Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) Read online

  I sighed. Wondered what to say.

  "It bothers me," Lonny went on, "how completely ignorant I was of what those people were feeling."

  Here it was, the perfect opening. I could say, once again, that maybe Lonny needed to try and be more aware of other people, more responsive to their needs. That if he weren't so wrapped up in getting done what he wanted to get done, he might notice how someone else felt. Like me, I added to myself.

  But I didn't say it. Instead I said, "No one can do everything right." Trite and not very helpful, I guess. I put my hand in his. "What do you say we go to bed?"

  Lonny stood up. "Let's go," he said.

  FIVE

  I awoke the next morning to the familiar sound of Lonny snoring. Lying on my side, head propped on my hand, I watched him sleep. He'd made love to me last night with enthusiasm, and I'd responded with pleasure; we'd fallen asleep relaxed and sated. Still, this morning, studying his face, vulnerable with unknowing, I felt not only tender and protective but also stymied.

  Lonny snored on, oblivious. What is it about snoring that causes a person to look so pathetically ridiculous? Suddenly I wanted to get up, get out, be on my own.

  I dressed quickly-jeans, a tank top, another denim shirt-and pulled my boots on, all without waking Lonny. Then I was out the door, stepping quietly on the creaky floor as I headed down the hall.

  The second floor of the lodge was arranged along the lines of old-fashioned hotels-long, narrow halls with small rooms on either side, and a couple of communal bathrooms near the stairway. Stopping at one of these, I performed brief morning ablutions and then creaked on down the stairs and out the back door of the lobby.

  The mountain air met me, cold and fresh, tingling in my nose like the icy water of a high lake. Everything sparkled. I shut my eyes for a moment, dazzled by the brilliance of the sunlight. The whole world-pine trees, meadow, granite ridges-was sharp and clear and pure. So different from the soft atmosphere of the coastal hills I called home.

  I walked out into the morning, half-startled, as I always was, by the intensity of these mountains. Yips greeted me as I approached my pickup. Roey leaped out when I opened the tail-gate, bounding around me with shrill, excited squeaks.

  "Don't bark," I admonished her firmly.

  Grabbing her tail in her mouth, she spun in frantic circles, her usual response to this command. I had the notion she felt she needed something in her mouth to stop herself from talking.

  Exuberance overcame caution and she leapt around me, barking happily. "Knock it off," I warned, about as amused as I was deafened.

  In this noisy fashion we approached the corrals. Plumber and Gunner neighed at me, their "Hey, where's breakfast?" neigh. I broke a couple of flakes of alfalfa hay off the bale I had brought and threw them into the corral. Both horses turned to eagerly.

  I was watching them eat, making sure they both looked healthy and unscathed, when more excited yips from Roey got my attention. I looked in her direction; she was sniffing noses with a dog.

  I laughed out loud. This had to be the funniest-looking dog I'd ever seen. About Roey's size, it had short white fur extravagantly speckled and blotched with red-brown spots, a long whiskery muzzle, perky ears, and blue eyes, with a big blotch over one of them. It wagged its tail furiously as it nuzzled Roey, who was wagging hers equally furiously back.

  In a second the two dogs were leaping and running happily together in a game of chase. The stranger dog looked to me to be female and still a pup.

  I was watching them play with a grin on my face when a voice said, "Hello, Stormy."

  I turned around. A man on a dun horse, leading a pack horse. Tall man, with red hair and a gray fedora-style hat. Blue Winter.

  "Stormy?" I said.

  He smiled at me. "I spent a few years in Australia. Every woman named Gail gets nicknamed Stormy in those parts. I thought you might have heard it."

  I shook my head, smiling.

  "That's where they started calling me Blue. All redheads get that. Blue or Bluey." He smiled again. "Nobody thought about how it would sound with my last name."

  I smiled back at him, thinking that he seemed much friendlier out here on horseback than he had in the bar last night.

  "I had a dog named Blue once," I said.

  He laughed. "Don't tell me, he was a blue heeler."

  "That's right."

  "Is she yours?" He gestured toward Roey, who was racing madly after her new playmate.

