Bitter Creek (14 page)

Chapter 27

DU PRÉ PULLED THE TRAILER
with the four horses in it under some cottonwoods, for the shade.

“Yer coddlin' the sonsabitches,” said Booger Tom.

“If I had not, you would say I was mistreating them,” said Du Pré.

“Worst thing kin happen to a man is his friends understandin' him,” said Booger Tom.

“Lunch?” said Du Pré.

“They got food here?” said Booger Tom. “Looks like one of them yuppie places got all sorts of noodles and soybeans and nothin' to eat.”

“They have food,” said Du Pré.

They walked to the roadhouse, passing Rudabaugh's car. The huge sheriff was at a table, picking at the last of his french fries.

“Doo Pray,” said Rudabaugh.

“Sheriff,” said Du Pré, “this is Booger Tom.”

Rudabaugh looked at the old cowboy. “I thought things like this was extinct,” he said.

“Yer fat,” said Booger Tom.

“Take it back,” said Rudabaugh. “I hoped that things like this was extinct.”

“You are old friends,” said Du Pré. “You kiss, tell old lies, I am getting something to eat. …”

Booger Tom sat down with the sheriff.

“Doo Pray,” said Booger Tom, “fetch me some food and a beer would be right nice.”

Dark-haired Lily was behind the bar, and she smiled at Du Pré. “What'll it be?” she said.

“Ditch, beer, two cheeseburgers, fries,” said Du Pré. “I apologize for my friend.”

Lily laughed. “You go and see he behaves,” she said. “I'll rustle up your food and drinks. …”

A woman Du Pré had not seen before came out of the kitchen, carrying some tableware.

“All of them need it, Jerry,” said Lily, and she ducked into the kitchen.

Du Pré wandered back into the little museum and he stopped in front of the portrait of Elizabeth Rhodes Pardoe. The beautiful blond woman looked back levelly, across eight or more decades. Three of her paintings hung on the walls.

There was a display in the corner, half sheets of plywood painted white hinged on the wall end, so that one could leaf through them like a book.

Du Pré looked at photographs of haying, huge crews, horse-drawn rakes, cutters.

An old white-haired man standing by a crossbar that twelve mountain lions hung from, holding his rifle.

Schoolchildren posed on the steps of a small white schoolhouse.

Elizabeth Rhodes Pardoe stood behind them, lovely in a white high-necked blouse. She had the intaglio brooch on her left breast.

Du Pré flipped the next page.
an artist of light and land
said the caption. Elizabeth Pardoe in a studio, standing with a palette in her left hand and a brush in her right. She was laughing.

A photograph of Elizabeth Pardoe outdoors, seated on a folding stool, a painter's box open beside her, standing on spindly wooden legs. She had a canvas on an easel before her and wore a hat with flowers set round the brim.

Standing with her husband, Ellis Pardoe.

ellis arthurs pardoe 1882–1981
had been inked below his feet.
elizabeth rhodes pardoe 1888–1969
inked below hers. Two different hands.

Du Pré went back out and he saw Lily carrying platters to the table where Booger Tom and Sheriff Rudabaugh were sitting. Booger Tom was waving a finger at the sheriff, who was about four times as big. Du Pré sat down, picked up his cheeseburger, shook salt on it. “You know each other,” said Du Pré. “Booger Tom, him want to move here, live. …”

“Doo Pray,” said Booger Tom, “has no respect fer his elders.”

“We run him out once,” said Rudabaugh. “We kin do it again.” He grinned at Booger Tom.

Du Pré ate, drank, went to the bar with his empty glass. He paid for the food and the drinks.

He waited for his change, put a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Elizabeth Pardoe painted,” said Du Pré. “Are there more of her paintings?”

“Lots of them here and there,” said Lily. “You know, we had her painter's kit, that box with the legs, back in the museum but some bastard stole it. …”

Du Pré nodded. “When?” he said.

“Couple weeks ago,” said Lily. “Somebody jimmied the back door and came in, stole some money from the deposit bag—we don't have a safe—took a buffalo rifle from the wall and that kit.”

Du Pré nodded. “Ellis Pardoe, he was killed in the First World War?” said Du Pré.

“Uh-huh,” said Lily, “he was killed the second of November. Just nine days before it ended. …”

Du Pré nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

He walked back to the table. Rudabaugh and Booger Tom were standing, waiting.

They all walked outside. “Sheriff,” said Du Pré, “you know where I can find, report on that Lieutenant Albert, shot himself here, 1931? Suicide, would have a report.”

“I s'pose so,” said Rudabaugh. “Thing is, you got to use one of them com-pooters and my fingers is too big fer them little keys. …”

Booger Tom looked at Du Pré. “Rudy,” said Booger Tom, “I knows you are all embarrassed at bein' so feebleminded, but do allow me to help. I know com-pooter. …”

“You?” said Rudabaugh. “You got useful?”

“Yup,” said Booger Tom.

“It is important maybe,” said Du Pré, “the Pardoe business, you know.”

