Untamed (10 page)

Laughing, Sam headed toward the classroom trash can.

Rachel moved in the same direction, with sly certainty, as if she had something planned. She held a balled-up piece of notebook paper as if it were a stage prop.

“Cammy,” Rachel purred as she passed the girl's desk. “I have a Heard in the Halls item for you.”

Sam gritted her teeth. It was just like Rachel to fabricate something, when the point was to assemble little bits of overheard conversation.

In a loud whisper, Rachel said, “S. F. is crazy, and not in a fun way!”

There was no doubt who S. F. was, Sam thought as Cammy dutifully scribbled down Rachel's words. Sam felt a red-hot blush consume her excitement over the editorship.

Rachel strolled on as if she'd done nothing. If they both kept walking, Sam thought, they'd reach the same place at the same time. She couldn't let Rachel stage another sideshow, so she tossed her half-finished milk shake toward the can and turned back toward her desk.

Rachel's shriek made Sam look in time to see a splash of milk shake fanning through the air.

If it had happened in slow motion, Sam couldn't have seen it more clearly. A glob of chocolate split into droplets and they were homing in on Rachel's aqua dress.

“Look what she did!” Rachel yelled. She whirled toward Mr. Blair, pointing to the chocolate spatters on her dress. “She did it on purpose!”

Slowly, Mr. Blair looked up from the paperwork spread on his desk.

“Simmer down, Slocum. Just run down to the rest room and clean yourself up.”

“Clean myself up?” Rachel screamed. “This cannot be fixed in a rest room. You can't possibly have any idea what this dress cost!”

“I'm sure she'd be glad to tell us.” The remark came from somewhere behind Sam, but she didn't dare turn to see who'd said it.

It was a good thing she didn't.

“What about her?” Rachel lunged forward in a wave of strong perfume. She raked her fingernail like a claw at Sam's nose, but missed as Sam drew back. “I want her punished.”

Mr. Blair had finally pushed his papers aside. Anyone paying attention could have seen he'd had about enough of Rachel's dramatics.

“It was an accident,” Sam began.

Mr. Blair nodded in agreement.

“It wasn't!” Rachel screeched. Enraged, she shoved a desk. It hit another desk, which tipped over,
colliding with Cammy's. The ringleted girl jumped up and backed away with round eyes.

“That's enough,” Mr. Blair said.

“How can you believe it was an accident? She's crazy! And I'm going home!” Rachel tried to kick a desk out of her way, and missed. She shrieked in rage, and kicked again. This time her high-heeled shoe flew off. It somersaulted through the air to titters of laughter.

“This is not fair!” Rachel grappled the shoe from the floor and jammed her foot inside, then stood trembling, fists pumped in short bursts at her sides. “She hates me because I'm everything she's not!”

No one spoke up to agree with her.

“Right?” Rachel scanned the amazed faces around her.

Still no one spoke. The only sound was Zeke, tapping away at the computer keyboard.

“Oh, forget this,” Rachel snapped in disgust. “I've had enough of you people.”

As if nothing of consequence were going on, Mr. Blair had gone back to his reading. He didn't glance up when he said, “That'll count as cutting class, but suit yourself.”

“I will!” Rachel said. She flounced from the room, slipping just a little in the puddle of chocolate goop in the doorway.

“Forster, clean up that mess before the bell rings,” Mr. Blair said.

Sam rushed to do it, but as Rachel's shoes echoed in the hall and the corridor door slammed, Sam noticed no one asked her if she
had
done it on purpose. In fact, over the tapping of the computer keys, she heard Zeke comment, “Now
that's
what I call crazy.”

“T
his is rather exciting!”

Ryan Slocum grinned and tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his father's champagne-colored Jeep Cherokee. Sam cradled the school's expensive camera on her lap. And Snake Head Peak towered up on the horizon.

Sam had a feeling everything was going to be fine. As she'd left class, details of Rachel's tantrum were already being broadcast in the halls. No one was gossiping about crazy Sam Forster.

