We found no other tracks-the cattle plunging through the gate had made sure of that.
There was nothing sinister about Pat Gabaldon having company on this particular task. He was a young, good-looking cowpuncher, and a picnic with an obliging young gal up in the perfume of the piñons, junipers, and scrub oak, serenaded by the jays and ravens, sipping a cool brew while his boss was preoccupied a hundred miles away-what could be better than that? His route with a trailer-load of cattle took him right through Posadas, and picking up a friend was easy enough.
Then later, with the cattle off-loaded and the picnic over, he’d driven back down the hill. Maybe at that moment, his mind wasn’t on his job. He had not made double sure that the wire gate was secure. And worse than that, he had abandoned his dog. The whole scenario was likely-but he’d left Socks behind. Nobody does that, no matter how love-smitten.
Chapter Eight
Pat Gabaldon’s personal life was none of my business, unless he was a cattle thief. But all twenty-four head of Herb Torrance’s cattle grazed safely now, so purloined livestock wasn’t the issue. I reflected that had the cowpuncher here in question been the lad with the shattered knee, that might have been a different matter and a cause for real concern.
Young Dale Torrance wasn’t long off probation after pulling a stupid stunt a year before. Desperate to win the heart of a young gal, Dale had heisted a few head of cattle from a rancher up in Newton, just over the county line. He’d driven the trailer load of steers to Oklahoma and sold them to a dealer who didn’t ask questions. Dale would have blanched at hearing himself called a “rustler,” an old frontier term synonymous with “hanged”. He had some vague notion that he was going to repay the rancher somehow, but first he intended to buy the girl of his dreams a new truck. Perhaps in his mind, a Ford beat a diamond ring all hollow.
We recovered those cattle well-traveled but unscathed, and the rancher, Miles Waddell, decided not to press charges. The District Attorney, Judge Lester Hobart, and I conferred about the other charges that the state thought it might press against the kid. The upshot was that Dale was slapped with probation. Call us old softies. Dale’s rejection by the dream girl was worse punishment, no doubt…that and the ferocious licking he’d taken from his old man, who wielded a chunk of 2x4 with mean effect.
On the other hand, Pat Gabaldon was as steady and diligent as Dale was rowdy and undisciplined. Dale would disappear without a how-do-you-do, but Pat wasn’t the type. He appreciated a job and a place to live, and he liked the Torrance family. So, until an innocent explanation presented itself, my curiosity was a powerful motivator. I tried Pat’s telephone half a dozen times with no result. One logical explanation was that the young man, concerned about a badly hurt buddy, had driven Herb’s big rig back to the ranch, then hopped in his own pickup and headed for Las Cruces.
It was comfortable to think that the boy had done that, except for two things. He could have used the telephone to check up on Dale-I couldn’t imagine Pat electing to mope for hours around a smelly hospital waiting room. Secondly, Socks fidgeted on the passenger seat of my Chevy, his head thrust out the partially open window, tongue flailing like a wet rag in the breeze.
I took a route through Posadas that allowed me to glance down ninety percent of the side streets, but the big white H-Bar-T rig wasn’t parked anywhere obvious-not at any of the service stations, not at Posadas Lumber and Hardware, not at one of the four bars or the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant.
Heading south on State 56, I dialed Herb once again. This time, the phone call caught him in the hospital’s coffee shop, and I could hear the clanking of dishes in the background. Without surprise, Herb accepted the news that the cattle were safely pastured, but he was as puzzled as I was that they had gotten loose in the first place, with the dog then left to his own devices.
“I have Socks in custody,” I said, and Herb chuckled half-heartedly at the joke. “I’m headed back to your place,” I added. “I’m thinking that Pat went home to change and is headed your way right now in his own pickup. Somehow, we just missed each other along the way.”
“Might,” Herb said. “Might do that. You didn’t cross paths, then.”
“I took north 14, daydreaming about other things,” I said. “That’s where the Sheriff’s Department caught up with me. Patrick would have hauled the cattle around on the state highway, and gone back that way, too.”
“Huh,” Herb said. “He wouldn’t go off and leave the dog, though.”
“I can’t imagine that he would,” I agreed. “And by the way, not that it’s any of my business, but who’s drilling the water well just north of your place? On the backside of the mesa? I saw Paulson’s rig parked out there just beyond your fence line.”
There was a brief silence while Herb caught up after my abrupt change of subject. “Oh, that,” Herb scoffed. “Well, he ain’t got much of a start yet, I don’t think. He’d like to find water there, but if he does, he’ll drill deep enough that it’ll come out of the ground speakin’ Chinese.”
“Who’s he drilling for?”
“That’s another of Waddell’s schemes,” Herb said. “It’s kind of a picturesque spot back in there, you know. And there’s some cold air seepin’ out of the rocks enough that one of the folks from the BLM thinks that maybe there’s a wing of the cave under there. Hell, I don’t know. Or care.”
“A little speculation going on, then,” I said. Miles Waddell was the Newton rancher from whom Dale Torrance had borrowed the cattle.
“Yep. I guess old Miles thinks that if he develops a well, then come time for the BLM to work a land swap with him, it’ll be worth more. He’s probably right.”
“I didn’t know that he owned that piece.” It surprised me that Herb hadn’t fought just a little bit to own the property himself.
“Don’t think he does. Not yet, anyways. George Payton did at one time, but I don’t know about now. Him and me talked about it some. Sure hated to hear about George’s passing, I can tell you. Anyway,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t want to pursue that line of conversation any further, “are you headed down to the ranch now?”
“I thought to check on Pat,” I said. “And return the dog.”
“Well, yeah,” Herb said, voice brightening. “We’ll appreciate that. Old Socks, he’s worth about three good men.”
I rang off, tried Pat’s number once more, and slowed as I passed the Broken Spur Saloon. No rig, no answer. The pup’s front paws danced a little tattoo on my front seat as we passed the bar. He’d been there before, no doubt locked in the cab while the humans did their thing inside. A half mile farther, I turned onto the county road and headed north toward the H-Bar-T. In fifteen minutes of jouncing and dust, I had my answer.
The heeler’s agitated dance increased tempo as I swung in under the modest decorative arch over the gate. By the bunk trailer, Pat’s ten year-old Chevy truck was parked under a water-stressed elm. I pulled the SUV to a stop and reached out to rest a hand on the top of the heeler’s head. “Give me a minute,” I said, but he was ready to go. I managed to squirm out of the truck and block his exit, mindful not to slam his eager nose or sloppy tongue in the door.
Two minutes confirmed that the cattle truck wasn’t parked behind the house, or over behind the boys’ mobile home, or anywhere else hidden from immediate view. Herb Torrance’s place was dead quiet. I stood hands on hips, thinking of the possibilities, then dialed Herb again. This time, the phone rang nearly a dozen times before he answered.
“Herb,” I said, “I’m sorry to keep bugging you. How’s Dale?”
“Well, they’re going to keep him at least overnight,” he said.
“That’s standard,” I said. “The surgery went all right?”