The Blight Way

  “Yeah, Mitchell called me early the next morning and said I’d probably find Vern’s truck parked up there. He told me to drive it up to Vern’s hunting camp and leave it there. Lister picked me up at the camp.”

  “The idea, I suppose, was everyone would think Vern got himself lost in the mountains hunting elk?” Tully said.

  “Right.”

  “So your footprints will match the casts my CSI unit made of the tracks going up the mine road?”

  “Yeah. Hey, what do you mean, CSI unit? You have a CSI unit?”

  “One of the best,” Tully said. “So who was the guy in the right rear seat who set all this up?”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Lem said.

  “Ed Grange,” Tully said. “Ed of Ed’s Gas-N-Grub.”

  “You’re right! How did you guess that?”

  “Just lucky,” Tully said. “Got him in jail already.”

  “Yeah, Ed ran the whole local operation. Littlefield put up the money, Bob and Harry flew the weed south.

  You think the judge will go easy on me and Lister if we testify against them?”

  “You never can tell. You and Lister aren’t exactly the best witnesses in the world.”

  “Who else you got?”

  “Good point. Okay, a couple more questions, Lem. Lucas Kincaid shot Buck, right?”

  “Yeah, it was Lucas. You check out his rifles, you’ll find the one used on Buck.”

  “I know. But who gave the order, Ed Grange?”

  “I don’t think Ed orders Lucas around, but he probably told him it would be a good idea for him to kill you. I imagine Kincaid took it from there.”

  “Did Lucas think he was shooting at me?” Tully asked.

  “Yeah, Ed was mighty upset when he found out Lucas had hit Buck instead. He likes Buck. Anyway, I guess you gave Ed the impression you had this whole mess pretty well figured out.”

  Tully tugged on the corner of his mustache. “Yeah, I must have let that slip out. We won’t have much trouble proving it was Littlefield killed back in the woods. The DNA from the pool of blood in the woods will match the DNA on the hairs from Vern’s hairbrush. Apparently Lucas doesn’t watch much TV. Otherwise, he’d know about shell casings and that the ejection and firing-pin marks on them are as individual as finger-prints.”

  “He probably doesn’t even have a TV set,” Lem said. “He lives so far back in the woods the sun don’t shine there. But you sure don’t want him on your trail.”

  “How about Cindy Littlefield? Was she in on this little caper?”

  “Naw. She found out what was going on and apparently didn’t like it. Mitchell was afraid the ranch hands might stumble on to something, too, and blab about it. So he fired them. But he couldn’t fire Cindy. That’s why Dana Cassidy was brought in from L.A., to keep an eye on her. Even before that, they hardly ever left her alone. If Mitchell went somewhere, he took her with him. I figure she had a date with a prospect hole herself.”

  “No doubt. By the way, Lem, what were you doing that night at the hotel?”

  “What hotel?”

  “Littlefield’s old hotel on his ranch. The night after the killings.”

  “I’ve never been in that old hotel. For one thing, I hear it’s haunted.”

  “Haunted!” cried Lister. “Nobody ever told me that!”

  “A really stupid person may have been poking around there,” Lem said. “But I have no idea who it might have been.”

  “I ain’t stupid!” Lister said.

  “I rest my case,” Lem said.

  “So, Lister, exactly what was your reason for being in the hotel?”

  “Wasn’t nothing, really. I just wanted to have a look at the pearl-handled forty-five that Holt fellow dropped. I was curious about it is all. Didn’t plan on stealing it or anything. But the door was locked.”

  “Good thing you were just curious. Otherwise, you might be facing a murder rap for killing Littlefield.”

  “You think I didn’t know that? But listen, the guy you should be arresting is the pervert hanging out in that hotel!”

  “Pervert?” Pap said.

  “Forget it,” Tully said. “Now, Lem, here’s the Sixty-Four-Thousand-Dollar Question. What was the reason Holt and the other two guys from L.A. were set up?”

  “That’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? They were making so much money wholesaling and retailing the weed in L.A., they figured they could make a whole lot more if they cut themselves into the production side, too. You got to admit, the dam and the mine were a pretty sweet combination. Who would ever have figured that?”

  Tully turned and gave Lem his biggest grin.

  Chapter 51

  It was early morning by the time Tully got back to Blight City. After booking Lem and Lister into the county jail, Tully drove Pap back to his mansion on the hill. Pap was sound asleep in the front seat, his head resting against the window.

  “Wake up, Pap,” Tully said, nudging the old man. “You’re home.”

  Pap rubbed his eyes and looked around. “You mean my birthday party is finally over?”

  “Yeah, it’s over,” Tully said. “To tell you the truth, I thought it might never end.”

  “Me, too.”

  Tully walked around and got the old man’s pack out of the back of the Explorer. When he got to the little white gate, Pap still hadn’t emerged from the vehicle. Tully walked back and opened the door.

  “This blasted seat belt!” Pap snarled.

  Tully reached across him and unlocked the belt. Old people, he thought.

