Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (5 page)

I smiled as she put Daisy through its paces. Crystal was a tall, attractive young woman who was supremely confident in the saddle as she turned her horse left and right, then made a complete circle using the reins and gentle pressure from her knees. She explained verbally what she was doing while performing the exercise. Jim Cook videotaped us, and Pauline Morrison took pictures with a small point-and-shoot camera.

Crystal brought Daisy to where we stood and said, “Take all the pictures you want while we’re on our ride, but don’t use the last shot on the roll. Most cameras have an automatic rewind once the final picture has been taken. That noise tends to spook horses.”

“Interesting,” Seth said.

“I’m excited,” I said.

The other wranglers brought our horses from the stables. Mine was a lovely midsized black steed named Samantha. Seth’s horse, Blazer, was the biggest horse on the ranch. I glanced at Seth. His eyes were wide, his forehead furrowed.

“He’s a big one,” I said.

“Ayuh.
Long way to fall.”

“But you won’t be falling.”

Crystal positioned a step stool next to Blazer and invited Seth to use it to help him mount. We watched as my dear friend, caring physician, and civic leader struggled valiantly to follow Crystal’s advice and haul his corpulent self up on Blazer. It took a few tries, but suddenly he was in the saddle and looking as though he belonged there, his Stetson pulled low over his eyes like a character in a western shoot-em-up.

“Something else to remember,” Crystal said. “Never wrap the reins around the saddle horn. And when you get off your horse to walk him, don’t wrap it around your hand. If he should decide to take off, you don’t want to be dragged behind.”

Soon everyone was on their chosen horses, and we split into two groups, the more experienced riders to follow wrangler Andy Wilson into the higher elevations, and my group of inexperienced riders who would accompany Crystal on a less challenging ride.

Ten minutes later, the experienced group left the road and veered onto a rutted dirt trail leading up into the mountains. We continued on the flat surface until Crystal led us up a moderate rise leading into the lower foothills.

We proceeded at a leisurely pace, a slow walk. Seth was directly behind Crystal, who glanced back at regular intervals to make sure all was well with her tenderfoot contingent. The rules at the Powderhom were strict, with safety always uppermost in mind. Jim and Bonnie belonged to the Colorado Dude and Guest Ranch Association, whose book of safety regulations was as thick as one of my novels.

Although it was barely ten o’clock, the sun had heated the air, which in turn coaxed insects out of their cool homes. Seth repeatedly wiped his face with the red bandana he’d bought especially for the trip and frequently looked back to see that I was okay. I did the same with Willy Morrison. He was slumped in his saddle, his face reflecting his unhappiness. Why, I wondered, had he bothered coming to the ranch in the first place? And he didn’t have to ride a horse. Bonnie had told me that a number of guests come for reasons other than riding. In one case she recounted, a woman, dressed in expensive cowboy clothing, mounted a horse after the briefing, instructed her husband to take a picture, then immediately climbed down and never went near a horse again.

After forty-five minutes, Crystal brought the column to a halt and suggested we dismount and stretch a little before heading back. We’d climbed higher than I’d realized. The plateau was surrounded by groves of aspen trees and ponderosa pines. From it the views were lovely, mountains providing a rugged backdrop for rolling meadows and pastures. A hawk circled overhead in the cobalt Colorado sky; chipmunks scurried from fallen tree to fallen tree, and two deer watched impassively from a safe distance. Wildflowers set the hills ablaze with color.

“The Molloys never did show up,” Seth said, arching his back against an ache that had developed.

“I hope they’re all right,” I said.

Willy sat on the ground and propped himself against a tree. He was pale and breathing hard, his white shirt stained with perspiration.

“You all right, young fella?” Seth asked, standing over him.

Willy looked up. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he said. “Damn horse doesn’t know how to walk right.”

Crystal heard him and laughed. “Takes some getting used to,” she said. “And some horses do walk different than others.”

We drank from canteens provided by the ranch, then got ready to head back. Socks continued to try to entice one of us to play fetch, but we didn’t take the bait. Holly had a different game to play, which didn’t depend upon human involvement. She enjoyed tearing through brush in pursuit of chipmunks and other small furry animals.

