Left Hanging (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

HERE
WAS AN exaggeration. But I didn’t realize that until a good fifteen minutes worth of road had brought us to a compound that looked more like Hollywood’s idea of ranch buildings than any Wyoming ranches I’d seen. For one thing, all the buildings were the same vintage, rather than historical strata that, like rings of a tree, showed an established ranch’s years of necessity, boom, and bust.

It took a couple moments longer of peering at the set-up to realize another difference. The house was in the center, flanked by the ranch buildings. On most ranches, the ranch buildings stuck together while the house sat to one side, presumably to limit the impact of smells, dirt, and other potential inconveniences.

“Are the Newtons high-siders or low-siders?” I asked. I’d learned that residents in Cottonwood County’s western part—closer to the mountains—were designated high-siders. Low-siders lived in the eastern area, where the land was flatter, drier, and tougher.

“Low-siders geographically. But Newt’s got one of the biggest spreads in the county, along with the other businesses. Some would say high-siders for that.”

“I’d have expected Stan would want high-side property.”

“Nothing available when he bought. And he wanted big.”

Tom steered the truck to the left, honked twice, and stopped.

Cas Newton emerged from a building that appeared to be a stable, with a trio of dogs trailing him. Tom raised a hand in greeting out the open truck window. Cas returned the gesture and started toward us. I read reluctance in his lack of speed.

“What breed are those dogs?” I asked. “They look like Shadow.”

“Those are top-notch cattle dogs,” Tom said as he opened his door, “and if Newt hears you likening that stray of yours to them, he’ll throw you off his place before you can say another word.”

I huffed, but contained myself.

As we approached each other across open ground that gave off a strong smell of sun-heated dirt with each step we took, I watched Cas. But all I got was that he had the Stoic Westerner demeanor pegged. Or else he didn’t recognize me as the person who’d spotted him and Ms. Blue Hair under the bleachers. That was possible, considering the lighting and that my head had been thunking on the footwell like a dummy in a simulated car crash, which would make it hard to recognize anyone.

Tom said, “Hey, Cas.”

He responded, “Mr. Burrell.”

“Cas, I understand you met Ms. Danniher yesterday.”

He confirmed with a “Ma’am.”

“She’s hoping you have more time to answer questions now.”

“I got work, Mr. Burrell.”

“I know. But the lady respected your time before competing last night, and she drove out here, so you can take a few minutes to answer some questions.”

A few minutes?
I’d have to set ground rules for Burrell being part of this, and that included not committing me to a deadline I might not keep. There was also the matter of how Tom knew I’d met Cas last night, as well as the tidbit about respecting the kid’s time.

“I don’t know anything,” Cas mumbled with traces of sullenness.

“We won’t know that until you hear my questions, and I hear your answers. You don’t mind if I record this to make sure I get things straight, do you? For my use, not for broadcasting.” I ran it together, wrapped with a cheerful bow, as I pressed the pocket recorder’s button. “Has there been any trouble at the rodeo grounds in the past week or so?”

“No, ma’am. We most all know each other and get along.”

“Anything unusual happen before Thursday morning?”

“No. Well
 . . .
but that wasn’t—”

“Go ahead and say, Cas,” Tom said.

“Somebody got in my gear bag. I didn’t notice until last night, and it wasn’t a big deal. Nothing missing. Probably just one of the guys needing tape or something.”

“You noticed Thursday night—when could someone have gotten into it?” I asked.

He frowned. “Wednesday night most likely. I’d left it with my ropes while I talked to somebody after my events, and when I came back, it looked like somebody’d knocked into my stuff. Didn’t think anything of it, not until I saw things moved around last night.”

“Any idea who might have done that?”

“No. It’s just regulars around.”

Tom shifted his weight. But I didn’t need the hint. “That’s not entirely true, is it, Cas?” I let that sink in. As red started up his neck—chagrin at being called on the fib, rather than anger—I added, “I’ve already talked with two cowboys from the circuit who don’t usually compete here. I want to hear your side.”

