Read Online Detour to Death by Helen Nielsen - Free Book Online

and no way out. Malone was on his way to the coast, and a fat chance the sheriff was going to look for him! Even if he did, even if Malone was found, was he likely to have that two hundred dollars? Was he likely to confess just to save Danny Ross?
    It was the same road going down the mountain as going up, but now it rolled too easily underneath the wheels; now it wasn’t long enough. The red jeep was still bouncing along behind, but not for long. A few miles short of the Mountain View crossing it turned south on one of the little one-track trails that laced the valley, and as it disappeared from the rearview mirror Danny’s panic returned. Even Trace Cooper had deserted him now. From here on it was just Danny looking out for himself.

CHAPTER 6
    T O ANYONE KNOWING THIS COUNTRY all the little one-track trails led somewhere, and Trace knew it like no other man. This particular trail he knew better than all the rest even though he had been avoiding it for almost five years. It was in better shape now, graded and graveled the way it would be for a man wealthy enough to keep up the old Cooper ranch. And it was still called the Cooper ranch and always would be. Laurent was a foreigner. Laurent was a man from the land of smoke and steel where the mountains have windows and self-service elevators; but the Coopers had come in covered wagons—and passed in covered coffins. The Coopers belonged.
    The last of the Coopers, being a man of impulse, hadn’t given Arthur much warning of his decision. “Turn left,” he ordered, and Arthur turned left. They were a strange pair, this big Negro and the man with the flaming red hair, and it had given Cooperton a lot to talk about when Trace came back from the war with his new companion. That was just dandy with Trace. The more they talked, the better he liked it. But Arthur Jackson wasn’t a whim; he was a partner. He was an inspiration! The idea had hit Trace while he was overseas: the longing hunger to return to the soil and become the solid citizen he’d never been. But how? All Trace knew was the art of spending other people’s money and drinking anybody’s liquor. But there in his own company was a man who had learned long ago that he must fight for every inch of the way. It seemed a happy combination.
    All of this ancient history passed through Trace’s mind on the road to the ranch house. They’d made a stab at it that first year, a real try; but the land is like a woman—neglect her too long and she belongs to someone else. The sale to Laurent had just covered the debts and the price of a few acres at the edge of town.
    “The place looks good,” Trace said.
    Arthur gave the accelerator an extra kick. “Forget about the place,” he muttered. “You’ve got a nice place of your own.”
    But it did look good. The house was tucked deep within the valley where a crooked river, almost dry this late in the summer, snaked its way through an oasis of scrub foliage. At a time when architectural fashion dictated cupolas and laced balustrades, the Coopers had built low to the ground—rambling and heavy-beamed with thick walls to insulate against the sun. A flash of pink and scarlet marked the flower beds, and from his ease on the broad patio a tall man with silver hair watched the jeep race into the courtyard and stop in a cloud of dust.
    “Good morning, Mr. Cooper,” he said, as Trace leaped to the ground. “I’ve been expecting you.”
    Alexander Laurent was immaculately attired in a paleblue tropical worsted suit that made the blue of his eyes deep as an evening sky. The inevitable handkerchief peeked from his breast pocket, and a pastel tie was as carefully knotted as if he were on his way to court. He didn’t rise, but beckoned Trace to join him in one of the padded chairs grouped about a wrought-iron and glass table already laid for two.
    “We were just about to have lunch,” he explained.
    “Ramón, set another place for Mr. Cooper.”
    The patio was shaded and cool.