Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (12 page)

“It was okay, I guess,” he mumbled, then walked away.

“How’s Mrs. Molloy doing?” Seth asked Bonnie Cook.

“All right. She still wants her meals in the cabin, which is fine with us. Joel and Sue are taking turns delivering trays. I wonder whether staying alone is good for her, but that’s not my decision.”

“It’ll take her a while to come out of it,” Seth said as Crystal, one of the wranglers, suggested we follow her to the corral to get our horses.

“Everybody accounted for?” Jim asked, doing a silent head count.

“Willy won’t be with us,” Craig Morrison said.

“He can ride with me in the Jeep,” Jim said.

“He won’t be with us,” Evelyn said in a tone that put an end to any further discussion of Cousin Willy.

Jim and another wrangler, Jon Adler, drove two Jeeps carrying the cookout paraphernalia. We mounted our horses and fell in line behind Joe Walker, Crystal Kildare, and Andy Wilson. Walker told us before we set out that it might prove to be a long ride for the less experienced, and that we shouldn’t hesitate to ask for a rest stop at any point.

It was a beautiful afternoon, the Colorado sky a deep blue, the sun shining brightly, a lovely breeze tickling our faces as we rode slowly down the road until reaching a fork leading up to the high country. A pervasive sense of well-being consumed me as we navigated narrow, rough trails through groves of aspen and ponderosa pine. Rabbits scurried across our path. A doe observed us from no more than a hundred feet away before loping up a steep grade and disappearing over its rim.

The views became more spectacular the higher we climbed, and a sense of exhilaration set in. I wanted to urge Samantha to go faster, but couldn’t, of course, because the wranglers set the pace. Also, it was rough terrain, and I marveled at the horses’ ability to keep their footing.

No one said much during the first hour of the ride. Evelyn Morrison led the guests, riding directly behind Joe Walker. She rode tall in the saddle, her back ramrod straight, her rhinestone-studded Stetson perfectly positioned. Andy injected himself into the middle of our line, and Crystal moved to the rear. It was obvious since the day we arrived that Jim and Bonnie ran a tight ship. No one was ever allowed to take a horse without being accompanied by a wrangler, who kept a watchful eye on everyone for signs of fatigue, potentially dangerous horsemanship, or anything else that could put a guest in jeopardy.

Seth was the first to call for a break. “My back is getting to me,” he told me as he stretched against the pain. We’d reached a small clearing, a perfect spot for a rest stop. We climbed down from our horses and milled about.

“How much farther?” Seth asked.

“Oh, another half hour, forty-five minutes,” Andy said.

“Didn’t think it would be this rough,” Seth said.

“We can walk the horses for a while,” Crystal suggested.

“No, that’s all right,” Seth said. “I’ve come this far on horseback and intend to stay with it. Besides, I’m getting hungry. I can smell a big, fat, juicy hamburger cooked on a grill from here.”

After ten minutes, Evelyn Morrison said, “I suggest we move on. Perhaps you should have gone with Mr. Cook in the Jeep, Dr. Hazlitt.”

Seth gave her a hard look, managed to haul himself back up in the saddle, and said, “Let’s move ’em out!” The wranglers laughed as we mounted and resumed our journey to where Jim and Bonnie Cook would be waiting.

The final leg of the trip was the most precarious of all. Not that we were in any particular danger. The Cooks would not have chosen such a route. But we did have to go up a steep, rocky incline that traced the contour of a narrow trail, with a steep fall-off to our right. As comfortable as I’d become on Samantha, I felt a twinge of fear as I glanced down the slope, and silently urged the horse to stay on the straight-and-narrow. Until the rest stop, Seth had been directly behind me. But when we resumed the ride, the order in which we rode changed. Craig and Veronica’s teen son, Godfrey, now rode behind me, in front of Seth.

The head of the column reached the crest and slowly disappeared over it. “Come on, Samantha, nice and easy,” I said in soothing tones, patting her on the neck. I reached the top, brought Samantha to a halt, and looked down at a sprawling meadow. Although they were still a long distance away, I could see that Jim, Bonnie, and wrangler Jon Adler had set up for the cookout in an area containing tables and benches. Smoke drifted up invitingly from a grill. As I urged Samantha down the gentler incline in the direction of the meadow, I turned to see how Seth was progressing. Godfrey had just reached the crest. He’d been taking pictures with a point-and-shoot camera throughout the ride, and aimed it at the meadow. The shot he took was the last one on the roll. The camera suddenly made a mechanical, whining sound.

