Calder Pride (19 page)

The jaw strap buckled, he led the horse to the barn. Five minutes later, he rode out and headed west, into the crimson fire of the setting sun. Having seldom ventured onto the Circle Six during his night
wanderings, it took Culley some time to make his way across the rugged hills and locate the ranch yard. He rounded a thinly wooded shoulder of land and spied the yard light. He reined in, then swung the surefooted bay up the slope and circled around to find a vantage point.

An outcropping of rock near the crest of the hill offered both concealment and an unobstructed view of the ranch yard. Culley hobbled the bay in a grassy hollow on the other side of the hill, removed the binoculars from a saddlebag, and climbed to the outcropping.

The yard light’s far-reaching glow touched on the front of a shed barn and made dark, distinctive shapes of the horses dozing in an adjacent corral. From memory, Culley knew that a set of stock pens for sorting and loading cattle stood somewhere in the night-thick shadows south of the barn. He skipped over the storage building and machine shop and focused the binoculars on the single-story house.

Logan’s pickup was parked alongside the patrol car next to the house. The presence of the two vehicles confirmed that Logan was at the ranch. Light gushed from a kitchen window, illuminating a section of the front porch that ran the length of the house. Culley’s angle gave him a limited view of the kitchen, but he could detect no movement within.

After watching it for a long run of minutes, he surveyed the rest of the house through the glasses, but no other light showed. Puzzled, Culley lowered the binoculars, then raised them again to scan the shadowed recesses of the porch. A pinpoint of light flared briefly, then vanished. Culley zeroed in on it and discovered the black shape of a figure seated just beyond the glow of the lighted kitchen window.

Logan sat idly in the sturdy rocker, his fingers loosely gripping the bowl of the pipe clamped
between his teeth. He puffed on it, but tonight he found no pleasure in the sharp tang of smoke on his tongue. His restless gaze wandered over the ranch yard, probing the shadows from long habit. He had lived too long with the need for such vigilance to ever abandon it completely, even here on the ranch that was his haven from the pressures of dark alleys and human treachery.

The evening hour was his time to relax and regain some of his faith in human nature. But there was no ease in the winy air for him tonight. Somewhere to the south lay the headquarters of the Triple C Ranch, a fact that had never mattered much to him when he bought the Circle Six. But that was before he had learned Cat lived there.

Crowded by the thought, Logan pushed out of the rocker, setting it swaying. He crossed to the edge of the porch and knocked the hot ash from his pipe. It fell in a scattering of sparks that died seconds after touching the ground. But the fiery ache in his loins wasn’t so easily put out.

M
om, wait for me!” Quint’s voice carried across the quiet of the Sunday afternoon.

Halting, Cat turned, a bouquet of spring’s first wildflowers clutched in her hand. She smiled when she saw Quint running toward her, a hand clamped over his new straw Stetson, a birthday present from Cat and currently his most prized possession. Out of breath, he skidded to a stop beside her.

“I didn’t think you’d hear me,” he declared.

Cat raised an eyebrow. “And I thought you were taking a nap.”

“I woke up.” He looked at the flowers in her hand. “Are you going to the cemetery?”

She inadvertently tightened her grip on the delicate flower stems. To Quint, her visits to Repp’s grave site were a common occurrence. Only she knew that twinges of guilt prompted this one.

“Can I come with you?” His request eliminated any chance of privacy, but Cat found it impossible to refuse him. “Of course you can.”

Automatically he reached for her hand, and they set out together, angling across the ranch yard toward
the small cemetery. “Mom, do I have to take naps on roundup?” Quint asked after they had traveled several yards.

She hid a smile. “I guess you don’t think you should.”

“The guys would tease me.” The very glumness of his voice revealed the humiliation he would feel.

“They might,” Cat agreed with a straight face. “Maybe if you went to bed earlier at night, you wouldn’t need to take a nap.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He looked up, a smile bursting across his usually solemn face.

“You’re welcome.” Idly, she wished all of life’s problems were so easily solved.

Her visits to the cemetery followed a never-changing pattern. She always stopped first at her mother’s grave. After a moment of silent prayer, she left a spray of wildflowers at the base of the granite marker, then made her way to the Taylor plot.

Kneeling, Cat laid the remaining flowers on Repp’s grave and automatically traced the letters of his name, etched into the smoothly polished surface of his red granite marker, the old ache for what might have been rising up in her throat.

“Was he my dad?”

Quint’s question had the impact of a body blow. Cat turned with a sharp and silent indrawn breath, her glance racing to his quietly serious expression. Never once had Quint ever shown the slightest curiosity about his father or, to her knowledge, even wondered about his existence.

“What made you ask that?” Cat stalled, trying to decide what she should tell him.

His slender shoulders rose and fell in a diffident shrug, a look of uncertainty entering his gray eyes. His response forcibly reminded Cat that children were much more sensitive and observant than adults
realized. His question had been forthright, but her response hadn’t been, and Quint knew it.

