Calder Pride (20 page)

Ty swore under his breath and turned, tossing the tube to the cowboy with the calf. “Here. I’ll be back.”

He gathered up the trailing reins, looped them over the sorrel’s neck, and stepped into the saddle. With a touch of the spur, he sent the horse forward and rode out to intercept them. A fresh breeze swirled off the grass, but its clean scent couldn’t erase the death stench that had been burned into him.

Chase greeted him with the message, “The sheriff’s office has a car on the way.”

“Good.” Ty nodded briskly. “We’ve got one calf we might be able to save, but we’ll need a trailer for him. He’s too weak and too sick to make it on his own.”

“And the other one?”

Ty shook his head. “We’ll have to put him down,” he said, aware of young ears listening intently.

Chase nodded his acceptance of the verdict and looked beyond him toward the bluff area, gathering the reins in an obvious signal that he intended to look the situation over himself. Ty swung his horse half a step to the side, blocking his path, and glanced pointedly at Quint, then back to his father.

“It’s bad,” he said.

Chase lifted his head, then nodded and turned to his grandson. “I have a job for you, Quint. We need someone to keep a lookout for the sheriff’s car and
direct him back here. This is very important, now. Do you think you can do that?”

“Sure.” Bright-eyed and eager, Quint sat straighter in the saddle.

“Come with me.” A hundred yards away, the rough, rolling ground lifted to a high swell. Chase rode to the top of it and waited for Quint to draw alongside of him. “Do you see that gate by the road?”

“Uh-huh.” Quint nodded, his gaze fixing on it.

“I want you to ride down there and wait at the gate. When you see a police car coming down the road, I want you to wave your hat so he’ll know where to stop. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be over by that bluff. When the officer gets here, you’ll need to show him where we are.”

“I will.” Quint booted the mare forward, clicking his tongue in encouragement.

Chase waited atop the rise until Quint reached the gate, then rode back to rejoin Ty. “How bad is it?” he asked when he reined in.

“Bad. From the looks of it, they were killed a couple days ago,” Ty told him. “The buzzards and coyotes have already been at work on them.”

“Are you sure it’s not the work of scavengers?” Chase questioned, then raised another possibility. “There’s been some cattle mutilations reported over in the Dakotas.”

“I’d bet on the coyotes here.”

“Let’s go look.” He lifted the reins. Side by side, they rode to the scene of the slaughter.

A rooster tail of dust plumed behind the fast-traveling patrol car as it sped along the isolated dirt road
that traversed an outflung section of the Triple C Ranch. Just ahead the road made a wide, sweeping curve to swing around a hill. Slowing the car to make the turn, Logan checked the crudely drawn map on his clipboard and located the curve in a road that ran otherwise arrow-straight. He glanced one last time at the directions scribbled in the right-hand margin of the map, then laid the clipboard on the passenger seat.

It couldn’t be much farther. Leaning forward, Logan peered upward through the top half of the windshield, scanning the sky. Off to the west, buzzards drifted on rising air currents. Rounding the hill, the road straightened again. He brought his gaze back to it and the fence line that crowded close to it. Slowing again, he watched for the gate.

Logan saw the rider first—a small boy on a full-grown horse, waving his hat in sweeping arcs over his head.

Given a choice, Logan would have steered clear of the Triple C and anything that had to do with the Calders. But duty hadn’t allowed him that luxury. When the call came in, he had been the only one available. All the rest of the deputies had been either off duty, too far away, or tied up on other calls.

Seeing that the pasture gate was shut, Logan stopped the car on the road and stepped out, automatically adjusting the holstered gun on his hip. The boy had his hat back on his head, the overhanging brim shadowing a face that couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.

“Afternoon.” Logan touched his hat in greeting.

“Afternoon, sir.” The boy sat as tall as he could in the saddle, his shoulders squared with adultlike importance. “I waved my hat so you’d know where to stop.”

“Good thing you did,” Logan acknowledged. “I
might have driven past the gate before I saw it.”

The dozing mare flicked a curious ear at him as Logan approached the gate. When he went to unlatch the gate, his glance fell on a set of tire tracks. Close to a dozen cattle had been reported killed, a number that represented a sizable loss to any outfit, and one that couldn’t be taken lightly. Logan crouched down to study the tracks.

