intrusion into their lives.
Walking around the property, Carlisle discovered a small creek hidden in high weeds north of the house. Minnows flashed in the deeper pools, and a small turtle dropped off a log when he appeared. Above him, a hawk drifted along on the morning convections, a little hawk of a kind he had never seen before. The raptors had always interested Carlisle, though he didn’t know much about them, just liked to watch them ride the shifting air currents. In the high plains, the hawks were only a notch below the top spot in their particular food chain. Their only real worries were the great owls and idiots with shotguns. Or that’s what he was naively thinking.
The lane sloped upward from the road at a pretty fair angle, giving the place good drainage, and he could see the Little Salamander River southwest of him, flashing in the sunlight. Wolf Butte was northwest about three miles, its face white and flat in morning sun. The grove across the road was a nice one, covering twenty acres or so, mostly mature cottonwoods in the low ground, with oaks and smaller trees of other varieties where the land sloped upward again away from the road.
Back to town, back to Danny’s. Hungry again. A dozen cars along Main Street. Salamander trying to do business, trying to hang on, rooted there in the shadow of unwelcome changes.
Gally Deveraux was clearing dirty dishes from the counter while an older woman worked the booths and tables. He was in the trough separating coffee and doughnuts from noon dinner, so Danny’s was quiet except for the four elderly men playing pinochle at a table in the back and another old fellow three stools down from him. He noticed Gally had on new jeans and a freshly pressed western shirt. Her hair was hanging straight down this morning, parted in the middle. She looked better that way. Her eyes looked better, too, brighter somehow.
“Back for more punishment, huh?”
“Yes. And I’ve been out to the Williston place, looking around.”
“See anything interesting?”
“Maybe. Did you happen to uncover the attorney handling the estate?”
“No, but I can do that in less than twenty seconds right now.”
She walked to the other end of the counter where the old fellow in a gray workshirt and suspenders was reading the caf’s communal paper that whistled up from the state capital every morning. A wooden cane rested against his leg. Carlisle had seen him last night. He had been sitting in a window above Lester’s TV & Appliance when Carlisle came out of Leroy’s. Gally bent over and spoke quietly to the man, for which Carlisle was thankful. The man looked toward him through wire-rimmed spectacles, turned to the woman, and said something.
She walked back to where Carlisle was sitting. “It’s part of an estate, just as I thought. Heirs to the place are scattered all over the country. The lawyer’s name is Birney. Has an office over in Livermore.”
She nodded toward the old man. “He says there’s only two lawyers in Livermore, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding him. Now, what can I get you? The special today is meat loaf, and it’s just coming out of the oven.”
When Carlisle paid his bill, Gally gave him a nice smile and said, “Well, good luck on your dream house. I hope it works out for you. This town certainly needs some fresh blood.”
“Thanks. And thanks also for your help. Not only are you a decent cartographer, but a helpful broker as well. I’ll report back later on.”
She looked puzzled. “What’s a cartographer? My ears aren’t used to dealing with more than two syllables at once. I think I knew that word once, but I can’t remember.”
“Mapmaker.”
“Oh, the napkin. Glad it helped.”
“See you later. Thanks again.”
Carlisle liked the fact that she asked the meaning of cartographer. Cody Marx had taught him that one of the first indicators of authentic intelligence was not being embarrassed by ignorance, as long as there was an
Walking around the property, Carlisle discovered a small creek hidden in high weeds north of the house. Minnows flashed in the deeper pools, and a small turtle dropped off a log when he appeared. Above him, a hawk drifted along on the morning convections, a little hawk of a kind he had never seen before. The raptors had always interested Carlisle, though he didn’t know much about them, just liked to watch them ride the shifting air currents. In the high plains, the hawks were only a notch below the top spot in their particular food chain. Their only real worries were the great owls and idiots with shotguns. Or that’s what he was naively thinking.
The lane sloped upward from the road at a pretty fair angle, giving the place good drainage, and he could see the Little Salamander River southwest of him, flashing in the sunlight. Wolf Butte was northwest about three miles, its face white and flat in morning sun. The grove across the road was a nice one, covering twenty acres or so, mostly mature cottonwoods in the low ground, with oaks and smaller trees of other varieties where the land sloped upward again away from the road.
Back to town, back to Danny’s. Hungry again. A dozen cars along Main Street. Salamander trying to do business, trying to hang on, rooted there in the shadow of unwelcome changes.
Gally Deveraux was clearing dirty dishes from the counter while an older woman worked the booths and tables. He was in the trough separating coffee and doughnuts from noon dinner, so Danny’s was quiet except for the four elderly men playing pinochle at a table in the back and another old fellow three stools down from him. He noticed Gally had on new jeans and a freshly pressed western shirt. Her hair was hanging straight down this morning, parted in the middle. She looked better that way. Her eyes looked better, too, brighter somehow.
“Back for more punishment, huh?”
“Yes. And I’ve been out to the Williston place, looking around.”
“See anything interesting?”
“Maybe. Did you happen to uncover the attorney handling the estate?”
“No, but I can do that in less than twenty seconds right now.”
She walked to the other end of the counter where the old fellow in a gray workshirt and suspenders was reading the caf’s communal paper that whistled up from the state capital every morning. A wooden cane rested against his leg. Carlisle had seen him last night. He had been sitting in a window above Lester’s TV & Appliance when Carlisle came out of Leroy’s. Gally bent over and spoke quietly to the man, for which Carlisle was thankful. The man looked toward him through wire-rimmed spectacles, turned to the woman, and said something.
She walked back to where Carlisle was sitting. “It’s part of an estate, just as I thought. Heirs to the place are scattered all over the country. The lawyer’s name is Birney. Has an office over in Livermore.”
She nodded toward the old man. “He says there’s only two lawyers in Livermore, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding him. Now, what can I get you? The special today is meat loaf, and it’s just coming out of the oven.”
When Carlisle paid his bill, Gally gave him a nice smile and said, “Well, good luck on your dream house. I hope it works out for you. This town certainly needs some fresh blood.”
“Thanks. And thanks also for your help. Not only are you a decent cartographer, but a helpful broker as well. I’ll report back later on.”
She looked puzzled. “What’s a cartographer? My ears aren’t used to dealing with more than two syllables at once. I think I knew that word once, but I can’t remember.”
“Mapmaker.”
“Oh, the napkin. Glad it helped.”
“See you later. Thanks again.”
Carlisle liked the fact that she asked the meaning of cartographer. Cody Marx had taught him that one of the first indicators of authentic intelligence was not being embarrassed by ignorance, as long as there was an
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