Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (17 page)

I let go of the lead rope; no use pulling Gunner down, too. Plumber scrambled; his shoes clanged and crashed against the rock, throwing sparks. He was up; he went down again; I thought he would surely roll to the bottom of the slope.

"Please, God, please, God." The words were loud inside my head. Somehow the little horse came up again and stood, all four feet in the crack, shivering.

“
Whoa," I said out loud, trying to sound calm. What in the hell am I supposed to do now, my mind shrieked. I didn't have hold of the lead rope; I couldn't dismount. After a moment the only possible answer presented itself. I had to ride Gunner out of here and take my chances on what Plumber would do.

I clucked to my saddle horse and put some slack in the reins. He stepped up the crack. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see that Plumber was following, dragging the lead rope. I prayed he wouldn't step on it and throw himself off balance.

He didn't. We made it onto the ledge, in one piece, more or less. I dismounted and looked Plumber over carefully. He had a few scrapes and he'd lost a shoe. The scrapes were mostly minor, though one on his left front cannon bone was bleeding pretty steadily. The lost shoe, however, was a problem.

I got on and rode off the ledge into the fern meadow. Here I tied both horses up and dug some antibiotic salve and an EZ Boot out of my saddlebags. I rubbed the salve on Plumber's scrapes, and pulled the EZ Boot, an adjustable plastic boot made for this purpose, over his bare left front hoof. Then I walked back down to the crack to look for the shoe.

I found it very near the spot where Plumber had fallen. It was bent; he'd clearly stepped on it with either a back foot or his other front foot when he was scrambling. I wasn't sure what good it was going to do me. I had some minimal shoeing gear stowed in my pack, but my skills weren't really up to straightening this shoe out and nailing it back on.

In the course of my work as a veterinarian, I'd learned to pull horseshoes off. This was a necessity; in order to take X rays of the feet, I needed to remove the metal shoes, and I could hardly demand that the client do it, or expect that a horseshoer would always be handy. But pulling a shoe off was a two-minute job, requiring only minimal skill and some familiarity with the operation. Nailing a shoe back on was a good deal more difficult, and I had never done it, though I had seen it done, often.

I walked back to the horses, carrying the shoe. Plumber could wear the EZ Boot for now. Maybe he could even wear it for the rest of the trip. It was a cinch he couldn't be barefoot in this rocky country. He'd get sore right away.

Stuffing the shoe in my saddlebag, I untied the horses and climbed back on Gunner. Onward.

We retraced our route to the main trail and began descending the other side of Seavey Pass. Big vistas of granite and sky opened up in front of us. Thunderheads were piled high above the ridges, their tumbled gray masses complementing the rough gray rock below.

Beautiful, and slightly ominous, the Sierras beckoned. A siren saying come hither. I smiled to myself. Here I was, hastening to follow the call. To what end?

We went on. Once we were off Seavey Pass and in woodland again, I started to relax. No more tricky trail, and the clouds looked as though they might be breaking up. Perhaps it wouldn't rain after all.

I began to fantasize about a warm, sunny afternoon in camp at the as-yet-unknown Wood Lake. I would take a swim. Two days of no bathing had left me feeling a little grungy. Time for a wash.

The trail continued gradually descending. Wood Lake was a few miles ahead-an hour's ride.

Looking back over my shoulder, I watched Plumber for a while. He was sound, at the walk anyway. Apparently, neither his scrapes nor the lack of a shoe was causing him much grief. The EZ Boot was doing its part and staying in place. If his leg swells, I thought, I'll stand him in the cold water of the lake for a while.

Pine trees and granite, pine trees and granite. Down the trail we went, in a steady procession, Roey trotting quietly behind Plumber. I was half asleep when Gunner jumped up in the air, nearly jarring me loose. I clutched the saddle horn with one hand and jerked on the reins with the other.

"Dammit," I swore. Gunner froze.

It took me a second, but I got it. Rope under his tail. I hadn't been paying attention, and the lead rope had slipped under Gunner's tail. Plumber must have leaned back on it a little and it had become wedged up high.

