Book One

One

He was crossing the red-asphalt yard in front of the farmhouse when he heard a car-horn blaring from the direction of the north-west gate. He shifted the saddle he was carrying to his right arm and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the dazzling scarlet glare of the setting sun. A Jeep Wagoneer was bouncing along the track towards him, stirring up a high trail of shining dust, and whoever was driving it was in enough of a panic to ignore South Burlington Farm’s strict 5 mph speed limit.

He laid the saddle down on the ground as the Jeep squealed and bucked to a stop in front of him. The door swung open and out scrambled his cereal-crop manager, Willard Noakes, as quickly as if the Jeep were about to explode. He was one of those skinny, awkward, jerky kind of people, Willard Noakes, and Season had once compared him to a Swiss army knife. ‘He seems to have so many arms and legs. He can open a door, and light a cigarette, and knock over a mug of coffee, and scratch his head, all at one time,’ she had laughed.

But there was nothing funny or awkward about the way Willard hurried across to him now. Willard’s bony, sun-leathered face was smudged with dirt and there was dust in his walrus moustache. He said: ‘Ed, you’d best come quick. And I mean quick. It’s something real serious.’

‘What’s wrong, Willard?’ Ed asked him. ‘You came down that track like Evel Knievel.’

‘I’m sorry, Ed. But it’s something you got to see.’

‘An accident? Someone hurt?’

‘Well, you could call it some kind of accident, although I’m darned if I know what sort. And if anybody’s going to get themselves hurt, it’s going to be you.’

‘Okay.’ Ed raised his arm and beckoned to one of his engineering hands, who was hunkered outside of the garage, cleaning out a fuel-oil pump. The man laid down his tools and came across the yard, wiping his hands on a rag.

‘You wanted something, Mr Hardesty?’

‘Yes, please, Ben. Take this saddle into the house for me, would you, and make sure it’s hung up right. And tell Mrs Hardesty I might be a half-hour late.’

‘Sure thing, Mr Hardesty.’

Ed climbed up into the Jeep’s passenger seat while Willard started the engine. They swung around the yard and then headed back towards the north-west gate, past the stables and the garages, and out through the white-painted fence.

The Jeep’s FM radio was playing Coward of the County, almost inaudibly. Ed reached across and switched it off.

‘You want to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asked Willard.