Rudabaugh looked at Du Pré.

“You are hangin' this miserable old goat on me, ain't you?” he said.

“Yes,” said Du Pré.

“The voters knew you, how sorry you are,” said Booger Tom, “I'd be the sheriff.”

“That don't even bear thinkin' about,” said Rudabaugh.

“If you can,” said Du Pré, “maybe lock him up when you are done?” And he walked back to the truck.

He got in and started it and he drove out on the blacktop, heading for the Pardoe ranch.

The gate was open when he got there.

He drove in and looked round. An SUV was sitting by the fence.

There had been no cattle in the pasture, but the gate had always been closed before.

Du Pré drove on.

He crested the hill and saw the wall tents below, with Chappie and Patchen at work, the earphones on, the metal detectors sweeping back and forth across the ground.

Du Pré pulled down to the camp. Chappie saw him and waved. Du Pré opened the stock trailer and he slipped in and backed the horses out one by one.

They whuffled and snorted and walked down to the little creek to drink.

Chappie took off his earphones. “Will they be all right?” he yelled.

“Yes,” said Du Pré.

There was no water near but the little creek, rising up and sinking down in the land in less than half a mile.

“I am going, see about something,” said Du Pré. “I leave the trailer.” He racheted down the stand and he unhitched it, unplugged the electrical cable. He drove back up to the gate and he got out, opened it, drove through and shut it again.

He drove to Jackson Pardoe's house. It had the usual yellow tape stretched across the door.

Du Pré walked round the house.

There was a much smaller house behind it, a neat clapboard building about twenty by fifteen feet.

He walked up to it, looked at the door.

It had a padlock on a hasp, but the lock was not snapped to. Du Pré looked at it. It gleamed with oil.

He unfastened the hasp, pushed the door open. The air was stale but did not stink of rodent. It had been swept fairly recently. The windows were covered with shutters.

Du Pré went outside and he opened the big shutters at the far end. He went back in.

There were racks of paintings set against the one blank wall.

Above a big table, between the two windows, was a painting of a boy, dressed in jeans and boots, holding a halter. The halter held a palomino horse.

Jackson Pardoe, aged twelve or so. No. Jackson Pardoe's father, probably.

Du Pré went to the painting, took it off the wall.

It had a paper backing.

Du Pré slit the paper. He reached his hand in. He pulled out a leather book, one with a strap and snap.

He put it in his pocket. He reached in again.

He pulled out four thick bundles of letters, each bundle tied with a pale violet ribbon.

… this was red once …

Chapter 28

DU PRÉ DROVE INTO THE
county seat, a little dying western town.

WELCOME TO RYLAND
said the sign.

The Sheriff's Department was in the old courthouse, a structure ten times larger than the county now needed. The post office sat across the street. Du Pré went in, got an express mail box, put the book and the letters in it, scribbled an address, and took it to the window.

A heavy woman with tightly curled gray hair came out of a back room.

The little plastic square on her uniform shirt read
BERTIE
.

“Seven eight-five,” she said. “Hope you got change or a ten. I just got cleaned out, big money order.”

Du Pré pulled out exact change, paid, took his receipt.

“You want a delivery guarantee?” said Bertie.

Du Pré shook his head. “Thank you.”

He walked out and across the street to the Sheriff's Office.

Booger Tom and Rudabaugh were in the office, pitching darts at a picture of Osama Bin Laden.

“Doo Pray,” said Rudabaugh, “I was about to trump up a charge and throw this old scoundrel in the hoosegow.”

“He's pissed 'cause I won ten bucks off him playin' darts,” said Booger Tom.

“He cheats,” said Rudabaugh.

“I suppose,” said Booger Tom, “you want that report. Well, I done found it easy enough, even with him jigglin' my elbow. …”

“You
are
takin' him away?” said Rudabaugh.

Du Pré nodded.

Booger Tom picked up a small pile of papers. Pale facsimiles of old documents.

Du Pré looked through them.

“Coroner's report said he shot himself right down there where they say the massacre was,” said Booger Tom. “His feet was up on the bank and he was facedown in the water, one shot to the right temple. Didn't find a note. Gun was a thirty-eight, not an army issue.”

“Musta about et him up,” said Rudabaugh.

Du Pré folded the papers and put them in his shirt pocket.

Rudabaugh tossed a final dart. He took out his wallet and he fished a twenty-dollar bill out of it and he handed it to Booger Tom. The radio began to squawk and Rudabaugh went into the back room.

“Tomorrow,” said Du Pré, “maybe I go and ride south some there. …”

“OK,” said Booger Tom, “then what am I here for?”

Du Pré laughed. “I am worried, Chappie and Patchen,” he said.

“OK,” said Booger Tom. Rudabaugh came out of the office, clapping his Stetson on his head.

“Gotta go,” he said. “Lemme know when you figger how old Pardoe done died. Still don't have the coroner's report.”

“I let you know,” said Du Pré.

He and Booger Tom walked out to the pickup. “There are bunks, the camp,” said Du Pré.

