“There’s always a reason,” I said. “How old is the idiot?”
“Five, six. I’m not sure. I just bought him and I don’t know much about his history. He’s a beautiful animal.” Duncan took a bite of his doughnut. “But he sees demons, this guy.”
“Well, bring him over and leave him with me for a while. He does trailer?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
The little bell on the front door rang and I turned to see if it was Gus entering the diner. It wasn’t. It was the young deputy, Hanks. He caught sight of me and made his way to me.
“Oh lord, what’d you do now?” Duncan said and laughed.
“Mr. Hunt?” the deputy asked.
“What can I do for you, son?”
“The sheriff told me to find you and ask you to come over to his office. I called your place and then I drove out, but you weren’t there.”
“Why does Bucky want to see me?” I asked.
The deputy was nervous or excited. He thumbed the top edge of his thick black belt. “It’s about a prisoner,” he said.
“Prisoner?”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
I looked over at Duncan. Duncan shrugged and I said, “I guess I’d better go see what this is all about.”
“I reckon,” Duncan said.
“Tell Gus to wait for me here when he shows up.”
Duncan nodded. “Will do. I’ll wait till he gets here.”
“Thanks.”
The sheriff’s name was Bucky Edmonds. He was a slow-moving but generally agreeable sort. He was extremely tall and so never seemed completely comfortable, never quite convincing when trying to be intimidating, and he always appeared a bit of a clown when caught indoors. Still, he was well meaning enough. When Hanks led me into the station the sheriff was hovering over the dispatcher near the front desk.
“You wanted me, Bucky?” I asked.
“I found him,” Hanks said.
“I can see that, deputy.” Then to me, “You know a fella named William Caitlinburg?”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe I do.”
“Says he works for you.”
“Wallace Castlebury?”
Bucky shot a look at Hanks. “Damn your handwriting, Hanks.” Edmond scratched the correction onto the form. “Wallace Castlebury,” he repeated the name. “You do know him then.”
“He’s worked for me for almost four weeks now. Why?”
“I got him locked up back there.” Edmonds tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “I haven’t questioned him yet. Hanks here and Douglas talked to him and he asked for you.”
“My first question, I guess, is ‘what did he do?’ and my second is ‘why the hell are you telling me?’” I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Like I said, John, he asked for you. He says he doesn’t know anybody else around here. You’re his phone call, so to speak.”
“He has some friends,” I said.
“He asked for you.”
“This idiot’s not expecting me to go his bail, is he?” I asked. When the sheriff didn’t answer, I said, “Is he, Bucky?”
“I doubt there’s going to be any bail.”
I studied the tall man’s face.
“He’s in here for murder. We’re pretty sure he’s the one who killed that boy last night.”
“And what am I supposed to talk to him about?”
“He asked for you. That’s all I can tell you. You’re not obliged to talk to him. I take it he’s not a friend of yours?”
“Has he been assigned a lawyer yet?” I asked.
“Not yet. We picked him up two hours ago. A defender’s driving up from Laramie. I’m not talking to him until his counsel gets here.” Edmonds pulled a pack of gum from his breast pocket and folded a stick into his mouth. “Want one?”
I shook my head. “I’ll talk to him for a minute.”
Edmonds whistled over to Hanks. “Deputy, I want you to walk Mr. Hunt back to the tank and let him talk to Castlebury.” He put emphasis on “Castlebury.”
I followed Hanks down a bright hallway and through a locked door that was less massive and impressive than I had imagined. Wallace was sitting on a metal cot behind a barred door.
“You’ve got a visitor,” Hanks said, sounding official. Then to me, “Just knock when you’re done.”
“I won’t be long,” I told him, hoping that he would understand that I didn’t want him wandering away. I watched the door close, then heard the lock catch. The sound gave me an unsteady feeling. I kept my distance from the cell door and looked at Wallce. He looked even more washed out than usual. His face was drawn, his eyes baggy. I was trying to wrap my thinking around the idea that he had killed someone. “You’re in jail, Wallace,” I said.
“They say I killed a guy,” he said, coming to the bars. He sounded just like the Wallace I knew. He studied the bars and shivered as if feeling a draft. He held them for a second then let them go.
“That’s what they’re saying,” I said.
“I didn’t do it.”
“I’m not your lawyer, son.”
“I don’t know nobody else.”
“I thought you told me you were staying with a friend?”
He backed up and sat on the cot, looked at his hands folded in his lap. He shook his head.
“A boy and a girl came looking for you this morning. White dually.”
He didn’t say anything.
I started to turn away.
“I got a brother in Fort Collins. His name is Gary. My folks is dead. All I got is my brother. He hates me, though. He won’t do nothing for me. He hates me, always has.”
“What about the kids in the white dually?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Listen, I’ll try to reach your brother, Wallace,” I said. I didn’t want to say it. “I’ll call him and tell what’s happened. I’ll give him what I owe you for the week. It won’t be much, maybe he can use the money to help pay the lawyer or something. Hell, I don’t know.”
“You believe I didn’t do it,” Wallace said.
I looked at the stupid face. “I’m not even sure what they’re saying you did. I don’t know you, Wallace. You’re not a friend of mine. Hell, you’re barely an acquaintance. You’re not even a good worker. Besides, it doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. You’re in a world of trouble and that’s what you need to be worried about. All the same, I’ll try to reach your brother.” I stepped away and knocked on the door.
Hanks opened it immediately. “You done?”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
“Mr. Hunt,” Wallace said. He was up now and at the door, gripping the bars in a pathetically clichéd way.
“Yes, Wallace?”
“I’m scared.”
I nodded.
Bucky was still by the dispatcher when I came out. “Well?” he asked.
“Says he didn’t do it, wants me to call his brother in Fort Collins. I think that’s what he wants.”
The horse isn’t supposed to make decisions. That’s the first thing. The second thing is that the rider is supposed to make decisions. If the horse gets ahead of you, you might get left behind. That’s the old saying. So, you’ve got to redirect the animal, break the routine, ride him between some bushes for no apparent reason. Don’t let him get chargey on steep hills.
TWO
AT THE FIRST SIGN of the green horse’s nose going up, the trainer should put on a running martingale. If he lets the nose get up, it’s too late to put the rings on.
The next day, I found myself faced with the unwelcome prospect of putting in a call to Wallace’s brother. I didn’t do it right away. I fed the horses, mucked out the stalls, and built a long-needed shelf in the tack room, nicking my finger in the process. Still, I’d said I would call and so I would. I put the tools back into the big red box, congratulated myself for doing so because I never put tools back where they belonged, and walked across the yard to the house. The air was still warm, but I could feel autumn coming. In the house, I settled behind the desk in my study and began cleaning my only rifle, an old Weatherby I’d had for years. I supposed in some way I liked the weight and feel of it, but I didn’t much like guns. Cleaning it reminded me of my father, his insistence on a tidy rifle. He thought one should show respect for the danger and the necessity of the thing. I appreciated the danger part, but the necessity part had only presented itself once, when I found an injured moose up mountain and had to put the animal out of his misery; as the animal had dragged himself around a four-meter circle, I wondered whether I would be ending his pain or my own on seeing him. The moose looked at me as I drew a bead and, in my human way, I imagined his asking for release. I guess I believed that a dirty gun was a scary one. I was pausing to inhale the scent of the gun oil when Gus plunked the phone down in front of me.