Lone Creek

4

The ranch roads were all rough and this one was worse than most, washboarded and studded with rocks the size of tire rims. There was no speed you could drive at that wouldn't rattle your teeth. Bad as I wanted to be gone, I took it slow.

But within two or three minutes, I saw another dust cloud coming toward me. At its core was a vehicle of a startling arrest-me-red color, doing at least forty. This wasn't the small engine I'd heard. This was an extended three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive, diesel-powered Dodge Ram, about the biggest, newest, shiniest pickup truck that money could buy. It belonged to Doug Wills, the ranch foreman.

Stockmen tended to be tough but good-natured and easygoing. But Doug was one of those guys who had to turn everything into a contest and come out the winner. That was probably why he was foreman. I'd heard he'd once been a pretty good bull rider, but he was thirty-five or so now, and like a lot of ex-jocks, he didn't like being over the hill. He didn't like me much, either. That had been simmering since I'd started working here.

Doug drove with that same aggressiveness, so his speed was no surprise. He came charging head-on like we were playing chicken, finally slamming on his brakes and ending up with his bumper barely a foot from mine. He jumped out and stomped toward me, shoving his Resistol cowboy hat back on his head. He was built like a badger, thick and powerful, with a bristling black mustache and a red meaty face.

"You cut that engine and stay put," he half yelled. "Mr. Balcomb wants to talk to you."

I didn't have any clear take on Laurie Balcomb's husband, Wesley. The word was that he'd made a fortune from the stock market in New York, or oil in Texas, or merchandising on the west coast, or a dozen other ways, depending on who you listened to. The one thing that seemed certain was that he didn't know anything about ranching. In spite of that, he was making sweeping changes on the place. By most accounts, he was pleasant and treated his employees well. Not all agreed, or cared for the direction the Pettyjohn Ranch was going in.

Like Laurie until today, he'd never spoken directly to my crew or me. All his instructions about our work got communicated through intermediaries. I didn't exactly fault him for that, but while it was easy to understand how a woman wouldn't feel comfortable coming on friendly to a construction gang, most men would at least say hello to other men working on their property.

The fact that Balcomb suddenly wanted to talk, plus Doug's acting over the top even for him, was a big red flag.

I cut the pickup's engine, thinking that might calm him down some.

"What's this about, Doug?" I said.

"You fucked up, is what." He looked sullenly pleased.

"I did? Balcomb told you that?"

"Mister Balcomb."

"Fucked up how?"

"You can ask him."

I almost said, Let's you and me go take a look at what I just found in that dump.

But I caught myself. The last few minutes had been time enough for me to go from being shocked to spooked. That smell was still strong in my nostrils, along with the sight of those gaping wounds and ripped-open bellies. I couldn't imagine who had done it or why, but I was damned sure going to be careful about getting on their radar.

I scanned the horizon. I could see at least a mile across the flat hay fields and pastures, but no more dust clouds were disturbing the hazy blue sky. I'd heard that Balcomb had a habit of making people wait for him-a power statement among businessmen, like hesitating before accepting a handshake. I decided it was my out.

"How long's he going to take?" I said.

"As long as he takes."

"Look, I've been busting my ass all week. I'm hot and tired and I want a cold beer. I'm not going to sit here until he decides to sashay on down."

Doug's face took on a knowing look. "He said you'd try to get away. Don't even think about it."

"Get away from what, for Christ's sake? I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to have done."

He snorted. "Nobody's believing you anymore."

On top of being scared, I was starting to get seriously pissed.

"Tell him I'll see him Monday," I said. "If he's in a big hurry, I'll be at O'Toole's. I'll even buy him a beer."

"Don't you start your smart-ass shit with me." Doug shoved a pointed forefinger at me through my open truck window.

That jacked up my touchiness level another big notch, partly because my left eyeball was sitting on a piece of plastic.

"You better step back," I said. "Unless you want your foot run over." I reached for the ignition keys to restart the truck.

"You ain't going nowhere, goddamn it!" His hand jumped through the window again, and this time he grabbed my collar.

I jerked up on the door handle and drove the door open with my shoulder, slamming it into him and tearing his grip loose from my shirt. When my feet hit ground, they slipped on the hard pebbly surface and I almost went down. Doug was already coming at me, low and dangerous, like he was going to throw a steer. I had a couple of inches in height on him, but we were about the same weight and he had a formidable compact strength. I knew that if he got hold of me, that was it.

His windmilling right fist caught me just below the heart, close to a spot where a couple of my ribs had once been broken. I felt sparks pop in my head and caught that tongue-touching-a-battery taste in my mouth of being on the edge of knocked out. It hadn't happened for years, but the memory was right there. His left hand came clawing in, trying to grab my shirt again. I blocked it with my forearm and managed to stick a short left onto the point of his nose. It only stung him, but it slowed him down long enough for me to jump back and get some range.

I slammed my left into his nose again, this time with power. It was the kind of shot that could blind a man with pain, and would have taken the fight out of many. Doug's breath exploded in a grunt, but he kept coming, blundering forward with his forearms covering his face.

I spun to his left and looped around with a hook that caught him square on the ear. It knocked him stumbling across the uneven ground.

"That's enough, Doug," I yelled. I was gasping for breath and my legs felt weak. "Back off!"

He glared at me with his teeth clenched, then charged, this time with no show of style or defense-just his hands outstretched to rip me apart.

I speared my left straight at his unprotected face and caught him once more square on the nose. A spray of blood burst out, and he let out a sound that was half bellow and half scream, like a bull calf getting cut. This time I sidestepped to the right, and as he crashed past, I planted my feet and drove my right fist at his jaw with everything I had. I felt the shock run through my shoulder and clear down to my toes. That straight right had always been my best punch.

Doug hit the ground with a thud like a dropped sack of grain. He wasn't out cold, and he kept moving-not trying to get up, I was glad to see, just twitching. His mustache and chin were blood-streaked and his eyes were vague, like he didn't know what had happened. I'd been there. But he looked OK, and I couldn't see that my staying around would make things any better.

When I put my truck in gear, I felt a twinge in my right wrist. It was jammed and starting to swell, but it didn't feel really sprained. I had to drive off the road to get around his Dodge, and jolting over that really rough ground got my ribs reminding me of where he'd tagged me. But I thought I'd dodged another bullet there-I didn't feel that piercing stab like when they'd been busted.

Before I went around a bend a half mile farther on, I caught a glimpse of Doug in my rearview mirror. He'd gotten up and was opening the door of his truck.

I had planned to swing back by the job site on my way out, but I decided just to get on into town. I'd been lucky, and I didn't like to push my luck.