We started down to the road.

“Getting used to this,” Seth said, smiling.

“I know,” I said. “A little sore, but it’s worth it.”

We were almost to the road when Willy asked us to stop.

“What’s the matter?” Crystal asked.

“I can’t take this anymore,” he said, sliding down off his mount.

“You can walk him back,” Crystal said. “But remember what I said. Don’t wrap the reins around your hand.”

“I’ll remember,” he grunted.

Crystal reached the road and waited for us to catch up. We started back to the ranch, meandering along, taking in the scenery and enjoying the moment. We’d just turned onto the short road leading into the ranch when Socks and Holly burst through some low brush in pursuit of a rabbit. Socks, carrying his customary stick, quickly lost interest in the chase. He came to Willy and offered him the stick. Willy pulled it from his mouth.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Crystal said.

Willy ignored her and tossed the stick over a row of bushes lining the road. Socks tore after it. Holly, who’d been outrun by the rabbit, joined him.

We all laughed at their antics, then prodded the horses to move again. We’d gone maybe another hundred feet and were within fifty yards of the lodge when the dogs’ barking caused Crystal to halt the column and to look back at the canine commotion.

“They’re sure excited about something,” Seth said.

Crystal turned Daisy and urged her through a break in the bushes. Socks and Holly continued to bark. We watched as Crystal dismounted and used her foot to part the brush. Suddenly, her scream filled our ears.

I slid down off Samantha, handed the reins to Seth, and ran to where Crystal stood, her faced etched with shock.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Look.” She pointed.

I took a few steps in that direction and leaned over to see what had caused her reaction. The lower portion of a leg protruded from beneath the underbrush. At the bottom of it was a brown, ankle-high man’s hiking boot. A bit of white athletic sock protruded from it. There was a four-inch expanse of bare leg between where the sock stopped and the cuff of blue pants began. Burrs from low-lying bushes were stuck to his sock.

“My God,” I said.

“Who is it?” Crystal asked.

“What’s the matter?” Seth shouted from his horse.

I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes, opened them, and used my hands to part the bushes. It took a moment to clear a visual path, but when I did, I recoiled as though bitten by a snake.

“Who is it?” Crystal repeated.

“It’s Mr. Molloy,” I said. “I’m afraid he’s very dead.”

“I think someone should stay with the body,” I said, “while we go tell Jim and Bonnie.”

“I will,” Crystal said, her voice reflecting her ambivalence.

I returned to where Seth and Willy Morrison waited.

“What’s going on?” Seth asked.

“Mr. Molloy’s body is over there.”

“Molloy? An accident?”

“It doesn’t look that way to me, but that’s something for the police to decide. Come on. We’d better let Jim and Bonnie know. Coming, Mr. Morrison?”

Willy was immobile; he looked frightened, in shock. He glanced back at Crystal, who’d retreated from Molloy’s body and stood with her hand covering her mouth. He looked at me, dropped his horse’s reins, and ran toward the cabins. I picked up the extra set of reins, and Seth and I walked the three horses to the house.

Joe Walker, the chief wrangler, came from the office as we approached. “Good morning,” he said, tapping his wide-brimmed black hat. “How was the ride?”

“The ride was fine,” Seth said. “Not a happy ending, though.”

Walker’s expression turned serious. “Was someone hurt?”

“Someone’s dead,” I said. “Mr. Molloy.”

“An accident? Was he thrown?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “He wasn’t with us. Crystal discovered the body. She’s staying with it.”

“Oh, boy,” Walker said. “Do Jim and Bonnie know?”

“We’re on our way to tell them. Would you take these horses back to their stables?”

“Sure.”

Bonnie was in the office, doing paperwork. “‘Morning,” she said.

“Bonnie, something terrible has happened,” I said. “We found Mr. Molloy’s body on our way back from the ride.”

Jim came through the door from the house as I broke the news. “Molloy? Found his body? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but you’d better call the local police.”

