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Overview
At first, Twister Malone and Chuckaluck Thompson think it must be a mirage. If real, the willow trees they see on the horizon mean that water is nearby, and in this dusty stretch of the Southwest, water is rarer than gold. They rub the grit from their eyes, yet the sight remains. There really is water up ahead—and death just around the corner.
As the two friends ride toward the trees, they hear the sound of rushing water. Someone has opened a sluicegate, allowing all the precious liquid to drain into the dirt. When Twister and Chuckaluck close the gate and the roaring stops, a woman screams, “Don’t let him get away! He was going to kill me!” Chuckaluck fires wildly, but the scoundrel has escaped, setting the wandering cowpokes on the trail of a mystery so dark and twisted it might be beyond their powers to solve.
Murder on the Mesa is the 4th book in the Twister and Chuckaluck Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504025379 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 12/01/2015 |
| Series: | The Twister and Chuckaluck Mysteries , #4 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 135 |
| Sales rank: | 602,273 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Brett Halliday (1904–1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series.
Read an Excerpt
Murder on the Mesa
A Twister and Chuckaluck Mystery
By Brett Halliday
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1953 Ward LockAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2537-9
CHAPTER 1
The road leading from Fort Davis to Marfa, Texas, gateway to the Big Bend, was long and dusty and desolated. Another day's sun had blazed its trail across a clear blue sky, searing the drought-ridden land anew, parching the grass on the plains which afforded scant sustenance for the gaunt cattle lazily nibbling at the stunted shoots.
Now, in late afternoon, a great ball of fire seemed to pause above the far horizon to brush the clouds with crimson and gold as they floated above a rim of turquoise edging the world. A cooling breeze moved the leaves of dwarfed catclaw and mesquite and an occasional clump of greasewood that broke the monotony. Now and again a jack-rabbit ventured warily from the brush, cocked its long ears, and loped back to safety. Here and there a lone coyote slunk from the shadows to make ready for a night's kill, and upon hearing the faint hoof-beats on the trail stretched his lithe body, then stood defiantly still until his curiosity was satisfied before slinking back into the shadows.
The two riders made their way slowly. Trail-dust lay thick on their rough clothing, and the sweat on their horses' flanks and withers made mudcakes of the dust that rose eternally from their clopping hooves.
Twister Malone rode a half-length in the lead, as was his custom, his long thin body hunched forward, arms akimbo and both thumbs hooked under the wide cartridge belt that supported a holstered black-handled .45. Looking at him from the left, one saw a lean-jawed youthful face with a straight nose, a wide mouth, and sombre grey eyes. On the right, a scar from an old wound ran upward from the lobe of the ear, lifting his cheek and mouth-corner in a permanent and satanic grin, thus giving him the nick-name of Twister. It was his habit to sit erect, almost tense, in the saddle, but the heat and the long trip had wilted him.
Behind him, Chuckaluck appeared to be asleep. His eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest, and both of his pudgy hands were relaxed on the saddlehorn. His short chunky body swayed from side to side as his buckskin wearily kept the half-length behind Twister's roan. His face was round and cherubic and the breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair. This sudden relief from the burning heat roused him. He opened his round blue eyes, reached inside his shirt and drew out a harmonica, tapped it against his Levis a few times and put it between his lips and cupped his sweaty palms lovingly around it.
When the mournful strains of The Letter Edged in Black floated into Twister's ears he jerked himself erect and reined his roan to a stop. He turned in the saddle and glared at his partner until the buckskin ambled up beside him.
"What yuh blowin' that tune fo'?" he asked sharply. "Yuh know blame well we allus meet up with trouble when yuh go moanin' on that there black-edge lettuh."
"Reckon thuh sunset made me think aboot it," Chuckaluck said with a grin. "Purty tune, purty sunset. Look a-yondah b'low them purty clouds where it's all blue. I ain't nevah seen no ocean, but it shore looks like it mought be thuh pure ocean rollin' in."
"Hush up talkin' aboot watuh, an' don't play that tune no mo'." He glared suspiciously at his partner of many years and asked, "Yuh got yorese'f a hunch we're ridin' t'wards trouble?"
