Dead Dry

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Authors: Sarah Andrews
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we had to be capable of learning, and a well-fed troop is a troop agreeable to paying attention. And he had indeed been a damned good geologist.
    Michele came up behind me, fighting a smile that was clearly getting away from her.
    “What’s so funny?” I asked.
    “Oh, it’s that outhouse,” she said. “It’s like a shrine to rustic elimination. They’ve got the old corncob in the glass case marked IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS, a 1962
Montgomery Ward’s catalog, and, the pièce de résistance, the toilet seat is lined with rabbit fur.”
    “No pucky!”
    “I sure couldn’t. Man!”
    “Well, Afton always was a sensualist,” I said. “I wonder what Ms. Glamorpuss thinks of all that?”
    “Oh, she left her mark. There’s a big, square candle with “om” in Sanskrit, some very artistic sprays of sagebrush flowers, a signed photograph of some guru, and the aroma has a strong overprint of eau de boudoir. ”
    I said, “The guru might be Afton’s if he really got his butt enlightened.”
    Michele tried the door.
    “It’s locked,” I said. “I already tried it.”
    Michele peered in the window. “What are you looking at?” she asked.
    “I was just trying to figure out what Afton’s been working on. It looks like the good old Denver-Julesburg Basin, just like old times.”
    “What do those diagrams tell you?”
    I tried to sort out what might have any relevance to his murder. “On the face of it, these charts tell me about the thicknesses of sedimentary rock layers around here and how they vary from place to place. See that layer at the bottom, labeled ‘Pierre Shale’? That’s a mudstone layer five thousand feet thick in places. Next up, the Fox Hills Sandstone, which is a stack of shales interlayered with sandstones. Then above that, you’ve got the Laramie Formation. Swamps that got squished down to make coal beds and such.”
    “Really?”
    “Sure. Above that, more sandstones—the Arapahoe, Denver, and Dawson. Some of those have more continuous sandstones. It looks like the Arapahoe is by far the best.”
    My geology lesson was interrupted by a sound from across the yard, a demure, “Shit!” We both turned to see Gilda emerging from the barn. She had a small satchel
slung over one shoulder and grappled a cosmetics case in the opposite hand. “Good, you’re still here,” she called out. “I need a ride back to town.”
    Michele said, “Why?”
    “Because my cart has insufficient charge.”
    “Your cart?” We crossed the yard to join her at the barn. Inside, we saw what looked like the big sister of a golf cart. It was clad in white Fiberglas, had a silly roof, and looked like it could carry two passengers plus a few parcels. I was reminded of what certain characters in cartoons from my childhood drove, a kind of latter-day tin lizzie.
    Gilda’s cheeks flushed with anger. “ That is my cart. My electric cart. It is not much, but it can make it to Castle Rock and in fact has, on many occasions.” She put down her case and pointed at the windmill. “But that thing has not been turning enough to charge it. Do you understand English? The wind has not been blowing. When the wind does not blow, the blades do not turn. When the blades do not turn, the batteries do not charge. When the batteries do not charge, my cart does not make it to the nearest pavement, let alone as far as Castle Rock.” She stamped her elegant little foot. “So I need a fucking ride, get it?”
    Michele looked past the electric cart at a big, white truck parked behind it and asked, in her matter-of-fact way, “Why don’t you take that truck?”
    I added, “There’s a loading dock just outside the barn here. I’d be glad to help you push that electric cart up onto the ramp and into the back of that truck. Then you can take it to town and plug it into the house current at the Sedalia Grill.”
    Gilda said, “That truck runs on gas. We don’t use fossil fuels on this ranch! And the electricity at the

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