Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) Read online

  SLICKROCK

  Also by Laura Crum

  Cutter, Hoofprints, Roughstock, Roped, Breakaway, Hayburner, Forged, Moonblind, Chasing Cans, Going Gone, Barnstorming

  SLICKROCK. Copyright © 1999 by Laura Crum. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  "Ramblin' Jack & Mahan." Words and music by Guy Clark and Richard Leigh. Copyright © 1992 EMI April Music Inc., GSC Music, Lion-Hearted Music. All rights controlled and administered by EMI April Music Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Crum, Laura. Slickrock : a Gail McCarthy mystery 1 Laura Crum.-1st

  ISBN 0-3I2-209IO-X

  First Edition: November 1999 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  For Andy Snow, allways.

  Thanks to Wally Evans, Carl Dobler, and Bill Crum, who helped organize many mountain pack trips, and to Willie Ritts, Matt Bloom, and all the crew at Kennedy Meadows-a constant inspiration.

  Thanks also to Dr. Craig Evans, D.V.M.

  And especially, thanks to my mother, Joan Awbrey Brown, who encouraged me to write this story.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The Sierra Nevada Mountains of California are very real, as are the lakes, rivers, and peaks of the area around Sonora Pass, where this book is set. I have visited most of the places described in the story, but they have been rearranged and sometimes changed to fit the purposes of the plot, and the descriptions and locations of various lakes and passes, etc., are not always accurate. Though the pack station described in this book may resemble a real pack station in many respects, it-and its crew and visitors-is entirely a figment of my imagination. Happy trails!

  "Jack, as far as I can see

  mistakes are only horses in disguise

  ain't no need to ride 'em over

  'cause we could not ride them different if we tried. "

  -Guy Clark, quoting bronc rider Larry Mahan, in the song "Ramblin' Jack & Mahan"

  SLICKROCK

  Chapters

  :

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  PROLOGUE

  It all started with the dead man in Deadman Meadow. Not the original dead man, of course. An unfortunate emigrant who came west in the 1800s, the first victim met his unspecified end in one particular meadow along Crazy Horse Creek in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. The place thereafter recalled his fate; I always wondered if the naming of the creek and the meadow were related.

  But it was the second dead man who changed my world. Or rather, the events that followed in his wake. Until I came upon him, I thought I knew the direction my life would take; afterwards, I found that the only thing I knew was that I did not know. Knowing is much more comfortable than not knowing, and I can't exactly say I'm happy about that eventful summer and the upheaval it caused. Yet I can't really regret it either. Who would not move closer to the truth?

  ONE

  The roan colt rocketed around the bullpen, making every jump high, wide, and handsome. Stirrups swung wildly, latigos popped and slapped, leather squeaked with strain. The colt grunted, head down between his knees, and put all his effort into stiffening his front legs and kicking his back feet as high as possible. I stood outside the bullpen and watched Ted Reiter watch the colt.

  Ted was in the middle of the pen, a short, stocky figure wearing dirty jeans and a white straw cowboy hat. He watched the colt buck with the empty saddle on his back and spat out some tobacco juice. Ted didn't look like the boss of a big outfit; he looked like another dirt-poor ranch cowboy. But appearances were misleading in his case.

  The colt was getting mad. He was determined to rid himself of the saddle that had been cinched so uncomfortably around his belly, he had made every effort to do so, and the saddle was still there. He bucked harder and began to squeal-grunting squeals, like a pig. His eyes had a blind look. Ted dodged out of the horse's way when the roan bucked in his direction.

  Not exactly an easygoing colt, was my thought. Oh well, he wasn't my business. My business was finding a vodka tonic. I'd had a long day, and I was ready for a drink. I waved a casual hand at Ted and headed down the hill toward the bar.

  It was six o'clock on a July evening in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. This time of year Deadman Meadow was brilliantly green. It stretched out in front of the Crazy Horse Creek Pack Station like a patch of the Emerald Isle itself. The little bar sat facing the meadow, a small shack of a place with a porch all along the front. I pushed open the door and went inside.

  Six o'clock on a Friday evening in July meant the Crazy Horse Creek Bar was fairly crowded. I found a gap and ordered my drink from the bartender.

  Talk rose around me like bubbles through tonic.

  "Did you see the bay son of a bitch Charley was riding?"

  "I swear to God he caught a fifteen-inch brookie out of Kennedy Lake."

  Horse talk, fisherman talk. I sipped slowly and let the talk and laughter swirl and fizz around me. Like Ted's roan colt, it wasn't my business.

  This turned out to be a mistake. When you're sitting in a bar full of drunks it pays to stay alert. But I was absorbed in my own thoughts and didn't see it coming.

  The first clue I got was when the stranger on my left pushed me hard against the bar and shoved his body in front of me. My angry "What the hell" was swallowed up in a jolt of surprise as I felt the secondhand impact of the drunk on my right, who catapulted into my benefactor (as I now realized), who in turn launched the drunk into the open area in the middle of the bar. Scuffling and shouting rattled around me.

