Showman and Allyx had to be in the big barn: though I saw no sign of them, nor of any other horses, on the first afternoon.
By air to Las Vegas and hired car to Kingman had taken me all morning, and at the last fork on the way to the farm I’d had to decide whether to risk meeting Matt head on on the road or to walk ten miles instead. I’d risked it. Ten miles there was also ten miles back. The car had bumped protestingly off the road two miles short of his farm, and was now out of sight in a gulley.
Binoculars brought every detail of the meagre spread up clear and sharp. The small dilapidated house lay to the left, with the big barn on the right across a large dusty yard. Along most of a third side of the rough quadrangle stretched an uneven jumble of simple stone buildings, and behind those the rusting guts of two abandoned cars lay exposed to the sky.
Maintenance was at a minimum: no endemic prosperity here. The owners scratched for a living in a tiny valley among the Arizona hills, existing there only by courtesy of the quirk of rock formation which had brought underground water to the surface in a spring. The small river bed was easy to follow from where I sat: grass and trees circled its origin, sparse paddocks stretched away to sagging fences on each side of its upper reaches, a corn patch grew beside it near the farm buildings, and lower down it ran off into the desert in a dry wide shallow sandy trough. Heavy rain would turn it every time into a raging torrent, as destructive as it was vital. High behind the house, dominating the whole place, a huge onion-shaped water storage tank sat squatly on top of a spindly looking tower.
Mile after mile of plain dark poles stretched along the road to the farm, carrying an electric cable and a telephone wire, but civilization had fallen short of refuse collection. A sprawling dump at one side of the big barn seemed to consist of a brass bedstead, half a tractor, a bottomless tin bath, the bones of an old wagon, a tangled heap of unidentifiable rusting metal, and roughly fifty treadless tyres of varying sizes. Filling every crevice among this lot were bottles and empty food cans with labels peeling and jagged lids mutely open like mouths. Over the top the air shimmered with reflected heat.
Matt had already spent at least a week in this ugly oasis. Walt shouldn’t find it too hard to persuade him to make an evening visit to Las Vegas.
I watched until long after dark. Lights went on and off in the house, and Matt moved about, visible through the insect screens because he didn’t draw any curtains. If, indeed, there were any.
Cautiously at some time after one o’clock, when all the lights on my side of the house had been out for more than two hours, I picked my way down to the farm. The night was still warm, but as the only light came from the stars it was black dark on the ground, and with agave clumps in mind I reckoned my torch held lesser risk.
I reached the farmyard. Nothing stirred. Quietly, slowly, I made the crossing to the barn. Matt in the house slept on.
No padlocks: not even bolts. There weren’t any. The wide door of the barn stood open; and with this invitation, I went in. Inside, the barn was divided into six stalls along one side, with feed bins and saddlery storage racks along the other. Here and everywhere else dilapidation and decay were winning hands down: everything my torch flicked over looked in need of help.
Four of the stalls were empty, but in the two central ones, side by side, stood two horses. Gently, so as not to frighten them, I went over, talking soothingly in a murmur and shining the torch beam on the wall in front of their heads. Their eyes in the dim light rolled round inquiringly, but neither gave more than a single stamp of alarm.
The first one tried to back away when I shone the torch into his mouth: but an exceedingly strong looking head collar and a remarkably new chain kept him from going more than a few feet. I ran my hand down his neck and talked to him, and in the end got my inspection done. The tattooed mark, as often, was none too clear: but discernibly it was 752:07. The registration of Moviemaker.
The tattoo on the second horse was more recent and also clearer: the registration number of Centigrade.
Satisfied, I gave them each a friendly slap, and with great care left the barn. Matt still slept. I hesitated, thinking that enough was enough, but in the end went down to the end of the farmyard to take a quick look through the other buildings. In one only, a deep narrow garage, was there anything of interest: a car.
It was not Matt’s pale blue convertible, but a tinny black saloon three or four years old. My flashlight picked out a piece of paper lying on the passenger seat, and I opened the door and took a look at it. A copy of a work sheet from a garage in Kingman. Customer’s name: Clive. Work required: Remove yellow paint from Ford convertible. Further instructions: Complete as soon as possible.
I put the paper back on the seat and shone the light over the dashboard. A small metal plate screwed on to it bore the name of the garage in Kingman: Matt had rented this car while his own was being cleaned.
Outside, everything was still, and feeling like a shadow among shadows I went quietly out of the farmyard and along the dusty road towards Kingman. It seemed a lot farther than two miles to the flat stones I had left one on top of the other as a marker, and even after I had reached them it took me quite a while to find the hidden car and get it back on to the road.
It was well after three when I called Walt. He sounded resigned, but he’d known it would be some time in the night.
‘Are they there?’ he said.
‘They are. They’re quite unguarded, and there’s only Matt on the place. How about things your end?’
‘Oh.’ Amusement crept in. ‘Offen was full of offended dignity. Didn’t know how anyone could suggest he was engaged in fraud; that sort of thing. It didn’t impress the DA’s squad at all, because they get that sort of bluster every time. Made them all the keener, if anything. They had quite a long session with him, all fairly polite but definitely needling. Artists, they are. From our point of view Offen said nothing significant except for one little gem. The DA’s guys asked to see the stud groom. That’s Kiddo, remember? The one who told us about the mares foaling at night?’
‘I remember,’ I said.
‘Well, it seems it’s a slow time around studs just now, and Kiddo went off on vacation the day after our first visit.’
‘He didn’t say anything about that when we were there.’
‘He sure didn’t. Offen says Kiddo will be back in three weeks. By then, I guess, he expects to have had Moviemaker and Centigrade identified as themselves, and then when the dust has settled he can bring Showman and Allyx quietly back, and it’ll be safe for Kiddo to return. I guess Offen didn’t know which way he’d jump, and booted him off out of trouble.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said. ‘Anything interesting on the tape?’
‘I’ve been listening to that damned machine until I’m bored to death with it,’ he said wearily. ‘Today’s run was mostly the DA’s men talking to Offen, so I heard all that twice over. He then called both Yola and Matt and told them about it, and he sounded pretty pleased with the way things were going. I’d say Matt was a mite annoyed at having to stay where he is: Offen was telling him not to be stupid, what was a week or two with so much at stake. Also Yola must be wanting Matt back, because Offen smoothed her down with the same spiel.’ Walt paused and cleared his throat. ‘What would you say is the relationship between Matt and Yola?’