Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (12 page)

"Haven't you ever seen a horse take a bath?" The voice came from behind me; I jumped up with a lurch, heart thumping. Even as I whirled, I registered a familiar voice. Ted. Ted sitting on Hank, in the woods behind my camp, watching me.

"How did you get here?" I demanded.

"Rode from Bigelow."

"Oh." The trail from Bigelow Lake, a mere mile away, came down the opposite slope from the trail I'd ridden in on.

"So what are you doing here?" I asked.

"I packed Dan Jacobi and his crew in there yesterday."

"I thought he was going to Huckleberry."

"He was. He changed his mind. He wanted to be somewhere less crowded. I told him Bigelow."

This made sense. Huckleberry Lake was big, with a few large islands, pretty campsites, and great fishing. Though a long ride in, it was very popular. Bigelow, smaller and much higher in elevation, was rocky and almost treeless, seldom visited. The fishing was equally good, though.

Ted smiled at me. "I thought if I took him to Bigelow I could come visit you."

I stared at him, wondering if he could possibly be as obtuse as that sounded. I hadn't ridden into the mountains alone in search of company.

"But I wasn't sure you'd still be here," Ted went on.

"I didn't mean to be. Plumber colicked last night. I thought I'd give him a layover day."

"He looks all right," Ted said. We both watched the horse, who was eating grass, his back wet and shiny.

"I've never seen a horse roll in water like that," I commented.

Ted smiled. "They do that."

We were both quiet. Ted made no move to dismount, just sat on Hank and watched me. For my part, I did not invite him to sit down. I was feeling intruded upon and mildly resentful. Why in hell had Ted considered it his civic duty to come check on me?

Ted's eyes moved around my campsite and then back to me. "You look like you're doing okay."

"I'm fine." A thought struck me. "Lonny didn't send you to check on me, did he?"

Ted raised one hand. "Lonny has no idea I'm here." He met my eyes. "I didn't say a word to him."

I shrugged my shoulders, puzzled. "Well, when you get back to the pack station you can tell him everything's going well. Are you riding back out tomorrow?"

"Yep. I'm leaving Dan and his boys at Bigelow for a week. They're keeping their saddle horses and two pack mules, in case they want to make an overnight ride. The one kid knows enough to pack a horse."

"Uh-huh." I nodded, not much interested in any of this. I would avoid Bigelow Lake, and with any luck at all, would never run into Dan Jacobi and his crew, which included the obnoxious blond Steve.

"Well, I'd better get on back." Ted was still watching me. He seemed to be waiting, I didn't know what for. I was damned if I was going to invite him to sit down with me. I hadn't ridden all these miles to gossip with Ted.

"See you later, then," I told him.

"You bet." Ted turned Hank and looked back at me. "See you later."

Once he was gone, I got up and made myself a tortilla with peanut butter on it for lunch. It was too early for a drink. Or was it? The sun's over the yardarm somewhere, as my friend Lisa Bennet used to say. What the hell. I was on vacation.

I made a Jack Daniel's and water, weak, and sipped it with my impromptu peanut butter sandwich. I read some more of Walden and took another swim. Then I took a nap. Life in camp.

By the time late afternoon arrived, I could tell that all my animals were feeling rested and more chipper. Roey quit snoozing and found a pinecone to play with. Plumber trotted off across the meadow, looking like he wanted to go somewhere. I caught him and let Gunner loose.

Tonight, I thought, I'll make myself a proper dinner. Salad and steak and garlic bread.

I had these luxuries because I had packed a small cooler with a block of ice in it. It wouldn't last the whole trip, but for the first few days, anyway, I was traveling in style.

First I made myself a drink. Who can cook without a drink in hand? Then I built a fire, made a salad, buttered bread and wrapped it in foil, and marinated my strip of skirt steak in soy sauce and garlic.

All things prepared, I sat in the sun and sipped my drink and read Walden for an hour. Camp seemed peaceful; I was no longer worried about Plumber; dark was several hours away. Life was good. I felt all set to enjoy my solitary evening.

