Steven Havill - Red, Green, or Murder

“Oh, sure,” I said. “He got ’em up there just fine. Apparently somebody left a gate open, though, and one of the deputies found the herd walking along the highway. I’m in Posadas right now, and wanted to find Pat so he could shag ’em back to pasture.”

“Well, yeah,” Herb said. “Now that’s a nuisance. Sorry ’bout that.”

“It happens. Look, Herb, while I have you on the line…George Peyton died this morning. I thought you might like to know.”

A long pause greeted that news. “Well, hell,” Herb said finally. “At home, did he?”

“Yes. It looks like he just sat down to lunch, and keeled over. His son-in-law found him.”

“Well, damn. You know, I’m sorry to hear that. I liked old George.”

“A lot of us did.” As I drove through Posadas, I kept an eye out for the H-Bar-T pickup and stock trailer-it would be hard to hide that rig. “I’ll let you go, Herb. I’m headed up the hill right now, and if there’s any kind of problem, I’ll get back to you.”

“Well, okay,” Herb said doubtfully. “You could have Patrick call me, if you wanted. Or I’ll try after a bit.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Damn all to hell, I’m sorry to hear about George,” he said, and I could imagine the rancher’s slow shake of the head. “Hell gettin’ old, ain’t it.”

I dialed Pat Gabaldon’s number, and for a moment, it sounded as if it had connected. Then an odd click, then nothing. Three tries later, still no Pat, and I gave up.

County Road 43 wound out of Posadas northbound and in three miles intersected State 78, the main arterial that passed by Posadas Municipal Airport and then headed out of the county to the northwest. There was no reason I could imagine that Pat would have taken the state highway for the 18 miles to the intersection with CR 14, the Torrance ranch road, where the trip south on the rutted gravel would rattle Pat’s teeth, truck, and trailer to pieces. He’d stick to smooth pavement, passing through the village.

Just beyond the state highway, CR43 started its meander up the flank of Cat Mesa. On the right, the fenced-in remains of the Consolidated Mining boneyard were quiet and dismal, a vast collection of junk and detritus from the hopeful decades of copper mining. There had been a time when some of the village fathers thought that Posadas was headed for grand times. I had never agreed, knowing that the influx of workers cared about copper and the money affixed to it, but not a bit about the village of Posadas or the county. The chained gate, topped now with barbed wire, was still secure. Just beyond, no tracks cut off to the east on County Road 6.

A bit beyond, off to the left, the old quarry was deserted. The Forest Service, who owned this attractive nuisance, had tried for years to fence it properly, but icy cold seep water, so deep that legends abounded about what-or maybe who-lay on the bottom, was an undeniable attraction for partying high school kids. They’d jump the fence, and no agency could baby-sit the quarry all day and all night. In the past few years, as the entire Southwest dried out, the seep had decreased, and it seemed to me that the water level was gradually dropping. If we all just stayed patient, the quarry would both cease to be a drowning threat and would reveal whatever secrets lay at the bottom.

Pat Gabaldon hadn’t pulled his rig into the shade by the north rim of the quarry for a bite of lunch or a quick plunge. And it was equally inconceivable that all this time he wouldn’t have missed his dog.

For another few miles, the macadam road switch-backed up the mesa, then would top out at the intersection with Forest Road 26. Sure enough, now more than a mile downhill from the county road’s transition to dirt, I saw Dennis Collins’ county car pulled off on the shoulder, red lights winking. Just beyond, the cattle stood in a nervous gaggle, the routine of their day interrupted, and not a brain in the bunch knowing what to do about it.

Dennis stood in the middle of the road, hands on his hips. As I approached, the deputy jabbed an index finger at a hump in the weeds by the side of the road, and I could tell that he was shouting something. The hump was the blue heeler, lying flat and poised, a furry arrow about to dart should a cow finally make a decision.

I parked off to the side behind Dennis’ unit and got out.

“Socks, lie down!” Dennis shouted, no doubt for my benefit, since Socks already was.

“No sign of Pat,” I said casually as I sauntered across the highway, keeping my pace relaxed. I didn’t want to give Socks the notion that the humans wanted something done. The cattle were in a tidy group, wondering. Best that they remain that way. “Good job here, Dennis.”

“It’s nothing I did,” he said.

“The gate is a mile on up the road, right by the Forest Service sign. If we can get ’em to move that way, it’d be a good thing.”

“I don’t know how to drive a dog,” the deputy said, and shook his head in amusement.

“Neither do I, but once Socks gets the notion in his head about which way we want to go, I think he’ll do most of the work. That’s the theory, anyway.” I turned and looked down the county road, thankfully devoid of traffic. “We can mosey along with the vehicles, and they’ll move along all right. Let’s get ’em moving first, so the dog knows.”

Pat Gabaldon, who no doubt did talk dog, might have used whistles, maybe shouts, to get the job done. But, smart as he was, it took Socks only an instant to see that these two humans wanted the cattle to go back up hill. Being a dog, I don’t think he was vexed by the thought that all his previous work might have been for naught. We walked forward toward the herd, and the cattle milled and drifted this way and that until we got too close, and then as a single organism the small herd turned and started back up the county road. Since the road was fenced on both sides, there wasn’t much challenge. The dog shot back and forth to harass stragglers, and both Dennis and I retreated to our respective vehicles, to drive side by side up the road, easy as you please.

Socks was tired enough that the first blush of frantic joy had evaporated in the hot sun. Now he just worked, looking for the shortest distance between points. I relaxed back in the seat, letting the SUV idle along, enjoying the whole thing-sun, heat, dust, the aromas of both livestock and trampled prairie vegetation, the sharp yip of the working dog. The journey gave me time to think, looking for an easy solution to the puzzle. None presented itself.

In a half hour, we drew within sight of the cattle guard that marked the Forest Service boundary. Sure enough, the wire gate was flopped to one side. Because the county road right-of-way fence joined the pasture fence, the cattle had nowhere to go except back over the top of us, or through the gate, and even the weary Socks could figure that out.

“Make sure that damn thing is secure this time,” I said to Dennis, and he wrestled the wire gate closed as the last two calves shot through the eight foot opening. Now they had a few thousand acres to explore, and Socks was out of a job. I whistled sharply and his ears went up, and with a last warning look at the nearest cow, the heeler trotted over to us, tongue dragging the ground.

“Good dog,” I said, and meant it. Rummaging in the back of the SUV, I found the plastic cubitainer of water, took the cap off my Thermos, and refueled the pup. Water slopped all over through several fill-ups, and if Socks could have fitted himself bodily into the cup, he would have.

“I don’t get this,” Dennis said, as he watched me loop a short length of light rope through the dog’s collar. “How does a guy forget his dog?”