  "Yeah," I agreed.

  "The other's mine."

  "You're kidding," I said.

  He laughed again. "Why would you say that?"

  I smiled at him. "I don't know. You don't seem the type to have such a, let's see, different-looking dog."

  "You mean funny-looking. She's half Australian shepherd, half Jack Russell terrier. She's just a pup." He snapped his fingers. "Come here, Freckles."

  The spotted dog raised her ears in his direction and veered away from Roey. Still going full blast, she dashed up to the big dun horse and stopped by his left foreleg, waving her tail at her owner.

  The dun horse didn't flinch. Blue Winter said, "Good dog."

  I studied his horses. The saddle horse was a gelding and had to be sixteen hands tall. Big-boned and heavy-muscled, he looked like a Quarter Horse type. He was a medium dun, a soft dusty gold all over, with a white blaze and a faint dorsal stripe down his back. An easy horse to pick out of a crowd.

  The pack horse was less conspicuous. A small sorrel mare with a little white on her face and a couple of socks, she had no obvious distinguishing characteristics.

  "Are you on your way in?" I asked him.

  "Yeah, we're headed to Snow Lake tonight."

  I looked at him curiously; Snow Lake was my chosen destination for my first day's ride in. "Staying there long?"

  He shrugged. Once again his face seemed withdrawn.

  Whatever. I waved a dismissive hand. "Well, have a good trip."

  "I hope to. You, too."

  "Thanks.”

  He clucked to his horses, said, "Come on" to the dog, and the small entourage moved off, the pack horse dragging a little on the lead rope. I smiled. Plumber had a tendency to do that, too.

  I watched them head down the main trail, small puffs of dust rising around the horses' feet, the dog running in a big curving circle through the meadow. Ahead of them Relief Peak glowed in the early sunlight. Snow Lake was quite a ways on the other side of that mountain, over Brown Bear Pass. A twenty-plus-mile ride.

  Blue Winter and his horses were a small vignette now. A cowboy riding down the trail. I couldn't see the dog.

  Turning, I headed toward the pack station barn. The crew was busily saddling horses and loading packs; it looked as though they had several parties getting ready to go out. Ted stood by the loading dock, talking to a strongly built man with a white straw cowboy hat.

  Both men turned to look at me as I approached; the stranger had a square bulldog jaw and high cheekbones and seemed vaguely familiar. He said something affirmative to Ted and turned away, nodding civilly in my direction. Now where do I know him from, I wondered.

  His back gave no clue; a long-sleeved blue shirt, pressed Wrangler jeans, and dusty boots were so typical as to be almost a uniform. But I'd seen him before, somewhere.

  "Morning, Gail," Ted said.

  "Hi, Ted. Did you call the hospital?"

  "Not yet." His blue eyes looked candidly into mine. "I'll do it when I go in for breakfast." The eyes traveled over me a little, then moved back to my face. "I saw you down there talking to old Blue Winter."

  I smiled. "I'm sure you did."

  Crazy Horse Creek Pack Station was familiarly known as Peyton Pines by everyone who visited it often. New romances, one-night stands, illicit affairs ... the place was known for these, and the whole crew, Ted in particular, loved to gossip.

  "So, do you know Blue?" Ted prodded. "He comes from your part of the country."

  "That's what he said. No, I never met h
im until yesterday in the bar. Do you guys know him?"

  "Sure. He comes up here every year. Brings his horses, stays a few days, and rides in on a trip. Lonny knows him." Ted laid a little extra emphasis on Lonny's name.

  "Is that right?" For some reason this conversation was annoying me. "Who was that guy you were talking to?" I asked. "I'm sure I know him from somewhere."

  "Dan Jacobi."

  “The horse trader.”

  “That’s him.”

  “He was here last night?” I asked curiously.

  “Nah. He drove up this morning from Oakdale. He comes up here a lot. Takes a pack trip every summer. He was pretty shook up when he heard about old Bill.

  “I’ll bet.”

  Ted and I stared at each other a moment. The same thought must have been chasing through both our minds, because he dropped his eyes and said, “I’d better go call. Find out how he is.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let me know.”

