Frogskin and Muttonfat (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Two)

by Carol Caverly

  “My daddy built it with his own hands. First building on the homestead, put it up before the house.”

  The Kid walked slowly around the pathetic little structure, shaking his head. “I didn’t know if it’d still be standing.” He stood staring at it a moment, then turned away. “Ever see a dugout before?” He pulled at the still-intact door, but it didn’t budge.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” I said, remembering some unpleasant experiences from my first visit to Wyoming. A dear friend of mine had nearly died in a dugout, because I had been too frightened of the lizard-filled place to go in and look for her. I didn’t like dugouts much.

  “How about a soddy? You ever seen a sod house?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said, with some interest. “Is there one around here?”

  “Used to be one not far from here. There’s a road goes up there, through the north pasture. I could show you.”

  “Not today, but I might take you up on it another time.” Maybe, I thought, but probably not. “Where was the house?” I asked.

  “Over there, by those trees.” He pointed to some shrubby cottonwoods and willows that marked a meandering creek bed.

  “I’m going to walk over there,” I said. “Will you be all right?”

  He nodded. “Nothing there to see.”

  I didn’t care, I wanted to get away from all this man-made garbage. The junkyard mentality drove me crazy. Never tear anything down, never haul anything away. Everything left to collapse into ugly piles of rot and rust. A desecration of the land, as far as I was concerned. I picked my way through cactus and fallen strands of barbed wire still attached to broken-off posts, all lying on the ground ready to snare the unsuspecting.

  Stripping some leaves from a sage brush, I crushed them in my fingers and held them under my nose, breathing deeply of the pungent, dusky smell. Soft, rolling countryside stretched in front of me, broken only by an occasional ridge.

  As if to make the picture perfect, a horse and rider appeared, shimmering in the heat from behind trees farther up the creek bed and in a slow, graceful canter, came toward me. I climbed a small, rocky hillock to watch as he crossed the dry creek bed below me, standing in the stirrups, his flanks strong and lean. John Wayne couldn’t have done it better. I recognized the horse, Clover, before the rider. Then he swept off his hat. Jimmy Chin.

  Eighteen

  His blue-black hair glistened in the sunlight. “Well, hi,” he said, as surprised to recognize me as I him. “What are you doing out here?”

  I gestured behind me. “I brought Web Corcoran out to see his old home place. No one else would give him a ride.”

  “I was on my way to Brocheck’s for some roping practice when I saw the dust trail from your car. Thought I’d see what was going on. I kind of keep an eye on the place for Florie.”

  “Do you live out here, too?”

  “No, not really. I live in town. It’s my uncle’s place.”

  “Your Uncle Patrick O’Donnal that I met?” The Chinese Irishman.

  “That’s the one.” We exchanged smiles and he dismounted his horse. “Our land abuts this place a mile or so to the west. Been in the family for years. I keep my horses there. Pat and Lee’s kids run the place.”

  “How interesting. I…”

  “It’s one of the very few old ranch properties owned by a Chinese family,” he said, guessing my thoughts and my hesitation in voicing them. “My great-grandfather, Ah Chin, came here as a Chinese laborer in the late eighteen hundreds. Worked for the railroad, then in the coal mines in Rock Springs. He was one of the few survivors of the Chinese massacre there.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I’ve read about that; one of the ugliest cultural disasters in western history.” Hundreds (well, the actual number was still in dispute) of Chinese miners were killed by their white fellow workers who saw them as threats to their jobs. Shades of today.

  “Yeah, he was part of the despised ‘yellow horde.’ He hid out in the hills for months, then came this way and got a job cooking at the ranch. Ended up buying the place. It’s still called the Ah Chin place in these parts, though no one by that name has lived there in ages.”

  I saw Jimmy staring over my shoulder, and turned around. The Kid stood a few yards away, watching us.

  “Do you know Jimmy Chin?” I asked him.

  The Kid shook his head. I made the introductions. They exchanged nods and a few words, and I noticed that neither one of them made an effort to shake hands. A tad frosty.

