Dead Man’s Fancy Read Free

raised her eyes to the triangle of timber that covered the basin. The gloom of the thickets, eerie under a haloed half moon, was fissured by darker lines marking the tributaries of Papoose Creek. Looking at the map, it seemed to Martha that they had the bases covered. But by god, the country was big. You could hide a herd of cattle in it.
    â€œWhat’s that, Walt?” She hadn’t been listening.
    â€œIt’s going to be blacker than a witch’s snatch in there.”
    Martha grunted. “And one would know that . . . how?”
    â€œJust saying,” Walt said, “I don’t know what we’re going to accomplish riding around in the dark. Hell, we haven’t even reached the trees and we’re already lost.”
    â€œNot lost, just considering the route. You don’t have to consider with me. I know you’re not as comfortable sitting on critters as I am.”
    â€œNo, if you think we’re following the right path, I’m right behind you.”
    As they climbed into the pines, it was the right path—Ettinger was sure of it. She was less so a half mile later, having to choose when the path forked, and forked again to cross the left-hand creek, the trees leaning in so that she and Walt had to dismount and attach rope leads to the halters. Martha saw immediately that Big Mike was head shy around Walt, who was decent enough with his boots in the stirrups, but leading a horse along an elk trail was a different matter. He was on the wrong side of the horse, for one thing. Martha coached him but Big Mike had Walt’s number, and after balking changed tactics and started crowding him.
    â€œDon’t let him barge you,” Martha said. “When he gets too close, just push him on the shoulder.” Walt stepped closer and when the horse’s left forefoot came down, it came down on the toe of Walt’s buffalo hide Tony Lama.
    â€œJesus, son of Mary!” he shouted, going over backward. The horse snorted and reared. Martha jumped for the lead, got it before it tangled in the brush and, gripping the rope in her right fist, stuck her elbow into the horses’ neck to keep it close. She held tight rein and stayed in Big Mike’s face until he calmed. “We just about had ourselves a rodeo,” she said.
    â€œI can hear it squishing, Marth.” Walt had pushed himself to a sitting position. “My god, it’s like my foot’s on fire.”
    â€œThen you better get that boot off before it swells.” She waited for her heart rate to come down and blew out a long breath.
    â€œThis is my fault,” she said. “We had no business leading horses in here, even if you were the whisperer himself.”
    The bloody sock gleamed in Walt’s headlamp. “I shoulda’ stayed in Chicago,” he said. “I’d a’ been safer on the street.”
    â€œAnd leave me with no one to insult? Nah, the county needs a man who knows the street. There’s more of them in Montana than there used to be, you may have noticed.”
    â€œThis isn’t the street. Jeez, do you think it’s broke?”
    â€œCan you wiggle it?”
    Walt winced, the skin around his eyes fissuring in Martha’s headlamp. He nodded. “I think he just got the tip. I bet I’ll lose the nail, though.” After a moment of silence, he managed a wry smile. “‘I think I just got the tip.’ That’s something my ex-wife was fond of saying. She was a regular comedienne, Lydia was.”
    â€œI’d say you were lucky enough. Big Mike only weighs about twelve hundred pounds . . .” She stopped, tilting her head to listen. She brought a hand up to worry her jaw.
    â€œIs it the wolves again? I don’t care what they say about ’em never attacking. Just thinking about Little Bo Peep out here wandering around in the dark. It gives me the willies. Why—”
    â€œNo. Ssshh. It sounded like