Reason for Murder

by Jack Usher

  “But Pelchek doesn’t know anything!”

  “He evidently thinks Orrosco had something to do with the case. That’s more than anyone else ever figured.”

  “How about Reyes? Or the girl, Carmen? I took Orrosco out of the joint. They’d remember it.”

  “You needn’t worry about Reyes. Or the girl. As far as she’s concerned, Orrosco was just another customer pulled out of her room for questioning. And Reyes won’t be talking to anyone.”

  Romero blinked, remained silent.

  “I’ll explain it to you again. With Orrosco dead, no one knows how Walker died. Not even you. Therefore, Baker goes to the chamber. Remember this, too. Pelchek doesn’t know for sure there is a man up there. He’s just hoping. If he doesn’t find anyone, what can he do? Nothing. And what is Orrosco? Nothing. An alien, and in this country illegally. Who’ll miss him?”

  “How about his brother?”

  “He may wonder, but he’ll never go to the police. You know that. How can he go to the authorities about a missing wetback?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right! Go out and get to Orrosco before Pelchek does. You can go there directly and should have no trouble beating him there.”

  “I shouldn’t have gotten into this thing,” Romero muttered.

  “But you did, my friend. You like pushing people around. If you were chief of police you’d be a big man in Las Milpas. Well, whoever controls Baker Land can make you chief, and don’t you forget it!” The man paused, then continued. “Make any arrangements you must to get off duty tomorrow, but do it. I want you on your way in an hour.” The man leaned back in his chair. “Leave here by the back way and don’t let anyone see you.”

  “What about Baker’s brother? I don’t trust him,” Romero said, moving to the door.

  “He won’t bother anyone. He still thinks his brother killed Walker over Elena Baker. He wants to think it happened that way. Besides, he’s too worried over something else to question my actions.”

  “You cover all your bets, don’t you?” the detective said bitterly.

  “Always,” the man said impatiently. “Now get going.”

  Early Monday morning Pelchek’s party rode up the crooked trail leading to the north end of the Shelf. Pelchek rode grim-lipped, studying the massive cliffs reaching down from the mesa. He continued to feel uneasy. He wondered if they would find anything after they got to the narrow strip of land running the length of the high tableland.

  The sun had barely risen when the old man led them to fairly level terrain. They halted their horses, allowed them to rest.

  “Where now?” Pelchek asked.

  Aguilar pointed to the cliffs. “We’ll ride near the base of the cliffs until we reach the end of the Shelf, then come back on the outside,” he explained. “That way, there will be shade until late this afternoon.”

  They took up the trail again, this time spreading out as the land grew more flat. Elena dropped back until she was riding by his side.

  “Do you think we’ll find him today, Steven?” She spoke calmly, none of the nervousness of the day before apparent in her speech or manner.

  “I hope so. Every day we’re out here hurts, kid. I hope we get to him soon. I don’t know… maybe I should have looked around town a little more. Maybe I—”

  “No, Steven,” she interrupted. “You had to make a start somewhere. If he’s to be found, we’ll find him. I feel it.”

  They rode silently for several moments, intent on their own thoughts, staring at the two riders ahead. Finally, Elena broke the silence.

  “She cried again last night, Steven. After she thought we were all asleep.”

  He made no answer.

  “I think I know why you dislike her, Steven, and you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t dislike her at all!” he said harshly. “She just hasn’t got anything for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, ‘Oh!’ What do you know about Chris Baker? You knew her as a kid not as a woman. She’s a taker, kid. Not a giver.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. There are women like you who know how to stick and fight. All you want is your husband, and I know damn well you’d give your life for him. What would she give?”

  “She’s given you nothing?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said tightly. “You and I just have a different idea of what some things are worth.”

  She pulled her pony closer to his and looked at him intently. “You’re wrong, Steven. You’ve been unlucky, and I guess Chris has, too. But nothing that’s given to you is worthless.”

  He rode silently, staring straight ahead.