  The Kid lit another cigarette. “You live on the Ahchin place?” He pronounced it as if it were one word.

  Jimmy nodded.

  “That old soddy still there? I was telling her about it.”

  “Yeah, I think so, what’s left of it. Mostly caved in, now.”

  Jimmy addressed his comments to me. The Kid turned and walked away. Well, I wasn’t going to attempt smoothing any waters, but it did please me that the Kid had made an attempt at civility.

  “I better be on my way,” Jimmy said. “I was sorry to hear about the trouble at Racy Ladies last night. Is it true that you found the body?”

  “Yes.” I suppose there wasn’t anyone within a hundred miles of Rawhide who hadn’t heard by now.

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Is Max here with you?”

  “No, I’m meeting him in town later.”

  Jimmy eyed me with some concern, hesitated, then said, “Do you think it’s a good idea to be out here alone with…”

  “The Kid? I’m sure it’s all right. Don’t worry. Besides, we’re about ready to go back to town now.”

  “What’s he doing, anyway?”

  “Looking around, kicking tires. He’s afraid the police are going to pin the murder on him and send him back to prison.”

  He didn’t say so, but I could tell Jimmy didn’t think it was a bad idea, either. “Well, keep your eyes open,” he said. “There hasn’t been a killing in Rawhide for as long as I can remember. Now, after this guy shows up, look what happens. Seems strange to me.” He mounted his horse. “Tell him to watch those cigarettes, too, would you? We’ve already got one brush fire going out past Brocheck’s.”

  “Is it close to Max’s well?”

  “No. And they’ve got it under control anyway.”

  I assured him we’d be very careful. We said goodbye again, and for a few minutes I watched as the horse ate up the distance and the two became smaller and smaller.

  I went to find the kid, impatient now to get back to town. I wanted time to check in with the police before Max got to town. I’d give Dwayne the notes I’d taken about Phoebe’s last words to me. I was less certain about mentioning anything about Sheila Rides Horse. I thought I wouldn’t. Dwayne would question her himself; let him reach his own conclusions.

  The Kid was inspecting the barn’s rock foundation. “Let me get a picture of you, and one by the dugout, too,” I said. At least they’d be picturesque. “Then we’ve got to head back. It’s getting late.” I got my camera from the car and began to snap pictures. “You said the sod house wasn’t far from here. Your folks must have been close neighbors with Jimmy’s relatives then.”

  The Kid gave an expressive snort. “Damn land grabbers, them chinks. They would have taken this place, too, but my folks beat ‘em out of it,” he said with satisfaction. “Let’s go back to my brother’s house. I want to poke around there a bit before we go. Maybe you can help me with a few things.”

  “What do you need help with?” I asked as we drove the short distance back to the abandoned house.

  “Want to see if there’s anything left that I remember.”

  “All right, but don’t spend too much time, okay?”

  He said nothing, and I hoped there wouldn’t be a test of wills getting him away from here. I pulled the Bronco up in front of the deserted house and stopped. If he wanted to go in the old relic he could, but I wasn’t stepping foot in that moldering pile aga
in.

  “Pull around to the side,” he said. “Back in, there by the porch.”

  I did as he asked. He wouldn’t have to walk so far; he was bound to be tired by now. I took the oxygen unit out and handed it to him. “Here,” I insisted. “Use it.”

  “I ain’t going to carry that thing around,” he said.

  “Then take a few whiffs before you do anything else. I don’t want you keeling over on me.”

  He did so grudgingly, sucking in five or six deep breaths to satisfy me. Then he took the tubing from his nose, dropped it on top of the carrier and walked around behind the house.

  I followed and watched, puzzled, as he lifted a board away from the base of the house and pulled out an ancient garden spade. The shovel’s blade was completely covered with rust and had a clump of dirt clinging to its edge. The dirt looked newer than the shovel.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, as he dragged the spade to a corner of the yard and began pulling away clumps of tumbleweed with his hand.

