Read Slickrock (Gail McCarthy Mystery) for Free Online Page B

stoves, refrigerators, cupboards, counters, sinks, and shelves, Harvey the cook had his domain.
    A big, stout barrel of a man, as befit a cook, Harvey was autocratic in tone and mercurial in temperament, in the time-honored tradition of camp cooks. He grunted at me as I poured myself a cup of coffee. Apparently Harvey was not in a talking mood this morning.
    Carrying my coffee, I walked through the open doorway that led to the cowboy room, a large dining room with one big table in the middle where the crew and friends ate. Lonny was seated alone near the end of the table, working his way through a plate of pancakes, sausage, and fried eggs. I sat down next to him and sipped my coffee.
    Besides a brief, muffled “Morning,” Lonny’s attention remained on breakfast. He ate neatly and steadily, in a workmanlike fashion, until all food items had been dispatched. Then, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, he leaned back in his chair, with the air of one who had just completed a pleasant chore, and smiled at me.
    I took a sip of weak but very hot coffee and smiled briefly. “Have you heard anything about that guy…Bill? I asked.
    Lonny’s smile faded, but his green eyes looked clear and untroubled as they rested on mine. Apparently last night’s distress had departed.
    “I heard Ted went to call the hospital,” he said. “I don’t know any more.”
    We looked at each other; after a moment his eyes crinkled at the corners. “So, are we going for a ride?”
    “I guess so.”
    True to form, Lonny was now focused on the day’s possibilities. He didn’t carry pain around much; a night’s sleep usually restored him to his typical optimistic good humor. A nice trait, I had always thought; it was only lately that I’d begun questioning its implications.
    “What do you say we ride to the cow camp at Wheat’s Meadow and have a look at Ted’s cattle. It’s only a few miles; it ought to be a good warm-up for your horses.”
    “All right.” I’d made the short ride to Wheat’s Meadow before, using Ted’s horses. The trail was good and there wasn’t too much rock. About what Gunner and Plumber needed.
    “And you get to ride over the bridge.”
    “Yeah.”
    A mile out of the pack station, the main trail crossed Crazy Horse Creek in the middle of a steep canyon, via a stout wooden bridge. In Lonny’s packing days, the trail had taken a lengthy detour to reach a spot where the creek could be forded. Ted had built and placed the bridge (via helicopter) in the early days of his tenure. The cowboys reckoned it saved them half an hour in each direction.
    This was great, and of course, all Ted's horses were quite used to crossing the bridge. Mine, however, weren't. I'd taken them on numerous trail rides in the coastal hills around Santa Cruz in preparation for this trip, and a couple of these rides had included small bridges. Gunner and Plumber hadn't been crazy about them, but they'd agreed to walk across them, despite being nervous about the hollow echo their hooves made on the wooden planks. None of these bridges, though, bore much resemblance to the Crazy Horse Creek bridge, which spanned a hundred feet, with a drop of a couple of hundred to the crashing water.
    "Better to go across it following me the first time," Lonny said.
    "Yeah," I agreed. I had thought of this.
    "So, what do you think? We'll saddle up in an hour or so, after you've had breakfast and the horses have finished theirs."
    "All right." I was about to ask Lonny which horse he planned to take when Ted walked into the room.
    Instantly our eyes swiveled to him.
    Ted stood by the end of the table, his round face quiet. "Bill didn't make it," he said.

 
    SIX
    Damn." Lonny stood up. "Did he make it to the hospital?"
    "They said he died there." Ted's voice was uninflected.
    We were all quiet. I thought about the man lying under the night sky wanting to die. I hadn't saved him.
    Lonny and Ted were still staring at each other. Aside from Lonny's angry "damn,"