A bit beyond, off to the left, the old quarry was deserted. The Forest Service, who owned this attractive nuisance, had tried for years to fence it properly, but icy cold seep water, so deep that legends abounded about what-or maybe who-lay on the bottom, was an undeniable attraction for partying high school kids. They’d jump the fence, and no agency could baby-sit the quarry all day and all night. In the past few years, as the entire Southwest dried out, the seep had decreased, and it seemed to me that the water level was gradually dropping. If we all just stayed patient, the quarry would both cease to be a drowning threat and would reveal whatever secrets lay at the bottom.
Pat Gabaldon hadn’t pulled his rig into the shade by the north rim of the quarry for a bite of lunch or a quick plunge. And it was equally inconceivable that all this time he wouldn’t have missed his dog.
For another few miles, the macadam road switch-backed up the mesa, then would top out at the intersection with Forest Road 26. Sure enough, now more than a mile downhill from the county road’s transition to dirt, I saw Dennis Collins’ county car pulled off on the shoulder, red lights winking. Just beyond, the cattle stood in a nervous gaggle, the routine of their day interrupted, and not a brain in the bunch knowing what to do about it.
Dennis stood in the middle of the road, hands on his hips. As I approached, the deputy jabbed an index finger at a hump in the weeds by the side of the road, and I could tell that he was shouting something. The hump was the blue heeler, lying flat and poised, a furry arrow about to dart should a cow finally make a decision.
I parked off to the side behind Dennis’ unit and got out.
“Socks, lie down!” Dennis shouted, no doubt for my benefit, since Socks already was.
“No sign of Pat,” I said casually as I sauntered across the highway, keeping my pace relaxed. I didn’t want to give Socks the notion that the humans wanted something done. The cattle were in a tidy group, wondering. Best that they remain that way. “Good job here, Dennis.”
“It’s nothing I did,” he said.
“The gate is a mile on up the road, right by the Forest Service sign. If we can get ’em to move that way, it’d be a good thing.”
“I don’t know how to drive a dog,” the deputy said, and shook his head in amusement.
“Neither do I, but once Socks gets the notion in his head about which way we want to go, I think he’ll do most of the work. That’s the theory, anyway.” I turned and looked down the county road, thankfully devoid of traffic. “We can mosey along with the vehicles, and they’ll move along all right. Let’s get ’em moving first, so the dog knows.”
Pat Gabaldon, who no doubt did talk dog, might have used whistles, maybe shouts, to get the job done. But, smart as he was, it took Socks only an instant to see that these two humans wanted the cattle to go back up hill. Being a dog, I don’t think he was vexed by the thought that all his previous work might have been for naught. We walked forward toward the herd, and the cattle milled and drifted this way and that until we got too close, and then as a single organism the small herd turned and started back up the county road. Since the road was fenced on both sides, there wasn’t much challenge. The dog shot back and forth to harass stragglers, and both Dennis and I retreated to our respective vehicles, to drive side by side up the road, easy as you please.
Socks was tired enough that the first blush of frantic joy had evaporated in the hot sun. Now he just worked, looking for the shortest distance between points. I relaxed back in the seat, letting the SUV idle along, enjoying the whole thing-sun, heat, dust, the aromas of both livestock and trampled prairie vegetation, the sharp yip of the working dog. The journey gave me time to think, looking for an easy solution to the puzzle. None presented itself.
In a half hour, we drew within sight of the cattle guard that marked the Forest Service boundary. Sure enough, the wire gate was flopped to one side. Because the county road right-of-way fence joined the pasture fence, the cattle had nowhere to go except back over the top of us, or through the gate, and even the weary Socks could figure that out.
“Make sure that damn thing is secure this time,” I said to Dennis, and he wrestled the wire gate closed as the last two calves shot through the eight foot opening. Now they had a few thousand acres to explore, and Socks was out of a job. I whistled sharply and his ears went up, and with a last warning look at the nearest cow, the heeler trotted over to us, tongue dragging the ground.
“Good dog,” I said, and meant it. Rummaging in the back of the SUV, I found the plastic cubitainer of water, took the cap off my Thermos, and refueled the pup. Water slopped all over through several fill-ups, and if Socks could have fitted himself bodily into the cup, he would have.
“I don’t get this,” Dennis said, as he watched me loop a short length of light rope through the dog’s collar. “How does a guy forget his dog?”
“I’m wondering that very thing,” I replied, and tried the phone again. Ten rings and no Pat Gabaldon. I tried the Torrance land line on the slim chance that Pat had driven back to the ranch and was inside the main house. “You have a phone book?”
“Sure.” Dennis jogged back to his car. He returned with the book and I found the number for the Broken Spur saloon. I’d given up decades before trying to memorize all but the most important two or three phone numbers. After a while, you get enough of them rattling around in the brain, and they all exchange digits.
I dialed and the phone rang half a dozen times before a truculent voice said, “What?”
“Victor, this is Bill Gastner. Is Pat Gabaldon there, by any chance?”
“No.”
I could picture Victor Sanchez standing in the kitchen of his establishment, cleaver in hand, apron a bit on the grungy side. Victor would be a bit sweaty, in no mood to be chatty-friendly with the cops…and he still considered me one of those, no doubt. He had his own dark, sad reasons, and I always let his attitude slide.
“Was he at your place earlier?”
“What do you need?”
“He just delivered a small herd of cattle up here on the mesa. They got out somehow, but I have his dog.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to find Patrick, Victor. That’s all. If you see him, will you let him know?”
“Yeah,” Victor said. The line went dead.
“What a charmer he is,” I said. The dog started to fidget as I walked toward the fence, but I glowered at him. “Lie down, Socks,” I said, and he did. Driving a herd of cattle through a narrow gate is an effective way to ruin tracks. The gate’s wire tie was drum tight, and I beckoned Dennis. “Let me in here,” I said, and as the gate came down, Socks spun in a circle, wrapping himself in rope.
The fresh tracks were obvious, and it appeared that Pat had driven through the gate, then had swung the truck and trailer in a wide arc, stopping when he was facing the gate once again. A blind man could have found the spot where the cattle had disembarked, 96 hooves diving from the trailer into the rocky dirt of the pasture. It was just as easy to see boot prints here and there, especially immediately beside where the trailer’s back bumper would have been, where Pat Gabaldon would have to stand to secure the tailgate.
I ambled around the area, hands in my pockets.
“He’s got a girl friend?” Dennis said, and I looked up. “Kinda small feet.”
Someone had planted a foot on the edge of an ant circle, those huge platters of bare ground with a mound in the center, the hub of industry for the little harvesters. I crossed to where the deputy stood, and sure enough, the shoe print was no rancher’s big hoof, nor characterized by high heal or pointy toe.
I straightened up and pivoted at the waist, surveying the country. This was not the sort of place frequented by tourists, or hikers from the village, or morning power walkers. The print could have been fresh, but I was no Daniel Boone, and Dennis Collins certainly wasn’t…neither one of us could be sure. Still, the most obvious explanation was that Patrick Gabaldon had not been alone for this chore.