  In a minute I pieced it together. Two of the fairly drunken fishermen in the group to my right had gotten in an argument and were now engaged in the sort of shoving match of a fight that drunks usually pursue. The original attack had thrown the one guy in my direction, and the solitary man on my left had seen him coming and fended him off. At this point my rescuer stepped away from me and resumed his place at the bar; the fight, if you wanted to call it that, was moving out into the parking lot.

  "Thanks," I said, looking up at him.

  "No problem. I didn't want to see you get run over."

  This man was big. I'm five-foot-seven and he looked to be about a foot taller. Wide shoulders, too, although he was fairly lean. I could see why he wouldn't have a problem defending strange women from drunks. Some sort of further politeness seemed to be called for.

  "I'm Gail McCarthy." I held out my hand.

  "Blue. Blue Winter," he said, a little sheepishly. His hand felt surprisingly fine-boned and slender.

  "Do you know those guys?" I asked, gesturing in the direction of the shoving group at the doorway.

  "No."

  Polite conversation was proving difficult. Blue Winter (could that possibly be his real name?) stared at his drink. Not only was he roughly six-and-a-half feet tall, he had red hair and wore a gra
y felt hat somewhere between a cowboy hat and a fedora. Regulation Wrangler jeans, a faded denim shirt, and cowboy boots completed the effect. He looked exactly like the "tall red-headed stranger" in Willie Nelson's song.

  I tried again. "Are you here for a pack trip?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "The pack station taking you in?" I asked.

  "No, I'm packing myself."

  My ears pricked up. "So am I."

  He looked directly at me for the first time. "Are you with a group?"

  "No, I'm going alone."

  "So am I."

  We looked at each other with mutual curiosity. The bar fight still seemed to be going full swing in the parking lot; at least, there was a fair amount of shouting outside. The bar, however, was relatively empty, most everyone having dashed out the door, either to participate or to spectate. Blue Winter and I were surrounded by vacant bar stools.

  "So have you packed in the mountains much?" Blue Winter's shyness or reticence or whatever it was seemed to have been swallowed up by his curiosity. Gray eyes regarded me steadily from under the brim of his hat.

  "Well, no, I haven't," I admitted. Knowing what was going through his mind, I added, "I'm pretty well prepared for this trip, though."

  He watched me quietly, and I had the sense he was wondering what to say. I decided to help him. "Have you done a lot of packing?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Any advice for a novice?"

  He smiled. Immediately I liked him. He had crooked teeth and kind eyes, and when he smiled his somewhat somber expression became shy and friendly.

  The smile receded and his face was once again reserved. "Sometimes you need to doctor a horse," he said.

  My turn to smile. "I'm a vet," I said.

  As I expected, a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes. Women vets aren't uncommon anymore, but still, I often caught that look. "A horse vet," I added. "I'm from Santa Cruz."

  At this, he looked startled. Then that charming, unaffected smile. "You must be Jim Leonard's lady vet."

  "That's me," I agreed. Jim was my boss. "How did you know?"

  "I'm from Watsonville."

  Watsonville was maybe thirty minutes from Santa Cruz. The same neck of the woods, in other words.

  "So if you're from Watsonville, and I take it you have horses, you must use Bob Barton."

  "That's right."

  "Bob's a good guy." This was professional courtesy; in my opinion Jim was a vastly superior horse vet. Bob Barton was mainly a small-animal practitioner who did horses on the side. He was a nice guy, though.

  "So, what are you doing here at Crazy Horse Creek, about to take off in the mountains on your own?" It was the most forthcoming question Blue Winter had asked yet, and I couldn't think of a simple answer.

  Crazy Horse Creek Pack Station was five hours from my home on the coast of California. I had never taken my two horses on a pack trip before, though I had done some solitary backpacking up in these mountains during my college years. However, I hadn't been camping in any way, shape, or form for many seasons; the three-week vacation I was currently indulging in was the first time off of any length I'd had since I started working as a veterinarian five years ago. So, what exactly was I doing here, preparing to take my two flatland horses over the granite of four High Sierra passes on a two-week expedition?

  I decided to cut to the chase. "Well, the reason I'm here, specifically, is my boyfriend used to own this pack station, and the people who run it were willing to put me and my horses up for a few days while we got acclimated."

  He took that in. "Your boyfriend must be Lonny Peterson."

  "That's right."

  "I know Lonny a little."

  I changed the subject. "So, how about a few tips for a beginner. "

  He was quiet, considering. "Well, you obviously know how to take care of your horses, and I guess you must have some idea about camping, or you wouldn't be going."

  I didn't respond to this, and I could sense him sizing me up, looking me over the way a man will size up a horse. I tried to imagine what he was seeing.

  A tallish woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair in a braid, olive skin, wide shoulders and hips, long legs. I wore a T-shirt, jeans and boots, hoop earrings in my ears, no other jewelry. I weigh about 140-not fat, but not thin either.

  "You look strong enough," he said.

  I laughed. "Why, thanks."

  He smiled. "To deal with the packing. That's hard, when you're alone."