“Don’t do that,” I said, remembering Crystal’s admonition when instructing us the previous morning. My response was obviously too late.

I heard a horse whinny, and then the sound of rocks falling, followed by a voice unmistakably belonging to Seth. “Oh, no,” he shouted.

I didn’t know what to do. Should I try to turn Samantha around and return to the crest of the ridge, or get off and run back? My answer was to yell for the others to stop their descent. I then looked at Godfrey, who was observing whatever had happened behind him with curious detachment, and a sly, disconcerting grin.

I dismounted, handed Samantha’s reins to Andy Wilson, who’d heeded my call, and ran up the hill. What I saw hit me like a punch in the stomach. Seth’s horse stood passively. What was so upsetting was that Seth wasn’t on him.

“Seth!” I yelled.

I ran past Godfrey and his horse to Seth’s riderless mount, and looked down the fall-off. Now my heart beat even faster. Seth was twenty feet down the hill, resting on his side against a slender tree that had broken his fall. He slowly raised his hand to me.

“Thank God!” I said, grateful he was alive.

Andy and Joe joined me.

“What’s happened?” Andy asked.

“He must have been thrown,” I said. “The boy—he took the last shot on his camera and—”

The two wranglers ignored me and scrambled down the hill, grabbing trees as they went. They reached Seth and knelt over him.

“Is he all right?” I asked.

Walker looked up at me. “He’s banged up, but not too bad, I think.”

Crystal came to my side. Walker yelled up to her, “Go get Jim and Bonnie. Tell them to get to a phone and call for an ambulance.”

I felt totally helpless standing there looking down at one of my oldest and dearest friends, obviously injured, undoubtedly in pain, maybe even with life-threatening internal injuries.

I wondered how they would get him up from the ravine. It would take at least an hour for any medical personnel to arrive at the scene, probably longer considering the time it would take Jim or Bonnie to report the emergency.

“Can I get anything?” I called to the wranglers, who sat on the ground next to Seth.

Instead of a verbal answer, Seth responded by struggling to his feet with Andy and Joe’s help.

“Don’t move him,” I shouted.

Seth waved his left hand at me and said, “Not to worry, Jessica. I’m all right. Just stunned and bruised and—” He moaned in pain as he tried to raise his right arm.

“I think his arm’s broken,” Joe Walker said.

I started down the incline, using the trees the way the wranglers had. I got halfway to them when Andy said, “Okay, Doc, we’ll do it slow and easy.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be moved until medical help arrives,” I said.

“I’m not about to stay down here until then,” Seth said. “All right, fellas, let’s go.”

I retraced my steps, pulling myself up tree by tree, until reaching the spot where Seth had been thrown. By now some of the others had come back to witness what had happened. The exceptions were Evelyn, Robert, Craig, and Veronica Morrison, who’d continued on to the site of the barbecue. Those who had returned watched the two physically fit wranglers virtually carry Seth up the hill. When they were closer, I could see the pain on Seth’s face, which was scratched and bruised. But he didn’t make any sounds of protest, simply grimaced against what he was feeling and allowed the wranglers to bring him to the trail.

“Thank God you’re all right,” I said, wanting to hug him, but afraid to hurt him.

“I suppose all this padding saved me,” he said, his attempt at a lighthearted comment falling flat.

Jim and Bonnie had taken two of the Morrisons’ horses and rode up to us.

“You okay?” Jim asked Seth.

“Afraid my arm might be broken.”

“Anything else?” Bonnie asked.

“Bumps and bruises, plenty of them.”

“We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” I said. “There could be internal injuries.”

“Jon’s already on his way back to the ranch,” Jim said. “He’ll call from there.”

“We have to get you back to the ranch, Seth,” Bonnie said.

“Can you walk down to the cookout area?” I asked.

“No need for that,” said Jim. “I’ll bring the Jeep up here.”

“Will it make it?” I asked.

He laughed. “Piece of cake.”