“Hi-falutin',” said Booger Tom. “I sleep on cactus mostly, less I can find some snow. …”

Du Pré drove back to the Pardoe ranch. Booger Tom got out grumbling and he took care of the gate.

Chappie and Patchen were in camp but not in the tents when Du Pré and Booger Tom got there. Du Pré looked in one of the wall tents and then the other, and when he stood back from the second tent, he heard a low whistle.

“We are just doing guard,” said Patchen. “We got a lot of practice in Iraq.”

“You see or hear anything?” said Booger Tom.

“Just the critters,” said Chappie, “I can only hear out of my left ear anyway … but just the mice and the weasels.”

“Weasels?” said Booger Tom.

“Couple went dancing through camp,” said Chappie. “Seemed to be in love. …”

“Oh, fer Chrissakes.” said Booger Tom.

Du Pré went into the big wall tent and he got a wide-beam light and he went back out and down by the creek. He paused between two rocks and he set the light on one of them. He took out the coroner's report and his reading glasses.

The writing was faint and hard to decipher.

Du Pré looked at it intently. He shone the light behind the paper and the pale gray photocopy ink leaped out.

“Find anything interestin'?” said Booger Tom.

“I am looking,” said Du Pré.

“One of the things I have always admired about you, Du Pré,” said Booger Tom, “is how you kin say things without sayin' anything. You are right practiced at it. …”

Du Pré laughed. “General Albert,” he said, “he was a general then, twenty years after the massacre. He is found about there …” And Du Pré pointed to the little creek, near where the willows began “He is shot once, the right temple. The pistol is in the water and so is he, facedown, feet up. …”

“Who found him?” said Booger Tom.

“Mrs. Elizabeth Pardoe,” said Du Pré.

Booger Tom grunted.

“Not her husband?” said Booger Tom.

“Died 1918, week before the war ended,” said Du Pré.

Booger Tom nodded.

“Sheriff Dunning came with deputies LeFabre and Goss. They noted where the body was, lifted it to the back of a mule, and went out to the main ranch house … where the body was transferred to a truck. …”

“So he come back here, all guilty,” said Booger Tom.

Du Pré nodded.

“Et him up,” said Booger Tom.

“He had four hundred and twenty-seven dollars and sixty-seven cents in his pockets in coins and bills …” said Du Pré. “A wallet, a few cards—not his—a pocketknife with an ivory handle, his clothing was a suit from Brooks Brothers, New York, shoes by Lester and Frye, black silk socks, small clothes, a fountain pen, an address book, a pocket diary recovered but ruined by the water. …”

Booger Tom held out his hand. Du Pré rolled a smoke for him and one for himself.

“The coroner's jury ruled the death a suicide. The body was embalmed and sent east with General Albert's possessions. …” said Du Pré.

“Who to?” said Booger Tom.

“Next of kin, Mrs. Letitia Albert, Manassas, Virginia,” said Du Pré.

“Wife?” said Booger Tom.

“Maybe,” said Du Pré. “And there is a statement from Elizabeth Pardoe, she give to the coroner's jury.”

“They have them things here?” said Booger Tom.

“Ranchers here are mostly English early on,” said Du Pré, “so yes, I guess so. …”

“And she said?” said Booger Tom.

“She say that Albert is her husband's commander, the Great War, and that he had been here before that. She did not say why. She said he came to the ranch ‘having taken drink' and that he borrowed a horse and rode off the day before she found his body. …” Booger Tom blew out some smoke. “The next morning the horse was back, still saddled, but not Albert. Mrs. Pardoe had gone to town and did not discover the horse until she returned about noon. She immediately set out looking for Albert, found him shortly in the place described. …”

Booger Tom laughed.

Du Pré looked at the last sheet of paper.

“Anything else?” said Booger Tom.

“Jury verdict, suicide, foul play not suspected,” said Du Pré.

“Bunch of crap,” said Booger Tom. “She killed him, what I think.”

Du Pré folded the papers and he put them in his pocket. He flipped the switch on the flashlight.

It seemed dark for a moment, and then his eyes got used to the dark.

A nightjar flitted past, eating insects on the wing.

Something thrashed in the willows, gasped, died.

“So what you think, Du Pré?” said Booger Tom.

“Tomorrow we go and look, see if we can find that place Elizabeth Pardoe painted. Little cleft canyon, little cabin. Cabin was in bad shape, roof caved in, long time ago. …”

Booger Tom nodded. “That's where you figure the Métis was dumped?” he said.

“Yes,” said Du Pré.

“Any of this make sense to you?” said Booger Tom.

“Not yet,” said Du Pré, “maybe soon, it is still cloudy.”

“Murky is what you mean,” said Booger Tom.

Du Pré laughed.

“Hold it down,” yelled Chappie. “Ya sound like a pair of schoolgirls.”

Booger Tom made a loud farting noise. “If you is all we got protectin' us,” he yelled back, “I think I will go toes up now. …”

“Peace is our profession,” said Chappie.

“I am tired,” said Du Pré.