Steven Havill: Out of Season

“The hell you will,” I said, and the ludicrous image of our new county Bronco being crushed like an aluminum can by the bulldozer ran through my mind. That was all the prompting Johnny Boyd needed.

“Let’s go,” he said, and pulled loose from my grip.

“Get in front,” I said after him, and as the lanky rancher slid into the front passenger seat and yanked the door closed, I turned on Neil Costace.

Before I could get two words out, he held up a hand and in the dim light, I could see a half grin. “That’s one that’s safe,” he said. “We’ll follow you on out-wherever it is that you’re going.”

“Thanks,” I said. As I walked to the car, I saw Maxine Boyd standing alone, hands held in front of her as if in prayer. I detoured over to her and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Stay near the phone,” I said. “I’ll do what I can.”

She murmured something, and I gave her a final squeeze and then walked to the car. I’d forgotten how difficult it was to contort into the back seat, but I managed.

I knew we didn’t have much time, and I leaned forward, Boyd’s left ear just inches away. “Did you know where Edwin was going this evening?”

For several seconds, he didn’t say anything, and when the nod came, it was just the faintest of movements, just a little tick of the head. “Jesus H. Christ,” he murmured. I wasn’t sure if he was responding to our launching over the cattle guard behind the barn or to my question. He half turned in the seat, using one hand against the dashboard to brace himself, with his left arm hooked over the seat back.

“He said he was going to get something for his knee. Every now and then, he likes to wrap himself around a glass, and the Pierpoint…that’s his favorite watering hole over in Posadas. Now what?”

“He and Finnegan had an argument about something. We’re not sure about what, and we certainly don’t know who provoked it. The other deputies are down there now, and they’ll take statements from everyone who saw anything. Right now, we don’t know what the hell happened.”

Yeany Boyd said distantly. “Well, I can guess what happened.”

When he didn’t elaborate, I pulled myself forward on the seat, practically talking right in his ear. I could smell the cloying aroma of beer and cigarette smoke. Estelle drove almost sedately, which was fine with me. I didn’t relish being tossed through the roof. And it didn’t take hell-bent-for-leather to beat a bulldozer.

“I want your help,” I said. “I don’t want him hurt, or anyone else hurt either. And neither do you. But he’s the only one with all the answers.”

Boyd took his time lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling up and out the side window.

“Johnny,” I went on, “when I told you that it looked like your brother and Finnegan had an argument, you didn’t seem surprised. You want to tell me about it?”

“It won’t be the first time,” he said and pushed himself back in the seat, wedging himself against the door. “My brother and Dick Finnegan haven’t seen eye to eye on a lot of things over the years.” He sighed. “I don’t know what it is, ’cause my brother is about the gentlest man on the planet. He minds his own business and just asks that the rest of the world do the same.”

“Did he and Finnegan argue over something recently?”

“The damn antelope,” Boyd said, and he shut his mouth tight after those three words and turned to watch the road as Estelle negotiated a turn where the ruts had been cut deep into the prairie. She bridged the deepest portions, keeping the big sedan’s undercarriage out of the dirt. The lights of the dashboard were just enough to outline Boyd’s features, and by the set of his jaw, I could only guess at the struggle he was having.

“Finnegan was impounding antelope,” I said. “We know that. We were out there just a little while ago. We saw the sections of sheep fencing. We went all the way over to the corner, by the abandoned well. That’s the one you called Williams Tank.”

“Well, then,” Boyd said, and let it go at that, as if we knew all there was to know.

“I don’t understand, though,” I pressed. “Sheep fencing isn’t cheap. Where’s the profit in a handful of antelope? I’d think you could sell a good steer for more money than you’d get for some critter about the size of a big German shepherd.”

“First off, it ain’t no ‘handful,’ Sheriff. Dick’s workin’ on a pretty good herd. Hell, I counted thirty-four once, in just one clan. And it isn’t selling the animals for meat that it’s all about.” Boyd fell silent again.

“Then what’s it for? Hunters?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s money in that?”

Johnny Boyd snorted. “You’re kidding. Hell, some of the city boys will pay a thousand bucks a pop for a chance at an antelope with a good set of horns. Guaranteed success. A nice, private little hunt. Dick’s got about a section of land fenced in like what you saw, both to the south by the old windmill and another area north. You remember where that old stone house is?”

“Sure.”

“Up north of that.” Boyd crushed the remains of the cigarette out and dug another from his pocket.

“So he sells hunts,” I said.

Boyd nodded. “That’s where the money is. Ten hunts at a thousand bucks each will pay for a lot of ranching. Tax free, interest free. Any time of year that it’s convenient. My brother doesn’t think much of that,” Boyd said.

“Finnegan gets hunters from out of town, then?”

“Well, sure. Folks that don’t know better. See, he’s got this deal with some fella in Santa Fe. As a matter of fact, if I got it right, the guy is Finnegan’s former brother-in-law…or some squirrelly thing like that. Dick was boasting about it to me once, acting real coy, you know. He was pretty proud of himself. Anyway, this guy is in the business.”

“What business?”

“Travel, hunting. All that sort of stuff. There’s some big-game ranches up that way, legitimate ones. Rich folks come out and spend a week getting wined and dined and go home with a trophy elk or ram. Dick was hinting that every once in a while, his brother-in-law would send some hunters down this way for a quick trophy buck.”

“It’s hard to believe anyone in his right mind would pay that much,” I said.

Boyd laughed, a short, hacking chuckle. “They’ll pay even more for less, Sheriff,” he said. “Fifteen hundred or two thousand is petty cash to some folks. And the way things are going, open-country hunting is getting harder and harder. There’s less and less private land every year, and a good many landowners and ranchers don’t want hunters on the property…myself included. And the kicker is, Dick never cared much one way or another what season it was. Nobody was the wiser, so why inconvenience the payin’ customer by restricting him to one of the state’s seasons?”

“And Edwin doesn’t approve of all this? Of what Finnegan was doing?”

“He don’t think much of it. Neither do I, for that matter, but what Dick Finnegan does on his land is his business, long as it don’t get in my way.”

“You never tipped off the Game and Fish Department?”

“Nope. The thought crossed my mind once or twice. Guess I should have. But this is the way I figure it. The judge would hand a stiff fine on old Dick, and maybe he could pay it, and maybe he couldn’t. They might even stick him in jail for six months and leave old crazy Charlotte out there all by her lonesome. Maybe, maybe not. But then after a time, he’d be out of jail, and I’d still have him for a neighbor, still meet him now and then on some back road. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of too much, but I don’t need that. It’s his business, and I let it go at that.”