Gunner was still frozen in place. Thank God. I had seen an otherwise gentle rope horse buck furiously and violently until both its rider and the rope under its tail came loose. But many horses, and Gunner appeared to be one, tended to freeze up.

I got off slowly and carefully, talking soothingly. "Take it easy, buddy, just whoa, I'll get it out, no big deal."

Patting Gunner's rump, I reached for his tail and gently pried it up. Gunner trembled, but he allowed it. I eased the rope out.

Gunner snorted. His eyes were big. I patted his shoulder and told him what a good horse he was as I climbed back on, reminding myself to be more careful. Lonny had broken his shoulder when a horse bucked him off in the rocks-all because of a rope under the tail.

Fortunately my horse was not inclined to bucking. Still, a rope under the tail was just cause, and I needed to prevent it from happening.

We rode on. I stared ahead through the seemingly endless forest, looking for the openness and light that would indicate a meadow or a lake. The ground grew wetter; a stream ran along the far side of the canyon, but the low ground we were traveling on was just plain muddy.

Both Gunner and Plumber snorted and hesitated each time we had to cross a mucky spot. Like most horses, they hated mud. I kept a careful eye on Plumber, hoping he wouldn't pull the EZ Boot off.

The canyon was narrowing and I could see light ahead. The trail was also growing wetter. We scrambled through some spots that were knee-deep, both horses floundering.

I was getting nervous; I didn't like mud either. Visions of quicksand rolled around my mind. At each wet spot I balked right along with the horses, trying to determine where the footing was firmest.

Damn. The trail passed between a rocky bank and a bit of thick forest, and the crossing looked like a tar pit. Thick, gooey, black mud-churned up from all the feet that had crossed it previously. Yesterday's rain hadn't helped it any.

The horses and I stared. I felt like snorting, too. It didn't look like there was any way around. Dubiously I selected the right-hand side as being the likeliest, and urged Gunner forward. He hesitated, then lunged.

Big mistake. He sank into the mud to his shoulder; the abrupt forward motion and sudden dive to ground level pitched me off. Fortunately it wasn't far to fall. I landed easily in wet black goo and floundered to a purchase on a log. Gunner and Plumber struggled and scrambled, bogging down and heaving themselves out, until they stood on the other side of the muddy crossing. Roey trotted over to me and licked my hand.

Damn, damn, damn. Ignoring the dog, I picked my way toward the horses. At least they stood. They stood on all four feet, black with mud, but apparently okay. I remembered Lonny telling me that he thought a bog was almost as great a danger as slickrock.

Thanking God that neither horse was inclined to run off, I caught them and inspected them closely.

Shit. Damn. Son of a bitch. I wished I knew some better cuss words. Plumber had lost the EZ Boot. It was no doubt at the bottom of that bog, and I knew right away that I'd never find it. I had one more in my saddlebag, and that was it.

Cursing steadily, I climbed back on. Plumber didn't need the boot on this soft ground, and I wasn't taking a chance on losing my last one. I'd put it on him when we got to some more rock.

Mud dripped off me as I rode on. I could see light up ahead but it wasn't cheering me much. Nothing seemed to be going right. I was virtually snarling as I rode out of the trees into a meadow that fringed the shore of a lake. Wood Lake, by my reckoning. And there, camped at the edge of the forest, was Dan Jacobi and his crew.

SIXTEEN

I pulled up. My thoughts were unprintable. These were the last people I wanted to see. And there was no getting out of it. There were three men in camp, and all were staring right at me. Dan, blond Steve, and a third, shorter man with brown hair, whom I didn't recognize.

I was covered in mud, I was in a foul mood, and now I had to deal with these guys. "Hi, Dan," I said, pretty damn ungraciously.

"Howdy, ma'am." He touched his hat. "Looks like you had a little trouble with that crossing."

"I did." I knew I sounded pissed as hell.

He ran a practiced eye over my horses. "They look okay."