And she was going to be photo editor next year. She felt proud, but should she race home and announce her good news tonight? Or should she save it, in case she needed to prove she was too good a kid to be sent back to San Francisco?

Sam's mind was jerked back to the job before her as the Cherokee bucked over hardened ruts that had once been the mud surrounding Aspen Creek. The ride was rougher than on horseback, but smoother than Jake's truck.

At least on this third visit to Antelope Crossing, Sam knew they were headed the right way.

“You're not certain exactly where the cottage is, though,” Ryan said. “Is that correct?”

“I sort of know,” Sam said, but Ryan actually looked cheery about getting lost in the wild West.

Sam couldn't help contrasting Ryan with his sister. Sure, Rachel's England-reared brother had the same lean build and coffee-brown hair, and he dressed with more care than the usual Darton schoolboy. Right now, for instance, he actually wore cuff links with his open-necked shirt.

Unlike his sister, Ryan loved horses. He'd competed on heavy hunters, won two English dressage titles, and helped Sam reveal that Tinkerbell, a horse slated for slaughter, was a talented jumper. Challenged by Jake's plan to ride a wild Indian pony in the Superbowl of Horsemanship, Ryan had gentled a gelding from the Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary and ridden him in the race.

Best of all, Ryan hadn't asked
why
when Jen had told him to bring his father's new Cherokee and to be prepared for cross-country travel.

If Ryan planned to be Jen's boyfriend—and that
still wasn't a sure thing—spontaneity would be an asset. She and Jen enjoyed life's sudden twists and turns.

Not everyone did. Jake Ely, for instance, Sam thought. While he might do crazy things on his own, he'd never have driven her to Caleb Sawyer's wilderness cabin. Last night, he wouldn't even let her talk about it.

And twice today, at school, he'd touched his head and raised his eyebrows, asking silently how her head was from bumping his truck window the other night. Where she was concerned, Jake was just too careful.

“Thanks again for the ride,” Sam told Ryan, appreciating him all the more. “I need this photo essay to get a good grade in Journalism, and I think the light's going to be just perfect.”

Jen gave a disbelieving snort. She knew the story was mostly camouflage for her real reason for coming out here. But Ryan didn't seem to notice.

“You're completely welcome,” he said, then glanced through the windshield and up. “Those dramatic clouds should photograph nicely, though it feels as if we're in for a bit of a blow.”

“Wait,” Sam said, suddenly. “The horses—where did they all go?”

Ryan braked and stopped.

The Cherokee shivered as a blast of wind hit it broadside. Antelope Crossing, where pronghorn and
horses had grazed just two days ago, was an empty expanse of sage and sand.

“It's earlier,” Jen said. “Last time we were here, it was almost dusk. That's a safer time for both herds. Maybe we'll see them on our way out.”

“Maybe,” Sam answered. She tried to believe the overcast sky and rising wind had fooled her.

Ryan drove on. As a dilapidated wooden cabin came into sight up ahead, she was glad it wasn't night. The man inside that cabin had been her mother's enemy.

“What a striking rock formation,” Ryan commented. “The low outcroppings on each side make it a natural fortress, don't you think?”

Sam glanced up. Ryan was right. From that crown of rocks above the cabin, you could hide out and look down on any visitors.

The peak cast a black shadow and they'd just moved into it, but Sam thought only of the barking dog chained beside the porch of the old cabin.

Her worry disappeared as she realized the dog, which seemed to be mostly Labrador, hadn't even stood up. He was only barking out of duty.

“You can let me out here and I'll walk up,” Sam told Ryan.

“It might be a good idea to sound the horn, first,” Jen advised him.

“Whatever for?” Ryan asked.

“Caleb Sawyer won't recognize your truck, and
since we know he has a rifle…”

“So many people out here do.” Ryan sounded puzzled.

“Yeah, and Dad says some of these old desert rats shoot first and ask what the heck you want, later.”

When Ryan honked, the dog turned more serious. It lurched to its feet and barked louder as a door creaked in the wind.

