Free A Rendezvous to Die For by Betty McMahon Page A

mind
that he wasn’t immediately available.
    Five minutes later, Jack
sauntered over to the group, leading his horse. He looped the bridle
reins to the fence and greeted his students. He went from horse to
horse, checking the tightness of the girths and the rest of the tack.
“Lookin’ real good,” he said to the “concert” girl,
obviously impressed with the figure she cut in tight jeans and
spandex top. The girl beamed, and it took me back to the summer I was
seventeen. I’d gotten sucked into Jack’s orbit, too, naively
thinking he’d singled me out as someone special.
    When the gear was checked out,
Jack returned to his horse. “Cowboy up!” he shouted, and as if it
were choreographed, fifteen jeans-clad legs swung across saddles in
unison and, once all riders were astride their horses, they turned
their attention to the arena. Jack exuded “Texas cowboy,” from
his battered Stetson to his muddy chaps. The best pix are in the
details, I thought, and zoomed in to photograph his well-worn cowboy
boots poking through the stirrups.
    Jack was uncharacteristically
earnest as he addressed the riders. “The idea behind cutting is to
separate a cow from the herd,” he said. “You’re going to teach
your horses to mirror the cows’ moves, until an individual cow goes
where you want it to go. That’s going to require good reining
skills on your part and good athletic ability on your horse’s part.
The first thing we’re going to do is introduce your horse to a
cow.”
    Well . . . calf, I thought to
myself.
    It didn’t take long to realize
that Jack’s characterization of the event as a “cutting clinic”
was a gross exaggeration. The horses hadn’t been trained for
anything more than pleasure riding and the riders hadn’t the
slightest idea as to what was expected of them. I moved into place,
scoping out some interesting angles.
    The riders had entered the arena
and were maneuvering their horses close to the calves, which bunched
together at one end of the arena. I continued snapping pictures,
wishing for a little more action. Suddenly, I bumped into someone
leaning on the wooden fence watching the activities. “I’m so
sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention to anything other
than what I see in my camera.”
    “ That is quite all right.”
    As soon as the man straightened
up and faced me, I remembered him as the one I’d wanted to
photograph in a Kaiser uniform. “Mr. Lansing? We met in the vintage
clothing shop on Monday.”
    “ Yes, yes,” he said, taking
my hand between his two hands. “You are Cassandra Cassidy, the
photographer who lives in Marty Madigan’s carriage house.”
    “ That’s right.” I eyed him
with open curiosity. “I remember your saying that you know Marty
quite well. Do you see him often?”
    “ Not often, but enough to say
we’re more than acquaintances. We are both involved in
reenactments. We will take it up again, when things settle down for
him.”
    “ When and how do you think that
will take place?”
    “ I have no way of knowing that,
but as soon as the authorities discover who killed the reporter,
Marty will no longer be under suspicion.”
    “ You
sound certain that he’s not guilty. It was his tomahawk in Eric’s
head.”
    “ My dear, Marty
cannot be guilty.” He shook his head with vigor. “He is not the
kind of person who could perpetrate such a crime.”
    “ How do you know that?”
    “ Over the years, Marty has very
generously shared information about the Rendezvous with me.” He
gazed across the arena toward the horizon. “He knows a great deal
about the manner of dress, the language, activities, skills and even
the weapons used in that time period. I have always found him to be
nothing but a gentleman.”
    “ Did he ever say anything to
you about Eric Hartfield?”
    “ Oh, no, our acquaintanceship
is based primarily on subjects related to the Rendezvous. I have not
talked with him since the event. I will, of course. I am