  “Maybe love for you is the biggest thing she’s ever had to offer. What have you got to give anyone, Steven?” Elena put her hand on his. “I don’t mean to someone like Cal or me, but to someone of your own.”

  He started to answer, but she spurred her horse forward, taking her regular place in the line.

  An hour later the old man pulled his horse up sharply. He motioned for the rest of them to come to him, then dismounted and called the dog. When Nueve came he held him by the scruff of the neck.

  “I smell smoke,” he said in a low voice. “I think it’s coming from that direction.” He pointed south and toward the base of the cliffs. The tall sage and manzanita had dwindled at that point. It left a semibarren spot, house-sized boulders showing against the horizon, and marked the spot where the Shelf began falling off to the desert below. It was from behind one of these boulders they finally spotted a thin column of blue smoke.

  “You and Christine stay here, chiquita, and hold the dog,” the old man ordered, getting into the saddle again. “Come along, Steven. We’ll see whose fire it is.”

  They rode slowly across the rough quarter-mile separating them from the column of smoke. As they neared the boulder the horses began snorting, trying to rear.

  They made their way carefully around the huge rock and found Orrosco. On the ground. He was dead.

  CHAPTER 16

  HE AND the old man dragged the body from the fire. Face downward it had lain there, the features already unrecognizable. A bone-handled knife, hilt-deep, was between his shoulder blades. Elena examined the man. She found no pulse or heartbeat. She peered at the wound closely, then withdrew the blade. When a slow stream of blood followed the steel from his back, she looked up at the men.

  “He hasn’t been dead long,” she said, getting to her feet. “Only a matter of minutes.”

  Christine came from the pack horse, carrying a blanket. “Are you sure it’s Orrosco?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Pelchek turned, looking at her without expression. “There is enough identification in his wallet. Al’s description didn’t do much good.” He continued removing the contents of the dead man’s pockets and then together he and Chris wrapped the body in the blanket.

  “This means we’ll have to start all over again,” Elena said hopelessly.

  “Maybe,” Pelchek said, squinting at the red cliffs. “And maybe not. In the meantime, let’s get over against the rock.”

  They moved to the small puddle of shade created by the boulder, sat down, leaning into the cool surface of the big piece of stone.

  “Until now,” Pelchek stated, indicating the body with a nod, “that’s the only person we knew of that could throw any light on Walker’s killing. At least, we thought he could. Now, we may be in better shape.”

  “How do you mean, boy?” Aguilar asked.

  “We know for sure, now,” Pelchek said. “This man had to be killed to keep him from talking. Whoever did it knows as much or more than Orrosco did. And if he’s on his way out of this country right now, he can’t be…” He stopped to stare at Chris Baker. She had sucked in her breath sharply.

  “Keep on talking, Steve,” she whispered tensely. “Don’t anyone move! Don’t look in the direction I’m looking!”

  “What is it?” Pelchek said, not stirring.

  “Someone down be
low us. About a quarter of a mile or less.”

  “Can you see him?” Elena asked.

  “No, but I see some movement and something bright. There it is again!” She casually scanned the vista, not allowing her eyes to remain fixed. “It’s in that large clump of manzanita. At first I thought it was the sun reflecting on a tin can or something.”

  The other three regarded her intently, the rounded edge of the immense rock obstructing their view.

  “Don’t look that way any more, Chris. I’m going to the horses and try for the rifle and binoculars.” Pelchek stood up, started across the scant twenty feet separating him from the horses. He casually lifted the rifle from the scabbard, reached to raise the binocular strap from over the saddle horn, when he heard Chris scream, “Look out, Steve!”

  He whirled to see her rushing across the last few feet that separated them. She almost ran into him, but something seemed to slap her out of the way, spin her crazily. The same second he heard the flat, cracking report. He heard the old man and Elena shout as he reached for Chris.

  “The horses! He’s shooting the horses!”