“Whatcha looking at?” the boy asked, the saddle creaking as he leaned forward, trying to see.

“Some tire tracks.” Logan straightened and turned his thoughtful gaze on the boy. “You don’t know whether anybody’s come through this gate in the last couple days?”

“No. Is it important?”

“It could be.”

“I’m supposed to take you over to that bluff where my grandpa is. That’s where the dead cows are.”

“Mind if I swing up behind and ride with you?”

The boy shrugged. “Molly won’t care, but what about your car? Are you just going to leave it there?”

Logan nodded. “Until I know something more about those tire tracks. Just give me a minute to radio in and let them know the situation here.” He went back to the patrol car, made the call and returned.

Grabbing hold of the saddle horn, he swung up behind the cantle and settled into a semi-comfortable position on the leather skirt.

“We’re all set,” he told the boy.

“Let’s go, Molly.” He clicked to the mare.

“Is Molly your horse’s name?” Logan guessed as the mare broke into a shuffling trot.

“Yup.”

“I guess we never got around to introducing ourselves. My name’s Logan. What’s yours?”

“Quint.”

“Pleased to meet you, Quint.”

“Yes, sir.” He clicked to the mare again and slapped his heels against her sides, urging her to a quicker gait.

“No, let’s keep it slow,” Logan told him.

“Can’t you ride?” the boy asked on a note of astonishment, then quickly added, “Molly’s a good horse. If she feels you slippin’, she’ll stop right away.”

“I can ride,” Logan assured him with an amused smile. “But I’d like to do a bit of looking around on the way, if that’s all right with you?”

“Sure.” There were those small, slender shoulders lifting in another shrug. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“To see if a vehicle might have been driven through here in the last day or so.” He surveyed the wild roll of land between the gate and the distant bluff face.

He saw nothing to arouse his suspicion and turned his attention to the pickup and stock trailer parked some distance from the bluff.

Two riders looked on while a pair of cowboys gently steered a wobbly calf toward the trailer’s ramp. Logan centered his gaze on the mounted men. Both looked to have been cut from the same cloth, big-boned and taller than the average rider, dark-haired and dark-eyed with broad, rugged features. Logan had heard the Calders described often enough that he knew he was looking at father and son.

When the mare shuffled to a halt near the trailer, Logan slid off its rump, then stepped forward to nod to the boy. “Obliged for the ride, Quint,” he said and turned to the two riders.

The older one swung out of the saddle with the unhurried deliberation of his age. “I’m Chase Calder.” He stretched out a hand in greeting.

“Logan Echohawk, acting sheriff in Blackmore’s absence.” He took Calder’s hand and returned the firmness of its grip.

Chase frowned, puzzlement flickering in his dark eyes. “Have we met before?” he asked curiously.

Logan shook his head. “I would have remembered.”

“You look familiar,” he said in explanation, then waved a hand toward his son. “This is my son, Ty, and you’ve already met my grandson.”

“Yes, Quint was kind enough to give me a ride,” he replied, then nodded to Ty and came to the point. “You reported some cattle killed. I’m curious if any of your men might have gone through that gate recently?”

“Not in the last week,” Ty answered. “Spring roundup started Monday. We worked the north range first, and shifted operations here late yesterday afternoon, using the South Gate. Why?”

“I noticed a set of tire tracks. Double-check with your men and make sure none of them have used that gate in the last week or ten days.” With a turn of his head, Logan glanced toward the bluff face and the circling buzzards. “Are the dead cattle over there?”

“Yes. Six cows and four calves.” Ty took a closer look at the officer, his interest aroused by his businesslike attitude and obvious competence. Ty couldn’t imagine any of the other deputies—or even Blackmore, for that matter—noticing the tire tracks and wondering about them.

As crimes went, dead cattle usually didn’t rate very high with the sheriff’s office. Ty had instructed Mike to call simply to make their deaths a matter of record. With a touch of cynicism, he wondered whether Echohawk wanted the position of sheriff to become a permanent one and sought to enlist the support of the Calders.

