Ride the Thunder (33 page)

“It happened so quickly, Jocko—yet so very slowly,” Jordanna said in an absent tone.

“Drink the coffee,” the Basque ordered gently, but firmly. “It will help.”

Staring at the cup, Jordanna kept remembering Brig’s comment. It echoed over and over in her mind. She lifted her gaze to Jocko. Her eyes were the troubled green of a storm-tossed sea.

“Brig said that he warned Max the mountains would kill him. What do you think he meant by that?”

“Probably nothing,” Jocko said after a moment’s hesitation. “Sometimes at the scene of death, we say things that have no meaning. They are just words spoken because we cannot express what is felt inside.” He nodded to the cup in front of her. “Drink the coffee.”

Obediently, she picked up the cup and brought it to her lips. The strongly sweet liquid burned its way down her throat. She glanced across the table at her brother. He looked troubled, but when he saw her looking at him, he smiled in an expression of gentle reassurance and understanding.

T
HE MISTING RAIN
hung like a gloomy pallor over the camp as the trio of men returned. Brig was leading his buckskin. An elongated bundle wrapped in canvas was draped over his saddle, tied with a rope. The slow cadence of the horses’ plodding hooves resembled a death march. Jordanna, Kit, and Jocko came out of the tent to meet them.

While Tandy and Fletcher dismounted, Brig began untying the ropes that held the body in the saddle. Jocko went forward to help them. Together, they lifted the body down and laid it on the ground near the large tent. Brig’s rain poncho glistened wetly as he straightened and addressed them in an emotionless voice of calm command.

“We’re breaking camp. As soon as everything is packed and loaded we’ll start out of the mountains. We don’t have any way of getting in touch with the authorities about the accident so we’ll have to pack Max’s body out.”

“I have already begun the packing,” Jocko told him.

Brig nodded his approval and walked back to take the buckskin’s reins in his hand once more. “Let’s get the horses ready, Tandy.” He added the reins of Fletcher’s horse to the ones in his hands.

“You aren’t going to leave Max lying there . . . in the rain,” Jordanna protested.

Brig gave her a stony look. “He’s past the point of knowing that it’s raining.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung smoothly into the saddle, leading Fletcher’s horse.

Tandy followed him, leading his horse and the limping bay. At the picket line, Jordanna and Kit’s horses stood saddled, a blanket draped over the leather to protect it from the rain. Brig and Tandy did the same with their horses, all except the injured bay.

“We’ll have to clean out these wounds and put some disinfectant on them,” Brig said. “Go get some from Jocko.” The saddle tree was broken. Brig uncinched the saddle and lifted it to the ground. “I’ll save the cinch straps. The rest of the saddle is worthless now.” As he pulled off the saddle blanket, he noticed the line of gouged hide beneath it. He frowned. “Look at this.”

“Must have cut himself when he fell,” Tandy commented. “I’ll fetch that medicine.”

Opening his mouth to call Tandy back, Brig hesitated. He turned back to the horse and re-inspected the wound and its location beneath the saddle blanket. He was suspicious of the wound. It would take a very sharp rock to cut like that. Bending down, Brig picked up the saddle blanket and looked on the underside. In a corner, corresponding to the location of the wound, he found a thorny twig imbedded in the stiff material. The thorns were savagely sharp and large.

Brig rolled it between his gloved fingers. There hadn’t been any thorn bushes or berry bushes on that slope. In his mind, he went over the route of the trail. There hadn’t been any along there either. Where could
the twig have come from? The last place he remembered seeing bushes with thorns the size of this one was two or three days ago. It couldn’t have been caught in the saddle blanket all that time. Tandy wasn’t that lax.

His fingers closed into a fist, the thorns of the twig digging through the leather into his palm. It had to have been put there by someone. As a practical joke? Had someone wanted to see Max get bucked off? It was certain that the instant those thorns dug into the boy’s back, the horse would start bucking. Which is exactly what it had done.

