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RED, GREEN, OR MURDER - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

RED, GREEN, OR MURDER - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

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6 Steven F. Havill<br />

with a couple of saddle blankets and three pillows from Dale’s<br />

own mobile home across the paddock.<br />

Dale’s mother, Annie Torrance, had bustled out from the<br />

house, her face grim and white but her nerves like tempered<br />

steel. She directed the operation as Herb, Pat, and I lifted Dale<br />

into the SUV. It would have been easier for Dale if he’d managed<br />

to faint, but he was a tough kid, with a string of curses colorful<br />

enough that they surprised even me. Annie Torrance was tougher<br />

yet. She didn’t bat an eye.<br />

“I have an ambulance on the way,” I said. “They’ll meet us<br />

down on 56. Faster that way. Herb, one of you needs to ride in<br />

back with him.”<br />

“You bring the car,” Annie Torrance said to her husband.<br />

“I’ll ride with Dale.”<br />

“You can finish up here?” Herb asked Pat Gabaldon, and the<br />

young man nodded.<br />

In another minute, we were southbound on the washboards<br />

and potholes of County Road 14, the wandering dirt by-way<br />

that ran down the western side of Posadas County. Any other<br />

time, I would be ambling along on CR 14, windows rolled<br />

down, marveling at the country—the broad sweep of the dry<br />

short bunch-grass prairie, rugged mesas with rims crumpling,<br />

arroyos so deep you could effortlessly hide a herd of cattle or a<br />

tractor trailer with license plates issued in Chihuahua.<br />

This time, I paid attention to my driving, but for every thump<br />

and bump that I avoided, three more pummeled the Chevy’s<br />

stiff suspension. The cries and gasps from the back made me feel<br />

like a card-carrying member of the Inquisition. Annie did what<br />

she could, but a few hundred CC’s of morphine would have<br />

been just the ticket. Behind us, Herb kept the Chrysler just far<br />

enough back that our dust cloud had time to drift off the road.<br />

In seven miles—an agonizing twenty minutes—we reached the<br />

last cattle guard that crossed CR14, and I slowed the SUV to a<br />

walk as we waddled across the steel girders. Just beyond was the<br />

intersection with New Mexico 56, and pulling onto the pavement<br />

of the state highway never felt so smooth.

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