Ralph Compton Ghost Hollow Ranch, page 8
The doctor gave a crooked smile. “Mr. Avery, you seem like the sort who doesn’t need eyes in the back of his head to see around him clearly. Be careful.”
Lucas gave a nod and watched as the doctor headed toward the house. He wondered if Pierce was going to say something about the animals and possibly poisonous plants to Mrs. MacGill, or if he was only going to pay his respects. It wasn’t his business, was it?
Shaking his head, Lucas walked back into the barn. That had been a waste of an hour, and he hadn’t finished with the stalls.
Except his pitchfork wasn’t where he’d left it stuck in the clean hay. The hay was still on the ground waiting to be tossed into the clean stalls, so it wasn’t as if one of the boys had finished the chore.
But maybe it had been one of the boys who stole the pitchfork.
He headed outside again, toward where he’d seen Len running around the back of the barn. It didn’t take him long to find the boy; he was out in the field running toward the same hill where Lucas had seen them the day before. Why was he heading out there so late in the day? He almost shouted for Len. But children running off was none of his concern. If Mrs. MacGill needed help keeping those boys in line, she should ask Olivia to mind them. All Lucas wanted was the pitchfork.
He turned the corner, wondering if the boys had dragged the pitchfork out to the manure pile for some reason. It wasn’t there. He looked out toward the boys once again. Neither of them had the pitchfork, and Charlie was supposed to be out with the cattle. Where could the boys have taken it?
He resolved to ask about it later and headed inside to find a shovel.
He’d just finished spreading clean hay along one of the stalls when he heard a scream.
Lucas kept his grip on the shovel and took off in the direction of the voice.
Olivia was next to the chicken coop, face pale, a smudge of red across her cheek.
“Are you all right?” he asked, seizing her shoulders and looking her up and down for injuries. The blood on her cheek seemed the only mark on her.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, then pointed with her other hand to the chicken coop. The blood had come from her right hand, he realized. It was smeared across her palm. He followed the bloody hand’s direction and stepped toward the coop.
Olivia had spilled kitchen scraps at the entrance of the coop. He sidestepped bread crumbs and apple cores on his way toward the blood.
The chickens were all on the ground, their blood spilling into the dirt. For a moment, he thought that a coyote must have gotten into the coop somehow, but the chicken wire around the run looked intact. He stepped forward to get a closer look . . .
And he saw it.
The pitchfork stuck into the wall of the wooden coop, its long metal tines pinning a chicken to the wall, the feathers rusty red from the blood.
Not a coyote, then. Not a wolf. There was only one creature that could have done this: a man.
Or, Lucas thought, a ghost.
“I—” Olivia began, then seemed to choke on her words.
Lucas tore his eyes away from the bloody mess in the coop and moved back toward her. “Come on now,” he said. He’d grabbed her arms when he found her, scared she was hurt, but now he didn’t touch her except with a gentle hand to her back to get her moving.
“Who did this?” she asked in a whisper as he led her toward the house. “I was in the pasture with the horses. I didn’t . . . Did you . . . ?”
“I didn’t see anyone either,” he said. But someone had been there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Is Olivia all right?”
Mrs. MacGill’s hands were working dough, probably for the next day’s bread. If Lucas hadn’t known her better by now, he’d have thought she was ignoring him. She wasn’t, of course; the way her hands were attacking the dough made it clear she was angry, and she was the rare type who liked to think through her speech when she was mad.
After a long pause, Jessie stopped pummeling the dough. “She will be. She’s already acting as though nothing’s bothering her. Just another wild animal getting at the chickens.”
“That wasn’t no wild animal,” he said, even though she surely knew that.
“No, it wasn’t, was it?” She pushed a stray hair away from her eyes and left a smudge of flour almost exactly where the blood had smeared Olivia’s cheek. “You were mucking stalls with the pitchfork . . . ?”
It was a gut-deep instinct to jump to his own defense, but he fought it back, as Jessie MacGill herself would have. “I was mucking the stalls, but then I took the doctor out to look at that clearing I was telling you about. Pitchfork went missing while we were out in the fields.”
“Why’d you tell the doctor about that?”
“I wanted his opinion on how those critters could up and die like that.”
“Did he give one?”
So the doctor hadn’t mentioned the dead animals to Mrs. MacGill. “Toxic plant, he said, though he didn’t see one.”
She nodded. “I’ve come to expect precious little in the way of answers these days.” She lifted her lump of dough and put it in a bowl, then covered it with a cloth. “I’ve kneaded that too much. Tomorrow’s bread will be tough.”
“Did taking it out on the bread make you feel better?” he asked.
She half smiled. “I’d rather take it out on whatever animal—wild or domesticated—killed my chickens.”
He sat down at the table, steepled his fingers. She moved the bowl to the side and sat across from him. “Everything else could have been an accident,” he said quietly. “Snakes have been known to crawl inside, and blights hit apples.”
“Who told you about the snakes?” she asked. “Charlie?”
He shook his head. “I asked around. Quiet-like.” At least he assumed talking to Mackinaw counted as quiet; he didn’t think that man would volunteer information except about himself.
