Shirley Murphy: The Cat, the Devil, and Lee Fontana

Stepping into the cab, he pulled his bandana off and stuffed it in Zigler’s pocket. He resettled Zigler’s position a bit, took off the straw hat, put it back on Zigler, tilting it down again over the man’s bloody face.

He started the truck, pulled out onto the hard dirt alley, which he followed for several blocks before cutting back to the main street. Car lights were on, the windows of the stores that were still open were brightly lit. Driving slowly out of town, he was just another farm worker, his truck dirty and nondescript. Opening the wind wing, he let the thin evening breeze cool him, he hadn’t realized how bad he was sweating. But now, with Zigler beside him, he had to smile. The dead man made a nice change to his plans. Somehow, his dead companion made him feel steadier and more in control.

When he got back to the gray, everything was as it should be, the gray sleeping on his feet, not nervous or watchful as if anything had disturbed him. He saddled the gelding, fished a length of rope from the truck and tied the three canvas money bags on top of his saddlebags, tied the trenching tool across those. Putting on the gloves he’d brought, he wiped his prints off places on the trailer he’d touched. Lifting the tongue, he pushed the trailer deep inside the old barn, into the shadows. Last of all, he wiped any earlier fingerprints from the hitch.

He returned to the gelding, put him on a lead rope, and led him up close to the driver’s door. Stepping into the truck, he slipped the rope in through his open window and started the engine. Pulling out slowly, leading the gray, he eased away from the barn and up the incline to the little turnoff that led up into the hills. The gray followed willingly, trusting Lee, moving along at an easy jog. Lee drove until he found a deep embankment that was steep enough for what he wanted, an ancient, dry waterway, sheer and far to the bottom.

Pulling onto the shoulder and getting out, he led the gelding across the road out of the way and secured his rope among a scattering of boulders. In the dusk, the pale desert floor held the last of the light. He could see the old barn far below, and the airstrip. Off beyond the strip by several miles lay a ranch, the thin lines of fences, a barn, a windmill, a cluster of trees, and a glint of white that would be the ranch house.

Returning to the truck, still wearing the gloves, he got in and angled the truck facing the cliff. He set the hand brake, then wiped clean the steering wheel again for good measure, wiped the lug wrench, the jack, and the door handles. He slid Dawson’s driver’s license deep into the dead man’s back pocket, then, opening the driver’s door and stepping out, he pulled Zigler’s body across the seat and arranged it behind the steering wheel. He wiped the revolver good, pressed the dead man’s fingers to it, in the firing position, then laid it on the seat near Zigler’s right leg. Reaching in, with the hand brake still set, he started the truck, the gear in neutral, and let the engine idle. Along the edge of the canyon, the wind blew sharply up at him. He cranked the steering wheel toward the edge. If he wasn’t quick, he’d be as dead as Zigler. In one move he released the brake, forced the gearshift into low, and jumped clear, giving the truck a shove to get it moving.

It lurched over the bank and down the side with a hell of a rumble, kicking up rocks, plowing up dust that blew in his face. He listened to the truck fall bouncing against the cliff, sounded like it was turning over and over. He heard it hit a boulder and bounce, then a heavier sound, as if it had rolled. Warily he peered over but it was too dark to see down into the canyon, too black down there to see anything. He thought about climbing down and putting a match to the truck—if he could get down, in the dark, without breaking his neck. But what the hell? If the law found the truck, what did they have? An escaped convict gone over the cliff, false ID, a truck with false registration, and a dark revolver the bank teller might recognize with its six-inch barrel, wooden grip, and worn bluing.

Returning to the gray, he patted the canvas bags behind him as he stepped up into the saddle. He made sure the money rode steady and secure as he moved the gelding on up the western slope of the mountain. The gray moved out at a fast walk even climbing, but at last he tired at the uphill pull and wanted to slow. Lee let the willing mount take his own pace, he had enough time. His pocket watch said seven o’clock, straight up. He had an hour and a half, and that was plenty.

When the gray had rested, Lee urged him along again. They were high up on the northwestern slope at the base of a pinnacle rock when they stopped in the shadow of an overhang, and Lee stepped off. He untied one of the canvas bags, sat down against the bank with the bag between his knees and opened it. In the fading light, he counted roughly through the money, his heart pounding. Looked like, altogether, he might have around three to four hundred thousand. Hell, he could buy half of Mexico for that. The crisp green bills felt good in his hands. He managed to stuff two canvas bags in the saddlebags. Then, just below the cliff, he dug a deep hole in the dry desert. Even with the trenching tool, he was out of breath when he’d finished, and now time was getting close. Breathing raggedly, he dropped the saddlebags into the hole, laid the third bag between them, and covered them. He kept the trenching tool. Feeling pushed now, he stood for only a moment looking out over the valley, mentally marking his position. He could just see, down to his left, the airstrip like a small scratch next to the dirt road to Jamesfarm.

He let the gray pick his own way down the bare mountain, around boulders and across ravines. The land was dark now but the sky still silver. When they hit the road he pushed the gelding to a gallop. He could barely make out the emergency airstrip now, couldn’t see the faded orange windsock drooping or filling in the gusting wind. Descending fast, thankful the gray was sure-footed, he began to worry that Mark had been early, hadn’t seen him and had gone on, though he hadn’t heard a plane. Or maybe Mark had changed his mind and had made other plans.

Pulling the gray up near the old barn, in among a small cluster of scrubby willows, he dug a second hole. It was harder digging among the roots and in the dark, but then he hit a patch where ground squirrels had made tunnels, and it went faster. When he had a saddle-sized hole he laid the blanket in and laid the saddle on top, the skirts and cinch and stirrups folded in, hoping the rodents would leave it alone, hoping he’d buried it high enough above the wash so the hole wouldn’t flood. He didn’t cover the hole, but waited quietly beside the gray, his chest heaving. The sky above was darkening now, too, the far mountains humping in heavy, deep blackness. Alone and wondering if Mark would come, he was getting fidgety when he heard the faint drone of the plane and saw its lights high above the mountains.

Only then did he remove the gray’s bridle, point him in the direction of the ranch on beyond, and slap him on the rump. The good gelding snorted and took off at a gallop, glancing back once at Lee. Lee laid the bridle in the hole with the saddle and trenching tool. With his boots he scraped sand and dirt into the hole, covering them well, stamped them down, then scuffed leaves and dry grass over the bare scar of earth. As the Stearman’s lights grew large and descended, he walked out, staying clear of the strip.

The plane bounced once on the wind and touched down. He waved both arms over his head as it taxied toward him, though he guessed Mark could see him against the lighter sand. Near him the plane paused, idling.

Walking on out, Lee had to grin. He’d done it. A third of a million bucks, hidden, and all his. Maybe in due time the losers would be reimbursed for some of it by the U.S. government. He didn’t know how this bank insurance worked, but as wasteful as Washington was, they wouldn’t miss the money. Feeling good, he stepped up on the Stearman’s wing walk and eased down into the hopper, where Mark had added a heavy blanket for his comfort. Lee fastened his seat belt, gave Mark a thumbs-up, and they were off, Mark heading clear across the country, for Wichita and then Florida, Lee choosing the shorter distance to establish his alibi. At the time the post office guard was first tied up and robbed, Lee would have had to be four hours or more away, hitching with an unknown trucker, heading for the roulette and blackjack tables of Vegas. And Mark, if anyone ever thought to make the connection, which wasn’t likely, would have been much farther away, gassing up the Stearman at small, country airports where the young pilot always paid cash, an unrecorded flight not likely to ever be traced.