Fifteen minutes later we’d eased Seth into the Jeep’s front seat. From the way he moved, it was obvious he’d been banged up more than he, or we, originally thought. Even if his only serious injury was a broken arm, taking such a fall violates the entire body, especially when you’re on the wrong side of fifty.

It was decided that Bonnie and the wranglers would go on with the cookout for the benefit of the Morrisons, while Jim and I brought Seth back to the ranch to await the arrival of the ambulance. Although Jim drove slowly and carefully, the trip was rough, causing Seth to moan now and then. But each time I asked how he was doing, he said, “Doin’ just fine, Jessica. Not to worry.” He was a trouper, even going along with one of Jim’s jokes.

“See that mountain over there?” Jim asked. “Know why a fella fell off that mountain?”

“No, Jim. Why did someone fall off that mountain?” Seth and I asked in unison.

“Seems he cloned himself, but his clone turned out to be a foul-mouthed, obscene guy. The original guy tried to talk sense to his clone, but he didn’t get anywhere. So he took his clone up on that mountain and shoved him off. Know what happened then?”

“No, Jim, what happened then?”

“The original fella was arrested.”

“Why was he arrested, Jim?”

“For making an obscene clone fall, of course.”

Seth moaned, either from pain or in response to Jim’s joke, possibly both.

While Seth and I sat in the main lodge, awaiting the ambulance’s arrival, Jim went off to check on Geraldine Molloy. He returned just as the ambulance pulled up, manned by two young med-techs.

“How is she?” Seth asked as the two med-techs gave him a fast once-over.

“I don’t know,” Jim said. “She’s not in the cabin.”

“Where could she have gone?” I asked.

Joel Louden appeared from the kitchen.

“Have you seen Mrs. Molloy?” Jim asked him.

“No,” Louden said.

“Do me a favor, Joel, and look for her around the ranch.”

“Sure.”

“You’re going to the hospital with Seth?” Jim asked me.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got to get back to the cookout. Damn, where could Mrs. Molloy be?”

I wondered that, too, but my primary concern was getting Seth to where he could be examined by qualified physicians.

“Ready?” one of the med-techs asked.

“Huh?” a med-tech said.

“He means yes,” I said.

We climbed in the back where Seth stretched out on a rolling bed secured to the interior of the vehicle.

“Feeling okay?” I asked.

He nodded, then added, “I’ve got a funny feeling about Mrs. Molloy.”

“So do I,” I said. “But we’ll worry about that later. In the meantime, let’s get you patched up.”

When the ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance of the Gunnison Valley Hospital on Denver Avenue, I was surprised to see Sheriff Murdie and Bob Pitura waiting there. A woman was with them. The med-techs helped Seth exit through the vehicle’s rear doors; he refused to be carried out on the wheeled stretcher.

“Looks like you’ve been through a war,” Murdie said to Seth, whose face had swollen over the past few hours, his bruises blossoming into grotesque black-and-blue blotches.

“I feel like I have,” Seth replied, forcing a smile bordering on a grimace.

“Anything broken?” Pitura asked.

“His arm might be,” I said.

“We can talk later,” one of the med-techs said, “after we get him looked at.”

We escorted Seth inside. The woman with Murdie and Pitura fell in alongside me. “Mrs. Fletcher?” she said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Nancy O’Keefe, a reporter with the
Gunnison Country Times.”

“I’m sure you’re not here because of my friend’s accident. People fall off horses every day.”

“No, I’m not here because of that. It’s the murder that happened at the Powderhorn Ranch.”

“A murder must be big news out here. I understand they’re rare.”

“Extremely rare.”

Our entourage reached swinging doors leading to the hospital’s treatment rooms, in front of which stood a big, burly physician in a white lab coat. I recognized him as the coroner who’d come to the ranch to examine Paul Molloy’s body. He smiled at Seth as he said, “Never easy for a doctor to be a patient.”

“Ayuh.
You’ll get no argument from me.”

“Well, we’ll take good care of you.” He pushed open the swinging doors to allow Seth to enter the treatment area, where two younger physicians waited. After the doors swung shut, the coroner said to me, “We were never introduced when I was out at the ranch.” He extended his hand. “I’m Hal Scudari, county medical examiner.”