But it wasn't to be. Just as I got up to put another log on the fire and freshen my drink, Gunner nickered. Plumber echoed him. Roey barked. I looked up to see two horsemen picking their way down the trail from Bigelow Lake. Even at this distance I recognized Ted's big buckskin. The other horse was a gray. Looked like I was having company.

ELEVEN

Ted and Dan Jacobi rode up to my camp and dismounted while I was catching Gunner. By the time I had both my horses securely tethered to the picket line Hank and Dan's gray gelding were tied to nearby pine trees and Ted and Dan were sitting on convenient boulders near my fire. Roey sniffed them in turn and wagged her tail.

"We came to have a drink with you," Ted said.

"That's nice," I replied, doing my best to keep the chagrin out of my voice. "I'd ask you to stay to dinner, but I'm afraid there's only enough for one."

"We won't stay," Dan Jacobi said politely, rubbing Roey behind the ears.

"No, but we brought you a drink." Ted was carrying his saddlebags. He opened them up and produced a bottle of Stoly's, a bottle of tonic, three limes, and a plastic bag of ice. "Your favorite."

I had to smile. I might not welcome their company, but a vodka tonic on ice sounded just fine.

"Thanks," I said, as Ted made and handed me the drink.

He produced a small bottle of Jim Beam and proceeded to make whiskey and waters for himself and Dan. It took a minute, but finally it dawned on me that the elaborate vodka tonic prep-arations had been brought solely on my account. And they had to have been thought of and organized back at the pack station. Had Ted intended to come visit me all along? And if so, why?

This question occupied my mind while we all sat around quietly and sipped our drinks. I waited. Damned if I was going to make conversation. This whole visit was their idea; let them talk.

Ted tried a smile. "I told Dan he should stay in camp," he said. "When a man rides out to have a drink with a pretty lady, he wants to go alone. But Dan, here, he had to come with me."

Dan Jacobi smiled briefly. I had a moment's sense of his inner force, then his expression became even and unremarkable. An odd man, I thought. He wouldn't stand out in a crowd, really, but he seemed a good deal more intense than the average person when you paid attention to him.

"So how's it going?" Ted asked.

"Fine." I was still feeling uncooperative.

"How's your horse?"

"He's fine." I took a cold sip of my drink and sighed. What the hell did Ted want? There was some more quiet.

"I been thinking," Ted said at last. "Thinking about Bill."

"Oh." Sad to say, I'd more or less forgotten about Bill Evans. His death had been striking and tragic, but I'd had more than enough on my mind for the last two days.

"I keep wondering why he did it." Ted took a swallow of his drink and stared at the fire. "He didn't say anything about me, did he, Gail?"

"No. He talked about colicked horses. Horses with fire in their bellies. Said he wanted to die. That was it."

"Nothing else?" Ted still watched the fire.

"Well, there was some more along those lines. Green fire, I think he said, and he couldn't save them. Something like that. It really didn't make any sense."

"But he didn't talk about me throwing him out of the bar or anything?" Ted was still off on his own track. "I been telling Dan, I'm worried about that. If I'd known he was thinking of killing himself, I never would have done that."

Dan gave Ted a level look. "What did I tell you? You heard what she said."

"Yeah." Ted drank some more whiskey. "Dan, here, he told me to ask you. I'm still worried it was on Bill's mind."

"Well, I can tell you he never said anything about it while I was there." I looked away.

I wasn't liking this conversation. Talking about Bill Evans was bringing the whole thing back to me, and I wanted to forget. The sight of that man, lying on his back, shot through the chest, waiting to die ... I shivered. Wanting to die all alone, staring up at the distant stars. And I hadn't saved him.

It brought mortality, my own mortality, all too close. Those same indifferent stars would watch me die, if something went dramatically wrong up here. All alone.

We all took sips of our drinks. Dan Jacobi spoke. "It's a bad deal, but it's not your fault." He looked at Ted. "Let it go."

