Dang Near Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 2) (18 page)

Forty-One

I had forty-five minutes before we were to meet at the corrals, and I needed a backpack.

I trotted to the lodge, thinking about George Tensel’s greedy mug and cousin Herb’s Vernon’s menacing scowl. I was glad I had time to check on Bertha and Maria.  When I saw that Bertha’s Jeep wasn’t parked out front, panic closed my throat. I burst into the dining room.

Bertha and Maria sat at a table crying. Bruises around their eyes were dark and puffy.

“What happened?” I screeched.

Blood caked the corner of Bertha’s mouth. The women sniffed and moved bags of orange ice cubes to various parts of their faces.

“Who did this to you?” I cried. “Are they here?” I whipped around looking for scoundrels who’d hurt them.

“Señor Herb,” Maria cried.

“My dear cousin,” Bertha said.

“Where is he?” I flew through the room and peered in the kitchen. “Where’s your gun, Maria?”

“It’s still in the drawer, Señora. I couldn’t get it.” She cried louder.

“Herb didn’t get it, either,” Bertha said. “He’s gone.”

“Where is he?” I asked, frantically searching the dining hall.

“Far from here,” Bertha said. “Don’t worry. He’s gone.”

I ran to the kitchen, shouting over my shoulder to Maria, “Is the gun still in the drawer under the window?”

“Sí, Señora.”

I found the .380 pistol and the bullets and breathed easier. I carried the gun and bullets to the table and sat with Bertha and Maria while I loaded the gun and clicked on the safety. If he came back, I’d be ready. My heartbeat slowed.

“Where is he? Why did he do this?” I looked closer at their injuries. He’d blackened their eyes and split Bertha’s lip. He’d hit both women hard, the bastard.

“After everybody left,” Bertha said, “Herb blasted in here. He said I was refusing to drill the oil well so he could never get his part of the minerals. He said I didn’t care if he and Bitsy starved. I told him that just wasn’t true, that there was no oil on this ranch and never had been. That’s when he went ballistic.”

“Ay,” Maria said. She put her head in her hands.

“He grabbed Maria,” Bertha said, “and tried to get her to tell him where the well was. He shook her. She kept saying she didn’t know.” Maria nodded.

“He didn’t believe her. I could tell he was about to hit her, so I ran over and tried to push him away, but he knocked me down and slugged Maria.” Maria sniffed. “Then he came after me. When I staggered to my feet, he hit me.” Bertha moved the bag of cubes to her other eye and cheekbone.

“Did you try to get the gun, Maria?” I asked.

“No, Señora. I was afraid he’d take it away from me and shoot us.”

“He might have, Maria. Then what happened?”

“We were both sitting on the floor, crying,” Bertha said. “Herb didn’t seem to know what to do next. He asked me again where the well was, so I told him I vaguely remembered it was somewhere in the northwest corner of the ranch.”

“Don’t you have sheep pens up there?”

“Sure do. Herb’s driving around up there somewhere. In my Jeep. He’s probably in the middle of a hundred sheep. Looking for that oil well.” Bertha laughed and flinched from the pain of moving her face.

“Where’s Herb’s car?” I asked.

“He yelled at Bitsy to get in their car and drive home.”

“We need to call the sheriff,” I said.

“I already did,” Bertha said. “When I called, the girl who answered said Detective Sam Vanderhoven had already called them to report there might be trouble brewing. The sheriff and deputy are on their way to the ranch.” She frowned at me and grimaced again from pain. “Sam is a detective?”

“He came with Meredith and me on vacation and decided not to reveal he was an SAPD detective. But when Vicki’s horse threw her, and she was such a good rider, he thought her accident was suspicious.”

“He could investigate better if no one knew who he was,” Bertha said.

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t it almost time for the ride?” she said. “When the sheriff comes, I’ll tell him where to find Herb. You go on.”

“Shouldn’t you and Maria be treated by a doctor?”

Bertha looked at Maria. “We’ve been through worse than this.” Maria nodded.

After the Vernons died, these two women had run this ranch by themselves—in the midst of various kinds of two-and-four-legged predators.

“We took Advil,” Bertha said. “And jewelweed ice is great for bruises.” She raised an arm and flipped her hand toward the acreage beyond the lodge. “Herb will be driving out there in my Jeep for hours. The sheriff won’t have any trouble finding him. We’ll charge him with assault and let him cool his wheels in the Bandera jail. Now go.”