“You asked around?” She raised her brows. “Why, I have found myself a regular Pinkerton.”
He dropped his eyes to the table. “It takes no skill to ask some questions.”
She seemed to realize she’d hit a sore spot. The teasing, prying tone dropped out of her voice. “This one was no accident. And I can’t seem to think what spirit would be that angry, much less any person.”
“Not your neighbor?”
Jessie snorted. “I believe him capable, but he’s done more damage with his barbed wire and his dam than he ever could by engineering a poultry massacre.”
“I’ve buried a lot of animals this week,” he said quietly.
“Don’t worry. I don’t intend you to be a gravedigger for anything else.”
There was something in her face that he recognized. Some resignation. He’d thought he might be able to sort things out here, but what he’d said was true; mostly what he’d done on the ranch was dig graves, though only for animals so far. He hoped she was right, and it stayed that way.
* * *
* * *
After Jessie excused herself to check on her sons, Lucas left the house. But instead of heading back to the bunkhouse, he headed to town. He needed a drink.
The saloon was nearly empty. Last time he’d been there, there’d been men from Ames’ crew and Mackinaw, and though he hadn’t come here to try to pry more information out of any of them, he was almost disappointed there was no one to question by the time he got there.
Eamon stood at the bar, drink in hand, and Lucas joined him, tipping his head in greeting.
“Not a night for a poker game?” he asked.
Ada Mae walked by and slapped Eamon’s shoulder with her dishcloth. “You shouldn’t be letting these men play that game. Only leads to fights.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eamon said, but as soon as she was out of earshot, he added, “No one interesting around to play. Except you now, but you don’t look like you’re in the mood for gambling.”
Lucas felt like he was gambling. He understood now why folks were so wary of Ghost Hollow Ranch. Maybe he wasn’t in danger, but he couldn’t get the image of Olivia’s bloody face out of his mind. Someone had died in that fire, and whoever had speared that chicken with the pitchfork—the very one he’d been using—could have just as easily speared Olivia herself. Maybe not just as easily, but the malice in killing their whole brood of chickens and the cunning in disappearing without a trace . . .
Eamon had been waiting too long for a response. Lucas shook his head. “Only thing I’m in the mood for is a drink.”
“That there’s plenty of.”
Always plenty of spirits in the saloon. Spirits, Lucas thought with a wry chuckle. He couldn’t get away from them, could he? Some more folks had come in, striking up a conversation about some grizzly that had been seen out west of town. Opinion seemed split about whether or not it was headed closer to populated areas, or whether the man who saw it had dreamed it. Around that time, Lucas took his leave of Eamon and the bear watchers, and went to sit at a table by himself, his forearms pressed against the sticky wood while he stared down into his whiskey like he’d find some answers in there.
None were forthcoming.
He was nearly done with his drink when the chair beside him groaned in protest. Lucas looked up to find Charlie sitting there.
“You’re not the person I expected to come keep me company,” Lucas said.
“Who were you expecting? Your pal Tom Mackinaw?”
Lucas snorted. “He ain’t my pal. Far as I can tell, he’s everyone’s pal and no one’s.”
“I think he likes it that way. Suits the stories he tells.”
Lucas was surprised to hear such an observation from Charlie. He didn’t seem the kind to look that deep into people. But Lucas had judged folk wrong before, though he wasn’t sure he’d gotten it wrong this time.
“And what about you?” Lucas asked. “You and me, we aren’t pals. And I know you’ve got friends in this room. Why are you sitting with me?”
Charlie’s hands looked like they wanted a drink. His fingers twitched where they rested on the table. What made him nervous? Lucas wondered, then almost scoffed at himself again. A bloody girl, chickens torn to shreds, and one mounted on a wall? Why wouldn’t the man be nervous?
When Charlie spoke, it wasn’t to say what Lucas expected. “You shouldn’t feel obliged to stay.”
Lucas stared into the whiskey rather than look over at him. “I don’t feel obliged to do anything.”
“You’re a good man. Can tell that. But you shouldn’t think you have to stay on at that ranch.”
“If you think I should leave, why don’t you just do the same?” he asked.
Charlie’s face was half lost in the shadows. “I’ve been working that ranch since I was a boy. Frank MacGill was the best man I knew, and when he was dying, I swore to him that I would do my best to do right by Mrs. MacGill and those little ones. I’m not saying I regret the promising. And I’m not saying they haven’t been good to me. But there’s only so much goodness that goes around when the ground itself is cursed.”
“Tell me, old man,” said Lucas, “you make a habit of warning off all the men y’all hire out there or am I a special case?”
“Ain’t no reason for anyone else to get hurt.”
Lucas nodded. He understood now.
“So the men that keep leaving for Ames and his ranch—that’s not just about better pay and superstition. You’ve gone and shoved them out the door.”
“I never did no shoving. How many times you find a saddle strap cut or a rattler in the bed before you decide to move on yourself? All I did was give as fair a warning as I could.”
“She’s gonna lose her land. That’s her home. You don’t care about that?”
“The MacGills keep on staying there, they’ll lose more than just their land. Tell me you weren’t thinking that same thing when I sat down.”