  Pelchek saw the action during the next few seconds as though he were looking through a turning kaleidoscope of sound and movement. Five more spiteful cracks of the hidden rifle punctuated the wild neighing of the horses, the barking of the dog, the shouts of Aguilar and Elena. He pulled Chris to the cover of the boulder, turning in time to see the old man go down. Elena went to him, helped him scramble for cover. Pelchek’s horse, pitching wildly, ran off into the brush. The other horses were down. Floundering.

  Elena rolled over to where he and Chris lay, getting to her knees to look at the unconscious girl, as Pelchek, rifle cradled in both arms, crept toward the edge of the boulder. He got in place to see down the long slope, rose to a kneeling position.

  He quickly flipped over the safety mechanism on the Springfield and operated the bolt, sending a .30 caliber cartridge into the chamber. A rapid glance at the rear sight and he adjusted the crossbar for four hundred yards. Then he fell into a prone position and brought the big weapon to bear. The tightly drawn sling felt like an old friend as it rested in the palm of his left hand, and he gave thanks to someone for allowing his outfit to train with the old World War One rifle before issuing them M1’s.

  The old man, cursing magnificently in both English and Spanish, finally croaked, “Can you see anything?”

  “Yeah, I think so. He’s got a horse, and I’m pretty sure he’s on it. He’s down in that arroyo leading up to the base of the cliffs. Either he crosses the ridge behind him to get down to the desert, or he comes this way. Whichever it is, I’ll see him.”

  Pelchek never took his eyes off the shallow declivity behind the clump of manzanita. Then he saw it. A powdery film of almost transparent dust rising out of the arroyo, filtering into the midmorning heat. The ambusher was heading toward the cliffs and the upper hump of the ridge.

  The dust laid a feathery trail behind the rider, and Pelchek concentrated on the fifty-odd yards of clear ground that lay at the top of the petered-out ravine. The Springfield was an extension of his lean, pointing frame. There was a faint sound of pounding hoofs and the horse burst into view, rider hunched over the far side, heading for the lip of the ridge.

  Pelchek waited until the last few yards were being eaten up by the straining horse. Then the rifle spoke. A flat, querulous bark. Deadly. The horse smashed head forward into the steep side of the ridge as its forelegs buckled. The rider was flung headlong, coming up hard against the outcroppings of loose shale. He jumped up, ran toward the struggling horse, now thrashing wildly on the ridge top. With a final whinnying scream, it dropped out of sight behind the sharp hogback.

  “Now, you son of a bitch,” Pelchek murmured. He had already thrown another shell into the Springfield and was waiting.

  The man darted toward the cover side of the arroyo and Pelchek dropped a halting slug at his feet. The man tried it again, and this time the rifleman spewed dirt on him, causing his quarry to break for the slope leading to the desert. Pelchek held his fire and the man ran straight down the slope, increasing the distance between him and the rifle at every stride. Finally, he began to veer to the left, toward the protective ridge. A bullet brought him up. He turned and peered at the distant boulder, shoulders slumped, then wheeled and began walking rapidly away from the rock.

  “Did you get him?” The old man had crawled up to Pelchek’s shoulder. His face was pale and he was tying his bandana around his thigh.

  Steve darted him a quick glance, then watched the walking man. “How bad?”

  “Just through the meat,” Aguilar said. “Did you get him?” he repeated.

  “No. I could’ve hit him. Easy.” Pelchek reached out a hand and pulled the old man close. “See him down there? Well, keep your eye on him. If he starts to turn, let me know.” He rose, strode to where Elena was still kneeling over Christine.

  She had ripped the shirt off one tanned shoulder, exposing a welling ridge of torn flesh running from collarbone to upper left arm. Where the shirt had been pulled away, the creamy swelling of a rounded breast contrasted starkly with the dark, blood-drenched garment and torn shoulder.

  “It didn’t break the collarbone,” Elena said, not looking up. “Just a flesh wound, but it hit her hard and I’m afraid of shock. Get the kit out of my saddlebag.”