“Where is he?” Bonnie asked.

Seth gave a rough description of where we’d discovered him.

“Let’s go,” Jim said. “Call the sheriff, Bonnie. I’ll get a couple of wranglers to stand watch until he arrives.”

We followed Jim out of the office and up the road to where Crystal continued her lonely sentry duty. We stood with her as Jim parted the bushes and took a close look at Molloy. I came to his side. Molloy was on his back. From what I could see, he’d been stabbed or shot in the chest. A dark, crusty ring of blood dominated the center of the yellow shirt he wore. If he had been stabbed, the assailant had removed the instrument of death.

“The blood has crusted,” I said. “It didn’t just happen.”

“Last night?” Jim asked.

I shrugged. “Hard to say. A medical examiner will make that determination.”

Jim said to Crystal, “Go get a couple of other wranglers. I want to make sure nobody disturbs the scene. Am I right, Jess?”

“Oh, yes. That’s important. You haven’t touched anything, have you, Crystal?”

“No. I never got any closer than this.”

“Good.”

Crystal took off at a trot toward the stables.

“Is there a police force in Powderhorn?” Seth asked.

“No,” Jim said. “The Gunnison County sheriff’s office covers Powderhorn. It’s a good force. Right up to date on all the new techniques and procedures.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said.

While we waited, the Morrison family, led by Andy Wilson, came down the road.

“Howdy,” Andy said.

“Hello, Andy,” Jim said. He went to the road, motioned for Andy to join him away from the others, and whispered in the young wrangler’s ear. You didn’t have to hear Jim’s words to know what he’d said. Andy’s expression said it all. Obviously, Jim had instructed him to get the Morrisons away from the scene, and to not tell them what had happened.

“Let’s move on,” Andy said.

Two other wranglers, Jon Adler and Toby Winters, joined us.

“You two stay here,” Jim said after filling them in on why they were there. “Keep your distance. If anybody comes by, pretend you’re picking berries or something. Don’t let anybody near the body.” We started back to the house when Jim stopped in the road, crouched, and examined a set of fresh tire marks in the wet dirt.

“Recent,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Did you see or hear a car or truck come by last night?” I asked.

“No. We don’t get much traffic here. Days can go by without a car coming by. It’s a car tire.”

We went to the house, where Bonnie waited in front, anxiety written all over her pretty face. “The sheriff’s out investigating a crime,” she said, “but they’re sending some of his deputies.”

“Good. They say how long it would be?”

“As fast as it takes to drive from Gunnison.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jim said, more to himself than to us. “In the fifteen years we’ve had the Powderhorn, we’ve never had anything serious happen before.” He turned to Bonnie. “What, that broken leg ten years ago? Some scrapes and bruises? One heart attack, and that guest survived, did just fine. He came back the next year. We hear from him all the time.”

“It has nothing to do with you and the ranch,” I said.

“But it happened here,” Jim said.

“It had to be somebody passing through,” Bonnie said, “a stranger, some itinerant drifter.”

“Where’s Mrs. Molloy?” I asked.

We looked at each other. Geraldine Molloy had been forgotten in all that had transpired.

“Must be in her cabin,” Bonnie said. “I’ll go see.”

“Would you like me to go?” I asked.

“I don’t want to intrude on you, Jess.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. What cabin are the Molloys in?”

“The honeymoon cabin,” Jim said.

“Which is that?” I asked.

“The last cabin, just beyond yours, Jess.”

“Up on that little rise?”

“Right.”

“And no one has seen her?” Seth asked.

A shake of heads all around.

“I’ll be back,” I said.

The Morrison clan, fresh from their morning ride, stood around the swimming pool, coffee cups in hand. I said hello as I passed, receiving less than enthusiastic responses. But they weren’t on my mind at the moment. I was curious why Geraldine Molloy hadn’t been seen all morning. Wasn’t she aware that her husband wasn’t with her? If my snap analysis was correct, that the crusted blood on his chest indicated he’d been killed some time during the night, it meant he’d left her alone in their cabin. Unless, of course, she’d been with him.