The Rodeo Murder

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Cal Barrow was standing at the tail end of the horse with his arm extended and his fingers wrapped around the strands of the rope that was looped over the horn of the cowboy saddle. His gray-blue eyes — as much of them as the half-closed lids left in view — were straight at me. His voice was low and easy, and noise from the group out front was coming through the open door, but I have good ears.

“Nothing to start a stampede,” he said. “I just wanted to ask you how I go about taking some hide off a toad in this town.” To give it as it actually sounded I would have to make it, “Ah jist wanted to ask yuh how Ah go about takin’ some hide off a toad,” but that’s too complicated, and from here on I’ll leave the sound effects to you if you want to bother.

I was sliding my fingertips up and down on the polished stirrup strap so that observers, if any, would assume that we were discussing the saddle. “I suppose,” I said, “it’s a two-legged toad.” Then, as a brown-haired cowgirl named Nan Karlin, in a pink silk shirt opened at the throat and regulation Levis, came through the arch and headed for the door to the terrace, lifting the heels of her fancy boots to navigate the Kashan rug that had set Lily Rowan back fourteen thousand bucks, I raised my voice a little so she wouldn’t have to strain her ears if she was curious. “Sure,” I said, rubbing the leather, “you could work it limber, but why don’t they make it limber?”

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