Sam draped the camera strap around her neck and patted the pocket where she'd stashed Mr. Blair's mini tape recorder. She should have practiced with it on the way here, but now there was no time.

Sam reached for the truck door.

She'd go before she lost her nerve.
Now
. But her hand hesitated on the door as a slow-moving figure appeared on the porch.

“No rifle,” Jen said, sighing.

“And with
that
heartening farewell, I'm out of here,” Sam said.

She shoved open the door and slammed it behind her. She wanted to announce to Caleb Sawyer that she wasn't sneaking up on him.

She'd only taken a few steps when Jen lowered the truck window.

“Psst,” Jen hissed. “Keep him outside to talk and take lots of pictures while you ask him stuff. That way he won't feel cornered. You don't want him to be stressed.”

Sam gave her friend a quelling look.

“And keep checking the tape to make sure it's turning. This is probably your only chance to build a body of evidence.”

Why couldn't Jen have offered advice when they were still inside the truck, out of Caleb Sawyer's hearing? Still, “body of evidence” had a nice official ring to it. Sam squared her shoulders and walked.

Wind brought the smell of dog, cooking, and mildew. Sam looked at the battered tents gathered to one side of the cabin and wondered why they were there.

She was just wishing for a sweatshirt to pull on over her blue shirt when the man on the porch called out.

“Hey! Get outta here!”

“I'm Samantha Forster from Darton High School and—”

“Whattya want?”

So much for introductions, Sam thought. She reached into her pocket and pushed the start button on the tape recorder.

“I'm doing a story—”

“You're that kid with the bay horse, ain't ya?” he said, and gestured toward the range where he'd shot at the Phantom. “What're you doin' drivin' Slocum's truck?”

Chills rained over her. The gooseflesh on her arms wasn't caused by the spring wind.

He knew Linc Slocum. He must have seen him
recently, too. Linc had gotten this truck just months ago, when he was hunting cougars.

Slocum and Sawyer were up to no good. She just knew it. Still, she tried to act calm.

“I'm not driving the truck, sir. Mr. Slocum's son, Ryan, brought me over to talk with you.”

Caleb Sawyer gave no sign he'd heard. Maybe the dog's barking had drowned out her voice. Maybe he was studying her as intently as she was him.

Caleb Sawyer's face wore a lifelong tan from working outdoors. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth looked as if they'd been tightened with drawstrings.

Dressed in a flannel shirt rubbed thin as pajamas, and brown trousers, he shuffled along in boots bleached by alkali dust. His frizzled hair showed a mix of brown and gray and it hadn't been cut in so long, he had to push it away from his eyes. Then he squinted as if Sam stood in full sunlight, instead of shadows.

“Jet!” he shouted, waving at the dog. It sat in silence, instantly.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Linc Slocum's son, Ryan, brought me out here to talk with you,” Sam repeated. “I'm doing a story about old Nevada for the school newspaper.”

Caleb Sawyer's head tilted to one side. Maybe he didn't like being part of “old” Nevada.

“What about Slocum's car?” he asked, again, and suddenly Sam realized he was hard of hearing.

She moved closer and talked more loudly.

“
Ryan
Slocum drove me here.”

“The boy,” Caleb said, nodding.

Something wet made Sam gasp. She turned to find the gray-muzzled dog nudging her hand out of its clenched fist. She rubbed Jet's sleek black head. It wasn't the dog's fault he had an evil master.

“Ain't good for much anymore. Chases skunks, is why he's chained up.”

“Our dog chases porcupines,” Sam said, before she thought better of sympathizing.

“Whose dog?” Sawyer scowled, still trying to make sense of her presence. “Who are you?”

Sam thought better of telling him her last name. If he knew Brynna, he'd know she worked for the BLM and he'd probably refuse to talk. If he knew Dad, he'd know Wyatt Forster took care of the land and didn't approve of poaching. If Sawyer remembered Mom…

Sam decided not to take a chance.