Brig studied the location of the wound again and the placement of the twig. Initially the thorns would be a minor irritant to the horse. Brig remembered how skittish the bay had been when Max had first mounted at camp. The thorns wouldn’t pierce the hide until the rider’s weight shifted to the back of the saddle—as it had when the bay had started to climb the switchback trail.

Someone had killed Max—deliberately or accidentally. There wasn’t anyone in camp with such a perverted sense of humor to play this kind of practical joke. That left a deliberate attempt. But why? Brig shook his head in confusion and tried another approach.

Fletcher had been the last one to handle the bay before Max got on it. He had tied the horse up after Tandy had ridden out its morning buck. That meant Fletcher had the opportunity to put the thorns under the blanket. And Fletcher had asked if they were following the same route—which meant the steep trail over the ridge. There was the other incident when Max had nearly fallen and Fletcher hadn’t helped to save him. And the incident with the rattlesnake back at the ranch.

“But why?” Brig muttered tightly under his breath. Why would Fletcher want him dead? A person like Max could never be a threat to a man like him. It
made no sense. A puzzled and angry frown creased his forehead.

There was Jordanna. What part did she have to play in all this? Fletcher had given orders for her to be nice to him. Why? Pain squeezed at his chest. Was it tied up with this—Max’s death? Was she a diversion to keep him from becoming suspicious? This morning, she had waylaid him with coffee, and kept him talking while Fletcher helped Tandy with the horses. Brig had to clench his jaw tightly to keep the anguished groan from tearing out of his throat. The words she had said that morning came back to him like a knife slicing into his heart:
Why did you save him? Wouldn’t you be better off if he wasn’t around?
He forced his mind to concentrate on the lost shoe on the pinto horse, which began to take on a suspicious light.

Max’s death had been murder—made to look like an accident. But how could he prove it? He couldn’t. Tandy had had access to the bay. As far as that went, he had access himself. Lord knew, that of all the hunting party, he had more motive for killing his cousin than anyone else. Had that been planned, too? Brig had wondered why Fletcher had chosen him as a guide over the many professionals. His reasons had sounded so logical, if a little weak. But Brig had needed the money too badly to ask many questions. Fletcher had probably counted on that.

It had been a set-up from the beginning. And he was the patsy, the fall guy. If the accident was uncovered as a murder, he had the motive, the opportunity, and the means. Who were the witnesses? Fletcher, his son, and daughter—all supposedly innocent observers. Brig realized that if he opened his mouth, he might be putting his own neck in a noose. He had to have some kind of proof against Fletcher . . . a motive.

He had never really liked or respected Max. Brig didn’t pretend to feel any grief at his death. But to condone murder simply because he didn’t like his
cousin? No. He wasn’t about to let Fletcher get by with it.

“I’ve got that salve from Jocko.” Tandy came hurrying through the rain. “And some rags and warm water to wash the grit out of his wounds.”

“Take care of him then.” Brig moved away from the bay, slipping the thorned twig into his pocket.

Tandy crouched beside the horse’s front feet and began gently bathing the scraped flesh. Brig walked over to the three remaining packhorses and wiped the moisture from their backs before putting on the pads and packsaddles.

“We’re two horses short. What are we going to do?” Tandy asked.

“We’ll have to distribute gear to the riders. Everyone will have to carry his own duffle, and anything else that the packstring can’t handle. We don’t have any choice.”

“What about Jughead? He ain’t going to be in fit enough condition to travel.” The horse pulled away from the picket line as the soapy water Tandy was washing his legs with stung its raw flesh.

“We’ll have to turn him loose. Pull the shoes off the pinto, too. They’ll follow us for awhile. Eventually they’ll make their way back to the ranch.” The fate of two horses was the least of Brig’s concerns at the moment. “Have you noticed any thorn bushes around?”

“Thorn bushes?” Tandy looked up with a frown.

“Yes, thorn bushes. Or berry bushes,” Brig repeated with marked patience. “Have you noticed any?”

“Not that I recall, but I wasn’t exactly looking for them either. Why?”

“It’s not important.” Brig shrugged. “Are any of those scrapes serious?”