His eyes flashed to mine in transparent surprise. His first unguarded reaction. “Side? Nothing’s happened between the circuit cowboys and us.”

Sometimes a shot in the dark doesn’t hit anything. “Outsiders have been around the rodeo grounds, however, right?”

“A few, I guess. Most circuit guys come later. And they’re mostly not above saying hey to a local because they have their pro rodeo card and I—we don’t yet.”

“What did you talk to Grayson Zane about yesterday evening?”

“He wanted to get filled in, since he hadn’t been here in a few years. Asking how the rodeo was run, who was in charge, things like that.” The glow in his face now had nothing to do with chagrin. He basked in the memory of being asked anything by a champion.

“Like who the judges are? Chute men? Clowns?” Tom asked. I suspected it was more to fill in for me than out of curiosity.

“Sure, that. And about the committee, the front office.”

“How about the stock contractor? Did he ask about him?” I resumed.

Cas shook his head. “No. He knew Landry was dead. Everybody’d heard by then.”

“How about yesterday morning? Did you see Zane then?”

“No. I wasn’t at the rodeo grounds in the morning.” The jury was out on the truthfulness of that answer.

“What did you think of Keith Landry?”

“Can’t say I knew him. Saw him a bit other years.”

Not a word about the lunch. “Has there been any talk about this year’s rodeo? Anything out of the ordinary?”

He shook his head.

“Have you heard rumors or stories about people involved with the rodeo that have to do with their personal lives?”

His eyes did the bad-liar flicker. On top of that, when he said, “No,” he didn’t shake his head, as he had with previous negatives.

Pressing or not pressing is always a split-second decision. This time my internal vote went for not pressing. If I wanted to talk to the kid later, better to play it friendly now. “How about non-rodeo people? Any issues there?”

“No problem with town folk.” That was deliberately obtuse.

“What about the animal rights people protesting out front?”

“We ignore them.”

That came fast and a little loud. He’d rehearsed it. But if he hadn’t recognized me as last night’s spotter—and I thought he’d be a lot more embarrassed now if he had—who had he rehearsed for?

“Must be hard to ignore every last one of them
 . . .
” I held his gaze an extra beat. He tensed but didn’t crumble. “. . . when they’re shouting as you drive past the gates.”

“Only when it spooks the horses we’re trailering in.”

“You don’t mind animal rights activists saying rodeo hurts animals?”

The kid and Tom made eye contact. So much for Stoic Westerners. They might as well have shouted
Outsider Alert
. With a side order of disgusted
Women!

“One of the jobs of a journalist is to ask questions the audience would ask,” I said. “That’s the image of rodeo for a lot of people. That you cowboys are having sport at the expense of pain to the animals. Prods and spiked straps and sharp spurs. That’s what a lot of people beyond Wyoming think of when they think of rodeo.”

“All against the rules,” Cas said. “No prods allowed. Spurs got to be rounded, so they roll along the horse’s hide, not dig in. And that’s with a horse’s skin seven-, eight-times tougher than ours. And flank strap’s got to be padded with fleece or that rubber stuff.”

“Neoprene,” Tom filled in.

“Right, that stuff. So it’s padded. But even if it weren’t, you’d have to be some kind of fool to cinch it tight, because that would keep the horse from kicking up as much, and that’s what you want because it’s how you get points.”

Tom nodded. The kid nodded back. They turned to me, probably to see if I was nodding. I wasn’t.

“Besides, they aren’t accusing us of doing those things here in Sherman,” Cas said, volunteering something for the first time. “They got this loopy idea about animals roaming free. No riding horses, no keeping a dog on a leash, no having a cat inside. Most of ’em wouldn’t know which end of a horse to feed, much less that they’re individuals. You ever seen a bucking horse, ma’am?”

