No Good Deed (19 page)

She kept looking, found some normal females. She could blend.

‘How you doing there, buddy?' The man was still at the window, face seamed and burnished, and in spite of his heft, which was considerable around the middle, the skin of his neck and cheeks sagged into careworn creases.

McCarty stopped the truck. ‘I'm pretty good. Yourself?'

‘Fine, thanks for asking.' Even balanced on the running-board of the truck, the man managed to reach into a shirt pocket for a wrinkled pack of Camels.

Of course, it would be Camels. And Jack Daniels, no doubt, in the glove compartment.

‘You need a ride or something?' McCarty asked.

The guy grinned. ‘I just thought I might save you some trouble. I mean, you can take your horse through all that rigmarole at the auction, but I give you fifty cash dollars for it right now and we can unload him and you be on your way.'

‘Don't you even want to look at him?' Sonora asked, leaning across the seat.

McCarty did not actually tell her to shut up, but she could see that the thought crossed his mind.

The Camel man grinned. ‘It's a horse, ain't it? That's all I need to know.'

‘This is a pretty nice horse,' McCarty said.

‘They all nice. I'll take good care of him.'

The trailer rocked suddenly, and there was a metallic thunk. Oklahoma was kicking.

Horses knew.

McCarty cut the engine, leaving the truck and trailer parked smack in the middle of the gravel lot. Sonora got out, jumping off the running-board and sliding in the gravel. The man in the next truck, a Dodge Ram, had the radio up loud – an oldies station. ‘Little Red Riding Hood.' Sonora smiled a little, went around the side.

McCarty was leaning against the door, elbow resting on the ledge of the open window, hip cocked to one side.

‘A chestnut saddlebred, in foal and as big as a house.' The Camel man had backed away a couple of steps, a wad of bills clutched in his right hand. Sonora noticed that his index finger was missing. The man shook his head, scanning the lot every few minutes. ‘Son, I buy a lot of horses. I wouldn't say this one rings a bell.'

‘Got a frieze brand on the left side of her neck.'

Something flickered in the Camel man's eyes. ‘Her mane go to the left instead of the right?'

McCarty nodded. ‘Chestnut, white blaze. You see her?'

‘Seems like I might remember a horse like that going through here day before yesterday. I didn't buy her, though.'

‘Who did?'

The man rubbed his forehead. ‘I wish I could help you out, but when the fella wouldn't deal, I moved on.'

‘Wouldn't deal with you?'

‘Nope, he would not.'

‘Why not?'

‘Wanted to sell the horse and trailer as a package.' His eyes flickered to Sonora and he lowered his voice. ‘Didn't want to see her go to slaughter.'

‘I tell you what … What was your name again, sir?'

‘Beardsley. Sonny Beardsley.'

‘Mr Beardsley, that mare was a favorite of my wife here.' He inclined his head toward Sonora, then winked at Beardsley. ‘And it was a sort of a misunderstanding or difference of opinion, whatever you'd want to call it, between me and her on whether or not she ought to be sold. I'd really like to get her back.'

‘Son, I wish you luck. You might want to ask around a little.' His gaze flicked behind McCarty and over Sonora's head, scouting prospects.

‘There's a finder's fee in it, if you hear anything. Fifty for the information. A hundred if you find the horse.'

‘How's about that fella you got there in the back?'

‘I'm thinking he may be a little too sweet for this place. I'm going to head on in and take a look.'

‘You going to be here a while?' the man asked.

Hal nodded.

‘You hang tight till I get back at you. I may be able to find something out about your mare.'

Someone was selling puppies out of a big cardboard box. GOOD HOME/FREE hand-lettered in hot pink highlighter on a piece of poster board taped with masking tape along the side of the box.

‘What kind are they?' McCarty asked.

The woman sitting behind the card table, piled with 4H and riding-club brochures, grinned and shrugged. ‘Their mama was an Australian Shepherd, and their daddy is a memory. My suspicion is boxer, from the looks of them, but your guess, you know? Want one? They're cute.'

Sonora looked into the box.