Determined to repair the damage, Cat captured his hand and drew him to her, gathering him into the loose circle of her arms. “Repp wasn’t your father, Quint, although I know he would have liked to be,” she told him truthfully. “You’re just the kind of son he would have wanted. I know he would have been the proudest dad to take you on roundup with him. And he wouldn’t have let the men tease you about taking a nap, either. He would have told them to keep quiet, that a person deserves to rest after they’ve worked hard. There’s no doubt he would have loved you a lot. And you would have loved him, Quint.”

He listened with solemn care, but Cat couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Nerves raveling, she braced herself for direct questions about his father. But it soon became apparent that she had been granted a reprieve. But for how long?

Monday marked the first day of spring roundup on the Triple C. By tradition, the north range was the starting point. It was a fact known to any and all, and one that Lath Anderson counted on as the four-wheel-drive truck traveled along a dirt back road, its lights out. Clouds shrouded the moon, turning the night pitch black. A high-powered rifle rattled in the gun rack behind his head. The case with the infrared night scope lay on the seat beside him.

“This is crazy.” Rollie crouched over the wheel, peering into the blackness ahead of them. “I can’t see where I’m going.”

“Just keep aiming for that butte straight ahead.” Lath pointed to the landmark, discernible only by the faint star-glitter that outlined it.

“What butte?” Rollie grumbled. “I don’t see why the hell I can’t turn the headlights on. As of yesterday, the whole crew is over on the north range. You said yourself they wouldn’t finish up there until Thursday at the earliest.”

“Just the same, there’s no point in advertising ourselves.” He leaned forward, expectantly scanning the blackness ahead of them. “Slow down. We should be coming up to the gate.”

“How can you tell?” Rollie muttered, dryly sarcastic, and reduced speed.

Lath chuckled. “You’re worse than a bitchy old woman. Next you’re gonna be wantin’ to stop somewhere and ask for directions.”

“Very funny.”

“You know, what we really need is a couple pairs of night-vision goggles,” Lath mused idly, all the while closely watching the side of the road. “I had me some once. Man, they were wild.”

“What we need is some light.”

The slow-moving clouds rolled past a corner of the moon. The sliver of light gave shape and form to the surrounding landscape, glinting on the metal of a fence gate. Lath hee-heed a laugh and punched Rollie’s shoulder.

“’Ask and ye shall receive,’ brother. That’s all you gotta do,” he declared.

But Rollie didn’t think God had any part in their night’s venture. He swung the truck off the road and stopped in front of the gate. Lath hopped out, unlatched the gate, and dragged it open, waving Rollie through. As soon as the truck cleared the gateposts, Lath left the gate standing open and scrambled back into the cab.

“Head for the base of that bluff over there,” Lath told him, pointing to their right. “There’s always a bunch of cattle bedded down in that grassy gulch.”

“How do you know?” With more of the moon shining down to light the way, Rollie set out toward the spot.

“Because I been scouting this while you’ve been off playing in the coal pit every day,” he added the last on a note of derision. “Ma wants some beef for the table, and I aim to see that she gets it—and take a few pokes at the Calders while I’m at it.”

The roughness of the uneven ground made for slow going. After what seemed an eternity to Rollie, they arrived at the bluff and maneuvered the truck into position to block the gulch, formed by an outreaching foot of the high bluff.

Somewhere around a half dozen cows with young calves lumbered to their feet, snuffing in alarm. Two stood their ground to eye the intruders warily while the rest trotted to the back of the gulch.

“Was I right or what, little brother?” Lath lifted the rifle from the window rack, attached the night scope, then loaded the ammunition.

“I don’t see any steers.” Rollie judged, mainly by the calves mothering up with grown cows.

“No, but if it’s the same bunch, there’s a couple of heifers that’ll make good eatin’.” He climbed out of the truck and leaned atop the hood, using it for a stand. Rollie moved out of the line of fire, coming around to the passenger side while Lath put his eye to the scope and scanned the choice of targets. “This is better than a shooting gallery.”

He picked out a cow, took aim and squeezed the trigger, the sharp report echoing off the bluff walls. A dark shape crumbled to the ground as a calf bawled. Confusion reigned, the bunched cattle rushing about in panic, seeking escape. There was none.

Lath fired again, then again. Rollie saw a second animal stumble to its knees. For an instant, he was
too stunned to react. The rifle cracked again, breaking that grip of surprise.

“What the hell are you doing, Lath?” Another cow crashed to the ground while the second one struggled to rise. “We haven’t got room in the back of that truck for more than one carcass, not with that winch back there. Have you gone crazy?”

Lath never took his cheek away from the rifle. “What’s the fun of stealing one of Calder’s beeves if he don’t find out about it?”

Buzzards glided in lazy circles along the thermals rising from the bluff. More were on the ground, some too gorged from their feast of dead flesh to do more than flap their wings and lumber out of the riders’ way while others roosted in the trees.

Flies swarmed over the bloated carcasses, the hum of their beating wings a steady drone that filled the grim scene. The heat of the noonday sun intensified the stench of rotting flesh. Ty’s horse snorted and tossed its head, not liking anything about this place.

