It was still hot and dry, and a rooster-tail of white dust followed the county car along the dirt road onto which Rhodes turned at Al James’s house. The cows had grazed nearly all the grass off the pastures beside the road, and Rhodes could see bare dirt and rock showing through. The cows were gathered under the trees to take advantage of the little relief offered by the shade. If it didn’t rain, and rain soon, the cattlemen would be in real trouble.
Rhodes came to the Gottschalk property and turned in. There was no gate, only a cattle guard of iron pipe. Rhodes had never thought cattle guards were very effective, and he was pretty sure Gottschalk wasn’t running any cows on his land. Otherwise, there would have been a gate.
The car topped a gentle rise, following the ruts that made up what now passed for a road, and Rhodes looked down at the lake. It really wasn’t a lake, of course, and probably wouldn’t have been considered much more than a good-sized swimming hole in a wetter part of the country, but in Texas it passed for a lake. Unfortunately, because of the hot, dry weather, the lake was even smaller than usual. About half of the shallow end was now mostly mud-flat, and most of the water was concentrated by the twelve-foot-high dam. Also near the dam, but a good way out on the dry land, there were four motorcycles and a small tent. There was a huge oak tree nearby, and four men sat under it. Rhodes drove on down.
The four men didn’t bother to get up when Rhodes stopped the car and stepped out. They just looked at him. He looked back. All four were wearing jeans covered with dirt and grease, and all had on denim vests but no shirts. Rhodes was surprised that all of them looked fairly clean. He guessed that they’d been swimming in the lake to keep cool.
Finally, one of them spoke. He was sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree, smoking a cigarette. “Well, fellas, looks like we’ve got us a visit from the High Sheriff himself. What’s the trouble, Sheriff?”
Rhodes looked at the man. He was older than Rhodes would have thought, and he didn’t really fit Rhodes’s idea of a biker at all. His iron-colored hair was greasy, but it was short and combed straight back in a widow’s peak. He looked quite short, and Rhodes guessed that if he stood up he wouldn’t be over five-feet five or six. He was slightly pudgy, but his face had a vaguely satanic look because of a pointed chin. He looked to Rhodes like a congenital liar. On one arm was the Los Muertos tattoo.
“I was just wondering if you folks had permission to camp here,” Rhodes said. His eyes looked over the area, but no shotgun was in sight. It could have been in the tent, however.
“Well, now, Sheriff,” the one who had spoken first said, “I expect we have as much right to be here as you do. More, in fact. Isn’t that right, Nellie?”
The man addressed as Nellie stood up. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he looked lean and fit. In fact, Rhodes thought he looked a lot like the German SS officers in old war movies. “That’s right, Rapper.” He looked at Rhodes. “The guy that owns this land is my uncle. He said it was fine with him if we stayed here a few days. Don’t recall him saying anything about letting anyone else visit, though.”
“I’m investigating a complaint,” Rhodes said.
Rapper stood up. Rhodes had been right about his height. “What complaint would that be, Sheriff?”
“Some of the residents have mentioned a lot of noise late at night,” Rhodes said.
“That’s just too bad,” Rapper said. “We have a right to go where we please, when we please. If the local yokels don’t like it, they can buy some ear plugs.”
One of the other men stood up. He had wavy hair that seemed to Rhodes to have a strangely greenish tinge. “Yuh,” he said. “You tell ‘em, Rapper. If they don’t like it, let ‘em-”
“Shut up, Jayse,” Rapper said. He didn’t even bother to look at the man, who shut up immediately. Rhodes didn’t have any doubt who was the boss of this bunch. He wondered if it was another case of the little guy who loved and took advantage of authority.
“Let me tell you something, Sheriff,” Rapper said. “We’re just four guys who like the great outdoors. We may drive noisy machines, but we’re not hurting anybody. So why don’t you just go catch some real criminals and leave us alone. If you do, we won’t report you for trespassing.”
The arrogance seemed to come off the little man in waves, and Rhodes could sense that he was accustomed to getting his way through fear and intimidation. Rhodes, however, didn’t intimidate as easily as some people might have guessed by looking at his easy-going face. “I’ll leave,” he said. “But if I have any more complaints about the noise, I’ll have a deputy out on these roads every night. With backup from the DPS. And if one of you has a cracked taillight or goes one mile an hour over the speed limit, you’ll be looking at the inside of a cell. We’ll check your records, too, and if there’re any outstanding warrants against you, you’ll be a gone goose.”
“Yuh, uh, don’t talk to Rapper like that, man,” Jayse said. “He’s put guys-”
“Shut up, asshole,” Rapper said, again without even looking at Jayse.
“Ah, but Rapper. .” Jayse began.
Rapper spun on him. “I said shut up!” he screamed. His face turned a deep, dark red as the blood rushed to it. The loose skin under his neck shook like a turkey’s wattle.
Jayse cowered away. Nellie said nothing. The fourth man still hadn’t moved.
Rapper controlled himself with a visible effort and turned back to Rhodes. “We’ll be good little boys, Sheriff. You can tell the widows and orphans that they can sleep well tonight. We’ll tippytoe down the roads from now on.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Rhodes accepted the meaning and not the intent. “Fine. I’m sure you’re as good as your word. Enjoy your camping trip.” He walked to his car and got in. As he drove away, he could see Rapper starting for Jayse with balled fists. The fourth man still hadn’t moved. Nellie was watching calmly.
Chapter 9
Rhodes believed that he was pretty good at reading people, and he read Rapper as a sadistic bully, just exactly the type who might blow away a man with a shotgun, even if the man was standing in his own front door. The fact that Rhodes hadn’t seen a shotgun didn’t mean much. If he’d tried to look into the tent, Rapper would no doubt have caused trouble.
It bothered Rhodes that Rapper had agreed so readily to keep down the noise. Despite his sarcasm, Rapper had meant what he said, or so Rhodes believed. Rapper wouldn’t have given in so easily on that point under ordinary circumstances. Which probably meant that he had something else to hide, something that he didn’t want to jeopardize because of petty hassles. Murder was something to hide, all right.
As the car’s tires rapped across the cattle guard, the radio crackled and Hack came on. Hack didn’t believe much in radio discipline. “You out there, Sheriff?” he asked.
Rhodes picked up the mike. “I’m here. What’s up?”
“Thought you might want to come on by the jail when you get a chance. The new deputy’s here, and she has somethin’ to tell you.” They were back to “the new deputy,” Rhodes thought. At least when Ruth was around. “Clyde Ballinger called, too. Says to tell you that Bert Ramsey’s funeral will be tomorrow at ten o’clock, in the funeral chapel.”
“Got it. That all?” Rhodes said.
“There’s a couple of other little things,” Hack said. “They’ll keep till you get here.”
“Ten minutes,” Rhodes said, and hung up the mike.
It was getting late when Rhodes got back to the jail, though it was still well over an hour until dark. He parked the car and went inside.
Lawton was nowhere to be seen. Ruth Grady was talking to Hack about the radio. “It’s amazing to me that you can operate something as complex as that,” she said. “And to stay here all hours doing it! That must take real dedication.”