The puppies were sleeping – little round balls like hedgehogs, sides going up and down with every little breath, eyes shut tight. They had tiny little tails. Were various blends of brown, black and tan. Sonora counted seven.

What would Clampett think if she brought one home? Even the world's most easygoing dog would be green-eyed over a new puppy. And she didn't exactly need the complications.

‘What you think?' McCarty. Smiling. He really did have nice eyes.

‘Now's not the time,' Sonora said.

One of the puppies whimpered, rose up on tiny paws. Shifted sideways and settled back in.

The woman grinned at her. ‘Honey, you make him get you a puppy. Take two. They can keep each other company.'

McCarty gazed into Sonora's eyes. ‘She's the most tenderhearted thing in the world, so I better get her away, or we'll go home with that whole boxful.'

Sonora waited till they were out of earshot. ‘I have to tell you, McCarty, this is the first time I've ever been called tender-hearted.'

‘Don't worry, I won't put the word out you're human.'

‘Where are you going? The auction's that way.' Sonora pointed down a concrete ramp that dropped down toward gray swing doors. She heard a man's twang, the echo of a microphone.

‘Let's go around the back. Never know what you might see.'

Chapter Thirty-Two

The back of the arena was a maze of cattle chutes, ramps and dirt pathways cordoned off with gray metal piping. The ground was strewn with manure. Sonora looked around, inhaled the whang of frightened horses.

‘Heads up,' McCarty said.

Sonora plastered herself to the side rail and an emaciated young man in Wranglers and a red denim shirt trotted a freckled gray horse up the path where they stood.

‘Passing through,' he said, friendly, trotting his horse. He rode a light brown western saddle, no bridle, just a halter with thick white rope reins. The horse moved smartly, head down, the two of them in perfect harmony.

‘You'll be okay, Ranger,' the boy said, leaning low and rubbing the horse's neck. He sounded sad.

‘Why is he selling that horse?' Sonora asked. Ranger had relaxed at the boy's voice, the touch on his neck.

‘Probably has to. Ole Ranger looks a bit underfed,' McCarty said.

‘So does the kid. Will he be okay?'

McCarty looked at her. ‘Sure, he'll be fine. Somebody'll buy old Ranger and take him home, probably make a pet out of him.'

‘You're a pretty sorry liar, McCarty.'

‘I tried, anyway. You want to go wait in the car?'

‘Don't girl me down,'

McCarty pointed to a couple of men standing next to a small enclosure where three horses raced from corner to corner. ‘I'm going to talk to those guys over there. You want to come with me, or look around?'

‘Look around.'

‘Watch where you walk.'

Sonora wandered in and out of the chutes, could not figure out how to make it into the arena through the maze of metal. She did see a path back toward the parking lot. She could go that way, and head back around the front.

She veered right, avoiding a large stock trailer, red, with wide metal slats on each side. It was crammed full of horses, most of them quiet, heads hanging.

Sonora frowned. Wondered how long the horses had been stuck in the trailer, wondered if they were coming or going. A logo on the side of a rusted maroon pickup said The Horseman's Buddy in large black letters.

She looked at the horses, pressed tight against the metal slats. They did not look like they had a buddy in the world.

A quick movement caught her eye, and a reddish-brown nose poked its way between the slats, one big brown eye watching her.

McCarty would probably lump this one in the chestnut category too, but he was very red, with a white blaze on his nose and a rub mark where black skin showed through. He was wearing a dusty leather halter that looked like it might disintegrate at any moment.

‘Hey, boy.'

The horse looked at her curiously. Stuck his nose out further. She rubbed a hand up to his forelock and he butted her fingers with his head as if he wanted to be scratched. She obliged. He butted harder, scooting up close to the edge of the trailer.

A muscular black horse with truly impressive hindquarters and a short cresty neck decided that the red chestnut was getting too close. He penned his ears and lowered his head, and the chestnut's nose went straight up as he jumped back out of the way.

All of the horses shifted nervously.

Sonora looked over her shoulder, wondered if anyone noticed that she was causing trouble.

‘Take care, buddy.' She headed out across the parking lot to the sound of microphones and frightened horses.