Forty-Two

Sam and George Tensel were already at the corral when I arrived with my backpack. Sam was about to mount a tall bay horse.

“Sam, could you come help me with these?” I dangled the sixteen-inch Nitrile gloves. “They protect my arms, but they’re kind of hard to put on.” He looked quizzical. As soon as he came close enough, I told him in a low voice what Herb had done.

“I’d better go get the bastard. He could be our killer.”

I grabbed his arm. “Or the killer might be coming on this ride. The sheriff and deputy are on the way. Bertha will tell them where to find Herb. She and Maria are all right. Meredith and I need you here.”

He thought about it for what seemed like an eternity, nodded slowly and walked toward his horse. Monty brought George Tensel a bay horse similar to Sam’s. He swung up on the saddle in a graceful motion that surprised me. He’d been so sore after his first horseback ride on the ranch. His horse perked up and looked almost as good as Ranger and Monty’s horses.

“You do that pretty well for a city slicker,” Sam said, “especially one with saddle burns.”

“I used to ride as a kid. Just haven’t done it in a long time. The burns were superficial. They’re about healed. I’ve got them padded.”

Riding a horse was like riding a bicycle. Even if you didn’t like it, you never forgot how. Why did George previously pretend he knew nothing about riding horses?

Monty held the reins of a dapple-gray mare for Selma. She eyed the creature with misgivings. “I’m not too crazy about animals.”

Monty motioned for her to come to the right side of the horse and told her to grab the saddle horn. When she tried to put her foot in the stirrup, the horse snorted and side-stepped away from her.

“Monty…” I said. He winked at me. George put his hand over his mouth. He and Monty thought encouraging Selma to mount from the wrong side of the horse was pretty funny. Monty had a tight grip on the reins, so the horse wasn’t going anywhere. The second time Selma tried to put her foot in the stirrup, the horse moved sideways and did its business. She stepped in it.

“Aghhh! Why didn’t you tell me that was there?” She shook her boot frantically, but the soft substance stuck.

We managed not to laugh. I was afraid Selma would start crying.

Ranger cleared his throat to mask a chuckle. “Go over there and swipe your boot on that dry grass,” he told her. “It’ll wipe it off. When we saddle ’em, they get nervous with anticipation. That’s what happens. Out on the trail, the stuff is flat and dry like a Frisbee. If you step on a dry horse patty, it don’t matter.”

“Aw, shucks, I forgot,” Monty told Selma. “Old Cricket here likes to be mounted from her left side. Come on over here. She’ll be all right.” Monty stood there holding the bridle shank. Cricket behaved admirably, not moving a muscle while Selma climbed on to the saddle with her lips quivering.

Our suitemates sauntered up to the corral, all talking at once. Ranger gestured toward Millie.

“I picked Peanut out for you,” he said. Millie quaked toward the ancient black horse whose saddle had a huge horn. Ranger probably figured Millie would eventually grab it. Peanut looked half dead to me…just what Millie needed.

Ranger steered Jangles to a brown horse that didn’t look big enough to carry her. She smiled at Ranger while she hoisted herself onto the saddle. Her poncho practically covered the animal. Her mount, feeling a substantial foreign object on his back, kept turning his head to bite it. Each time he swiveled his head, Jangles squealed.

Ranger and Monty conferred and decided to put Jangles on a bigger horse. They helped her dismount, led her to Moose and hoisted her up. Moose started blowing air out his nose as though he was determined to deflate both himself and his rider.

When Stoney approached the dapple-gray horse they gave her, the horse laid its ears back. The animal might have been perturbed by her husky voice or startled by the silver gleaming from her belt. Once Stoney mounted, the horse backed up, snorting. She yelled “Whoa!” and pulled back on the reins, which didn’t help. Monty told her not to do that. He said the horse would settle down once we started moving. I thought Stoney might eventually grab her saddle horn, too.

River Rat slouched up. They gave him a brown horse with a long black mane that hung forward like Rat’s hair. I imagined the wranglers shared some chuckles matching up that pair.

Ranger and Monty assigned Meredith to a palomino named Chauncey. Having ridden English saddle horses, she sat straight with her toes barely in the stirrups and the reins held lightly in her hands.

“I rode Chauncey yesterday morning,” she said. “This horse can really run. I love it.”