  “I hid some of my things out here a long time ago. Wondered if they were still here.” He began to dig. The dirt seemed friable enough, probably a much-used garden area. After a few minutes, the shovel rang against something hard. Sweat sprang out on the Kid’s forehead and his breath came in short gusts.

  “Here,” I said, “let me help.” I took the shovel from his hands, working it against the buried object to loosen it, then scrabbled for it with my hands. I pulled out a sharp-edged, roughly triangular rock the length of my forearm and about eight inches thick.

  A reddish rind and patches of glossy black showed through the dirt. I brushed it off. It looked just like the pieces I’d seen at the store. Jade. Black jade.

  Surprised, I looked up at the Kid. “This is jade, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “It’s mine, don’t worry about that. No matter what anybody says.” He picked up the spade and began to dig again in another spot.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that,” I said.

  “This is my nest egg. Only money I got. I ain’t going to no nursing home, or no prison, neither,” he added, stomping the shovel deep in the earth.

  I ran to the Bronco and got the oxygen. I didn’t want him passing out on me, or dying, for that matter.

  “Here,” I said, handing it to him. “Hook yourself up.” I took the spade from him again.

  “Just hit another,” he said, working the plastic nose piece into place.

  I fished out a smaller, roundish lump, so anonymous-looking I never would have been able to identify it as anything other than rock. He took it from me, hefting it admiringly. “Will you help me then?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling angry and used. All I could think of were the stories of stolen jade. I didn’t want any part of that.

  “This ain’t stolen,” he said, as if reading my mind. “I found this just like everyone else did. Fair and square.”

  “Then why did you bury it?”

  “Hell, everybody hid their jade ‘til they got it sold. Some Chinaman used to come to town every few months on a buying trip. I just never had a chance to get back here and get mine. I done nothin’ but think about it all these years.” He gave me a sliding, sidelong glance. “I’m going to get me a trailer house and move out here. Bring old Kate, too.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t do it.”

  “If I can swing this,” he indicated the jade, “I might be able to. Without money I can’t do nothin’.”

  I knew he was manipulating me, but this was his land, and I had no way of knowing that the jade wasn’t rightfully his. And who could blame him for wanting a place of his own, a way to avoid that fate worse than death, the nursing home.

  The thought of the Kid and Kate trying to make it out here on their own boggled the mind, but so what? There were bound to be organizations that provided help in such cases. More power to them, I thought, better to go out fighting than dwindling into some awful twilight zone. Gramps should have been so lucky.

  “I’ll give you thirty minutes of my time,” I said, “then we’re leaving.”

  Piece by piece, as I dug them out, the Kid loaded the rough jade into the back of the Bronco. I dug up six more sizable pieces and a cluster of fist-sized and smaller pieces that were a breathtaking emerald green.

  “What’s frog skin?” I asked at one point, leaning on the spade to rest a minute.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Trash jade. Got a rough, bumpy rind like a toad and it’s a dull, ugly green. Not worth nothing. What do you know about frog skin?”

  “I heard a man talking about it. That and mutton fat.”

  “What man?”

  “Buster Brocheck,” I said, digging again. The thirty minutes were up; this would be the last piece.

  The Kid came back from the Bronco cradling a large, heavy, light-colored piece cradled in his arms. He grinned at me. “This here’s mutton fat,” he said. “Worth good money. The Chinese will pay maybe eight hundred bucks, maybe more now. They make carvings out of pieces this size. Sell ‘em for big money.”

  I was pooped and had lost a good deal of interest in jade. The ground in this particular spot was packed harder than the rest, or maybe my muscles were just registering a complaint. I was about to give up when the shovel rang out again. I chopped at the dirt on top, threw a few shovelfuls to one side, then got on my hands and knees and lifted out a medium-sized lump of dirt.

  Brushing the dirt off, I uncovered a pale claw-like hand. I dropped the disgusting thing with a cry of alarm, then looked closer. The Kid reached down to pick it up, but I pushed his hand away and brushed more dirt from the repulsive thing. I’d seen something like this before. A cluster of bony, arthritic-appearing fingers with curved-in tips rising from a base of finely carved leaves and tangled roots that formed a stand. A lotus bud. Buddha’s Fingers.