Ted said nothing.

I handed him my empty glass. "Since you're here, why don't you make me another. That ice will just melt."

Ted seemed to rouse himself with an effort. He smiled, a faint echo of his usual cocky grin, and took my glass. Slowly, carefully, he began to make the drink.

I turned my attention to Dan Jacobi. The man was beginning to interest me. I liked his quiet assumption of power, his apparent lack of the need to assert it. I watched his eyes as he watched the fire. It struck me that they were eyes that were accustomed to looking straight at problems, whether dissatisfied horse buyers or unruly colts. He had spoken firmly but not unkindly to Ted, whom he seemed to regard as just such a problem, at least for the moment.

Dan was aware of my eyes on him, I could tell, but he said nothing.

Ted handed me my drink, and poured a splash more whiskey in his own and Dan's. The sun had dropped behind the canyon rim, and dusk was beginning to gather. The flames of the fire were brighter. I was ready for these guys to go any time. I had no wish to cook and eat my dinner in the dark.

Ted didn't seem to be in a hurry. He squatted back down on his boulder and regarded the fire. After some seconds of this, he said, "Bill didn't say anything about Blue Winter, did he?"

"No," I said shortly. "I told you what he said, as well as I could remember. What have you got going about this guy, Blue?"

"Blue's a thief," Dan Jacobi said evenly.

"So you said. How did he happen to steal your horse?"

Dan shrugged. "Took him home and never paid for him."

I waited. The man said nothing more. I had the definite impression that the subject was off-limits.

Oh well. So what? I had only a passing interest in the whole thing anyway. If Dan Jacobi didn't want to talk about it, fine.

"You haven't seen Blue out here, have you?" Ted's voice held the familiar gossipy tone.

"No." I was really getting tired of this. I stood up. "I haven't seen anybody except you two. If you'll excuse me, I need to cook my dinner before it gets dark."

"Of course." Dan Jacobi stood up, too. "We'll be going."

“
Thanks for the drink," I said, as he turned toward his horse.

"Any time." He tipped his white straw cowboy hat briefly.

Ted followed him more slowly, stopping to look back at me.

"Sure you don't want some company tonight?" He grinned at me, his barroom grin, the little-boy smile that had won several dozen hearts. Or if not hearts, at least bed companions.

"I'm sure." I laid the skirt steak on the grill.

Dan was already mounted. I looked his gray gelding over curiously. He was, indeed, big and pretty. Too big and pretty for me. I don't like horses with that sort of heavy, massive muscling; I think they're prone to problems. And I've often thought that overly pretty horses are like overly pretty men-not as likely to be good ones as their plainer counterparts. To top it all off, I'm not crazy about dapple grays, everybody else's favorite color. They're more likely to get melanomas, for one thing. And they're just so obvious.

Still, I did the polite thing. "Nice-looking horse," I said to Dan Jacobi.

"Thank you."

Ted laughed. "I told him he shouldn't take that ten-thousand-dollar son of a bitch up here in these rocks. He should rent one from me."

Dan said nothing.

Ted was on Hank now. I heard him cluck, and the two horsemen moved off. I waved. "See you later," I said.

“
You take care." Ted looked over his shoulder at me.

"Night." I could just hear Dan Jacobi's low voice.

Turning back to my fire, I got to work on dinner. But even as I warmed the bread and cooked the steak, I thought. What in the world was in Ted's head? Was he feeling that guilty over Bill Evans's death? Belatedly I wondered why, exactly, Ted had thrown Bill out of the bar. Could that have something to do with Ted's excessive and morbid-seeming curiosity?

Too late to ask him questions now. I wasn't sure I would have bothered, anyway. I wanted to forget the whole thing, not think about it more.

Try as I would, though, I found I couldn't. I thought about Bill Evans's death as I made and ate my dinner, as I fed the dog and checked my horses, as I got ready for sleep. I thought about it to the exclusion of anything else, despite my intention to do otherwise.