Delaguerra squatted beside him for a little while, looking at the bright glitter of Puma Lake, the distant flash of a paddle from a canoe. Then he went back into the woodshed and pawed around for a heavy block of wood with a great deal of blood on it, didn’t find one. He went back into the house and out on the front porch, went to the end of the porch, stared down the drop, then at the big flat stones in the spring.
«Yeah,» he said softly.
There were flies clotted on two of the stones, a lot of flies. He hadn’t noticed them before. The drop was about thirty feet, enough to smash a man’s head open if he landed just right.
He sat down in one of the big rockers and smoked for several minutes without moving. His face was still with thought, his black eyes withdrawn and remote. There was a tight, hard smile, ever so faintly sardonic, at the corners of his mouth.
At the end of that he went silently back through the house and dragged the dead man into the woodshed again, covered him up loosely with the wood. He locked the woodshed, locked the house up, went back along the narrow, steep path to the road and to his car.
It was past six o’clock, but the sun was still bright as he drove off.
FIVE
An old store counter served as bar in the roadside beerstube. Three low stools stood against it. Delaguerra sat on the end one near the door, looked at the foamy inside of an empty beer glass. The bartender was a dark kid in overalls, with shy eyes and lank hair. He stuttered. He said: «Sh-should I d-draw you another g-glass, mister?»
Delaguerra shook his head, stood up off the stool. «Racket beer, sonny,» he said sadly. «Tasteless as a roadhouse blonde.»
«P-portola B-brew, mister. Supposed to be the b-best.»
«Uh-huh. The worst. You use it, or you don’t have a license. So long, sonny.»
He went across to the screen door, looked out at the sunny highway on which the shadows were getting quite long. Beyond the concrete there was a graveled space edged by a white fence of four-by-fours. There were two cars parked there: Delaguerra’s old Cadillac and a dusty hard-bitten Ford. A tall, thin man in khaki whipcord stood beside the Cadillac, looking at it.
Delaguerra got a bulldog pipe out, filled it half full from a zipper pouch, lit it with slow care and flicked the match into the corner. Then he stiffened a little, looking out through the screen.
The tall, thin man was unsnapping the canvas that covered the back part of Delaguerra’s car. He rolled part of it back, stood peering down in the space underneath.
Delaguerra opened the screen door softly and walked in long, loose strides across the concrete of the highway. His crêpe soles made sound on the gravel beyond, but the thin man didn’t turn. Delaguerra came up beside him.
«Thought I noticed you behind me,» he said dully. «What’s the grift?»
The man turned without any haste. He had a long, sour face, eyes the color of seaweed. His coat was open, pushed back by a hand on a left hip. That showed a gun worn butt to the front in a belt holster, cavalry style.
He looked Delaguerra up and down with a faint crooked smile.
«This your crate?»
«What do you think?»
The thin man pulled his coat back farther and showed a bronze badge on his pocket.
«I think I’m a Toluca County game warden, mister. I think this ain’t deer-hunting time and it ain’t ever deer-hunting time for does.»
Delaguerra lowered his eyes very slowly, looked into the back of his car, bending over to see past the canvas. The body of a young deer lay there on some junk, beside a rifle. The soft eyes of the dead animal, unglazed by death, seemed to look at him with a gentle reproach. There was dried blood on the doe’s slender neck.
Delaguerra straightened, said gently: «That’s damn cute.»
«Got a hunting license?»
«I don’t hunt,» Delaguerra said.
«Wouldn’t help much. I see you got a rifle.»
«I’m a cop.»
«Oh — cop, huh? Would you have a badge?»
«I would.»
Delaguerra reached into his breast pocket, got the badge out, rubbed it on his sleeve, held it in the palm of his hand. The thin game warden stared down at it, licking his lips.
«Detective lieutenant, huh? City police.» His face got distant and lazy. «Okey, Lieutenant. We’ll ride about ten miles downgrade in your heap. I’ll thumb a ride back to mine.»
Delaguerra put the badge away, knocked his pipe out carefully, stamped the embers into the gravel. He replaced the canvas loosely.
«Pinched?» he asked gravely.
«Pinched, Lieutenant.»
«Let’s go.»
He got in under the wheel of the Cadillac. The thin warden went around the other side, got in beside him. Delaguerra started the car, backed around and started off down the smooth concrete of the highway. The valley was a deep haze in the distance. Beyond the haze other peaks were enormous on the skyline. Delaguerra coasted the big car easily, without haste. The two men stared straight before them without speaking.
After a long time Delaguerra said: «I didn’t know they had deer at Puma Lake. That’s as far as I’ve been.»
«There’s a reservation by there, Lieutenant,» the warden said calmly. He stared through the dusty windshield. «Part of the Toluca County Forest — or wouldn’t you know that?»
Delaguerra said: «I guess I wouldn’t know it. I never shot a deer in my life. Police work hasn’t made me that tough.»
The warden grinned, said nothing. The highway went through a saddle, then the drop was on the right side of the highway. Little canyons began to open out into the hills on the left. Some of them had rough roads in them, half overgrown, with wheel tracks.
Delaguerra swung the big car hard and suddenly to the left, shot it into a cleared space of reddish earth and dry grass, slammed the brake on. The car skidded, swayed, ground to a lurching stop.
The warden was flung violently to the right, then forward against the windshield. He cursed, jerked up straight and threw his right hand across his body at the holstered gun.
Delaguerra took hold of a thin, hard wrist and twisted it sharply towards the man’s body. The warden’s face whitened behind the tan. His left hand fumbled at the holster, then relaxed. He spoke in a tight, hurt voice.
«Makin’ it worse, copper. I got a phone tip at Salt Springs. Described your car, said where it was. Said there was a doe carcass in it. I —»
Delaguerra loosed the wrist, snapped the belt holster open and jerked the Colt out of it. He tossed the gun from the car.
«Get out, County! Thumb that ride you spoke of. What’s the matter — can’t you live on your salary any more? You planted it yourself, back at Puma Lake, you goddamn chiseler!»
The warden got out slowly, stood on the ground with his face blank, his jaw loose and slack.
«Tough guy,» he muttered. «You’ll be sorry for this, copper. I’ll swear a complaint.»
Delaguerra slid across the seat, got out of the right-hand door. He stood close to the warden, said very slowly: «Maybe I’m wrong, mister. Maybe you did get a call. Maybe you did.»
He swung the doe’s body out of the car, laid it down on the ground, watching the warden. The thin man didn’t move, didn’t try to get near his gun lying on the grass a dozen feet away. His seaweed eyes were dull, very cold.
Delaguerra got back into the Cadillac, snapped the brake off, started the engine. He backed to the highway. The warden still didn’t make a move.
The Cadillac leaped forward, shot down the grade, out of sight. When it was quite gone the warden picked his gun up and holstered it, dragged the doe behind some bushes, and started to walk back along the highway towards the crest of the grade.