  Tully handed him the pack, and they went up the walk to the house. “I got to tell you, Pap, that was a pretty clever thing you did, shooting into the rock wall behind Lister.”

  “Wasn’t so clever,” Pap said. “I was aiming for the varmint’s head.”

  Tully laughed. “I thought you might have. I just didn’t expect you to admit it. Give me your key and I’ll unlock your door.”

  It was Pap’s turn to laugh. “When you got my reputation, Bo, you don’t need to lock your doors.”

  “I expect that’s true.”

  “On the other hand, you better knock.”

  “How come?”

  “I got myself a live-in housekeeper, that’s how come.”

  Tully knocked on the door. “I don’t know if I can stand too many more surprises.”

  A young woman opened the door. She had a bathrobe pulled tightly around her. Pap slid in past her and headed for the bathroom. He dropped his pack in the middle of the hallway.

  “Pap!” the housekeeper shouted. “You know that doesn’t go there! Put it where it belongs!”

  Sheepishly, Pap scurried back, picked up the pack and carried it off with him.

  “Deedee!” Tully said.

  “Yeah, Sheriff, I’m your dad’s new housekeeper. What do you think of that?”

  “I’m flabbergasted!”

  “A lot of people are. But I needed a new job, and Pap needed a housekeeper. So there you go.”

  “He’s an awfully ornery old guy.”

  “That’s only his reputation. He’s really an old softy.”

  “I’ll bet he’s that, all right.”

  Chapter 52

  Tully stopped by the office before heading home. The briefing room was full of both the night shift and the day shift deputies. They stood and broke into applause when Tully walked in. He smiled and thanked them. He tried the coffee thermoses. Empty. He looked at the doughnut tray. Empty. The deputies trooped out around him, some of them giving him a pat on the shoulder. They were a good bunch.

  Daisy was standing there looking tired and solemn. Herb gave him a little wave and then went back into his cubicle. Ernie Thorpe was standing by Tully’s office door, beaming.

  “Why the sad face, Daisy?” Tully said, walking past her.

  “Don’t ask,” she said.

  “You do good work, Thorpe!” he said to the deputy.

  “Thanks. But even better than that, Sher
iff, I think I may have saved your life.”

  “How’s that?

  “Well, I glanced into your office just as a Hobo spider almost as big as my hand rushed out from behind your filing cabinet. Man, did I ever whomp that sucker. Them Hobos can kill you, Sheriff, you know that?”

  Tully stared at him.

  “Go home, Thorpe,” he said.

  He walked into his office and slumped into his chair.

  He picked up the phone and dialed. A male voice answered. “Yup.”

  “Batim?”

  “Yup.

  “It’s Sheriff Bo Tully, Batim.”

  “Well, Bo. How you doing?”

  “I’m doing fine, Batim. How about you?”

  “I’m doing great.”

  “I just called to tell you I’m sorry about the boys.”

  “Hey, Bo, don’t even think about it. I can use the rest.”

  “I don’t expect we’ll have any murder charges against them, once we get everything sorted out. They’ll probably be away for a couple years, though.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “I suppose you heard about Vern Littlefield.”

  “Yeah, that’s a real pity. Vern and I never got along too good, what with his cattle constantly jumping over my fences and all, but I’ll miss him.”

  “One thing I want to know, Batim. What were you doing over at the murder scene?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “A matchstick you’d been chewing on. I don’t want to go to all the expense of checking your DNA on it, so tell me right now what you were doing there.”

  “The fact is, Bo, I just got curiouser and curiouser about the whole situation and finally had to go over there and check it out for myself. It was a nasty piece of work.”

  “Okay, that’s good enough for me. We’ll forget about the match.”

  “Tell me, Bo, was the widow Littlefield involved?”

  “Not according to Lem and Lister. I’m going to release her today and have somebody drive her home. You interested in her, Batim?”

  “That’s a mighty big ranch for a little lady like her to run. Maybe she’ll need some help.”

  “You never can tell. Of course, you’d probably have to take a bath at least once a week.”

  “Hey, Bo, I clean up pretty good, when there’s a reason to.”

  When he was done talking to Batim, Tully called Susan.

  “You want to go camping?” he asked.

  “In October?”

  “Yeah,” Tully said. He looked out the window. Principal Jan Whittle’s car had just pulled in next to his. That rotten brat of a Cliff kid had run off again!

  “Actually,” he told Susan, “it might be November. Looks as if I may have to snowshoe over a couple mountain ranges first.”

  “November,” Susan said. “Well, that’s more like it. I’d love to go camping with you in November.”

  “I’ll bring a tent heater,” he said.

  “Probably won’t need one,” she said.

  About the Author

  Patrick McManus is a renowned outdoor writer, humorist and long-time columnist for Outdoor Life and Field and Stream. He is the author of many books, including such runaway New York Times bestsellers as The Grasshopper Trap, The Night the Bear Ate Goombaw and Real Ponies Don’t Go Oink! He lives in Spokane, Washington.