  I nodded. "Uh-huh." It had been my main problem. I was packing Plumber, my younger horse, and he and I had learned the routine of putting on the pack rig fairly easily. Plumber hadn't minded the back cinch, or the crupper under his tail, or the wooden forks straddling his back. But he hadn't been crazy about my lifting the heavily loaded panniers up onto him.

  Docile as always, his only expression of objection had been to sidestep away, but since I had a hard time lifting the pack bags up at all, it had proven virtually impossible to get the straps over the forks that were to hold them unless Plumber stood perfectly still. Thus, we had practiced the routine of packing over and over again, with many reprimands for moving.

  Plumber had learned. His name wasn't Plumb Smart for nothing.

  "I had to work at that," I told Blue Winter. "My pack horse is only about fifteen hands," I added. "That helps."

  "What kind of horses are you taking in?" he asked.

  "Well, they're Quarter Horses."

  He nodded. Many, if not most, western riding horses in California were American Quarter Horses.

  "I've used the saddle horse as a team roping horse, mostly. The pack horse used to be a bridle horse, a show horse, before I got him."

  Another abbreviated story. Gunner and Plumber, my two horses, with their complex histories and equally intricate personalities, had been a big part of what my life was about for many years.

  "So, how about you?" I asked. "How do you come to be here?"

  "Oh, I come here every year." His face looked withdrawn.

  "You take your own horses?"

  "Yes, ma'am." No further information forthcoming.

  I half shrugged. If he didn't want to answer questions, that was no skin off my back. The conversation had gone on long enough for politeness. Trouble was, I was in this bar waiting for Lonny, and he still hadn't shown up. Oh well. I could look for him later.

  "Speaking of horses, I guess I'll go check on mine." I held out my hand. "Nice to meet you."

  Blue Winter took my hand in his oddly long, slender one. "Likewise," he said.

  Nice man, I thought, as I left the bar. Quiet, though.

  Stepping out the door I took a deep breath of the cold-water, pine-tree scent. It was a sunny summer evening, and I happen to think that such evenings in a Sierra meadow are perhaps the prettiest things on earth. I don't know what it is-the generous gold of the light, the contrast of soft green meadow grass against hard silver-gray granite ridges, the smell of the mountains, the lively voice of the creeks. It filled me right up with happiness, just being there.

  Taking another deep breath, I strolled toward the horse corrals, reviewing with pleasure the proposed events of the next couple of weeks. I had arrived here this afternoon, horse trailer in tow, prepared to meet Lonny and spend the weekend with him here at the pack station. Tomorrow we had plans to take a short ride, Sunday I would rest, and on Monday ride in on my solitary two-week excursion. This trip was the result of a year of planning on my part, and I felt a deep sense of anticipation and excitement that it was happening at last.

  As for where Lonny was at the moment-"out for a ride," the bartender had said. Ernie, the bartender, tended to use as few words as possible; I hadn't pressed him. Lonny and I had agreed to meet in the bar Friday evening before dinner-no doubt he would show up eventually.

  A familiar nicker rang out as I neared the corrals. Plumber. My younger horse was a talker. He constantly nickered at me-when he was tied to the rail waiting, while I saddled him, whenever I app
roached his corral, even occasionally when he saw me in the midst of a group of people.

  Walking toward him now, I smiled. His head was thrust out between the bars of the corral where I had put him and Gunner, his eyes bright and inquiring. "So there you are," he seemed to say. "What's up, what are we going to do?"

  Gunner, in contrast, had his head down, munching on the hay I had put in the corral. He glanced up and over his shoulder at me, snorted softly, and went back to eating. I had been using Gunner as my main saddle horse for several years now, and he knew the score. We were here to work, no doubt in his mind. Best for him to eat while he could.

  I leaned on the fence for a moment, watching them. Gunner, at 15.3 hands, was fairly tall and leggy for a Quarter Horse. He had a bright bay coat, three high white socks, a big blaze, and one blue eye. Plain-headed and big-boned, his friendly, clownish expression made him appealing.

  Plumber, on the other hand, was almost cute. Smaller than Gunner, he was finer-boned, with rounder muscling, and he had a little, breedy head. Cocoa-brown in color, with a small white spot right between his bright, mischievous eyes, and the sort of personality that caused him to thrust his head into your lap-Plumber was a real puppy dog of a horse. I rubbed his forehead for a minute, told him to go back to his dinner, and turned away. The horses were fine.

  Next stop-the pickup. It was parked nearby, my brand new acquisition-the very first new truck I'd ever purchased. A gray Dodge, it had four-wheel drive, an automatic transmission (good for hauling horses), and an extended cab (good for piling junk in). It also had a camper shell on the bed. For Roey.

  A short, excited yip emanated from the camper as I approached. I'd been spotted.

  Sharply pricked red ears pointed at me through the screened windows of the camper. Heavy-duty metal screen, I might add. Roey had destroyed the light nylon screens that had come with the shell months before.

  I had hopes that at a year old my young dog's destructive impulses were diminishing. It was debatable, though. I had taken the pup last summer; she was a purebred Queensland heeler, bred by a friend of mine. I liked both the parent dogs, I missed my old dog, Blue, who was also a Queensland, and I thought I was ready to raise a pup. I'd simply forgotten just what that entailed.