Neither did Ty as he stared at the carnage before him, a cold anger welling. “You said they’d been shot?” he fired the question at the middle-aged cowboy Mike Summers.

“I didn’t check all of them, but I’d say so,” Mike replied stiffly. “We saw the buzzards circling, then found that calf, hobbling on three legs, half-dead with fever—hell, he was so weak, Shane and me walked right up to him. That’s when we saw the bullet hole. We figured the buzzards were waiting for him to die. Then we smelled this.” He nodded at the bodies of the slain cattle, frozen in death and partially mutilated by scavenging vultures and coyotes. “It was deliberate, Ty. There ain’t much doubt of
that. I wish to hell I could get my hands on the bastard that did this.”

“We will,” Ty stated in a hard, flat voice. “First, we’ll need to file a report. Ride back to camp and call the sheriff’s office on the mobile phone. Get him out here.”

“Right away.” Mike backed his horse a few paces, then wheeled it around and pointed it toward camp. The horse broke into a canter on its own, eager to be away from the place that smelled so strongly of death.

Ty’s horse made a swing to follow, but Ty checked the movement and surveyed the area a minute longer, then rode over to the shade of some scrub willows where the two injured calves were being held.

Around noontime, Chase rode out from camp at Broken Butte to look over the first batch of cattle that had been brought in. Quint followed, astride a short-coupled bay mare renowned on the ranch for her ability to mollycoddle the greenest rider, hence earning the name Molly. Having ridden since the age of two, Quint was far from green, but neither was he an old hand, especially in the occasionally explosive arena of roundup.

When Chase halted his sturdy buckskin gelding a short distance from the small herd, Quint reined the mare around to come alongside him. The tractable Molly obeyed and stopped of her own accord abreast of the buckskin.

Copying his grandfather’s pose, Quint folded both hands over the saddle horn and surveyed the scene. A cow and her calf attempted to break from the bunch, only to be turned back by the day-herder.

“They’re a bit snuffy,” Quint observed, quick to use one of the terms he’d picked up from the older hands.

“A bit,” Chase agreed with a touch of drollness.

Hoofbeats drummed somewhere behind them. Frowning, Chase swiveled in the saddle, his gaze narrowing at the sight of a horse and rider galloping into camp. His haste clearly signaled trouble of some sort.

“Come on, Quint,” he said to the boy. “Let’s see what’s up.” He swung the buckskin around and lifted it into a canter. Quint followed suit, pounding his heels against the mare’s sides, urging her to close the gap with the buckskin. They arrived in camp at the same time as the approaching rider.

Chase took one look at the grim expression on Mike Summers’ face and demanded, “What happened?”

“We got about a dozen head of dead cattle and a couple wounded calves. Ty sent me back to notify the sheriff, says we’ll need to make a report.” The horse shifted restlessly beneath him, the bridle bit clanking against its chewing teeth.

“Wounded? How?”

“Looks like they been shot.” Repressed anger laced the terseness of his reply.

Chase’s own lips thinned. “Where is this?”

“Over at the bottom of the bluff, where those buzzards are congregating.” Mike motioned to the northeast. “Not far from Three Mile Gate.” With that information passed along, he rode over to use the mobile phone in the truck to call the sheriff’s office.

Off to the northeast, some three miles distant, circling buzzards made black dots in the sky. Chase studied them with hard eyes. His fingers tightened on the reins, and the buckskin shifted, gathering
itself in anticipation of a signal to move forward. But Chase glanced at his grandson, who had never seen death. Young as Quint was, he would be doing him no favor to shield him completely from it.

“Are you and Molly up to a long ride?” Affection gentled the grimness of his expression.

“Sure.” Quint had heard the exchange between Chase and Mike Summers, and now wore the avid look of a boy about to embark on a kind of adventure.

“Let’s go.” But Chase regretted the hard lesson Quint would learn.

As he pointed the buckskin toward the distant bluff, Mike yelled from the truck, “They’re sending someone out. Tell Ty to keep watch for a patrol car.”

Chase nodded and touched his spurs to the buckskin. The horse set out at a jogging trot, and Chase didn’t increase the pace. He had a fair idea of what they would find when they reached the site, and he wasn’t in any hurry to see it.

There was no hope for one of the calves, Ty discovered. The bullet had shattered the right shoulder socket. The outlook wasn’t so grim for the second calf. A bullet had gouged a deep crease across the top of its neck, but had failed to sever its spinal cord. The danger now was from the infection that had already spread through the animal’s system.

Shane Goodman was at work, doing what he could with water and his kerchief to break the hard scab and crusted blood caked over the wound. Ty stepped in to help him, a muscle coming to life in his jaw at the sight of the pus that seeped through the first cracks. It was slow work, but the fever-drained calf was beyond caring.

After the wound had been cleaned and the raw, inflamed flesh exposed, Ty walked to his ground-hitched horse and rummaged through his saddlebag for the tube of antiseptic salve to slather on the wound and protect it from flies. Over the cantle, he spotted the approaching riders. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking his father. And he had Quint with him.