  I rose to my feet holding the strange but exquisite carving. “You stole this, didn’t you?” I said to the Kid. “From Auntie Lee.”

  “I don’t know any Auntie Lee,” he said. He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Jimmy Chin’s Auntie Lee, or from her family. You stole it a long time ago and it’s been hidden here all these years. I saw a replica of it in their restaurant.”

  From where I was standing now, I could see another spot of freshly dug earth close to the corner of the house. “Someone’s been digging over there, too.” The Kid followed my glance, but remained silent.

  A lot of things began to fall in place. The broken lock on the front door; the Kid’s lack of feeling at seeing his home again; the spade found so easily in its hiding place with its clump of fresh dirt.

  I was furious. “You were out here yesterday, weren’t you?” I threw the jade back down in the dirt. “With Phoebe. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie about it?”

  The Kid said nothing, he just picked up the carving.

  “Come on,” I said wearily, heading for the Bronco. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this. Come on,” I repeated, opening the car door. A reflection in the glass gave me warning of the rusty spade swinging in a big arc toward my head.

  I ducked, but not quickly enough.

  Nineteen

  I groaned and tried to roll over on my side. Spears of pain shot through my shoulder and neck, and every movement brought torturous pricks and stabs. Pinned to the ground. An image played in the darkness behind my eyes: a shrouded, prone figure pierced with swords. Lots of swords. More than five. I tried to count them…more than eight. Ten. The Ten of Swords. Sorrow. I fought to open my eyes, wanting the picture to go away. I moved again and what felt like a ragged saw blade tore through my arm. I cried out in agony, clearing some of the fuzz from my head. This wasn’t sorrow, I thought. This was pain.

  My eyes squinted open, blinded at first by the light. I was lying face down in a thicket of dead bushes, cactus and weeds. Broken branches and sticks and pine needles pricked and poked me everywhere. There was even a twig up my nose. I pulled it out gingerly and tried to
sit up. Unbearable pain coursed through my shoulder, neck and head. I stopped, panting. But now that I knew my bed was just stickers and needles, and not the dreaded Tarot swords, I managed to move through the pain and get to my knees.

  I was in the bottom of a gully, or a dry creek bed, wedged in between a small pine tree and a broken-off tree stump. I’d landed on a spiky pile of sagebrush, tumbleweeds, yucca and other brush.

  Still dazed, I looked up at the lip of the gully about ten feet above. I must have fallen. Memory edged with panic began to return. The Kid! Where was he? What had happened to me? I remembered digging up a pair of hands. My head whirled. Oh, no, could that be right?

  I staggered to my feet. Raging pain in my right shoulder turned my arm into a useless hanging thing. To my horror, I saw that a long cactus spine had completely pierced my numb hand. I tried to pull it out, but couldn’t. My head reeled with every movement and something was terribly wrong with my eyes. I blinked, trying to clear the haze away.

  I had to get out of here. I ran the fingers of my good hand over a huge goose egg on the side of my head. What kind of blow—the shovel! I remembered the instant’s glimpse of the blade swinging toward me.

  My head cleared a bit more. The Kid had hit me. What a fool I’d been to trust him. Had he tried to kill me? Why? Because I knew he had the jade? And suddenly I remembered it all. The jade he’d buried in the yard, and me, helping him dig it up. Stolen jade. And he’d lied to me about Phoebe. She had brought him out here yesterday. Did that mean he’d killed Phoebe, too? Most importantly, where was he now? He might be eighty-two years old, but hardly harmless.

  I stood still and listened, but heard only the clatter and whir of insects and the soft song of a meadowlark. I was in the deepest part of the gully. I hadn’t fallen, so the Kid must have thrown me into the gully.

  I pressed my useless arm close to my body, trying to still the motion that brought agony. I inched my way to the shallow end of the ditch where I could easily climb out, stumbling over weeds and brush. Every time I caught myself with my good left hand I collected more stickers and burrs in the palm. I pulled them out with my teeth, and spat them on the ground.