Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (27 page)

He waved his hand at the view in front of us. The old ranch, weathered in its hollow, the sheer hard drama of the rough coastline. "Isn't this worth more than most of the damn human beings you know?"

I had no answer. I stared at the land, graceful and harsh, and knew that to him it held the depth and power of home. What was it worth? My own childhood home, an apple farm in the Soquel hills, had been developed into housing tracts. What would I have done to save it? Killed another human being in cold blood?

"You shouldn't have killed Jack," I said finally. "You can't go around killing people, no matter how noble your motive is. It's just plain wrong. I can understand why you did it, but it was still wrong."

Bronc snorted. "What's wrong is to tear up this piece of land and build condos over it. And there purely wasn't any other way to save it. I tried. I argued with that son-of-a-bitch until I was blue in the face when he first told me what he planned to do. He wouldn't hear a word I said. Then, not but two weeks ago, I asked him if he still planned to sell the ranch. It's a done deal, he told me, I'll be signing the papers next week when I get back.

"Over my dead body, I told him, and he said, Well you better hurry up and die then. Oh, he thought it was all a big joke. You'll like this place I'm buying in San Benito County, he told me.

"Well, I looked him right square in the eye and said, I can't let you do this, Jack, your daddy would turn in his grave if he knew you would do something like this. You can't stop progress, pardner, was all he said." Bronc spat again. "The hell I can't, I told him. I can stop you. And Jack, he just turned and walked off. He signed his own warrant as far as I was concerned."

"But how could you actually kill him?"

"Honey, I did him a favor. I've shot upwards of a dozen old horses in my life, when their time was up, and I know how to do it. I'd put a little grain on the ground, and when their head was down, eating, I'd shoot 'em right between the eyes. They never felt a thing. I just took that old twenty-two, that I kept for the horses, and I did Jack the same way. He never knew what hit him."

"You filed the serial numbers off the gun and you probably wore gloves, didn't you?"

"Yup, I bought that gun years ago, but I figured it was best to be safe."

"And the silencer? Did you make it?"

"I sure did. Made it myself, right in that shop down there, out of a piece of lead pipe."

"And you waited in that glass-fronted coffee shop until you spotted Jack gambling."

"Now that's pretty sharp of you." Bronc actually looked pleased. "I wore this big slicker I had and carried the gun in the pocket. I just sat in there and read the paper until I saw Jack in the casino, gambling with that blonde. All I had to do was wait till he went out on the deck."

"How'd you know he would be there, or that he'd go out on the deck?"

"Well, I didn't know exactly, but I knew Jack. I'd gone up to Tahoe with him before, when he went to this vet conference. He always stayed in the same hotel and he always gambled at that same casino. And every time, when we were there before, he went out on that deck to look at the lake and smoke. So I waited."

"And when he went out the back door, you went out after him and shot him." The words chilled me.

"He never felt a thing," Bronc said again, defensively. "I know where to shoot a man from my time in Korea. Right at the base of the neck. He never saw me coming and he never felt one thing. I just pitched him over the railing into the lake and pitched the gun after him and walked back into the bathroom. No one noticed anything."

I could picture him doing it all right. I felt a sudden spurt of anger. “It
won't work, anyway. The ranch was in escrow. The developers will probably still end up with it. You killed him for nothing."

Bronc's eyes shot to my face and I saw instantly that I'd made a big mistake. He'd gambled everything and he wasn't prepared to lose.

"The hell I did," he said, and for the first time I was afraid.

I picked Gunner's reins up off his neck, with the vague but powerful sense that I needed to get out of here. Bronc wasn't looking at me, he was fiddling with his rope, and I kicked Gunner forward.

There was a whizzing sound and I flinched as something jerked my arms tight to my sides at the elbows. He'd roped me, I realized a split second later, flung the loop over my head and shoulders in the effortless, oflhand style of a cowboy corral roping horses.