  Pelchek ran to her pony, jerked the bags from under the dead animal, ran back to the rock. He handed her the first-aid kit, went back by the old man.

  “Still walking?”

  “Yes, Steven. Straight ahead.”

  “Where does it go?” He looked down at the floor of the desert, stretching out bleakly until it faded into an uneven, blue-tinted horizon.

  “Nowhere,” Aguilar said. “Or at least, nowhere for many miles. Maybe a hundred. Eventually it runs into Mexico.”

  “No roads or anything down there?”

  “None. Just desert. No water, either.”

  “Good.” He laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Can you get the girls out of here? All the horses are down except mine.”

  “Your horse won’t be far away,” Aguilar said. “Elena and the dog can find him, and Christine and I will ride double until we reach the sheep camp at Last Canyon. We can get horses there.” He scratched between the whining dog’s ears, pointed toward the floor of the desert. “Who is he?”

  “Too far away,” Pelchek said shortly, “I couldn’t tell. But I’ll get him. And after I get him, he’ll talk.” He patted the old man’s shoulder, went back to the women.

  Elena was finishing a professional-looking bandage on the wounded girl’s shoulder. She had propped Chris against the base of the boulder, a folded jacket behind her head. The girl was conscious, looking at Elena’s busy hands. She looked up as Pelchek appeared, followed his long body up and down, then turned away to stare into the chaparral.

  He looked at her a long moment, started to say something, stopped. He walked over to the two horses that were still thrashing about. One had snapped a foreleg, the white bone protruding and digging into the hard ground with each pain-ridden movement of the maddened beast. The other, shot through the middle, tried vainly to bite the gaping wound.

  Pelchek slammed a shell into the rifle, did what he had to do. Having put the beasts out of their misery, he stripped them of saddles, saddlebags and canteens, walked back to where the old man was being ministered to by his granddaughter. He peered over them at the rapidly disappearing dot in the center of the fanlike expanse below.

  “Where in hell does he think he’s going?”

  “Maybe he just wants to get away from the rifle,” the old man said. “With the horses dead he can walk out far enough to get out of range, then cross over to the hills.”

  Pelchek pulled the canteen straps around to make a pair of knapsack loops, put it on, adjusting the fit until it lay tight against his back.

  “Are you sure you can find my horse?” he asked.

  “
Very sure, Steven. In this weather he won’t wander far. Elena and the dog will have him in an hour.”

  “Okay, get back to the sheep camp and get horses. Ride straight to Calderon’s, then to Las Milpas. When you get there, go to Al’s place and wait for me. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  Elena put a hand on his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “Get that bastard,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the desert.

  “It’s a dangerous place, Steven. No water and no shade,” the old man said doubtfully, then added, “and no horse.”

  “I’m a walker, not a rider,” Pelchek said. He turned to Elena. “Your husband and I walked over country that makes this look like a garden.” He patted the canteen. “This makes the difference. Besides, I know how far I can walk and how fast. Exactly. He doesn’t.” He turned to Aguilar. “Can you send a man up here for me?”

  “Yes. I’ll have one of the herders from the sheep camp bring you a horse. When will you be back?”

  Pelchek shrugged. “I don’t know. If I’m not here when he gets here, have him follow my tracks down to the desert. They shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “He will do it,” the old man promised.

  Pelchek and the girl walked a few paces from the boulder. He adjusted the wide-brimmed hat, checked his boots—was silently thankful he hadn’t succumbed to the old man’s insistence on high-heeled footwear—and faced the girl.

  “Take care of her,” he said simply.

  “Yes, Steven. And good luck.” She reached up and kissed him, stepped back, her eyes holding his. He looked away, then looked back, said:

  “Why did Chris do it? She could have been killed.”

  Elena looked at him, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  “Maybe it’s something more she could give you, Steven.”

  He glanced at his watch. Two-thirty. The heavy sun was almost directly overhead, filling the overpowering stillness with raging heat. Fiery heat. Only the sound of his cadenced footsteps broke the vacuum-like silence of the desert.