Lone Calder Star

Clouds blanketed the Texas landscape southwest of Fort Worth as a stiff wind broomed the countryside, sweeping up anything that wasn't firmly attached. The air was cold with the bite of December's breath, courtesy of the blue norther that had invaded Texas the night before.

A sign swung drunkenly from its gatepost, held by a single chain that creaked and rattled with the effort. The sign itself was pockmarked with bullet holes, making it difficult to read the painted letters that spelled out the name CEE BAR RANCH.

Brake lights flashed red as a fast-traveling patrol car slowed its approach to the ranch entrance.

Still the vehicle took the turn a little fast, the rear end fishtailing slightly on the dirt lane. Dust boiled around the patrol car, but not before Officer Ray Hobbs got a look at the dangling sign.

"Looks like somebody's been using that sign for target practice," he remarked to his partner behind the wheel.

"So what else is new, city boy?" Joe Ed Krause, a veteran of some seventeen years on the force, threw a jaundiced look at the young rookie. "Half the signs in the county've been shot up at one time or another. That's just what happens when you put boredom, beer, and back roads together. It don't mean any thing."

"Probably not," Ray Hobbs agreed and shifted his attention to the empty landscape, partially obscured by the blowing dust. When the patrol car rolled into the ranch yard, he sat up a little straighter, taking note of the pickup parked in front of an old barn before focusing on the single-story house and the front porch that traversed the length of it. "Looks like somebody's here."

"I wouldn't count on it," Joe Ed muttered and drove straight to the house. Leaving the warm confines of the patrol car, he stepped into the winter-chilled air and clamped a hand on the crown of his hat to prevent the wind from blowing it off.

His partner joined him. Together they crossed to the shelter of the porch. There was an uneven cadence to the heavy thud of their footsteps on the planked floor, the sound partially muffled by the wind.

Without hesitation or caution, Joe Ed opened the screen door and pounded loudly on the wooden door, then waited. As the seconds stretched out, the rookie peered through the dust-coated panes of a side window.

"Don't see any movement," Ray said.

Joe Ed pounded on the door again, rattling the hinges, then reached down and tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand.

"It's not locked?" The rookie gave his partner a startled look.

"Hell, we're in the country," Joe Ed retorted with barely veiled disgust. "Nobody locks their door during the day." He stepped inside and shouted, "Hello? Anybody home?" He paused and called out again, "Evans, are you here?"

But he was met only with silence.

The rookie followed him inside. "I don't think anybody's here."

"No kidding." That observation didn't come as any great surprise to Joe Ed. If he'd been alone, he would have turned around and left right then. But with the green officer at his side, he deided to go through the notions of a search. "We might as well go check the other rooms."

The doorway on his right opened into the kitchen. Joe Ed motioned toward it and led the way into the room, floorboards creaking under the weight of his heavy frame. His foray into the room took him to the automatic coffeemaker on the counter next to the sink.

He pulled out the pot and made a face of disgust. "There must he an inch of mold in this pot."

More grew on the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. The state of the dishes in the sink didn't bother him, but the coffeepot did. "Every cowhand I ever knew couldn't start his day without coffee. Nobody's made any in this pot for days."

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"Do you think we should check out the bedrooms?" the rookie suggested.

Joe Ed shrugged. "Why not?"

A search of the three bedrooms yielded one unmade bed and three empty closets. "This Sam Evans guy that's supposed to be living here has obviously pulled out."

"But how come there's a pickup parked outside?" The rookie, Ray Hobbs, still wasn't satisfied that the situation was as simple as that.

"Yeah. I guess we'd better check it out," Joe Ed agreed with reluctance, regarding it as a waste of time.

The wind howled a greeting as they exited the old ranch house. Heads down, the two officers walked into the teeth of it, taking a straight line to the pickup parked in front of the barn. Like the house, the truck was unlocked. A search of the glove compartment produced a certificate of insurance and registration slip.

"The owner of record is the Calder Cattle Company," Joe Ed announced. "If I'm not mistaken, that's the name of the Montana outfit that owns this place."

A lonely star,

A Texas sky,

A Calder learns

That trouble is nigh.

Mother Nature was in an impish mood. While Texas shivered under cloudy skies and a cold north wind, the plains of eastern Montana enjoyed temperatures in the mid-sixties, thanks to a Chinook wind that blew its warmth over the high prairie.

In this big and empty land that had once been the domain of the mighty Sioux, today over a million acres of it fell within the boundaries of the Calder Cattle Company, better known throughout the west as the Triple C. Quint Echohawk's roots were sunk deep in its soil. His mother was the daughter of the family patriarch, Chase Benteen Calder, and his late father had been a quarter Sioux.

Quint had inherited his father's smoke-gray eyes, his high, prominent cheekbones and glistening black hair. But there was much of the Calder side in him as well, visible in the granite jaw, the deep set of his eyes, and the muscled width of his shoulders and chest.

As a boy growing up on the Triple C, he'd been dubbed "little man" by the ranch hands. "Little"

no longer described his six-two frame, but at twenty-seven, he had made the full transition into manhood.

With the afternoon sun warm on his back, Quint climbed the steps of the Homestead that had long, been the residence of the Calder clan. The towering two-story strurhure was grand in scale, making it visible for miles like a massive white ship anchored in an ocean of grass.

Thanksgiving had barely passed, but already the big house was decked in holiday dress a Christmas wreath on the door and a garland twined around its tall pillars. In the bright light of day, its multitude of twinkling lights was invisible, but they were there just the same.

