Read Online The Double-Jack Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery (Sheriff Bo Tully Mysteries) by Patrick F. McManus - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patrick F. McManus
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prevent us from enjoying our campfire. If he’s even following us, it would be well into the night before he reached the ridge. It’s a rough climb to get up there, but it’s the only place he would have a clear shot at us.”
Dave looked up at the ridge. “That’s a pretty long shot. You sure Kincaid could make it?”
“He could make it, all right. That’s why I was thinking of letting you wear my vest.”
“Your bullet-proof vest? Mighty thoughtful of you, Bo.”
“No, my regular sheriff’s vest, the one with the big star on it. You would look good in it, Dave.”
“That’s about what I expected.”
Pap came tramping into camp. He laid his gold dredge down on the ground, flopped into a camp chair, and began rolling down his hip waders. “Nary a speck of gold. I sucked sand and gravel out of the cracks of a big old flat rock that practically spans the whole creek. If any gold washed down Deadman’s in the last thousand years, I would have picked up a bit of color at least. Nothing.”
“Maybe some other prospector sucked it out before you,” Dave said.
“Naw, they never get it all. I’d have got a speck or two, at least.”
“We’re not up here to get gold anyway,” Dave said.
“That’s not the idea,” Tully said. “Tom and the boy would have panned the creek to see if they could find any gold. If they found some, they would work their way up the drainage until the color ran out. Then they would have started looking around on the side hills to see where it was coming from, the mother lode so to speak. Obviously, they found it. That’s where Agatha’s chunk of quartz came from. If Pap can’t suck up any sign of gold in Deadman that means we’re in the wrong drainage.”
“So I guess we’ll move camp tomorrow.”
“Naw, we’ll keep it right here. This is the perfect spot.”
“You’re getting weirder every day, Bo. So who brought the single malt this time?”
As Tully explained, Pap was in charge of bringing the whiskey and cigars because he was rich. He also brought the steaks and potatoes, wrapping the latter in foil, sliced and buttered and alternated with onions for roasting in the fire. They sat around the fire and sipped Bushmills and smoked cigars after finishing supper.
“I think these cigars are Cuban, Pap,” Dave said. “Don’t you know they’re illegal?”
“I never heard that. You heard that, Bo?”
“Can’t say I have, Pap, but I’ll check on it as soon as I get back to the office. If they turn out to be contraband, I’ll have to put you in prison and confiscate all your cigars.”
Before they went to sleep that night, they heard an owl hoot. Pap said he’d once heard an owl call his name.
“That’s bad news,” Tully said. “That means you’re going to die.”
“I was three years old and I ain’t dead yet. What do you think of that?”
“Maybe it meant the owl would die.”
“Well, if this one hoots all night, he’s going to die.”
Tully was awakened later in the night by what he first thought was a large animal attacking a small woodland creature. Loud snarls followed by pitiful squealing filled the tent. Then he realized it was Pap and Dave snoring. He pulled his sleeping bag over his head and went back to sleep.
• • •
Tully got up early the next morning and caught a dozen small rainbow trout for breakfast. He grated three large potatoes into his cast-iron frying pan, chopped up a large onion, mixed it in with the potatoes, and made hash browns. Then he spread a dozen strips of bacon into another frying pan and cooked it crisp. He forked the bacon out onto a paper plate, rolled the trout in flour, salted and peppered them, laid them in the hot bacon grease, and cooked them until they were golden brown.
Pap came yawning out of the tent. “I thought I smelled bacon frying. Yup, by golly, I did. Fish! You know how to lift an old man’s spirits, Bo, I have to admit that. You must have got up at the crack of dawn.”
“Yeah, I
Dave looked up at the ridge. “That’s a pretty long shot. You sure Kincaid could make it?”
“He could make it, all right. That’s why I was thinking of letting you wear my vest.”
“Your bullet-proof vest? Mighty thoughtful of you, Bo.”
“No, my regular sheriff’s vest, the one with the big star on it. You would look good in it, Dave.”
“That’s about what I expected.”
Pap came tramping into camp. He laid his gold dredge down on the ground, flopped into a camp chair, and began rolling down his hip waders. “Nary a speck of gold. I sucked sand and gravel out of the cracks of a big old flat rock that practically spans the whole creek. If any gold washed down Deadman’s in the last thousand years, I would have picked up a bit of color at least. Nothing.”
“Maybe some other prospector sucked it out before you,” Dave said.
“Naw, they never get it all. I’d have got a speck or two, at least.”
“We’re not up here to get gold anyway,” Dave said.
“That’s not the idea,” Tully said. “Tom and the boy would have panned the creek to see if they could find any gold. If they found some, they would work their way up the drainage until the color ran out. Then they would have started looking around on the side hills to see where it was coming from, the mother lode so to speak. Obviously, they found it. That’s where Agatha’s chunk of quartz came from. If Pap can’t suck up any sign of gold in Deadman that means we’re in the wrong drainage.”
“So I guess we’ll move camp tomorrow.”
“Naw, we’ll keep it right here. This is the perfect spot.”
“You’re getting weirder every day, Bo. So who brought the single malt this time?”
As Tully explained, Pap was in charge of bringing the whiskey and cigars because he was rich. He also brought the steaks and potatoes, wrapping the latter in foil, sliced and buttered and alternated with onions for roasting in the fire. They sat around the fire and sipped Bushmills and smoked cigars after finishing supper.
“I think these cigars are Cuban, Pap,” Dave said. “Don’t you know they’re illegal?”
“I never heard that. You heard that, Bo?”
“Can’t say I have, Pap, but I’ll check on it as soon as I get back to the office. If they turn out to be contraband, I’ll have to put you in prison and confiscate all your cigars.”
Before they went to sleep that night, they heard an owl hoot. Pap said he’d once heard an owl call his name.
“That’s bad news,” Tully said. “That means you’re going to die.”
“I was three years old and I ain’t dead yet. What do you think of that?”
“Maybe it meant the owl would die.”
“Well, if this one hoots all night, he’s going to die.”
Tully was awakened later in the night by what he first thought was a large animal attacking a small woodland creature. Loud snarls followed by pitiful squealing filled the tent. Then he realized it was Pap and Dave snoring. He pulled his sleeping bag over his head and went back to sleep.
• • •
Tully got up early the next morning and caught a dozen small rainbow trout for breakfast. He grated three large potatoes into his cast-iron frying pan, chopped up a large onion, mixed it in with the potatoes, and made hash browns. Then he spread a dozen strips of bacon into another frying pan and cooked it crisp. He forked the bacon out onto a paper plate, rolled the trout in flour, salted and peppered them, laid them in the hot bacon grease, and cooked them until they were golden brown.
Pap came yawning out of the tent. “I thought I smelled bacon frying. Yup, by golly, I did. Fish! You know how to lift an old man’s spirits, Bo, I have to admit that. You must have got up at the crack of dawn.”
“Yeah, I
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