Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (2 page)

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 His face looked withdrawn.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 approached 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.

Blue had died a couple of years ago at the age of fifteen, so it had been many years indeed since I'd dealt with a puppy. I was accustomed to a dog who understood what I was saying to him, who knew my ways (and human ways in general), and who obeyed me (albeit with a lot of grumbling). I was now faced with a fluffy bundle of energy who had no clue what I wanted in the way of behavior, and who had a strong desire to tear things up with her teeth. Any things. Not to mention, she saw no reason why she should not defecate wherever the impulse took her, or why she should follow my arbitrary orders. She was, like most Queenslands, smart, stubborn, and endearing.

I opened the door of the camper and rubbed the wide, wedge-shaped head that was thrust over the tailgate at me. Roey wagged her tail frantically and wiggled all over. I ran my hand down her back. Roey was a red heeler, like her mother, Rita, and with her small size and her pricked ears, I often thought she looked just like a little red fox.

She reminded me of my old dog, Blue, in being very intelligent and incredibly hard-headed, but unlike Blue, Roey was generally friendly. She liked people, and other dogs, and cats, and for that matter, the whole world, as far as I could tell. Lonny teased me that she'd never make a watchdog; she'd probably try to inveigle potential burglars into throwing a stick for her. This was true. After Blue's protective tendencies I found Roey's amiable nature somewhat of a relief. No more worrying that my dog would nip (and mortally offend) a client.

A few more pats, a check to see that her water and food bowls were full, and I shut Roey back in the camper. I'd taken her for a run when I first got here; she should be fine for the night.

So where the hell was Lonny? Out for a ride. But the sun was sitting right on top of the western ridge at this point, and nobody had come riding in down the trail for the last hour.

Lonny knew he was meeting me tonight. So why wasn't he here? Annoyance and worry struggled for dominance in my brain.

Well, neither of those emotions was going to help anything. I stared off across Deadman Meadow, already in shade. Crazy Horse Creek ran along its far side, as I knew. And right where the creek emerged from the canyon and rushed out into the meadow was a pretty little waterfall. I'd just walk quietly up and check out the waterfall. Spend a moment enjoying the mountains. If Lonny rode in, he'd know I was here-horses in the corral, rig parked nearby. We'd find each other.

Resolved, I headed off down the trail that crossed the meadow, looking around with a deep sigh of relief. I was here, at last, about to achieve a goal I'd held all my life. I was going to spend a sizable chunk of time in these mountains all alone, with just my horses and my dog for company.

The farther I walked into Deadman Meadow, the more the busy bustle of the pack station receded and I could feel the presence of the mountains around me. Granite and pine tree clad ridges rose up all about me; the meadow was springy under my feet. Ahead of me the chatter of Crazy Horse Creek grew louder. In another few strides the bright water was visible, jumping and chasing between boulders.

I followed a faint trail that led upstream, worn by the feet of many fishermen over many seasons. The creek got noisier and noisier as I neared the canyon from which it emerged.

It was dusk now. The air was soft and still and dim-with every moment that passed, the shapes around me dissolved further. I could see the lights of the pack station across the meadow. Wondered if Lonny had come in yet. Don't worry, I told myself, Lonny's had more experience in the mountains than anyone you know.

Still, I peered hopefully through the gathering darkness at the big barn, although it was impossible to see anything as small as an individual horse and rider from here. And even less possible along the unlighted main trail, though I traced its course along the far side of the meadow. I could see a white horse, maybe.

In point of fact, I saw nothing. I scanned the meadow one more time, started to turn away, and stopped. There was something out there. Something shiny. A car.

The car was behind a clump of willows that screened it completely from the pack station and the main trail. It was partially obscured, but visible from where I stood on the banks of the creek. Small and low and dark, some sort of sports car, it had only caught my eye due to the sheen of light reflecting off its metal surface. It was pretty damn well hidden.

This, I supposed, was because it shouldn't be there. The Forest Service did not allow cars to be driven out into the meadow. However, the big gate that blocked such vehicles from the main trail was often left open so that various ranger Jeeps, or pack station trucks, could go up to the ranger station at Bright Water Flat, a couple of miles up the trail. The gate had been open this afternoon, I recalled. But duly posted with many signs declaring it off-limits to cars.

Well, this car had clearly ignored them. I guessed it belonged to a particularly lazy fisherman, and wondered briefly if it was now stuck. The meadow was damp in spots and the car didn't look the sort to have four-wheel drive.

It was possible. And the light was dying fast. If I wanted to reach my destination, a mere hundred yards away up this canyon, I'd better go.

I turned and headed for the waterfall.

TWO

Twenty minutes later, when I got back to the meadow, it was almost dark and the car was still there. Knowing where to look was the only thing that made it visible.

I stopped and studied it in mild consternation. What in the world was it doing here? Was it, in fact, stuck?

I had a small penlight in my pocket (as well as a Swiss Army knife and a waterproof container of matches). Perhaps I should go and see.

Ten steps in the direction of the car and I stopped. Was this smart? I was a woman alone; I had no idea what the car was here for. On the other hand, I argued, I was perfectly safe skulking out here in the dark willows. No one who was in the car would be able to see me without a light.

Cautiously I approached the vehicle from the rear, out of headlight range, my hand on my own small flashlight. No humans seemed to be about; the car looked deserted. But it also looked too expensive to be cavalierly abandoned.

From twenty feet away, I stared. It was some kind of two-seater sports car- I couldn't put a name to it. No movement in it, or around it. My eyes tracked along the ground nearby. A patch of white. Not large. Bigger than a paper bag, smaller than a picnic blanket. Next to the car, about ten feet from the front bumper. I stared. The white thing didn't move.

Cautiously I brought the flashlight out of my pocket. Wiggling gently behind a sheltering screen of willow branches, I aimed it at the white shape and clicked it on.

For a second I still couldn't figure it out. White cloth, it looked like- I moved the light. And something darker. A face. Shit.

The white was a shirt, a shirt that was on a man lying flat on his back in the meadow.

I clicked the flashlight off. This was weird.

Peering through the near-dark, I ascertained that the man hadn't moved. I mentally replayed what I'd seen. A man lying flat on his back-I'd had a brief glimpse of his face, staring upward. No one I recognized.

Was he hurt? Dead? Asleep? Drunk?

I clicked the light on again. The grass and willow branches obscured him somewhat, but there was no doubt of what I was seeing.

Pointing the flashlight right at his face, I looked for signs of life. For a second, nothing. Then the face turned slowly toward my light. I couldn't read his expression.