Quint paused at the top of the steps and swung back to survey the ranch yard with its sprawl of buildings. To an outsider, the Triple C headquarters would have resembled a small country town. In many respects it was.

In addition to the usual assortment of barns and sheds associated with the ranching business, there was a commissary stocked with a variety of essential supplies that ran the gamut from foodstuffs and work clothes to hardware and vehicle parts. A few years back an addition had
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been added to provide space for video rentals and the ranch post office. Other buildings housed a firstaid dispensary, a welding shop, and an elementary school. Besides the old cook shack that served as a restaurant of sorts, there were nearly a dozen houses that provided homes for married ranch hands and their families.

Considering the nearest large town was some two hundred miles distant and the ranch itself covered as much ground as some eastern states, the Triple C had become self-sufficient out of necessity. And the Calder family controlled every inch of it.

That knowledge was at the back of Quint's mind as he idly ran his glance over the large cluster of buildings. If his mother had her way, he would play a major part in the ranching operation, though both knew the reins of the Triple C would eventually pass to her brother's son, Trey.

Quint had no problem with that, convinced that it was a role Trey had been born to fill. Still Quint regarded his own future as far from settled. As always, that was something Quint kept to himself.

Hearing the click of the door latch behind him, Quint turned as his mother stepped into view.

Cathleen Calder Echohawk. known by all as simply Cat-was a slim, petite woman with green eyes and black hair that showed few strands of gray. Her smile was, quick and wide, indicative of a personality that was both vibrant and volatile.

"I thought that was you standing out here," she declared. " You'd better come in. Jessy's looking for you. I got the impression there's a problem of some sort." She continued talking as he crossed to the door. "I hope it's nothing serious, not when we're supposed to leave for England in the morning for Laura's wedding. It would be horrible if the mother of the bride can't be ihere."

"At least Jessy was present at the first ceremony," Quint reminded her, a glint of teasing humor in his gray eyes.

"Now you sound like your grandfather," Cat chided with affection, stepping aside as he came through the door into the entryway. "He still doesn't see why Laura is having two weddings-one here and one in Britain. But the trip to England would have been much too hard on him at his age, and it simply wasn't practical for Sebastian's family and friends to fly over here."

"I know." Quint nodded. "Where's Jessy? In the den?"

"Yes," she confirmed, then placed a detaining hand on his arm. "I'm glad you decided not to make the trip. The idea of leaving your grandfather here by himself bothers me."

"Don't worry. There'll be plenty of people keeping an eye on him besides me."

"Of course there will." She cast a glance in the direction of the den. "You'd better go see what Jessy wants."

The Homestead's large den was still considered the heart of the Triple C despite the construction of a separate ranch office several years back. It was on one of its walls that the old hand-drawn map of the ranch was hung, outlining its far flung, boundaries and identifying its various landmarks and watercourses on paper that had yellowed over time.

It was in the den as well where the impressive set of horns from a longhorn steer was mounted above the mantel of the massive stone fireplace. The same steer that had led the first cattle drive from Texas to the newly established Triple C Ranch in Montana. It was a room of history and heritage that never failed to make its imprint on Quint. This afternoon was no exception.

The fresh scent of pine emanated from the greenery that adorned the mantel. A cheery fire blazed in the old stone fireplace, casting its glow into the room and adding a welcome warmth for his grandfather's old bones.

As usual, his grandfather, Chase Benteen Calder, sat behind the oversized desk, his once vigorous body now gray-haired and stoop-shouldered, with age lines creasing his rawboned face. The accumulationn of years had left the mark on his body, but his mind remained as sharp as ever, and full of a lifetime of ranching knowledge on this northern plain.

Currently, his grandfather's attention was centered on his daughter-in-law, Jessy Calder, who, under Chase's able tutelage, had been running the Triple C for the last twenty-odd years since her
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husband's death. Jessy sat on a corner of the desk, her boyslim body angled toward Chase. She swiveled to face the doorway when she heard Quint's footsteps.

"We were just talking about you, Quint." In a single, fluid motion, Jessy straightened up from the desk.

"Mom said you wanted to see me." Quint swept off his hat and walked the rest of the way into the room, dividing his curious glance between the two of them. But there was little that could be read from their expressions. "What's up?"

"That's what we want you to find out," Jessy stated. "How soon can you be packed?"

Quint halted in surprise. "To go where?"

"Texas. We've been leaving messages at the Cee Bar for the last week but none of our calls were returned. Today I asked the sherrif down there to check it out. I got off the phone with him just a few minutes ago. 'There was no one at the ranch-and no one had been there for at least a week, as near as his men could tell."

Quint frowned. "I thought you hired somebody from the outside to manage the operation at the Cee Bar."

Jessy released a half-irritated sigh and nodded. "Sam Evans, by name. We hired him about a year and a half ago."

"Have you had any problems with him before now?" Quint asked, following his first thought.

"Not with Sam," Jessy replied without any hesitation. "Although the last few months he has complained that all his hired help kept walking out on him after only a few days' work." Her shoulders moved in a vague shrug of confusion. "I don't know. Maybe he got tired of doing all the work by himself and left without bothering to notify us."

There was something in the inflection of her voice that told Quint she didn't totally believe that.

"You think that would be out of character for him, don't you?" he guessed.

Jessy's innate sense of practicality surfaced. "It doesn't matter what I think. The fact remains he's gone-bag and baggage, according to the sheriff," she added. "We need you to fly down there and take charge of the ranch until we can hire someone else."