon as you get back.”

  He did not know if he would sleep, but that was the last thought he remembered until morning when a sharp twinge along his bruised ribs woke him to the renewed knowledge of Jo’s death. Somehow, in the warm, clear light of early sun, it seemed even less possible that he would not see her again, would not feel her beside him or see the laughter in her golden eyes at some half-assed thing he said or did. Even as he lay and stared at the ceiling, he could picture her brushing her long hair back from her forehead with a quick, unconsciously graceful movement. Or the way her full lips tightened slightly when she concentrated. Or the tilt of her head up beneath his face when they made love staring into each other’s wide eyes. He heard a strangled groan and for a moment didn’t realize he had made the noise. But it was enough to pull him back to the sun-washed bedroom with its lacy white curtains moving slightly in the breeze, and the brightly patterned quilt lumped by his body. The cheery, sun-filled room served temporarily for guests, but it really wanted to be a nursery, and some of that persistent hope lingered in the carefully pleated curtains and the waiting, empty chest of drawers.

  Everybody had hurt; his was nothing new to the world, and nothing special to anyone but him. Stiffly, his breath catching as things in his body protested, he swung out of bed and dragged on his
clothes. He could smell the aroma of coffee and frying bacon, and as he grunted to pull on his boots, a soft knock jiggled the door.

  “I’m up.”

  Rusty’s voice asked, “You still want to go this morning?”

  “Yes—I’m coming now.”

  After a quick breakfast, Rusty guided his oversized pickup truck along a ranch road different from those Wager had ridden with Jo. “This is the shortest way—Sheriff Akridge said our bunch should meet up on this side of the river. He’ll have his bunch on the other bank.”

  “Do we cross T Bar M land to get there?”

  “Have to, but they won’t mind. As long as we close the gates.”

  The two men fell silent under the drone of the heavy engine and the jolt and lurch of a road that wound over piñon hills patched with red earth and rock. They crossed a cattle guard braced by angle-iron triangles at each end, and then bounced down a two-rut road cut into the black of old lava ash. It fanned out into a level, treeless basin made soft-looking with sagebrush. Ahead, the white flash of an antelope’s color darted along a rise, and beyond that, a line of gray, nude humps of powdery clay broke away from the basin into the valley of the Dolores.

  “It’s that place the rafters call Boulder Field, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  They passed scattered cattle, a few of which turned their white faces toward the truck until a rise of earth blotted them out. At the first of several fences, Wager got out to lift the rusty loop of barbed wire from a skinny post and pull open the sagging strands that formed a gate. After the second fence, Rusty said, “This is T Bar M range. We go across a corner of it.” The land looked no different—the same sandy levels broken by occasional wind-stunted trees. Here, no dark shapes of grazing cattle stood against the sage, but Wager knew the reason for that now. By the time it was warm enough to roll down the windows, they had left the T Bar M and begun winding along bluffs high above the river and then down into a canyon that led to a wide shelf of earth thirty feet above the water. They drove in the dust from some vehicle that had gone down the road earlier, and, rounding a cliff of wind-pocked sandstone, saw three other trucks already parked at the loop marking the end of the road. Their drivers stood in a small group at the edge of the cliff and gazed down at the river.

  Wager was introduced to the men. Each shook hands and said something about being sorry.

  Tod McAlpin, somewhere in his early thirties and with a round chin that stuck out farther than his nose, tipped his ball cap to the back of his head and said, “It’s about time to go.”

  A man with thin red hair brushed straight back from the wrinkles of his sagging face nodded. “Akridge’s already started down.” He pointed a tobacco-stained finger at a short line of dark figures moving carefully along the rock face of the opposite bank.

  Wager fell in behind the men, stopping occasionally to look at the strip of water streaked white by the boulders that choked this narrow section. From here—a rifle shot away—he couldn’t tell which of the rocks they had last hit; the river looked different, even peaceful and pretty from this height. But as they drew into the roar and coolness of mist rising from the spray, he felt the weight of yesterday come back with a new, deep ache.

  The search took the full day. The parties worked along each bank, peering under rocks and probing with long poles into the holes and swirls that brought the river’s spew toward shore. They found bits and pieces: one of the plastic bailing buckets, its handle ripped loose from the line that tied it to the raft; the lid of a cooler that might or might not have been theirs; a frayed oar, its safety line also snapped. But no raft. No body. They scrambled along shore for three or four miles downstream, finally halting where the river shoaled in a series of gravel bars that Wager vaguely remembered passing yesterday. Tangles of tree trunks and other flotsam formed scattered dams where they snagged bottom, and both parties pulled off their boots and waded out along the gravel bars to look carefully among bleached limbs and timber the color of old bones.

  “Anything coming down this far—a raft or anything—would hang up here,” said McAlpin.

  On the other side of the main channel, Sheriff Akridge’s Stetson bobbed agreement. “I don’t think it’s going to do much good to look farther downstream, Mr. Wager,” he called.

  He, too, nodded.

  “All right, boys, let’s call it a day—thanks a lot.”

