Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch Read Online Free PDF Page A

middle-aged man with a ruddy face and gray hair the consistency of steel wool. “Land management,” he replied, seemingly not offended by the rudeness of the question.
    “In Nevada?” Evelyn asked.
    “And elsewhere,” Molloy said, taking a bite of a biscuit. His wife, Geraldine, was no taller than five feet. Her nose and cheekbones were sharply chiseled, the look of someone who takes exercising seriously, perhaps too seriously. They ate their dinners and had little to say for the rest of the meal. When asked by Jim whether they’d be riding in the morning, Mrs. Molloy said, “Maybe in a day or two. I think we’ll just relax tomorrow.”
    “Suit yourself,” Jim said.
    The Morrison children, Godfrey and Pauline, bolted from the table immediately following dessert, and the other family members, with the exception of Cousin Willy, drifted away. Jim explained to Willy, Seth, and me that he needed to get a sense of our experience with horses in order to choose the right mount for each of us. Willy was the only Morrison who hadn’t been to the ranch before; the others’ horses had been chosen long ago. The ranch’s chief wrangler, Joe Walker, had remained at the table to help Jim decide which horses were appropriate for the group’s tenderfoots.
    Willy was a nervous fellow, eyes always in motion, his hands engaged in a variety of gestures. He was in his late thirties, I surmised, and he did not share the rest of the family’s healthy, robust appearance. He was a slight man who’d balded prematurely, the expanse of bare skin made more evident by the irregular, bumpy surface of his head. Wearing a suit and tie to dinner had prompted a few amusing comments.
    “Horses scare me,” Willy said.
    Jim laughed. “Nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Have you had a bad experience with a horse before?”
    “No.”
    “They’re as gentle as they’re treated,” Jim said. “We’ll pair you up with a nice easy horse, teach you a few simple tricks in the morning, and you’ll get along just fine.” He turned to me. “Been riding much lately, Jess?”
    “No. It’s been years.”
    “You, Doc?”
    “Not afraid of horses, Jim, but haven’t been in the saddle in a long time.”
    “We’ll take that into account, won’t we, Joe?”
    Walker, an amiable, enthusiastic young man with clear, sparkling eyes and a sweet, perpetual smile, said, “That’s what’s good about having so many horses. There’s a perfect one for every rider.” He handed us cards to fill out, which contained spaces for our height and weight.
    “Do we have to say how much we weigh?” I asked pleasantly.
    “At least we’re not asking for your age,” Jim said. “Knowing your height and weight helps Joe pick the right horse for you.”
    We filled out the cards, thanked Jim for a wonderful meal, and Seth and I went outside.
    “Feel like a walk?” I asked.
    “Not a long one. I’m looking forward to getting to bed early.”
    We looked up. Nighttime heavens in Maine can be startlingly clear, but I’d never seen anything like the Colorado sky. Billions of distinct stars were highlighted against a black scrim, like diamonds on black velvet.
    “Puts us in perspective, doesn’t it?” I said.
    “Ayuh. Nature always does.”
    We strolled down the road, the sound of Cebolla Creek, a fast-moving trout stream that ran directly through the ranch, providing pleasant, gurgling background sounds. I’d brought a four-piece Hardy fly rod, lightweight wading boots and waders, and an assortment of my favorite artificial flies. I love fly fishing and do as much of it back home as time permits. Trout fishing in Colorado was worthy of legends, I’d been told, and I intended to find some fishing time on the creek each day.
    We crossed a red footbridge over a narrow stream that fed a stocked trout pool, to a private island on the banks of the Cebolla, where barbecues were held, and where we would sit around a campfire later in the week swapping stories and,