"Naw. Yuh know well's I do we don't nevah go lookin' fo' no trouble, Twister. Reckon it's jus' Fate when sometimes we ride up an' fin' it starin' us in thuh face."
Twister considered this briefly. "Yuh bettuh be hopin' thuh trouble'll be purty," he said scathingly, and spurred his horse on.
Chuckaluck squinted his eyes toward the ever-changing afterglow, put the harmonica to his mouth again and began blowing My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, and the buckskin began walking slowly.
He had blown the tune four times and was tapping the mouth organ to dry it when the twilight quiet of the plains was suddenly shattered by a shout from Twister. "Look up yonduh ... we got us a mee rage right ahead!"
Chuckaluck chucked the harmonica inside his shirt, flapped his legs against the buckskin's sides, and in a moment came abreast of the roan. "Whereaboots is a mirage?"
"Right yonduh." Twister pointed a lean forefinger toward a blue of bright green against the grey hillside a mile distant. "Looks like real wilier trees," he said, with the awe of witnessing a miracle in his voice.
"How yuh know it ain't a mirage?"
"Green willers in Wes' Texas," Twister mused dolefully, "means watuh, an' that's one thing there ain't hereaboots."
They rode quietly side by side for a while, straining their eyes ahead, then Chuckaluck said, "I dunno," wagging his head in disbelief, "but them's shore wilier trees. An' a cottonwood. I can see 'em good now."
At that instant both horses lifted their drooping heads, whinneyed loudly, and broke into a trot.
"I'll be plumb damned," Chuckaluck murmured reverently. "It is watuh." He grinned and added, "Now if yuh had thuh sense yore hawse has got yuh'd a-knowed in thuh fust place."
"What say we ride ovah an' watuh thuh hawses," Twister said eagerly. "I could do with a swig m'se'f."
"No reason why not," agreed his partner. "Tain't more'n two-three miles to thuh short-cut tuh Marfa now. Then we got tuh cross that mountain. A drink'll perk us all up."
Twister was sitting straight and tense, looking sharply ahead. "Look a-yonduh," he said suddenly. "Somethin's caught on a mesquite where a trail turns off." He spurred his roan to a faster gait, and the buckskin, with the smell of water in his nostrils, kept the pace.
"It's a scarf," Chuckaluck marvelled when they stopped to inspect the gay-coloured square of silk tied to the bush. "A moughty purty one, too. Looks, by golly, like somebuddy tied it here a pu'pose."
A strange look came into Twister's grey eyes as he watched his partner admire the scarf and feel its soft texture. "Yuh jus' leave thuh danged thing right where we foun' it," he grated. "C'mon. I ain't fo'got that tune yuh was playin' back yonduh."
Chuckaluck grinned. "How yuh figger a li'l ole purty piece o' silk can make trouble fo' a coupla tough rannies like us?" he said lazily. "Trouble is, yuh ain't got a speck o' faith in Fate."
"We're gonna watuh thuh hawses an' beat it outta here fas'," Twister said emphatically, and turned into the cowpath. Chuckaluck followed at his accustomed distance to the rear.
Presently the trail turned to follow along the bank of a small arroya with a narrow stream of clear water trickling through it. "Overflow from a tank mos' likely," Twister called back. "We could watuh thuh hawses here."
"Le's ride on up ..." Chuckaluck began.
A sudden roaring, rushing sound in the arroya cut him off in mid-sentence. He loped up to Twister's side and they stopped to stare down in amazement at a miniature flood of muddy water tumbling and roiling toward them.
"Mus' be a tank up there an' it's sprung a leak," Twister surmised, and spurred his roan sharply. In that barren country both men realized the value of a water supply through the blistering summer months, and their one impulse was to find the break as quickly as possible and close it with whatever means might be at hand.
"Leak yore eye," Chuckaluck yelled. "It's plumb busted wide open."
While Twister was apparently the partner who would think and act quickly and decisively, it was actually Chuckaluck, the chunky, relaxed one who took that role in the partnership.
The buckskin galloped ahead of Twister's roan when Chuckaluck saw that the torrent was two feet deep close to the tank. He raced on around the thicket of green trees surrounding the dam.