  Wager thanked them, too. Akridge, drying his feet on a gravel bar across the channel, said they would notify ranchers along the stream to keep an eye out, and that when the river went down they would come back for another search. “I got a call from Miss Fabrizio’s parents last night. There wasn’t much else I could tell them. I didn’t say nothing about Ron or the raft.”

  “Thanks.”

  “This won’t make it any easier on them.”

  “No,” said Wager. “It won’t.”

  The drive back was as quiet as the morning’s ride; the sun had swung low over the mesas west of the river to soften the dry sweep of valley and the sharp faces of the cliffs. Much of the soreness had been driven from Wager’s body as he scrambled and stretched to make his way along the riverbank, and weariness and hunger dulled the soreness of his mind. Silently, he watched the sagebrush blur past the window and the occasional line of crooked fence posts that swung in slow pendulum across the gray earth.

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, Gabe. We got no use for that room so far. So you might as well use it.”

  “I’ll be going back tonight, as soon as I pack up. I have to talk to her parents.”

  “I understand. But you’re welcome anyway. I think Dee’s got Josephine’s stuff together; she said she was going to do that while you were gone today.”

  She had, and—after supper—tried to force an envelope on Wager, a refund for the time remaining on their cabin.

  “You keep it, Dee. Use it to call me if Jo’s body turns up.”

  She refused, saying she couldn’t do that, and both of them made him tuck it into his bag. When he reached the highway, he sealed it and scrawled “Thanks” across the envelope and left it in their mailbox.

  Turning toward Rimrock, he drove until his headlights picked out the marker he looked for, an oversized mailbox mounted on a post and anchored in a small oil drum. The name, roughly painted in white, said Watkins; below that, nailed to the upright, was the T Bar M branded into a board. Wager turned the Trans-Am onto the dirt road and, careful of the humps and occasional rocks, wound through the night toward the ranch. When the road fell away into darkness, he eased forward and the headlights dipped to a locked gate swung between new timbers. Wager backed and turned, parking on the sandy shoulder, and climbed over the wooden gate.

  If the dog heard him, it did not bark. Staying at the edge of the splashes of light from the ranch house, he went toward the bunkhouse. The windows of the long, low structure were dark, and he could make out the shadows of equipment and gear scattered in the yard: the roping dummy with its wide cow horns, a stack of fence posts, a hay rake with the tips of its spidery tines buried in the dirt. He knocked at John’s door, the rap loud in the night. No answer, no sound, no light. Trying once more, he went to the windows and peered in; the curtainless panes showed no movement. Wager turned and went to the ranch house.

  His boot heels thudded on the porch boards, and finally the dog woke up, its bark coming with a booming yelp from somewhere in the house and then settling behind the door. Wager heard a man’s voice say, “Shut up, goddammit,” and a moment later the porch light flicked on. The door swung open and the cook, face stubbled in dark beard, looked at him with surprise. “What do you want?”

  “John and James Sanchez.”

  “They ain’t here.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are they still at the ranch or have they gone?”

  “I don’t know that it’s any of your damned business.”

  Wager’s fist caught the
man just above his stomach, the air from his lungs a wheezing grunt as he half bent and stumbled back into the living room. The next was a straight jab landing with the weight of his back and shoulders and mashing the man’s nose with that cold little squish that comes when the knuckles break it. The cook tried to cover and swing back, but Wager stepped away and snapped a kick at the side of the man’s knee with his boot. The leg gave way to drop him hard in a rolling scramble for a small table. Another kick, this one to the man’s lower ribs, and he doubled, grunting loudly, and Wager drove the corner of his heel on an outstretched hand that yanked back under the man with a high squeal. Across the room, lit by the flickering colors of a television set, the dog cowered against the wall with its tail wrapped tightly between its legs and whined a howling note that drowned out the cook. Two or three other chairs sat emptily facing the set, and Wager listened for the sound of running feet from upstairs. But the only noise came from the man and the dog, and the tinny music of the television where two figures traded choreographed punches and took graceful turns being knocked down.

  “Are they still at the ranch or have they gone?”

  “Gone.” The word was breathed out between heavy grunts, and the cook struggled up to his knees clutching his hand to his chest. “You broke my goddam fingers, god damn you!”

  Wager looked in the drawer of the small table and picked up a forty-five. He clicked off the safety with his thumb and worked the slide once to spin a copper blur across the room. Aiming it loosely toward the man, he fired. The orange flash winked on bulging eyes and a smear of bloody lip as the cook crabbed backward across the scarred boards of the bare floor. The dog, howling again, disappeared.

  “Where are they?”

  “Put that fucking thing down—you almost shot me, you crazy son of a bitch!”

  The stinging smell of gunpowder floated through the room, and Wager stilled the weapon on the man’s midsection. Under the stained T-shirt, the stomach seemed to shrink and pucker.

  “Where are they?”

  “A rodeo—where the hell else? A fucking rodeo!”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know—Denver! They went to Denver—some fucking rodeo in Denver!”