  “Okay.”

  Ted headed for the lodge; I called Roey and wandered around the meadow for awhile, letting the dog run. Eventually I felt a cup of coffee calling me.

  Going into the lobby, I walked past the small café, where paying customers could get meals, and through the kitchen door. Here, amongst an odd old-fashioned collection of stoves, refrigerators, cupboards, counters, sinks, and shelves, Harvey the cook had his domain.

  A big, stout barrel of a man, as befit a cook, Harvey was autocratic in tone and mercurial in temperament, in the time-honored tradition of camp cooks. He grunted at me as I poured myself a cup of coffee. Apparently Harvey was not in a talking mood this morning.

  Carrying my coffee, I walked through the open doorway that led to the cowboy room, a large dining room with one big table in the middle where the crew and friends ate. Lonny was seated alone near the end of the table, working his way through a plate of pancakes, sausage, and fried eggs. I sat down next to him and sipped my coffee.

  Besides a brief, muffled “Morning,” Lonny’s attention remained on breakfast. He ate neatly and steadily, in a workmanlike fashion, until all food items had been dispatched. Then, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, he leaned back in his chair, with the air of one who had just completed a pleasant chore, and smiled at me.

  I took a sip of weak but very hot coffee and smiled briefly. “Have you heard anything about that guy…Bill? I asked.

  Lonny’s smile faded, but his green eyes looked clear and untroubled as they rested on mine. Apparently last night’s distress had departed.

  “I heard Ted went to call the hospital,” he said. “I don’t know any more.”

  We looked at each other; after a moment his eyes crinkled at the corners. “So, are we going for a ride?”

  “I guess so.”

  True to form, Lonny was now focused on the day’s possibilities. He didn’t carry pain around much; a night’s sleep usually restored him to his typical optimistic good humor. A nice trait, I had always thought; it was only lately that I’d begun questioning its implications.

  “What do you say we ride to the cow camp at Wheat’s Meadow and have a look at Ted’s cattle. It’s only a few miles; it ought to be a good warm-up for your horses.”

  “All right.” I’d made the short ride to Wheat’s Meadow before, using Ted’s horses. The trail was good and there wasn’t too much rock. About what Gunner and Plumber needed.

  “And you get to ride over the bridge.”

  “Yeah.”

  A mile out of the pack station, the main trail crossed Crazy Horse Creek in the middle of a steep canyon, via a stout wooden bridge. In Lonny’s packing days, the trail had taken a lengthy detour to reach a spot where the creek could be forded. Ted had built and placed the bridge (via helicopter) in the early days of his tenure. The cowboys reckoned it saved them half an hour in each direction.

  This was great, and of course, all Ted's horses were quite used to crossing the bridge. Mine, however, weren't. I'd taken them on numerous trail rides in the coastal hills around Santa Cruz in preparation for this trip, and a couple of these rides had included small bridges. Gunner and Plumber hadn't been crazy about them, but they'd agreed to walk across them, despite being nervous about the hollow echo their hooves made on the wooden planks. None of these bridges, though, bore much resemblance to the Crazy Horse Creek bridge, which spanned a hundred feet, with a drop of a couple of hundred to the crashing water.

  "Better to go across it following me the first time," Lonny said.

  "Yeah," I agreed. I had thought of this.

  "So, what do you think? We'll saddle up in an hour or so, after you've had breakfast and the horses have finished theirs."

  "All right." I was about to ask Lonny which horse he planned to take when Ted walked into the room.

  Instantly our eyes swiveled to him.

  Ted stood by the end of the table, his round face quiet. "Bill didn't make it," he said.

  SIX

  Damn." Lonny stood up. "Did he make it to the hospital?"

  "They said he died there." Ted's voice was uninflected.

  We were all quiet. I thought about the man lying under the night sky wanting to die. I hadn't saved him.

  Lonny and Ted were still staring at each other. Aside from Lonny's angry "damn," neither man showed much recognizable emotion. And yet I was quite aware that both were very upset.

  Bill Evans had been part of their world; he was one of the family. Such were not supposed to give up, give in, put a bullet into their heart. They were supposed to carry on.