Through a clearing, he saw a rough-looking, bewhiskered man wearing a black hat at the windlass working with all his might to open the sluice — gate wider.
Close behind Chuckaluck, Twister was yelling, "Reckon he's plumb looney?" but the roar of the water drowned his voice and drowned the sound of the pounding horses' hooves as they raced on toward the evil-appearing man who was unaware of their approach.
Chuckaluck drew his gun and shouted, "Hey there!"
The man whirled, swiftly yanked his hat low over his face while one hand darted to one of the two guns hanging from his belt.
Chuckaluck fired and the bullet kicked up dirt between the man's boots. He jumped back, lost his footing on the edge of the dam, flung his arms up in an effort to grab a support, then slid over the side into the roaring stream.
Chuckaluck sprang from the saddle and raced on to the sluice-gate. Twister galloped to the arroya below, reined up with a jerk, snatched a coiled lariat from his saddle horn and shook out a loop which he expertly dropped over the man's shoulders as he came tumbling down-stream head over heels. Spurring his roan sideways, he dragged the battered wretch from the arroya. He reined back as the man struggled to sit up, and noticed that he had lost both guns in the short trip downstream.
Up at the dam, Chuckaluck was jumping up and down on the sluice-gate trying to force it down with his weight against the force of rushing water. Twister left the sodden man when he saw Chuckaluck suddenly stop jumping on the gate and start yelling and waving his arms.
For, the instant the gate closed and the deafening roar ceased, Chuckaluck heard the terrified screams of a woman crying, "Don't let him get away! He was going to kill me! Please ... don't let him get away."
Too astounded to speak or think clearly, Chuckaluck automatically responded to the wild plea of the voice. He fired two shots in rapid succession on either side of the fleeing man while the screams still rang in his ears, but he darted into a thicket of willows and in a moment the sound of rapid hoofbeats reached Chuckaluck's ears. The man was riding hard toward the mountain.
Chuckaluck whirled toward the water and his eyes popped when he saw the lovely sun-tanned face and golden hair of what appeared to be a child kneeling in the shallow water.
"He's done got away, ma'm," he said. "But we ain't goin' tuh hurt yuh none." He became aware, then, that Twister was standing beside him, staring open-mouthed at the girl. With a warning jab to his partner's ribs he turned his back on the nude bather, turning Twister with him. "Why'n't yuh stay down there with 'im?" he asked harshly.
"I thought yuh was yellin' yore head off fo' me tuh c'mon up here. What's this here we done run intuh?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.
The girl in the pool laughed suddenly and said, "Don't turn away. I'll stay under the water so you won't be embarrassed. It's all muddy now. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come along. I can never thank you enough," she went on, half laughing and half crying. "I think he must be a crazy man. He ... kept insulting me ... and trying to make me come out of the water, and when I refused, he started letting the water out. If you had been even a few minutes later ..." she shuddered and covered her face with her dripping hands.
"Yes'm," said Chuckaluck, half-turning at her request, but keeping his eyes averted. "We're right happy tuh of been able tuh he'p yuh. If yuh'll 'scuse us now we'll be ridin' on."
"No! Please wait!" she begged. "I'm Jean Rangoon. My father owns this ranch and I know he'll want to thank you personally. I'll get ready and we'll all ride back together."
Twister had half-turned, too, carefully keeping the unscarred side of his face toward her, and one grey eye was rolled around to look at the small island of loveliness surrounded by thick, muddy water.
Chuckaluck said, "We're much obliged tuh yuh, but we jus' rode aroun' tuh watuh thuh hawses." To Twister he said in a furious undertone, "Quit yore starin' an' get mounted, yuh unmannerly coyote. A body'd think yuh nevah seen a purty gal befo'."
"Purty trouble," Twister muttered, then raised his voice to say, "We shore got tuh be gettin' along."
"No ... please don't," Jean Rangoon cried frantically. "Take your horses around there where there's an opening in the willows ... where my clothes are ... and let them drink. Then you can come back here and keep your backs turned while I get dressed. I know gentlemen when I see them."
