5

WE WERE LOW ON SALT FOR THE CATTLE SO I STOPPED IN AT Curly's Feed Store in La Cienega on the way home. As I pulled in, I saw my neighbor Sanders's Ford pickup. Before I went in, I told one of Curly's hands what I needed in the way of salt blocks.

Curly and Sanders were at the counter sifting through an assortment of Chicago screws when I walked in.

“Lotta money,” Curly was saying. I knew he wasn't talking about the hardware on the counter.

“You hear the news, Trade?” Sanders asked. A cowboy, and probably the best-looking man in the county, he lives on a small ranch next to mine, called the Quarter Circle Running N. One of my closest friends, he runs his shorthorns in with my Brahmas and had spent the weekend with us rounding up cattle.

“I just came from the Brave Bull. It's not going to be a secret for long.”

“How's he doing?” Curly asked. J.B. had been a local fixture for a while and I suspected that in addition to trading at Guyton's Feed in Oracle, he and Abby had thrown some business Curly's way.

“He'll be okay.”

“Guess he was having that thing this week.” Sanders pointed to a bright green flyer advertising J.B.'s bull riding school that had been posted on the back of Curly's door. I'd always thought that the local postings were courtesy only since most of his students came from out of state with just an occasional one from Tucson or Phoenix.

“There's at least one student up there already,” I offered, thinking of Jodie Austin.

“Well, I reckon this'll take some slack out of his rope.”

“Break a headstall?” Eager to change the subject, which would drift into a lot of unnecessary speculation, I pointed to the pile of screws on the counter.

Sanders nodded. He used the Chicago screws on his gear. I didn't. Unless they were sealed with Loc-Tite or clear nail polish, they had the unfortunate habit of coming undone at the most inconvenient times. He made his selection, paid and left the store.

“Say, that load of hay's coming later this week,” Curly said. He'd found us a deal on alfalfa in Yuma. I was low on hay, but had held off until Curly had checked with his suppliers. We were long past first cutting, which I refuse to buy, and I was eager to fill the barn before the summer monsoons came. Of course with the drought, that was optimistic thinking.

“Lots of stem, right?”

“Yup.”

I was one of his few customers who liked stemmy hay. If it's leafy it's often too rich and falls apart when you feed it. To me, that's like sprinkling money on the ground. Besides, over the years, a lot of horses have been seriously hurt by well-intentioned owners feeding them too well.

The man outside was still loading my salt blocks so I strolled through the store, always a dangerous task, for I frequently buy things that I don't need. I grabbed a box of dog cookies for Mrs. Fierce and Blue and then remembered that I was almost out of food for my potbellied pig, Petunia. I say “my,” but she really belongs to my cousin Bea. The pig's just visiting us for a while until Bea realizes how much she misses her.

I was writing out my check when Curly said, “It really is a terrible thing about that murder.”

“Murder? Who said it was murder?”

“Cripes, Trade, who drowns in a stock tank?”

“That doesn't mean it was murder. Besides, who'd want to murder her?”

He grinned.

“That's not very charitable, Curly.”

“Just kidding. You're right, she probably drowned.”

Poor J.B. No matter what way this was sliced, he'd always be under a cloud of suspicion because he was a poor cowboy married to a filthy-rich older woman.