I turned and looked back at him and for a moment that seemed to occur in slow motion, we stared into each other's eyes, my sense of shocked disbelief giving way to real fear. That hard, implacable quality I'd seen once before-this wasn't the Bronc I knew. I clutched the horn with one hand and stabbed Gunner hard with the right spur.

Snorting, he cleared twenty feet in one great sideways swoop; I hung on desperately and spurred him again. I could see Bronc struggling to dally as the rope ran through his surprised hands, and then Gunner bolted forward in earnest, headed for the trail back down the hill.

Clinging to the horn with one half-confined hand, my body tense with fear, I waited for the jerk from behind that would snatch me off the horse and slam me to the ground. It didn't come. I could feel the rope trailing free behind me; we'd managed to yank it out of Bronc's hands.

Gunner was galloping now, running downhill, and it took every atom of skill I had to stay balanced on top of him with my arms pulled to my sides. My grip of the saddle horn was all that was saving me, that and the fact that I hadn't lost my stirrups. Still, the lurching, catapulting nature of his headlong, downhill gallop had my heart in my throat as I struggled frantically to stay on.

He slowed slightly when he reached a level spot, and I seized the chance to wriggle and twist my arms free of the now slack rope. In
another second I flung the noose over my head and picked up the reins.

Gunner slowed still more when he felt me take control, and I looked back over my shoulder. Bronc was charging down the hill behind us, loop whirling-like any good ranch cowboy he carried a second rope.

Heart pounding, I dug my spurs into Gunner's ribs, sending him forward with a jump. Once again the landscape accelerated into a jerking rush-the brushy hillside barely perceived in my peripheral vision as I focused on the trail in front of me, striving to stay with Gunner's rhythm as he plunged down the grade. Every log, every hummock assumed a major importance as I tried to keep my weight balanced in the right spot.

Despite my fear, I didn't look back. I needed my eyes forward, straight between his ears, looking where we were going, just to stay on. I knew Bronc was back there, knew he could outride me, out-cowboy me, and probably rope me with ease. My only hope was to ride like hell.

Urging Gunner forward with my body, I tried to be part of him, running downhill as fast as I could go. I could feel the thud of his feet, hear his snorting breath, see his ears flicking forward and back to me. Through my fear, I felt a rushing exhilaration.

Then it hit me. The gate. I'd forgotten the gate.

I could see it up ahead, solid, wooden, blocking the way back to the truck. No way to open it, not with Bronc right behind me. Jump it?

Shit. We were getting closer, Gunner galloping hard. The old gate had sunk so that it was only about three feet at the low end; any horse can jump three feet. Can, but won't, maybe. As far as I knew, Gunner had never jumped anything.

I urged him on, drumming my heels in his sides, keeping my weight forward, aiming for the low spot. "Come on, boy."

It was only a few strides away and I could feel him begin to slow. I put everything-my body, my legs, my hands-into a smooth continuous urge. I sent myself forward. I could feel him surge, he gathered himself, I knew he would jump.

He hesitated a split second and then leapt. My neck snapped backward, I grabbed wildly at the horn in midair; it felt like he'd gone six feet straight up.

We cleared the gate and hit the ground on the other side with a solid, bone-jerking thud. Gunner was no lady's hunter. But we were over and okay. I kicked him forward and looked back.

Bronc and Willy were thundering toward us-to my dismay the old man's face was clearly determined. No gate would stop him if it hadn't stopped me.

Willy was hesitating, checking; Bronc kicked steadily, but I could see in the horse's eyes that he wouldn't do it. Bronc knew, too, and he whipped Willy over and under with the whirling rope. Crack, crack-the loop lashed Willy's flanks and he leaped forward, making a halfhearted attempt to jump.

The gate exploded. Boards shrieked and split. Willy hit it dead on with his chest and the old lumber shattered apart. For a moment, I thought the horse would go down, but he gathered himself and plowed through, shards of wood flying around him, Bronc still squarely in place.