My horse, Sparky, a tall bay like Sam’s, looked pretty perky. Monty held him while I swung myself up. I’d learned to ride as a child at Aunt Novena and Uncle Fred’s farm outside Chicago. I tried to emulate the way Meredith sat her horse, but I had to hold the reins in my left hand. My right one was sore from the wire cut, even under my glove. Ranger and Monty glanced over.

“You left-handed?” Monty asked.

“Ambidextrous.”

They looked perplexed.

Wayne Rickoff appeared and strode over to the horse Monty held for him, a sedate black gelding. I surmised the wranglers didn’t want Rickoff and his horse to become irritable at the same time. At least the veteran wasn’t carrying a rifle or shotgun. I wondered if he’d hidden a pistol in his backpack.

Sunny appeared and went straight to a muscular black gelding, Tonto, and mounted. He appeared to have ridden him before. Tonto had powerful chest muscles and the stocky legs of a quarter horse. Sunny had probably bought him at a rodeo.

Ranger lined us up single file. There were thirteen riders, an ominous number. Ranger said we’d keep the horses to a walk. We might let them trot, but we weren’t going to gallop. As Ranger led off, Vicki’s horse whinnied from the stables. I tightened my grip on the reins and hugged the horse with my thighs.

Behind Ranger rode Stoney, Jangles and George Tensel. The wranglers must have thought George was a good enough horseman to back up the two women.

Meredith and Millie followed behind George. Then came Sunny, Selma, and River Rat. The wranglers had separated George and Selma by three horses so the couple couldn’t fuss at each other.

Rickoff rode behind Rat. Maybe Ranger and Monty figured that if Rickoff started shooting, Rat might as well be in front of him. I got the feeling nobody liked Rat much.

Sam rode behind Rickoff. Did the wranglers sense that Sam might have to keep Rickoff in check? I rode behind Sam, and Monty brought up the rear.

The trouble with trail rides is that the leader rides real slow. Plodding along gets boring. It was totally quiet except for an occasional horse snort. I heard something padding through the brush several yards off the trail, probably a white-tailed deer. It sounded bigger, though, like the cow we’d seen on the first day. I knew Herb was with the goats. The deputy had probably already cuffed him.

I decided to liven things up.

“Ranger, are there many bobcats around here?” I practically had to shout, since he rode up front. My voice stirred the horses. I heard a few snickers and “Whoas.” My horse walked faster. From the corners of my eyes, I could see Monty’s horse prancing from side to side behind me.

“Easy,” Monty said, “Easy.”

Since Ranger was the wire expert, I added, “One of those bobcats wired to the dining hall ceiling sure did look different this morning.”

Ranger shouted back, “We have a slew of bobcats around here. They kill too many quail. Sometimes we have to shoot the cats.”

Meredith must have sensed I was trying to stir something up. She wanted to help. “Isn’t killing bobcats strictly regulated in Texas?”

Since we’d stirred the hornet’s nest, Sam decided to stick in a probe. “You don’t shoot many bobcats, do you, Ranger? You just wire them up. Rickoff’s the one who shoots them. You still go to the national forest to shoot ’em, Rickoff, or do you slaughter ’em all here?”

“I’ll shoot whatever I want, wherever I want, you son-of-a-bitch.” Rickoff drew a pistol from inside his shirt and shot in the air.

Stoney’s dapple-gray horse froze with its ears back. “Whoa,” Stoney shouted, yanking the reins to her chest. Her horse staggered backward and would have crashed on its hindquarters except that Moose’s head broke the fall.

Moose bit Stoney’s horse on the rear. When Stoney’s horse whinnied and danced sideways, she screeched and grabbed the horse’s neck.

Then Moose reared. I was surprised he could lift his front legs that high carrying Jangles. The straps on her backpack were stretched, so when Moose angled up, the straps broke. Jangles’ backpack slipped off and hit George Tensel’s horse square on the nose. George’s horse thrashed around with its head bobbing. George cursed, but he managed to stay on.

Spooked and disoriented, George’s horse angled sideways into the brush and flushed a covey of quail. Whooshing and flapping, wild, raucous quail fluttered up from their brushy hiding place, wings thrashing noisily toward the sky. Their frantic commotion scared the bejeebers out of the horses and riders. My horse backed away from the flurry, but I caught a glimpse of another horse and rider beyond the bedlam, mostly obscured by brush. Who was that? My heart stopped.