“Of course. I’ve been to the rodeo.” Twice.

“I mean out, natural. C’mon.” He struck out, with Tom right behind, neither looking at me. If I stayed put, I’d get left.

I didn’t stay put, but I still lagged. Boots let them extend their head start while I slid around in the leather flats I’d worn while last night’s shoes aired out. Who knew dust could be so slippery.

I joined them at a pasture fence. Two gray-muzzled horses ambled over, eyeing Tom and me with curiosity before focusing on Cas.

“This’s Jammer.” Cas pulled a baggy from a pocket. I was revising my view of him until I realized it held oats. He shook out a pile on a palm and extended it to the horse, which muzzled the food deftly. “He’s bucked any soul who’s tried to ride him.”

He fed a bucking bronco by hand, and I couldn’t get a dog to be in the same yard with me when he ate.

“Now, his full brother, Marble, here
 . . .
” Cas fed the other horse. “. . . wouldn’t buck if you set off a firecracker under him. Jammer came out bucking from the start. Threw one too many hands, and my grandpa wanted to sell him for dog meat.”

Checking ingredients of Shadow’s dog food shot up my to-do list.

“It was Dad who put Jammer in rodeo. Was in the NRF three years running,” Cas said with evident pride.

Tom murmured. “National Rodeo—”

“Finals,” I finished with all the confidence of someone who’d known that for nearly a whole day. “That’s fine, but—”

“Wait,” Cas said. “Watch this.”

I followed the direction of his tilted cowboy hat in time to see Jammer kick out his heels, arch his back in a move a Halloween cat would envy, kick out again. He repeated the cycle, then trotted to us. I’m no expert on horses—or dogs, as I’ve proven—but I swear that animal was grinning.

“You showing off that old renegade again?” asked a sharp voice from behind us.

It was Stan Newton. He shook hands with Tom, who introduced me.

“Didn’t think Cas did near good enough last night to have TV come out to talk to him. Nowhere near his potential.” Not only was Newton one of
those
fathers, but he was playing games by pretending Tom hadn’t called about my visit.

“That’s Mike Paycik’s beat.” I blithely threw Mike under this bus. “I wanted to talk to Cas about information he might have concerning Keith Landry and his death, since Cas was at the rodeo grounds the evening before
 . . .
”

I stopped because Stan had gone from fair weather to tornado in a heartbeat. He stepped toward me. I held my ground. Unnecessarily, Burrell interposed his shoulder.

I’d learned over the years that, unless he has a mob behind him, an interview subject who comes straight at you is seldom as dangerous as the ones who slither around behind you. That went for husbands, too.

“It’s a good thing the sheriff’s department has more sense than you do, Miss Big-Shot TV reporter. They know Cas had nothing to do with that poor excuse for a stock contractor.”

“Dad. It’s just questions.”

“Poor excuse for a stock contractor? But you supported his bid last fall and more recently.”

Stan Newton’s lightning bolt gaze flickered. His expression backed down to merely stormy, and he retreated a step. Burrell returned to his previous position. “Learned things since.”

“Like?”

“That’s rodeo committee business, not yours.” Newton wasn’t done blowing hard. “I’ll tell you who you should be asking questions of—those crazy animal people. I’ve always said they were nuts enough to cause real trouble. They ain’t normal.”

“Do you have any evidence that connects them to Landry’s death?” I might have stressed
evidence
.

“What I’ve got is good sense. Those people yelling and screaming about things they know nothing about don’t have a lick of sense. And they’ve never worked for anything. Those are the people you should be asking. That’s the kind to up and throw a man into a bull pen to let him get stomped to death for no good reason. That’s what I told that deputy this morning on the phone. Wanted to talk to the sheriff—
acting
sheriff since you liberal media types are driving out the real sheriff—but that Alvaro boy thought he knew better. Let me tell you, that isn’t the way things were run under Sheriff Widcuff.”