Shit. My eyes went back to the trail ahead of me and I clucked to Gunner. We had to get away from Bronc.

The trail was merging into the dunes; Gunner plunged over a little rise and down into the loose sand, stumbling and almost falling. He caught himself as I fell forward over his withers, just barely hanging on by his mane, my heart lodging in the back of my mouth.

Stay up, buddy, stay up, I pleaded silently as he floundered and wallowed, trying to run through the deep sand. It
was terribly difficult, I knew; I could feel the struggling force of his exertion.

Still, I urged him on. A quick glance showed Bronc right behind, his rope whirling, Willy plunging heavily. I had to get on the beach, where there might be some people around.

Gunner was driving forward in great, leaping bounds as he sank into the deep sand and pushed out, but the surf was in sight and I clucked to him and urged him toward the hard, wet sand. In a moment we were on it and headed toward the rig, though there was still no one in sight.

Willy was right on my heels. I could hear his thundering strides and almost feel the whistle of Bronc's loop. I clucked frantically to Gunner, squeezing and urging with hands and feet as his gallop smoothed out on the firmer ground. His ears flicked back and then he squirted forward in a renewed burst of effort, his stride lengthening smoothly.

I had no idea how fast he could run; I'd never galloped him flat out before. What I did know was that Willy was a very fast horse. Without looking back, I begged Gunner with my body-faster, faster.

He accelerated, the surf and sky and sand blurring around me, the cold, salty wind bringing tears to my eyes. I was aware only of his stretched-out neck and head in front of me, his driving rhythmic strides beneath me. The whole world-Bronc and the danger he represented---disappeared; I was lost in the race, determined to win.

I don't know how long we ran before I realized there were no longer any following hoofbeats. Eventually it sank in. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Bronc and Willy were gone. With a gasp of triumph and relief, I pulled Gunner up and looked back.

Bronc was still visible, a cowboy-hatted figure on a dark horse, staring after me. After a minute he waved and wheeled Willy away. I could see him riding up the beach toward the ranch.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Gunner had outrun Willy. We'd won.

TWENTY-SEVEN

For some long moments I stood there, staring after Bronc's solitary figure until he disappeared in the dunes. A flock of seagulls flew overhead, squawking and screeching in loud cacophony; the ocean rolled and crashed in front of me, blowing spray in my face, but I barely heard or saw any of it. I was listening to my heart beat, feeling the tension drain out of my body.

When I finally felt calm enough to ride on, I clucked to Gunner. He took a step and stumbled, and I realized in sudden alarm that he was shaking with exhaustion. His whole body was wet with sweat and white with foam, his heart moved my legs in great pounding thumps, and his flanks gasped in and out like bellows. I jumped off quickly and saw that his front legs were trembling.

A different sort of fear washed over me as I led him forward at the walk, and I prayed to God I hadn't hurt him. Walking him a few steps, I checked
to see that he was still sound; then I let him stop and breathe. Then a few more steps and a rest. I felt each of his legs in turn; they were smooth and clean. But his flanks heaved as if he'd never get enough air, his red, flaring nostrils gasping and sucking. Patting his sweaty neck, I murmured over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

What I had done was criminal, unforgivable, for any other reason than to save my life. With that threat removed, I was aghast at the colt's condition. Had I really needed to do this to him? Would Bronc actually have hurt me?

I didn't know, but I did know now that Bronc had killed Jack and I was presently a threat to him. And he probably could guess where I'd parked the rig, I thought a split second later.

There were still no people around; this north coast beach was as deserted as I'd ever seen it. I began to hurry a little, coaxing Gunner to walk as fast as he could.

Eventually we reached the trailer. There were a few cars in the parking lot, though I still didn't see any actual living human beings. Unlocking the truck and trailer, I unsaddled Gunner, and deciding to take a chance on Bronc's potentially imminent arrival, I began walking the colt in circles. Twenty minutes later I was still walking him, and Bronc hadn't arrived.