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“What’s that for?” I asked.

“The only time you clean that damned rifle, that you don’t use, is when you’re procrastinating.”

“If that were true, this would be the cleanest gun in the West.”

Gus turned and left the room.

I picked up the phone and called information in Fort Collins. I asked for a Gary Castlebury; how many Castleburys could there be? There were in fact two G. A. Castleburys. I took both numbers and, of course, the first one I dialed was wrong. I dialed the second. A man answered.

“May I speak to Gary Castlebury?”

Silence on the other end.

“Hello?” I looked out the window at some gathering clouds.

“Who’s this?” the man asked.

“I’m trying to reach Wallace Castlebury’s brother,” I said. “Are you Gary?”

“What do you want?”

“Are you Gary Castlebury?”

“What do you want?”

“My name is John Hunt. Your brother worked for me for a couple of weeks.”

“So?” I felt that the man was about to hang up.

“Your brother asked me to get in touch with you. He’s gotten himself into some trouble up here in Highland. Actually, he’s in a lot of trouble.”

“What’s that supposed to mean to me?” the man said. “Quite a lot of trouble.”

“Wallace is your brother, isn’t he?” I asked.

“What kind of fuckin’ trouble is the asshole in now?”

“He’s been arrested for murder.”

Gary Castlebury was silent for a few seconds. Then he snorted, sounding almost like he was laughing. “That son of a bitch is too lazy to kill anybody.”

I didn’t say anything.

“What’s he want from me?” he asked.

“I told him I’d call you.”

“Well, thanks for callin’. You have a nice day now,” he said and with that he was off the phone.

I looked at the dead receiver and placed it back onto the cradle.

Gus had come to the doorway. “So?” he asked.

“That boy’s floating on a river of lava in a rubber raft.” I stood and locked my rifle back in the cabinet. “But you know what?”

“What?”

“It’s none of my business.”

Duncan Camp drove into my place with his single-horse trailer in tow behind his pickup. The trailer was open topped, a white affair with a broad green stripe, and in it stood a truly monstrous palomino.

“What the hell is that?” I asked as Duncan pulled himself out of his truck.

“It’s a horse, John,” Duncan said. “I’m surprised at you. Equus caballum.”

“Caballus,” I said.

“That’s what I said.”

“A horse. You sure?” I asked.

“Pretty sure,” Duncan said. “He’s got a horse brain, I can tell you that.”

“You want him for riding or picking apples?”

Duncan coughed into his fist, then took out a cigarette. “He’s a big one, all right.” He lit up. “Fifteen hundred pounds of dumb muscle and bad attitude.” He looked at the burning cigarette in his hand. “Doctor said these things are going to kill me. But he didn’t say when. I can’t work with imprecise information.”

“So, he spooks,” I said.

“Did I mention that he’s hard to catch?”

“Not until now,” I said. “He trailers okay, though.” It was more a question than an observation.

“He has his moments.”

“My daughter named him Felony.”

“That’s charming.” I looked at the horse’s eyes. Felony looked frightened and he was snorting and prancing in place. “We’d better get him out of there. I want you to stick him in the round pen. Take off his halter.”

Duncan backed the horse out of the trailer; the animal swung his hindquarters around sharply before he was clear of the ramp. The big man lost his balance, but he didn’t fall.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m just getting old.” Duncan turned the horse and walked him toward the round pen. “You gonna start with him now?”

“Might as well see what I’m getting myself into,” I said.

Duncan walked the horse into the pen, removed the halter as I had instructed, and came back out. He stepped onto the observation deck with me, and we watched the animal trot and canter around the circle, one way and then the other.

“He’s a pretty mover,” I said. “Big cus.”

Duncan didn’t say anything.

“What’s he do when you try to catch him?” I asked.

“You might say he can be a little chargey,” Duncan said.

I laughed and looked Duncan in the eye. “How chargey?”

“Oh, he’ll come right at you sometimes. Mostly, though, he just gives you his butt.”

“How hard?” I asked. “When he comes right at you?”

“Varies,” he said.

“So, he spooks under saddle and attacks when he’s not.” I took Duncan’s silence as agreement. I said, “I say we shoot him.”

“He sure is pretty,” Duncan said.

“Okay, we shoot him and stuff him.” I blew out a breath. “Well, I guess it’s time to see what we’ve got in there. Let me have the halter and lead rope.”

Duncan handed them to me. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Call nine-one-one.”

I climbed down the steps and walked into the pen, holding the halter in my right hand and I held the tail end of the cotton lead rope in my left. The other end was still fastened to the halter. The horse pulled up on seeing me and sped away in the opposite direction. He kicked up more dust and when I was in the center of the circle, the horse started storming clockwise around me. I picked a spot on the wall opposite the gate. When the horse approached that spot, I tossed the halter out, hanging on to the end of the rope. Felony put on the brakes, rolled back, and tore off anti-clockwise. When the animal came to the same point on the circle, I tossed out the halter again. This time the horse paused and trotted by it. I talked to the horse the whole time, calling his name, making soothing sounds.

“You okay?” Duncan asked.

“Yep.”

Every time the horse came to that spot, I tossed the halter. Soon the horse was slowing when approaching the spot. After a couple more tosses, he was stopping at the spot and turning to face me. That was what I wanted. I then pushed the horse away with a large gesture of my arms. When he stopped again, I turned my back to him and took a step away. Felony followed me across the pen. I turned and let the horse sniff the halter. He let me stroke his neck. I left the pen.

“That was great,” Duncan said, coming down from the platform.