“Could I have the loan of a horse?” Logan asked, turning back.

“Take mine.” Chase offered the reins to his buckskin.

Taking the reins, he led the horse a few steps forward and stepped smoothly into the saddle, his long legs eliminating the need to shorten the stirrups. He put the buckskin on the bit, then swung his attention back to Chase. “Don’t let anyone use that gate until I can take an impression of those tire prints.”

Chase nodded. “I’ll see that the word’s passed.”

“I’ll ride along.” Ty nudged his horse forward with a squeeze of his legs. When Quint started to rein his horse around to accompany them, Ty stopped him. “No, you stay here, Quint.”

Disappointment dragged down the corners of his mouth, but he made no protest. Logan noticed the boy’s wistful look and gave him a smiling nod of farewell, adult to adult. He had a glimpse of the boy’s expression brightening before the buckskin carried him past the bay mare.

A breeze stirred through the tall green grass, bending it before the two riders. The afternoon stillness was broken by the creak of saddle leather and the muffled two-beat thud of trotting horses. Under other circumstances, Logan would have enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his back and the feel of a responsive horse beneath him. But the job demanded a different awareness of his surroundings, the kind that searched out and absorbed every detail.

His keen eyes noticed the narrow band of bent grass that marked the previous passage of several riders, a fact he filed away with a glimmer of irritation. A coyote paused near the mouth of the wide gully and boldly watched their approach, then trotted off when they drew too near, its sides bulging with the fullness of its stomach. Logan caught the first putrid
whiff of rotting flesh, the rankness of it confirming his half-formed suspicion that the killings were at least a couple of days old.

He reined in short of the entrance and studied the scene before him. A pair of buzzards stood guard over one of the carcasses. They briefly glared their defiance, then pecked at the dead cow, determined to get another bite before they were driven off. Nearly all the dead cattle were crowded against the back of the gully, suggesting they had been trapped there. Logan took note of the width of the gully’s mouth, then glanced once again at the faint trail left by the first riders.

“How many of you have ridden in there?”

“Four altogether,” Ty replied.

“Did anybody get down to take a closer look?”

“Mike did. After he and Shane Goodman came across the wounded calf, he wanted to see if these had been shot, too. Why?”

“I was wondering—just in case I run across any footprints.” Logan resumed his visual search of the area. “I don’t suppose any of your men recall hearing any gunshots in the last, say, two or three nights?”

“Not to my knowledge, but it would be unlikely. This is a remote section of the ranch. You might check with Culley O’Rourke over at Shamrock Ranch. He’s been known to go riding at night. He might have heard something.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that,” he said, then added, “Stay behind me. I don’t want to sort through any more tracks than necessary.”

He started the buckskin forward, its steps mincing and uneasy. Ty swung in behind him. Single file, they entered the gulch at a walk and hugged the outer edges of it, their nostrils instinctively pinching against death’s rank and rising odor. At their approach, the buzzards hopped off the carcasses,
then lumbered into flight with an ungainly flapping of wings. The flies showed no such concern for their presence, the thrum of their wings setting up a steady and solid buzz in the background.

At the head of the gulch, Logan reined in and inspected the scene from a different angle. His searching gaze picked out a large patch of dark-stained grass that remained flattened. It had the look of dried blood, but there were no dead animals in its vicinity. He walked the buckskin toward it and drew rein when he was still short of it, his gaze scouring the area. Flies blackened a twisted pile of shriveled entrails.

Studying it, he said over his shoulder, “When you finish your gather here, I think you’re going to come up a cow short.”

Ty drew up level with him for a closer look. “You think they butchered one?”

“Looks that way,” Logan swung the buckskin away to finish his walk-through of the site.

Twenty minutes later, he had learned as much as he could from horseback. At the mouth of the gulch, he swung out of the saddle and wrapped the buckskin’s reins around the branch of a low bush. “This may take a while,” he told Ty. “If I find anything, I’ll get back to you.”

He set out on foot, this time to comb the entire area for evidence, a time-consuming task made worse by the swarming flies and fetid odors. A part of him questioned the necessity of such a thorough search, but there was something about the wanton slaughter that made him uneasy. Experience had taught him to trust his instincts.