Bone Dry

ol’ diesel engine screaming at eight thousand RPMs, and combined that with the wrenching noises the blades made when they bit into a big softwood tree like a cedar… goddamn! It sounded like you were beating a pig to death with an accordion. And the amazing thing was, it was supposed to sound that way! It sure beat anything Red had ever seen at the monster-truck rallies.

Red pulled up beside the twin machines and cut the truck’s engine. “Billy Don, we’ll be working in separate areas today. That means I’m not gonna be around to watch after ya, so pay attention to what you’re doing. No screwups today, all right?”

Red was referring to a minor flaw in Billy Don’s botanical skills that had caused some problems the week before. Namely, Billy Don could hardly tell a cedar tree from a telephone pole.

They had been working a ranch that was home to the single largest madrone grove in Texas. The madrone was a fairly uncommon tree-now even more rare thanks to Billy Don. He had polished off a six-pack of Busch with lunch, then proceeded to level half of the ten-acre grove before the infuriated rancher shot out both of Billy Don’s tires with a twelve-gauge. Mr. Slaton had been boiling mad when he heard about it, but Red talked him out of firing Billy Don. Red had become good friends with the old guy, but boy could he get wound up tight sometimes!

Both men fired up their BrushBusters, and Red watched Billy Don head off toward the northernmost pasture on the ranch. It was a damn big place. They had been working the ranch for three days solid and hadn’t laid eyes on the house or even seen another vehicle. Most owners would stop by every so often to check the progress, but not this one. Red figured the owner might live over in Austin or down in San Antonio. Maybe a fancy lawyer or doctor. Those kinds loved owning big ranches: someplace they could bring their buddies and act like a big-shot cowboy.

Red was just about to put his BrushBuster in gear when a Land Rover pulled up beside him. Speak of the devil, Red thought. Must be the owner, finally deciding to take a look. Out of the vehicle climbed a man in his fifties, hair graying, wearing outdoor gear straight out of some catalog. Red cut his engine and hopped down to introduce himself. It never hurt to get acquainted with these society types. He might get invited to a party…or better yet, he could learn the man’s schedule and come out and poach a few deer when nobody was around.

“’Mornin’,” Red said. “Red O’Brien.”

The man shook Red’s hand, but had a strange expression on his otherwise friendly face. “Uh, yeah, I’m Walter Gibbs, the owner. I saw the tracks in here and-well, uh, I’m kinda wondering what you’re doing out here.”

“Sir?”

“What exactly are you doing on my ranch?”

Red gestured at the BrushBuster. “Clearing cedar, just like you asked.”

“But I didn’t order any land-clearing. I was thinking about getting it done, same as everyone else, but-”

Red scratched his head. “This is the Leaning X, right?”

Gibbs chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, but no. It’s Raven Hill Ranch. The Leaning X is the next gate down.”

The man continued talking, but Red didn’t hear any of it. His mouth had gone dry, his temperature was rising, and all he could hear was what Billy Don had told him just three days ago: Aw, hell, this is the place, Red. It’s right here on the map. Slaton musta given us the wrong combination to the lock. Let’s just cut it off and git to work.

“So what’d you tell her?” Phil Colby asked.

John Marlin steered his Dodge Ram off the highway onto a gravel-topped county road. He was answering a hunter-harassment call from a man named Cecil Pritchard. It was a low-priority call from the day before, and Marlin had been too busy to respond yesterday. Colby, Marlin’s best friend since childhood, was joining him on what the Parks and Wildlife Department called a “ride-along,” a chance for civilians to get an up-close look at a game warden’s daily activities and responsibilities. Colby joined Marlin several times a year and Marlin always enjoyed the company.

“Well, Susannah Branson is a nice gal, no doubt about it, so I wasn’t sure what to say,” Marlin said. “And I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I told her that it might be nice sometime.”

Colby nodded. “No harm in that. It’s no big deal, just a couple of friends getting together for coffee.”

Marlin gave Colby a sideways glance.

“On the other hand,” Colby grinned, “she’s damn good-lookin’. Hell, if you don’t wanna take her out, give her my number.” Colby was trying to lighten the mood a little, but Marlin was having none of it. After a pause, Colby said, “Listen, John, you know how sorry I am about this whole deal with Becky. But that’s how things work out sometimes. You gotta tell yourself it’s for the best.”

Marlin didn’t reply. He pulled into a dirt driveway and approached a run-down mobile home where a filthy toddler was playing in the barren yard. Marlin recognized Beth Pritchard sitting on the porch steps, in white shorts and a pink tube top, smoking a cigarette. Next to the house was Cecil Pritchard’s gray Chevy truck, with a bumper sticker that read: KEEP HONKING. I’M RELOADING.

“’Mornin’, Beth,” Marlin called as he and Colby stepped out of the cruiser. “I hear Cecil’s been doing a little hunting this weekend.”

“Wasting time and money is what I call it,” Beth sneered. She gestured around her. “What do you think, John? Does it look like we can afford a deer lease?”

Marlin simply shrugged, not wanting to get in the middle of a domestic squabble. He looked over at Colby for help, but Phil was suddenly interested in something on the horizon. A few yards away, wisps of smoke floated out of a barrel, carrying the acrid scent of smoldering garbage. Evidently, Cecil was too chintzy to pay for trash pickup. Marlin considered mentioning that there was a burn ban in effect in Blanco County-due to the drought-but then Cecil Pritchard would probably just toss his trash out on the highway.

“Cecil around?” Marlin asked.

Beth gave a dismissive wave. “He’s out in his workshop. Do me a favor and arrest him for somethin’, will ya?”

“Thanks, Beth.” Marlin eyed the toddler. “Looks like Junior’s growing up real good.”

Beth grunted.

Near the mobile home sat a small low-slung building slapped together with tar paper and sheet metal. A couple of old tires had been thrown on the roof to keep it secure on windy days. Marlin and Colby entered the shack, where Cecil was sprawled on a torn plaid couch watching a football game on a small black-and-white TV.

The men exchanged greetings and Cecil offered Marlin and Colby a beer from a large galvanized washtub that was currently functioning as an ice chest. They declined.

After a few minutes of small talk, Marlin said, “I got your message on my machine, Cecil. What’s up?”

Cecil turned down the TV, hiked up his suspenders, and said, “Y’all ain’t even gonna believe what happened to me yesterday.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Emmett Slaton was a robust seventy-five-year-old rancher who looked like he could still leap from a galloping horse and wrestle a steer to the ground. He was a stereotypical raucous Texan, always sitting at the loudest table at any cafe. Friendly enough, most of the time, but with a legendary stubborn streak and a tendency toward bigotry. Salvatore Mameli had experienced both traits firsthand during his initial phone call to Slaton two weeks ago. At first, the rancher had been polite, if not cordial.

But when Sal had made his proposition, Slaton ladled out a string of obscenities, then summed it all up by saying he’d “rather kiss a sow on the mouth after feeding time than sell my operation to some two-bit Capone.”

Apparently, Sal’s well-oiled hair and pinkie ring weren’t a big hit with the locals.

But Sal had patience-and a remarkable ability to control his temper when needed. He simply thanked the man