A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [9]
“Calm your fears, Dan. Justin’s folks will be eternally grateful for your visit, and we’ll be totally comfortable there.”
No pilgrim’s ride up to Jerusalem was ever more ethereal than the one they experienced as Dan piloted the ’41 DeSoto around their first taste of an unpaved, washboard, rutted, cliff-side excuse for a road. Every switchback brought more stupendous scenery. Siobhan took her hands from her eyes to look at the vista, gasp, and then take cover again.
At last the township of Troublesome Mesa welcomed them. The West was there. All they needed was a pair of gunmen to face each other down in the dirt street.
“M/M Ranch?” the gas station owner said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Huh. Don’t hear too much about it these days.”
“How far is it?”
“About fifteen miles…up. Probably take you better part of an hour. Sure you want to drive it today?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now,” the attendant said, shading his eyes to ascertain the time, “if you get past five o’clock and haven’t reached the ranch, turn on back. Otherwise you’ll be in stone cold darkness, and we’ll probably have to pull you out of a ravine tomorrow.”
A crude map was drawn, and Dan thanked the attendant profusely. Half numb, Daniel Timothy O’Connell girded himself as the attendant filled his water bags.
“If you come back tonight, I have a bed for you over the garage. Damned hotel folded when the molybdenum mine closed.”
* * *
Half greeting and half guarding, a pair of border collies held them at bay until a man emerged from a large, fancy house.
“It must be the place,” Dan said. “It’s exactly as Quinn described it to me.”
“Hello, Marine,” the man said, shooing the dogs back. “Can I help you?”
“Is this the M/M Ranch?”
The man laughed. “Used to be a long time ago.”
Dan studied the man. His skin was dark and he certainly was full of Mexican blood, but he spoke with no accent.
“I’m looking for the Quinn family. See, uh, Justin Quinn was in my company. He was killed at Saipan. My wife, Siobhan, and I have come to pay respects to his family.”
A nice-looking woman in her mid-twenties emerged from the house and came alongside her husband. He spoke to her in Spanish, and as he did, her face became grim.
“I am Pedro Martinez, the caretaker. And this is my wife, Consuelo. Will you please come in? Your name?”
“Sergeant…rather, Daniel Timothy O’Connell. My wife, Siobhan.”
“Siobhan is a beautiful name,” Consuelo said.
“It’s Irish for Jane. Oh, what a lovely room.”
The ranch house living room was timbered and high-ceilinged, with a river stone fireplace to match. The Pedro fellow seemed concerned as he checked his watch.
“Can I offer you drinks?” Consuelo asked.
“No, thanks. I mean, I want to know about Quinn’s mother and father.”
“I have to take you to another part of the ranch,” Pedro said. “The problem is that it will be dark before we return, and I won’t let you go down to Troublesome on that road at night. You are most welcome to stay here overnight.”
Siobhan smiled and nodded to Dan.
“Perhaps, Miss Siobhan, the sergeant and I should make this visit ourselves,” Pedro said. “Uh, there is a stream to cross.”
Pedro was not very good at covering his uneasiness. “Certainly,” Siobhan said.
Dan and the foreman jeeped down a winding dirt road inside the property until they could hear a faint rush of water. They parked at a tentative wooden bridge across the stream from a ramshackle miner’s cabin.
“Is this what I think it is?” Dan asked, sinking.
“I’m afraid so,” Pedro replied.
“I may not be able to cross,” Dan said suddenly. “My leg might give out on that narrow beam.”
“I understand.”
“Like hell you understand! Like hell you do!” Dan told himself.
“Shall we go back to the ranch house, then?”
Dan did not answer. His choice was to turn and go, but he was unable to. If he walked away, he’d come back. “Let’s cross,” he whispered.
The shack reeked of mold. Everything inside was broken. Newspapers had been stuffed in the cracks to keep the cold out. The roof was half down, the windows broken and thick with sludge. Outhouse turned over. It was altogether