to know why Freddy rode out this way, I want to know where he went.”
“Of course you do. But.” Gastner strolled down the two-track, hands in his pockets. “Oh, you got more tracks up here,” he said, stopping at the edge of another sandy wash where run-off down the flank of the mesa had carved a shallow crossing. “Several, as a matter of fact. See? That’s what I mean.”
“It won’t hurt to follow the two track out a bit farther,” Estelle said.
“You aren’t going to see anything,” Gastner offered. “I mean, so what? So he rode out this way? You know, the ride he took yesterday, when you saw him, wasn’t necessarily the only recon he’s taken in this area.” He surveyed the countryside, hands on his hips. “Probably pretty good hunting out this way. He’s got the rifle, so he’s making life miserable for the coyotes and bunnies. You know what I’ll bet?” He waited until Estelle raised an eyebrow in question. “I’ll wager lunch, which by the way we haven’t enjoyed yet, that if we walk out into the prairie here a hundred paces, we’ll cross at least one set of vehicle tracks.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“Rats. I wanted lunch.”
“We will, eventually.”
“You could fly over this country from the air, and it’d be a lattice-work of tracks, vehicle, cattle, and otherwise.”
“Rough going, all of it.”
“Not for a kid on a hot machine, it’s not,” Gastner said. “Bouncing and jouncing is half the fun, anyway.”
They returned to the truck and meandered along the two-track, eventually running into another barbed-wire fence. Ahead they could see a power pole, concrete well house, and just ahead down a slight slope, a large galvanized stock tank—this one full with fresh water not yet scummed over with algae.
“This is the back way into Miles Waddell’s property,” Gastner said, “and that’s his well house. And I can see tracks from here, every which way. You want me to open the gate?”
“No. There’s no point.”
“Waddell built this a few years ago, thinking that there would be money to be made when the BLM develops the cave property across the county road. Maybe a good guess, maybe a waste of money. He runs livestock here, and I know he leases some of it to Herb.”
Estelle pointed to the right, away from the gate, across the prairie where the main Bender’s Canyon Trail headed off to the north.
“Two more choices,” Gastner said. “If you stay on this road, it’s the easy way out to old State 17. Before you get there, there’s another really rough son-of-a-bitch that runs east through all those foothills, and eventually runs right down to Gus Prescott’s ranch. Right through his back yard.”
“I’ve never driven that.”
“Rough, washed out in spots, a kidney crusher.”
“How many miles to Prescott’s? About fifteen or so?”
“I would guess about that.”
“Freddy could have gone that way. He could have ridden over to see Casey.”
“He
could
have.” Gastner flashed an amused grin. “Or he could have taken the paved highway to Moore, and a mile and a half would have taken him in to the fair Casey’s front door.”
Estelle regarded the route ahead thoughtfully.
“Please tell me you’re not going to crash and bang along that trail in this crate,” Gastner pleaded.
“You don’t want to do that?”
“No, I don’t want to do that. I want to eat
lunch
, sweetheart. Anyway, that route isn’t going to offer up any easy answers. If I thought it would, I’d say go for it. Jounce and bounce until we both piss blood.”
“The Romeros are going to
want
to know, sir. They’re going to want to know what Freddy was doing when he was killed.”
“I understand that. And the answer is simple. He was careening down Bender’s Canyon Trail far faster than he should have been. He got careless. He got killed.” Gastner made a face that mirrored Estelle’s frustration. “You’ll find a more tactful way to explain it to them,
“Of course you do. But.” Gastner strolled down the two-track, hands in his pockets. “Oh, you got more tracks up here,” he said, stopping at the edge of another sandy wash where run-off down the flank of the mesa had carved a shallow crossing. “Several, as a matter of fact. See? That’s what I mean.”
“It won’t hurt to follow the two track out a bit farther,” Estelle said.
“You aren’t going to see anything,” Gastner offered. “I mean, so what? So he rode out this way? You know, the ride he took yesterday, when you saw him, wasn’t necessarily the only recon he’s taken in this area.” He surveyed the countryside, hands on his hips. “Probably pretty good hunting out this way. He’s got the rifle, so he’s making life miserable for the coyotes and bunnies. You know what I’ll bet?” He waited until Estelle raised an eyebrow in question. “I’ll wager lunch, which by the way we haven’t enjoyed yet, that if we walk out into the prairie here a hundred paces, we’ll cross at least one set of vehicle tracks.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“Rats. I wanted lunch.”
“We will, eventually.”
“You could fly over this country from the air, and it’d be a lattice-work of tracks, vehicle, cattle, and otherwise.”
“Rough going, all of it.”
“Not for a kid on a hot machine, it’s not,” Gastner said. “Bouncing and jouncing is half the fun, anyway.”
They returned to the truck and meandered along the two-track, eventually running into another barbed-wire fence. Ahead they could see a power pole, concrete well house, and just ahead down a slight slope, a large galvanized stock tank—this one full with fresh water not yet scummed over with algae.
“This is the back way into Miles Waddell’s property,” Gastner said, “and that’s his well house. And I can see tracks from here, every which way. You want me to open the gate?”
“No. There’s no point.”
“Waddell built this a few years ago, thinking that there would be money to be made when the BLM develops the cave property across the county road. Maybe a good guess, maybe a waste of money. He runs livestock here, and I know he leases some of it to Herb.”
Estelle pointed to the right, away from the gate, across the prairie where the main Bender’s Canyon Trail headed off to the north.
“Two more choices,” Gastner said. “If you stay on this road, it’s the easy way out to old State 17. Before you get there, there’s another really rough son-of-a-bitch that runs east through all those foothills, and eventually runs right down to Gus Prescott’s ranch. Right through his back yard.”
“I’ve never driven that.”
“Rough, washed out in spots, a kidney crusher.”
“How many miles to Prescott’s? About fifteen or so?”
“I would guess about that.”
“Freddy could have gone that way. He could have ridden over to see Casey.”
“He
could
have.” Gastner flashed an amused grin. “Or he could have taken the paved highway to Moore, and a mile and a half would have taken him in to the fair Casey’s front door.”
Estelle regarded the route ahead thoughtfully.
“Please tell me you’re not going to crash and bang along that trail in this crate,” Gastner pleaded.
“You don’t want to do that?”
“No, I don’t want to do that. I want to eat
lunch
, sweetheart. Anyway, that route isn’t going to offer up any easy answers. If I thought it would, I’d say go for it. Jounce and bounce until we both piss blood.”
“The Romeros are going to
want
to know, sir. They’re going to want to know what Freddy was doing when he was killed.”
“I understand that. And the answer is simple. He was careening down Bender’s Canyon Trail far faster than he should have been. He got careless. He got killed.” Gastner made a face that mirrored Estelle’s frustration. “You’ll find a more tactful way to explain it to them,
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