"C'mon," said Chuckaluck, leading the way down the little incline. They clucked to the horses and they followed them around the tank.
"Trouble," muttered Twister. "I knowed it fo' shore."
"But like yuh said back yonduh, it's moughty purty trouble," said Chuckaluck, a grin puckering his cherubic face. "Yuh jus' be shore t'keep yore back turned whilst she gets herse'f dressed."
A magnificent bay stallion was tethered to a tree near the opening in the willows. He whinneyed as the other horses approached. Chuckaluck gave a long whistle and said, "Shore is a dandy. Reckon it's her'n."
Twister glowered, and they turned to the water. After unbridling the horses they squatted on their heels to wash their hands and splash the cool murky water over their faces and hair, finally scooping up palmsful and pouring it down their parched throats.
"Yoo-hoo!" Jean Rangoon's voice startled them. She was close by, moving slowly on her knees. "Promise you'll wait," she said again. "I'll be dressed in a few minutes."
Both men jumped up and nervously combed their hair with their fingers. "Yes'm. We'll be waitin' 'round by thuh windlass," Chuckaluck assured her. "We mean tuh see yuh ain't scairt no mo'. Reckon nothin' can ketch yuh when yuh get on yore hawse."
She laughed softly. "Oh, I'll feel safe the minute I mount Marcus."
Twister was staring at her and she looked up to see him full-face for the first time. He saw her golden eyes widen, and saw the fleeting horror in them. She smiled quickly in an effort to put him at his ease, but Twister turned and went back toward the windlass.
The horses were drawing water steadily and greedily. Chuckaluck said, "Reckon them cayuses'll bust their dang bellies. They're shore thu'sty. We rode down from F't Davis tuhday." He left her and went back to join his partner.
Twister was nowhere to be seen when he reached the sluice-gate, but after a few minutes he came up from the arroya holding a gun. He sat down and struck a match to examine it.
"Where-at did yuh get that?" drawled Chuckaluck.
"Down thuh arroya where thuh man spilt it. Shore is a mess. Plumb full o' mud." Had two and lost 'em both.
The roan and the buckskin ambled around the curve with their bridles on. Twister got up and put the muddy gun in his saddlebag. He said, "Reckon she bridled 'em up when they got th'ough drowndin' their innards."
Twilight gave way to dusk amid swiftly changing purple shadows. A lopsided moon swam in a mist of corrugated clouds to the east, paled by the last glow in the western sky. It was as though the sun strove to compensate the plains for the day's unrelenting heat by shrouding the earth with beauty:
Chuckaluck took papers and a sack of tobacco from his pocket and rolled a cigarette. When he had it going, he said, "I'd a-thought she was a kid lost from her mama when I fust seen 'er."
"Wimmin," said Twister under his breath. "We got tuh get on tuh Marfa."
"S-h-h. She's comin' 'round on 'er hawse."
Jean Rangoon reined the bay up before them. She wore jeans, and a wide leather belt studded with silver ornaments circled her slender waist. Her white Stetson hung on the saddle-horn and her damp hair, spread, over a big towel around her shoulders, reached to her waistline.
She said, "I do wish you'd ride home with me and let Father thank you. And if you're looking for jobs I'm sure he could use you."
"We got tuh get on tuh Marfa," Twister said hastily.
"I'm shore sorry, ma'm," Chuckaluck said gently. "We're headin' on down Mexico-way, an' we awready got tied up two-three times on thuh way. We're moughty proud to've he'ped out, an' seein' as how that skunk los' both his guns in thuh crik, I don' reckon he'll be back tuh make no mo' trouble."
"I guess I'll be too scared to come here alone after this. The tank was dry all last summer, and I was so glad when the water was turned in again. Now that horrible man has spoiled it all.
"I've been coming here ever since I was a little girl. I always took off all my clothes because I felt safe after I tied my scarf on a bush where the trail turns off. When Father's men saw it there they watched over me and didn't let anybody come here. It was a sort of signal, and I thought everybody around here knew about it."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Murder on the Mesa by Brett Halliday. Copyright © 1953 Ward Lock. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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