Stoney’s horse, thoroughly unnerved, leaped forward and tore for the stables. Jangles’ horse bolted in pursuit. Both women, bowed over like pretzels, grabbed their saddle horns.

George controlled his horse well enough to aim for Selma, who was screeching at the flapping quail. “This is getting crazy,” he shouted. “Follow the other horses!” He grabbed her horse’s reins, yanked its head toward the stables, then swatted the animal on the rear. Her horse, Cricket, jumped sideways, then leaped forward and started to run. Selma, already clutching the saddle horn, hunched over and bounded away screaming.

Millie saw George coming toward her. She squealed, dropped the reins, humped over and gripped the horn. Her horse charged toward the stables before George even reached her.

River Rat, weighing the options of dealing with crazed, thrashing horses, Rickoff’s gunfire or a fast dash to the stables, kicked his horse and followed the women. He made a wrong turn before he hit the open field. Neither he nor his horse saw the oak tree looming ahead. The horse swerved at the last minute and missed the tree. But a branch caught Rat under the chin, lifting him off the saddle. He hung suspended while his horse charged ahead. Then he dropped to the dirt, unconscious.

Ranger yelled to Meredith, “Let’s catch up with them and ride on either side of the pack. Try to slow ’em all down so nobody gets hurt. Monty, you stay here with the others.” Ranger and Meredith raced off.

Sam slid off his horse and drew his pistol. He didn’t relish being a target for Rickoff.

I slipped off my horse.

Sunny and Monty jumped off their horses. The animals raced toward the stables. Heads disappeared behind juniper bushes. George, the only person still mounted, yelled curses between trying to soothe his horse with calm words.

He shouted, “Monty! Where are you, you little bastard?”

Monty didn’t answer.

George yelled at Monty again. “Why’d you fiddle with the damn bobcat, you little weasel?” George’s horse tried to pitch his frenzied rider, but George pulled one rein wide to make the horse circle. “Damn horse.”

Just as his horse started to settle down, a round petrified cow patty sailed toward George from somewhere on my right. I remembered Monty’s amazing accuracy when he threw up clay targets for Rickoff. Monty apparently didn’t like George calling him names.

I wondered if Rickoff was aiming his gun at one of the men. Where was Sam?

The cow patty Frisbee hit George’s horse on the nostrils. After being clobbered with Jangles’ backpack, his nose must be getting pretty sore. The animal pawed the air.

George made a valiant effort to stay mounted, but he slid off backwards and hit the sod like a fat sack of meal. When he moaned and tried to get up, Monty pelted him with a series of petrified patties.

“I should have known better than to deal with you, you little S.O.B.!” George shouted, dodging to escape the barrage. The next missile that flew at him was a rock that smashed against his temple. He roared in pain and fell over, silent.

When I rose to take a peek at George, a cow patty zinged past my right ear. I dropped to the ground.

“Pssst. Over here.” The voice came from my left. I heard the hiss of a snake and froze. I saw Sunny crawling toward me on his belly, dragging his backpack. I’d have bet my laptop he’d hidden a stunned snake in his pack.

I made a snap judgment that the snake wasn’t meant for me and tried to scoot toward Sunny. Somebody grabbed my feet and pulled me backwards through the underbrush. The long gloves kept my arms from being slashed. I bounced by a stump, grabbed it and held on with all my strength.

The assailant crawled up on my back and flattened me in the dirt. Spikes from his spurs ripped against my ankles. Leather and sweat filled my nostrils. The wild man pulled his body higher on top of me, knocking the breath out of me. When his arm slid under my neck, I smelled a vile, sugary odor. He clamped a hand over my mouth. Putrid hair lapped against my cheek. I heard a knife unsheathe.

“Don’t move.”

The point of a blade scratched the back of my neck.

“Anybody moves closer, I’ll cut her head off.”

I whimpered.

“Shut up. Everybody clear out. I want to hear boots movin’. Now! Get over here, Monty. Let’s take care of this bitch and get out of here.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Monty’s boots. I heard a rustling sound behind him, caught a glimpse of a snake wriggling furiously toward us and prayed that its mouth was wired shut.

I felt a scream coming and bit my lip. The crazed man on my back wouldn’t hesitate to slit me open.

Monty whirled to heave a rock at the writhing snake.

“Over here,” Sunny taunted him. “Your aim is off.”