The Case of the Drowsy Mosquito

Chapter 5

The cattle ranch was a huge, sprawling anachronism which continued to exist within a hundred miles of Los Angeles much as it had seventy-five years ago, a tract of many thousands of acres of rolling plateau country garnished with picturesque live-oaks, canyons green with sycamore, and peaks covered with chaparral and greasewood, watched over by brooding, snow-capped mountains in the purple distance.

The cat-footed cattle horses came winding in single file down from the rugged back country, following a rough cattle trail which was all but obliterated in places. Down below, ranch headquarters rested in a little tree-studded valley. There was still a faint trace of green in the grass, but for the most part it had turned to a parched brown, tribute to the dry air, the cloudless skies, and the blazing sunlight.

Della Street, the notebook in her right saddlebag well filled with data concerning old corners, witness trees, abandoned roads, and burned fences, rode with that easy rhythm which absorbs the motion of the saddle and is so easy on both horse and rider.

“Tired?” Mason asked.

“No. I think it’s delightful.”

Harvey Brady, the owner of the ranch, half turned in the saddle and grinned. “Think you’ve got it all straight now?” he asked. “Otherwise, we can go back.”

“I think,” Della Street laughed, “I’ll settle for something to eat instead.”

The cattleman tilted the sweat-stained sombrero back on his head and looked out over his vast domain with shrewd sun-bleached eyes that saw everything. The little cavalcade hit a more traveled trail now. A cloud of reddish-gold dust enveloped them, a dust cloud heavy enough to cast a shadow in the sunlight. Fine particles of dust settled on the riders. The horses, their sides incrusted with the salt of dried perspiration, increased their rapid walk.

Down far below, a horse was standing in three-legged relaxation, head drooped forward. The reins casually dropped to the ground held him as motionless as though he’d been tied, a sure sign of the trained cattle horse.

Harvey Brady said, “Don’t know what they’ve got that horse out there for — standing in the sun. Must be waiting to pick up our dust... That’s right, here comes one of the men.”

A cowpuncher, running awkwardly in black leather chaps and high-heeled boots, emerged from the ranch house, picked up the reins, tossed them back over the horse’s neck and grasped the horn of the saddle. Instantly all awkwardness left him. The man swung into the saddle, the whirl of the horse circling him into a firm seat. Thereupon, horse and rider became merged into a streak of motion which dust-spurted across the little amphitheater of valley at a gallop, and then started climbing the zigzag trail.

The cattleman pushed his horse into swifter motion. “Looks like something’s gone wrong,” he said.

The courier met them within a matter of minutes, a bronzed, slim-waisted cowpuncher who reined back to the side of the trail, the horse balanced precariously on the edge of the steep slope, moving restlessly, apparently in danger of losing his footing at any moment and precipitating both himself and his rider down the sharp declivity.

The cowpuncher sat easily in the saddle, his body swaying with the motions of the horse, paying no attention to the sharp drop behind him, holding the sensitive-mouthed animal with a light hand on the reins.

“Long-distance Los Angeles operator’s been trying to get Perry Mason all day. They really began burning up the wires about twenty minutes ago. They say the call’s terribly important. He’s to take it just as soon as he can.”

“Thanks, Joe. We’ll be moving right on,” the cattleman said.

Della Street exclaimed, “Oh, do be careful. That horse is going to lose his balance and—”

White teeth flashed a contrast against the bronze skin. “Don’t worry, ma’am. He knows that slope’s there just as well as I do.”

Harvey Brady spurred his horse into motion.

“Take it easy,” Mason called. “All clients have a way of thinking their particular business is terribly important. But thanks for letting me know, Joe.”

The cowpuncher grinned an acknowledgment. As the horses moved on past, his mount, eager to get in the lead, threw back his head, showed the whites of rolling eyes, distended red nostrils. “Thought I’d better let you know,” the rider said, and then fell into place behind the little cavalcade.

The slope became less abrupt. The trail ceased to zigzag. The cattleman ahead, setting the pace, broke into a full gallop; the horses lunging up the short climbs, scurrying down the slopes, leaning far over to one side and then the other as they followed the winding turns of the cattle trail.

Mason, swinging from the saddle, seemed stiff and awkward beside the easy grace of the professional cattlemen. They clumped across a porch, opened a door marked OFFICE and entered a room with an unpainted floor splintered from the pounding of many heels. A counter ran two thirds of the length of the room. A stove made out of a fifty-gallon gasoline drum reposed in the center of the room. A girl working over some books at a desk smiled at Perry Mason. “There’s the telephone, Mr. Mason.”

Mason nodded thanks, walked across to the telephone, picked up the receiver and asked for the Los Angeles operator.

Della Street saw the morning newspaper which had just been brought in with the mail. And, while waiting for the call to come through, she turned to the “Vital Statistics.”

“Looking for corpses?” Mason asked, smiling.

She said, “You have no romance in your soul. You wouldn’t— Oh, here it is.”

“Here what is?”

“The notice of intention.”

Della Street folded back the paper, circled the item in the Vital Statistics with a pencil and read: “Bowers — Brunn, Prentice C., 42, 619 Skyline, San Roberto; Lucille M., 33, 704 6th Street, San Roberto.” She smiled across at Perry Mason. “I’m glad they’re going ahead with it. Somehow I had an idea that romance might have hit a legal snag. There was so much—”

The telephone rang. Mason picked up the receiver.

Banning Clarke’s voice, shrill with excitement, said, “This you, Mason?”

“That’s right. Mason talking.”

“Been trying to get you all day. They said you were just out on the ranch somewhere, so I kept thinking you’d call any minute. How big is that ranch, anyway?”

Mason laughed. “You could ride all day getting to one boundary fence and back.”

“Heck, I thought it was just a ranch. Told ’em to get you about half an hour ago — couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So I understand. What’s wrong?”

“I’m in a mess. Got to see you just as soon as you can get here.”

“That may be some time the latter part of the week. I—”

“No, no. I mean right now — today — as soon as you can drive up here. They’ve dug up the old by-laws. Seems as though there’s a regular annual stockholders’ meeting due for today. They’ve been kind of slipping one over on me. They’ve got some smart lawyer coming up to put me in a jack pot.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said firmly. “I’ve been out ever since daylight looking over a disputed boundary line and—”

“And last night somebody poisoned my mother-in-law and Jim Bradisson. Then somebody took a couple of shots at my nurse. That, and the arsenic in the food...”

Mason’s face twisted into a grin. “The shooting does it. I’ll be up just as soon as I can get there.”

“Be sure to come to the back door,” Clarke said. “I want to see you before any of the others know you’re here.”

Mason hung up and turned to Della Street. “Want to take a fast ride?” he asked.

“On a horse?”

“Definitely not on a horse.”

“That,” she announced, “is quite different.”

The cattleman’s voice was dry. “Try to get away from here without a drink and something to eat, and I’ll show you what shooting really is.”