Lucas couldn’t tell him that, because it was true. Even with Jessie’s declaration that she wasn’t going to make him a gravedigger, he couldn’t get Olivia’s frightened face out of his mind. Nor the image of the whole family in the sitting room, Zachary reading while Len’s eyes shined with tales of adventure. He didn’t want those children hurt. He didn’t want their mother hurt.
“Are you gonna tell her it was me?” Charlie asked.
Lucas shook his head, but the relief on the other man’s face was short-lived. “I don’t need to tell her, Charlie. She already knows.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucas’ head woke him up with its pounding sometime before dawn.
He’d drunk too much with Charlie, whom he wasn’t even sure he liked. They’d knocked back enough whiskey at Ada Mae’s saloon that Lucas wondered if he could still smell it emanating through the pores of his skin. No, he realized after a long moment of breathing through his nose, he’d spilled his last drink on his shirt.
He changed his clothes and headed to the house. There was coffee already on the stove, and Lucas downed a cup as quick as he could, then left the house without breakfast rather than let Mrs. MacGill or the children see him with the bloodshot eyes he knew he had. He told himself it was only because they were his employers and not because he didn’t want to see the judgment in Jessie MacGill’s eyes.
By the time Lucas had finished with the usual ranch chores, he felt a little bit better. The fresh air had helped, plus the coffee and moving his muscles. His stomach growled at him to stop for food, but he pressed on. He had something he wanted to do.
He headed to the coop and started going over each inch of it. He’d buried the chickens the day before, but the coop still smelled like their blood. It covered all the usual smells—feathers, droppings, the scraps they ate. That smell would attract foxes now for certain, but there wasn’t a way for them to get in the coop. No, even if the culprit hadn’t used the pitchfork to pin a bird to the wall, Lucas would have known no animal got in to do this.
“What are you doing?” Len’s voice asked from behind him.
Lucas turned around to find Len and Zachary watching him from the other side of the wire.
“I’m checking the coop over,” Lucas said.
“Checking for what?” Zachary asked. “How the fox got in?”
That was close enough, if a little more metaphorical than he would have been. Lucas nodded. “Have to make sure this is safe for the new chickens when they come.”
“And is it safe?” Len asked.
Lucas hesitated before nodding. It was as safe as anything on the ranch, he told himself, but he didn’t think that was safe enough.
“If it’s safe, does that mean you’re done?” Len pressed his face against the wire, his nose poking through and his lips pressed up against wire that had been bloody that morning.
Lucas shooed the boy away from the wire and left the coop, latching the door behind him. That latch wouldn’t do anything up against a man who wanted the door open, but there was nothing to be done about that.
“What’s it to you if I’m done?” Lucas asked, heading toward the water pump.
Len chased after him, frowning. “You promised you’d help us in exchange for using our hideout.”
Lucas had half forgotten about that. He splashed some water on his face, then shook out his hands and nodded slowly. “I suppose I did. Can I ask you a question first? Then I’m all yours.”
Len nodded and waited for the question.
“Yesterday,” Lucas said, “when you were playing out behind the barn, did you see anything strange? Or anyone?”
“I saw you,” Len said, “with Dr. Pierce.”
That much Lucas knew. “Anyone else?” he asked.
Len shook his head. “No. Not even Zachary.” He seemed to realize the other boy wasn’t at his side anymore and called, “Zachary!”
Zachary hadn’t followed them over to the water. He was inside the coop studying the gouges in the wall where the chicken had been pinned. Keen eyes, that one, Lucas thought. And maybe keen ears. Had he heard Lucas talking to their mother the night before? He wondered whether or not Mrs. MacGill would need to have a talk with the boy, then wondered why he was worrying about it.
The boys dragged him the same direction they’d dragged him the other day. Clearly, this was their main area of focus, up in the hills where the caves Mrs. MacGill spoke about must have been.
“We found this map the other day,” Len said, scrambling under a low-hanging branch.
Lucas had to go around, and missed what Len was saying.
“Hold up, son,” he said, then felt the words hit hard in his gut. It had been a long time since he’d spent so much time with children. He wondered whether or not this job was worth it.
“Sorry,” Len said, and the two boys waited for him to catch up before they started walking again.
“We found a map while we were digging for more arrowheads,” Len said. “Zachary didn’t think it was anything at first.”
“I didn’t say that,” Zachary objected, and Len stuck his tongue out. “I didn’t say it was nothing!”
“If it’s a map, why do you need my help to get it?” Lucas asked before the two could get into a full-blown fight.
“You’ll see,” Len said, and took off up a hill.
Lucas climbed slower, mindful of Zachary’s breathing, which was growing more labored as they went. Finally they came to a clearing. Lucas could see where the boys had been digging for their arrowheads, but he didn’t see any map. The only thing he could see was a big flat rock half buried in the dirt.
Len ran over to the rock and dropped down to his knees beside it. Len patted the top with his hand. “See?”
Lucas could not, in fact, say that he did.
He stepped closer to the boys, confused. But then he got a good look at that rock’s flat top. There were scratches in it, deep gouges in the stone stained a rusty red color.
