Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

I told Uncle Dede that I’d be back, and went over to the university geology lab and sorted out the samples that I’d bagged along the basin. After fixing the slides I needed and writing up about ten pages of crude notes, I glanced at my watch and realized it was close to five. I’d promised Uncle Dede that I’d help him with the store inventory that night, so I put everything away and stored the samples in my lab locker. Then, after grabbing a quick burger and fries to eat on the way, I drove back to the gun shop. Uncle Dede had a cup of coffee all ready for me and we settled in to work. It took us a couple of hours, and afterwards I watched the counter while my uncle worked on some guns that people had brought in for repairs. Because he owned the gun shop and was the best smith in the territory, Sheriff Pete Gunther had made Uncle Dede a special deputy. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when the sheriff telephoned about twenty minutes before closing.

“You want to talk to Uncle Dede, Sheriff?” I asked.

“No, Rick,” he said. “I was trying to get ahold of you. I’m out at the McKitrick place. You’d better get out here pronto.”

“Is Carol okay?” I asked, panic edging into my voice.

“She’s not injured,” he said slowly. “But the doc’s on the way to give her a sedative. Her father’s been killed.”

“Killed?” I said. Uncle Dede’s head popped up from the trigger mechanism he’d been working on.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Apparently Mr. McKitrick went riding earlier today out on the north forty. His horse came back in riderless about four hours ago, so they figured he’d been thrown or something. They went out lookin’ and found him out by the canyon. Dead.”

“Did he fall?” I asked.

“No,” the sheriff said. “He’d been shot.”

By the time we got out to Carol’s, the drive was a maze of revolving red and blue lights. Sheriff Gunther, visible because of his extreme height and white Stetson, was barking out orders. Uncle Dede strode up to him and asked if he needed any help.

“Not right now, Dede,” he said. “But, Rick, you might want to look in on Carol. Doc Gleason’s with her now.”

I hurried into the house and ran upstairs to Carol’s room. The doctor and McKitrick’s fourth wife, Christene, were with her. He’d already given her something, and I held her for a few minutes before she drifted off to sleep.

Christene put a hand on my arm and thanked me for coming. Only a few years older than Carol, she was normally a very attractive woman, but tonight she looked totally spent, her face swollen from crying.

“You all right, Christene?” I asked.

“It’s just such a shock,” she said, breaking down again. “There’re so many people I have to call.”

“Why don’t you let me call Mason Gilbert?” I said. “He can handle things while you get some rest.”

Mason Gilbert was McKitrick’s lawyer. He lived in Deming, which was about twenty miles away.

Christene nodded and went down the hall toward the master bedroom. As I was paging through the Rolodex by the phone, Sheriff Gunther and Uncle Dede came in.

“How’s Carol?” Uncle Dede asked.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. “Sedative.”

He nodded, then said, “Rick, I was telling the sheriff about that little run-in you had with Threestalks and Onehorse this morning. Would you mind going over it with him?”

I was still holding the phone in midair, staring at the sheriff, who gave me a reassuring little nod.

Things began to heat up pretty fast after they arrested Joe Threestalks and Charlie Onehorse. After hearing the story of my confrontation, the sheriff put out a broadcast to bring them in for questioning. One of the county units spotted Joe’s pickup at the Wigwam, a local Pueblo bar, and they grabbed him and Charlie as soon as they got back in the truck. Mr. McKitrick’s nine millimeter Sig Sauer was found wrapped in a rag under the front seat. Joe and Charlie swore up and down that they didn’t know how it got there, but they were both charged anyway.

The next day, when he heard about the arrests, Jim Buck drove into town and demanded custody of the Indians because the crime had occurred on the disputed tribal land. Sheriff Gunther practically threw Jim out of the jail, and Indian/White problems began to escalate all over Pueblo, the reservation, and at the university. Uncle Dede and I closed up the gun shop, which we normally did in tense times, and put the Gone Fishin’ sign in the window. I went out to Carol’s and helped her and Christene with the funeral arrangements and notifications. Mason Gilbert handled everything else. Carol’s trust fund was safe. Christene, who’d married McKitrick nearly twenty years after Carol’s mother drowned on vacation with McKitrick in Cancun, had signed a prenuptial agreement and would receive a substantial one-time cash settlement. She seemed to be taking it better than Carol, who seemed listless and depressed.

“It’s so sudden,” Carol said, the tears brimming in her eyes again. “So abrupt. Just like when Mom died.”

I held her close and let her cry, searching for the right words, but unable to find them.

Christene came in and asked Carol to help her pick out some of her father’s clothes for the undertaker. Figuring that it’d be better if she was occupied, I urged her to do it. I told them I had to go feed Bolo, after which I’d come back. I got into the Jeep and sped down the long asphalt roadway that intersected with the highway. As I slowed to a stop at the end of the road, Fred Perks, the mailman, pulled up beside me in his mail car.

“Sorry to hear about Mr. McKitrick,” he said, handing me a stack of mail through the open window.

“Yeah,” I said, slipping the mail into the inside pocket of my jacket. Fred knew everything about everybody and could talk the legs off a chair. I had no desire to engage him in a long conversation. “I’ll give them the mail when I get back, Fred.”

“Sure thing, Rick. And tell ’em that I hope they fry those dirty red bastards.”

“We’ll have to see, Fred,” I said, pushing in the clutch and putting the Jeep in first gear. “They haven’t been convicted yet.”

“They will be. They did it, didn’t they?”

As I drove back to town I couldn’t help wondering if Fred was right. The case did seem pretty open and shut.

When I got to the shop, I went in the back way. Uncle Dede was leaning over the table with the works of a shotgun spread out in front of him. Sonny sat across from him, elbows on his knees, holding a cup of coffee. He grinned and nodded.

“Figured with the way things are heatin’ up I’d better get the sheriff’s gun fixed,” Uncle Dede said.

“How’s Carol?” Sonny asked.

“As good as can be expected,” I said. “She lost her mother a number of years ago.”

“Yeah,” Sonny said. “I remember.” Then he shook his head with a wistful smile. “Her mama, she was something.”

“You knew her?” I asked. To me, Carol’s mother was only an exceptionally beautiful woman in some old photographs. Carol’s recollection wasn’t much more complete.

“Everybody did,” Uncle Dede said. “Pueblo wasn’t as big back in them days. Didn’t have the university. She was the town beauty. Everybody dreamed about her.”

“And McKitrick got her,” I said.

“Yeah,” Uncle Dede replied. “Always said she married for love, and he married for money. They produced a good girl, though. Carol’s a winner.”

“She took after her ma,” Sonny said caustically. “Not McKitrick.”

Uncle Dede looked up with a sly smile.

“Why, Sonny,” he said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you ain’t gonna miss him.”

“Oh, I’ll miss him all right,” Sonny said slowly, letting the implication of his sentence drop. He stared at me over the rim of the coffee cup as he drank the rest of the liquid.