  I tried to think of something comforting to say. Nothing seemed possible. We all stood in silence.

  Lonny turned abruptly toward me. "There isn't a thing we can do now," he said. "I'll go saddle the horses."

  Without waiting for any response I might have made, he banged out the screen door at the back of the room; I watched his long, hasty stride as he headed toward the barn.

  Ted looked at me questioningly.

  "We're going to ride up to Wheat's Meadow," I said. "Give my horses a chance to get used to the rock, and the bridge," I added.

  Ted nodded, still not saying anything. For a moment he reminded me of a small boy, mute and sad.

  "Do you want to come with us?" I asked.

  He hesitated. His eyes were blank, all their playful sparks in abeyance.

  "I could have a look at those cattle," he said at last.

  "Yeah, you could," I agreed. "Let me just go up and use the bathroom and I'll be right with you guys."

  When I got to the barn ten minutes later, three horses were saddled and tied to the hitching rail, Gunner among them. Plumber stood next to him with the pack rig on his back, but no pack bags. I walked over and checked the cinches.

  It was like Lonny to have saddled my horse as well as his. I couldn't decide whether I was mildly pissed off that he didn't let me deal with my own livestock, or mildly grateful that he had done one of my chores for me.

  Tightening the cinch on Gunner, I looked at the other two saddle horses. The bay was Chester, Lonny's young horse. The buckskin I recognized as Hank, the horse Ted usually rode.

  Ted and Lonny emerged from the barn, carrying bridles; I noticed Lonny had hung Gunner's bridle on the saddle horn. I got it off and offered my horse the bit. Opening his mouth obligingly, Gunner accepted the metal bar; I pulled the bridle on over the halter and fastened the lead rope around the saddle horn with a couple of half hitches. This would make the horse easy to tie up if need be.

  Ted was tying saddlebags on Hank. "I brought us some lunch," he said.

  Lonny carefully fastened a long case made of PVC pipe to Plumber's pack rig.

  "You plan on doing some fishing?" I asked.

  "Might as well," he said. He patted Plumber's neck. "Just about the right kind of a load, huh kid?" Plumber sniffed Lonny's elbow and then tucked his nose into the crook of his arm. Lonny rubbed the horse's forehead and smiled at me. "What a puppy dog he is."

  "I know," I said. "I like him that wa
y."

  No need to justify my preference for friendly horses to Lonny; he felt the same as I did. Ted, however, was a different matter. Like many cowboys, he treated his horses standoffishly; a slap on the rump was about all they got in the way of affection.

  Ted swung up on Hank. I called Roey. I had left her to wait on the pack station porch, something she was reasonably good about. In a minute she appeared from that direction, bounding through the grass. She ran up to the group of us and barked happily. She knew what the horses meant.

  "Be quiet," I said, as I swung up on Gunner.

  Lonny handed me Plumber's lead rope and climbed on Chester. The little bay started to move off as Lonny got on; Chester was a restless, lively horse who always wanted to do something. Lonny hung in one stirrup for a moment before he was able to get his right leg up and over the horse's back.

  "You better teach him to stand still," I said. "You're getting a little stiff for that kind of a running mount."

  Lonny grinned at me from Chester's back. "I know it. But it's so hard for him. He just wants to go so bad."

  Ted grunted. "This so-and-so knows better than to walk off when I get on him."

  Lonny and I said nothing. We were both familiar with Ted's ways. Ted clucked to Hank and turned him up the trail; Lonny and I followed. I took a half turn around the saddle horn with Plumber's lead rope, encouraging the little horse to come along. In a moment we were moving down the trail in a caravan, Roey frisking around us.

  Deadman Meadow was a vivid, even green in the morning sunlight. The main trail ran along one edge of it, and Crazy Horse Creek ran along the other, with the exception of a narrow channel of water that the original owner of the pack station had created. This branched off the creek shortly after it emerged into the meadow and ran along the pack station side of the little valley. Eventually it fed into the horse corrals, through a couple of big stone troughs and a beautifully constructed granite-lined channel that provided an endless supply of fresh water for the horses.