The arena had a dirt floor, fenced off at waist level, and a circle of seats rising gradually toward the ceiling. A man in stained brown workpants held a horse by a dingy white lead rope that ended in a chain that was threaded through an olive-green nylon halter and wrapped over the horse's nose.

The horse stood with locked muscles, head high, sides quivering, weight rocked back ever so slightly on the hind legs. He kept an eye at all times on the man with the lead rope. Three fresh piles of manure lay in the dirt.

A child ran down the ramp from the concession stand, feet thumping. The horse jumped sideways.

‘Whoa there, buddy.' The man in brown pants gave the lead rope a vicious yank, and the chain racked the horse's nose. His head went higher, but he locked his muscles and was still. Sonora saw that his back left leg was scarred.

The microphone man, loose jeans, a T-shirt and an impressive pot belly, shifted the John Deere hat back on his head. He was built wide and square like a dwarf, yellow-white tufts of hair fluffing from the sides of his cap.

‘Now this fella's been a lesson horse for thirteen years, real gentle with beginners. Somebody needs to take him home.'

Nobody seemed much interested.

Tables next to the first row of seats were crammed with saddles, blankets, bridles and bits of leather gear that Sonora did not recognize but thought might be more appropriate to a catalog catering to the S&M crowd.

Cigarette smoke was heavy. Two or three men stood to the left of the arena, talking. A man in overalls sat down heavily in a chair next to Sonora and lit into a plastic tray of nachos covered with gluey orange cheese and green rings of jalapeño peppers.

The real buyers sat, smoking furiously, waiting for the next horse.

The man behind the microphone talked faster and louder, but nobody was bidding on this one.

Sonora looked down into the ring. She had always wanted a horse. And the man had said he was gentle. He didn't look all that gentle right now, but terror never made an animal easy-going.

‘Not thinking of bidding, are you?' McCarty bent close, whispering in her ear.

‘Just doing reconnaissance,' she told him. ‘What you got?'

He grimaced. ‘One guy who thinks he remembers seeing another guy trying to sell a horse and a van, but he's sure the man had a stud colt, palomino quarter-horse, which is about as far away from a chestnut brood mare as you can get.'

‘Welcome to the eye-witness two-step. What about the guy that was climbing all over the truck?'

‘Beardsley? He's around. Hasn't got back to me yet.'

‘Yeah. But that's two people who remember a guy wanting to sell a horse and a trailer. Do the times pan out?'

‘Consistently. Late Tuesday afternoon.'

‘Could be our guy.'

‘Hell, he's taking off.'

Sonora looked up, saw Beardsley heading through the swing door to the outside ramp.

McCarty looked at her over his shoulder. ‘Meet you in the lot. And don't buy anything.'

Sonora looked back at the horse in time to see him being led away with a number on his back. He'd sold for three hundred dollars.

She hoped he was going to a good home.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Sonora sat on the hood of the pickup, wondering where McCarty had gotten to. She kept an eye on two cowboys who'd been giving her the look. She estimated sixty to ninety seconds before they'd be heading her way. She hopped down. She was attracting too much attention.

Really, she should work undercover more often.

She checked her watch, stomach tight with the feeling that time was moving and she wasn't. Forty-eight hours into the case, and they were foundering. Was this their best bet – tracking a mythical guy who had sold a horse and trailer as a package deal, refusing to let the horse go to slaughter?

She headed down the right side of the trailer, peered in the grilled window. Oklahoma ignored her, head down. She climbed down off the wheel well, dusted her hands off, saw that she'd gotten a stain on the leg of her pants.

She glanced at her watch, thinking maybe she should go looking for McCarty. She remembered a drink machine back inside the arena, had a sudden craving for grape soda. She got her jacket and purse out of the truck. The sun was going down.

Definitely getting colder.

She heard a shout, the clatter of shod hooves on asphalt, moving fast. Someone yelled ‘Heads up' and Sonora walked out in front of the truck to see what was going on.

Found herself directly in the path of a horse who wheeled sideways and stopped on a dime, head bobbing, sides heaving. Tufts of white foam rimmed his sides like dirty meringue, and his legs were braced as if he knew the worst was yet to come.