“I'm a student at Darton High,” she said, then lifted the camera. “Can I take a picture of Jet?”

“Don't know why you would,” he said, rubbing the dog's ears. “Good for nothin' old cur, but go on.”

She stared through the eyepiece, snapping pictures. She should ask her big questions, now, while he was pleased by her appreciation of Jet.

“I heard you could tell me about mustanging in the old days.”

Caleb's head jerked up. “That was never nothin'
but a side job and legal in them days.”

Mustanging hadn't been legal for over thirty years, but Sam didn't say so.

“I'm a huntin' guide, best in the county. I want in on that bison thing of his.” Sawyer nodded toward Linc Slocum's truck. “I could take hunters out to find them big woolly critters. Antelope are harder than deer, and those mustangs?” he shook his head in grudging respect. “They'll take you to where the trail ends, and just when you think they're cornered, you'll be all alone. Hardest critter to catch, even with water traps, snares, creasing…”

The old man lowered himself to sit on the porch step, then stared off into his memories, but any sympathy Sam had felt for him vanished.

One word he'd said had evoked a memory for her, too. It came with the smell of wood smoke.

Creasing
. She'd been sitting around the campfire during the cattle drive after she'd first come home from San Francisco. Someone had mentioned creasing, but who? The memory wouldn't focus, but it involved the Phantom.

“I'm not sure I know what you mean by
creasing
,” Sam said.

“What?”

“Creasing,” she repeated, then shrugged.

“It was a long time ago, little girl, so don't get your back up. If a man was a good shot, creasin' was the quickest way to catch one of them crowbaits and
not have to spend all day chasin, wearin' it down.”

Crowbait
was another creepy term you didn't hear everyday, Sam thought. She couldn't imagine killing a wild horse and using his body to attract crows, which some ranchers considered pests.

Sam listened for the faint hum of Mr. Blair's tape recorder to make sure she was getting every word, but Caleb was talking again.

“Yessir, you'd see one you liked and—bing!”

Caleb Sawyer made a sawing motion across the back of his own neck.

“Just nick it, see? Between the mane and withers. Some kinda nerve's there. Don't hurt 'em a bit. Paralyzes 'em, though, and gives ya plenty of time to get 'em hog-tied. If you do it right.”

Sam recoiled. How often had it been done wrong?

She imagined a tangle of hooves and hide colliding with the desert floor. How many horses had died of broken necks? How many had lain with terrified eyes, unable to fight back?

“'Course, that was a lifetime ago.” Caleb's gaze sharpened, but then he tantalized her with more. “Small planes, now, that's the way to run 'em down. I told Slocum that.”

Slocum again. And they'd discussed catching wild horses! Please let that tape be turning, recording every ugly word.

“You mean the helicopters, like the BLM uses?”

Caleb shook his head and spat in the dust.

Sam stepped back, then checked to make sure Jen and Ryan hadn't abandoned her. They hadn't.

“'Course not.” His bleary eyes seemed to focus. “Slocum wanted that white stud, the one you saw me scare the other day. All I did was spook him. No one can say different. You were there. You know that.”

Sam gave a grudging nod. Sawyer was probably right. If there'd been a drop of blood on the Phantom, she would have seen it.

“He come to me, Slocum did. Offered me enough money to tempt a saint, but I told him I was out of the wild horse huntin' business. Then he asked all these same questions you are, like how it was done in the old days. And I told him.”

A flicker of emotion crossed the old man's face. Disgust? Regret? Maybe he had a conscience, Sam thought.

“Heard he tried some of it. Fool city slicker. I got no use for him, 'cept maybe to save myself a trip to the bank, know what I mean?”

He laughed until he started coughing. “I'd like to fill those tents again,” he said, nodding at them. “Lead a huntin' party after them buffalo.”

Sam had heard Slocum's buffalo were headed for a preserve somewhere, but why should she tell the hermit?

“If you knew he was so incompetent, why did you tell him how to do those things?” Sam demanded. “You must have known he'd only hurt the horses.”