“No, but they’re gonna be sore as hell.” The horse kicked at Tandy and tried to bite him. “Settle down!” Tandy yelled and hit the bay in the belly with his fist. “I’m trying to help you, you old crowbait nag! You deserve all this pain for buckin.’ on that slope and getting a man killed.” The horse snorted and stood stock-still,
intimidated by the roaring voice more than the blow. “Do you reckon the authorities will want to see Jughead, him being the horse that throwed Max and all?”

“I don’t know. But we can’t very well take him along. He’d slow us up too much.” Brig adjusted the packsaddle on the last horse and tightened the cinch. “If they want him, they’ll have to come look for him.”

“I s’pose you’re right.” Tandy sighed. “Damn, but it’s a lousy day.”

Brig walked to the buckskin and stripped off its protective blanket to step into the saddle. There was a nagging doubt in his mind and he knew he wouldn’t rest until it was satisfied.

The stocky cowboy glanced up. “Where are you going?”

“To check something. I won’t be long.”

The buckskin made little sound as Brig walked him through the trees and the rain-soaked carpet of needles. Deliberately he avoided riding through the camp, skirting it widely before picking up the trail that led to the switchback. The whispering rain continued to fall. Brig walked the horse slowly, stopping every now and then to search the trail on either side for thorn bushes. There was little undergrowth along the trail. The area around the switchback was devoid of any at all. Brig dismounted, dropping the reins to groundhitch his horse. He walked the churned earth where the bay had first started acting up, and followed its route to the patches of talus. Halfway down, he saw an object that didn’t belong in its surroundings. It was a leather wallet, half-covered by the loose rock. Brig picked it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket, opposite the one that contained the briar. A last scan of the area convinced him he hadn’t been wrong. There wasn’t a thorn bush, a briar patch, or a clump of berry bushes to be found.

A rolling whicker came from the buckskin as Brig walked back to it. He absently rubbed the wet nose the horse thrust toward him and walked to its left side
to mount. His features were grim and hard as he turned the horse toward camp.

Brig had intended to turn off the trail and skirt the camp area itself again. Before he reached that point, he saw a yellow-slickered figure at the head of the trail. It was Fletcher. Brig rode the buckskin directly toward camp. Fletcher’s expression was smoothly controlled to show only mild interest.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I went back over the trail,” Brig admitted.

“Why?”

He reached in his pocket and took out the billfold. “I remembered that Max didn’t have his wallet on him. I went back to look for it.” His hard expression was equally bland.

“Tandy said you were turning the bay horse loose to make his own way home.”

“That’s right.” Brig stopped the buckskin and leaned forward to rest his forearms on the saddle horn, the rain dripping off his hat. “By tomorrow morning, that horse will be so stiff he probably won’t be able to do much more than hobble. He’ll come to the ranch when he’s able.” He looked Fletcher in the eye. “I don’t think the authorities will be particularly interested in seeing him. After all, it was just an unfortunate accident.”

“Yes. Yes, it was,” Fletcher nodded with a show of sorrow. “I offered to ride the bay this morning. I was afraid he was more horse than Max could handle, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Now . . .” he sighed. “Now, he’s dead.”

Brig tossed the wallet to Fletcher and the saddle creaked as he straightened in the stirrups. “Have Jocko put that with Max’s things.”

“I will.”

Clicking to the buckskin, Brig reined the horse around the man in the path and trotted it through camp to the picket lines. The tents were already struck and two of the packhorses were being loaded.

*   *   *

Within an hour they had left. They rode until twilight before making camp that night. No one talked much, communicating only when it was necessary. The camp was crude, consisting of two lean-to’s. The slanted canvas roof was supported by two poles in front and weighted to the ground in back with heavy rocks, forming a shelter from the steady drizzle. After supper, it was a somber group that sat huddled under the lean-to near the fire. Jordanna was one of the first to call it a night and crawl into her sleeping bag fully clothed. The others gradually followed her lead one by one until only Brig was left at the fire. Jordanna rolled onto her side and watched the dancing shadows cast on the canvas by the flickering fire. Her eyelids seemed heavily weighted. She closed them.