"I think they're all right." At this point my brain kicked in, pushing my emotions out of the way. I might not be glad to see these guys, but they could be the solution to one of my problems. "The pack horse lost a shoe," I added diffidently.

Dan nodded. "Did you find the shoe?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Bring any shoeing equipment?"

"A little. Some nails. A hammer."

Dan smiled. "If you'd like, Jim here can nail it back on. He's a shoer."

Since this was just what I was hoping for, I accepted with alacrity. "Thanks. I'd appreciate that."

Patting myself on the back for having some vestiges of intelligence, anyway, I dismounted and tied my horses up. Fishing the shoe out of the saddlebag, I handed it over.

Roey walked up to Dan, sniffed his pants leg, and wagged her tail. He reached down and scratched her absently behind the ears.

''I'll need to unpack the pack horse to get at the shoeing gear," I said.

The short, brown-haired man, who was apparently Jim, ducked his chin and smiled briefly. "Don't bother. I've got some nails and stuff handy here. I'll just pound this out flat and nail it back on. Won't take a minute."

"Thank you." I looked around their camp. Two small tents, a fire with a coffeepot chugging on top of it, fishing poles leaning against the trees. Five horses were picketed alongside. Three saddle horses and two pack horses.

"So, how do you guys happen to be here?" I asked Dan.

"Oh, we decided to wander through the mountains a bit, see some more lakes."

"Did Ted go back out?"

"No." Dan looked down. "He said he was going to ride to Buck Lakes, looking for some mule that got left there."

"Oh yeah." I knew about this. "That mule got hurt pretty bad on a pack trip earlier this summer. They said they left her in the meadow at Upper Buck Lake to heal up. Ted must think he can bring her back out now."

"That's right," Dan said. "He thought she might be healed up enough to travel."

I kept my eyes on Dan as we talked, but I was aware that Steve was watching me with an expression somewhere between hostility and avarice. Not surprisingly, in view of my mud-covered clothes, he also looked amused. No doubt, I thought glumly, there was also mud in my hair and on my face.

Nothing I could do about it now. Pride forbade my scrubbing at myself with the tail of my shirt. I held my head up and looked Steve in the eye. I didn't give a fuck what he thought of me, anyway.

"You look like you could use some help," he said.

I heard the sneer in his voice and worked at remaining detached. "I'm doing all right," I told him.

"A woman doesn't belong out here all by herself."

I shrugged. Judging by his tone, no answer I could have made to this would sink in. I'd met men like Steve before. For some reason, the combination of my competence and lack of sexual interest in them was threatening. They always reacted with hostility, and they were always a pain in the butt.

Though I don't consider myself a feminist, I have a short fuse with the Steves of this world. I'm an individual; I don't feel any more invested in the fact that I'm female than in the fact that I'm a veterinarian, and own horses, and am tall. Whatever. I've never felt that being a woman held me back in any way, and I've dealt with a lot of good old boys.

In my opinion, good old boys mostly respected competence, and if I was competent with a horse and knew my medicine, they noticed it and figured I was all right. I'd heard some women say that "a woman shouldn't have to prove herself just because she's a woman," but I thought that was bullshit. When it comes to fields where there is some risk, where skill is necessary for survival, everybody has to prove themselves. The new guy and the new gal are regarded with almost equal suspicion.

And if the new gal was regarded with a little more suspicion, at least in my line of work, it mostly came down to a simple bottom line. Men are, generally speaking, physically stronger than women. And physical strength is a big asset when you're working with horses.

Fortunately, I'm pretty strong. And I didn't resent people's preference for a vet who could deal competently with all the physical stuff that came along. But once in a while I ran into a Steve. And they were different.

I looked at him now, while various thoughts floated through my mind. Blond, handsome, in his twenties, a white straw cowboy hat on his head, a small butt encased in blue denim, mean brown eyes. Had I flirted with him, he would have acted friendly toward me. But the meanness would still have been there. The Steves of this world just don't like women.