Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  “I can’t get into all the details,” she added, “but we think the brother was captured during the attack, along with a few others around the same age. We’re making every effort to track them down. That means I need you on standby. Ready to get back to Tsavo at a moment’s notice if something comes together so we can reunite the brothers. Got it?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll be waiting.”

  There was an interruption on Kim’s end, and some inaudible whispering until she came back on the line. “Look, I’ve got to run to a meeting. Hang tight, lay low, and keep your fingers crossed. If things work out, there might be a happy ending to this story after all.”

  Garrett arrived back home to find the happiest kid in the universe. Grinning from ear to ear Asadi was atop Rascal, the gentlest horse on the Kohl Ranch. Butch was walking alongside them holding a lead rope. After parking his truck by the barn, Garrett walked up to the corral, climbed up on the top rung of the fence, and got comfortable. It warmed his heart to see the boy so at ease.

  Butch and Asadi were so preoccupied they hadn’t even noticed him watching. The air was still cold and crisp, but the sun beat down hard. Garrett took off his hat to let the rays warm his face. After a couple minutes basking, he called out to the boy.

  “Hey, Outlaw!” Asadi’s smile grew even wider at the sound of Garrett’s voice. “You’re making it look too easy!”

  Distracted, Asadi lost his balance and grabbed onto the saddle horn. Quickly realizing his breach of etiquette, he let go and looked to Butch. Garrett couldn’t hear what his dad told him but saw an affirming nod followed by instructions. Asadi gave the same nod back.

  Butch led horse and rider over to where Garrett was sitting. “Did I tell you he was a horseman, or what?”

  “You weren’t lying.” Garrett smiled at Asadi. “He’s a natural all right.”

  “Got Foxy saddled up if you think the boy’s ready to venture beyond the corral.”

  “You tell me, professor. You’re the one doing the teaching.”

  Butch looked at Asadi, conveying his pride. “He’s ready for the next step.”

  “Lead him out of the corral and I’ll meet you by the barn.”

  Hopping from the fence, Garrett walked to the hitching post where Foxy was tethered. She looked less thrilled than Rascal to be out on such a cold morning. He untied her reins from the post, put his boot in the left stirrup, and hefted his right leg over the saddle.

  Foxy turned without prompting toward the corral where Rascal was coming through the gate. The two old horses were buddies—had been since birth. Garrett vividly remembered them chasing each other across the ranch in a full lope.

  It was a memory he’d carried fondly his whole life. In the army he’d heard the word freedom thrown around probably more than any other. But his idea of it rested on that particular image. If there was anything freer than two yearlings kicking and bucking across the wide-open plains, he’d yet to see it.

  Garrett rode over to find Asadi looking less confident than he had in the safe confines of the corral. The boy put on a brave face, but he was clearly scared. It was exactly how Garrett had felt the first time he ventured out himself.

  Butch handed the lead rope to Garrett, who looped it around his own saddle horn. He made a big show of pulling it tight so Asadi could see he was latched on good. “Like I told you, before, Outlaw. You’ll always be safe with me. Okay?”

  Relief spread across Asadi’s face when it was clear he was good and tethered. And Garrett understood. There was something about the open prairie and clear sky before them that was a bit like outer space—nothing to hold you down—as if you might drift forever into the vast emptiness of the frozen white plains.

  Asadi was torn. Although he grieved the loss of his family and thought about them nearly every second, there was a part of him that was letting go—just a little. His mother, father, and brother were all dead, but he had never been more alive. Of course, that is exactly what they would have wanted. For him not to be too sad. But it still felt wrong. And it was strange to be so at home in a place so far away from it.

  Asadi tried to focus on the task at hand, which was a big one. There was nothing in the world more frightening and thrilling than riding a horse. He was amazed at how much trust he put in this giant beast, but Butch had made sure the two were well-acquainted before the riding even began.

  Getting to know Rascal was a leisurely process that involved Asadi holding out his hand for the horse to smell, followed by feeding him a handful of pellets. From there, Asadi groomed Rascal from top to bottom. He imitated Butch’s every move, to the point of mimicking the old man’s facial expressions as closely as possible, unfurling his brow and letting his lips rise in satisfaction when a task was complete.

  Asadi looked left at Garrett, who had pulled the reins, and he did likewise although it wasn’t necessary. Rascal followed Foxy’s lead and came to a stop.

  Garrett smiled, reached down, and untied the lead rope from his saddle horn, then leaned over and unclipped it from Rascal’s bridle. “You don’t need this anymore. You’re good to go.”

  Asadi’s heart raced so fast he could hear it thumping against his chest. He looked all around in panic, at the never-ending white plains that surrounded him, wondering if the horse might bolt at any second. But Rascal stayed planted, then craned his big neck downward and nudged through the snow at a little tuft of grass protruding through the powder. Asadi looked back to Garrett making sure that was okay.

  Garrett chuckled at the sight. “Trust me, he ain’t hungry. Just bored.”

  Asadi turned toward the house, barn, and corrals to find them much farther away than he thought. It was amazing how far they had traveled in such a short amount of time.

  Garrett turned also and his saddle creaked under his shifting weight. “We better head back, I guess.” He nodded at Asadi’s reins. “Ready to steer on your own?”

  Asadi didn’t comprehend the words but understood the meaning. He nodded, making an extra effort to show confidence, even though he had very little.

  “Figured as much.” Garrett lifted his cowboy hat by the crown, leaned over, and sat it atop Asadi’s head, right over the John Deere stocking hat, which made for a perfect fit.

  “There you go, Outlaw.” Garrett smiled. “Like you were born to wear it.”

  Garrett spurred Foxy and pulled the reins left, turning her in a circle. Before Asadi could do the same, Rascal was already following. Asadi made the same motions anyhow, figuring he should. By this time, it had become clear there was no danger of his horse running off, which set him at ease and allowed him to really enjoy the ride.

  Though still feeling a bit guilty over the fun he was having on the ranch, he wondered if maybe his family was looking down on him from above. And maybe his protection was a gift from his mother, still watching after her little boy from heaven.

  To pick up the pace, Garrett leaned forward on Foxy, moved his rein hand toward her mane and squeezed with his calves. He took the briefest of glances to make sure the boy was doing okay but didn’t want to make Asadi think he doubted him. Garrett was just about to give Foxy a little squeeze to get her into second gear when the phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and read the text:

  Some of them Renegade boys are up here at the bar drunker than Cooter Brown. Want me to see what I can find out? -Ike

  Garrett wanted to know everything that was going on but didn’t want Ike to put himself in danger. Of course, it was probably a few regular old rig hands just blowing off steam. The only one who’d know if it was Bo Clevenger’s gang was Bridger, who’d seen them when they came into his office.

  He texted back:

  Hold tight. Bridger and I will be there ASAP.

  After getting the thumbs-up emoji from Ike, Garrett immediately called Bridger and asked him if he wanted to meet up for a couple of beers out at Crippled Crows. His brother jumped at the chance to knock back a couple like they had in the old days. But it was Garrett�
��s plan to do a little intelligence gathering, find out more about these hotshots and see if he could get Bridger to spill the beans. Given Ike’s tale of the Mexicans up here “doing business,” Bridger might be in way over his head.

  When Butch came out the back door, he was wearing his old house slippers. His white hair was all tousled, like he’d been napping. “Well, if it ain’t the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

  Garrett sat deep and pulled back on the reins, stopping Foxy near the porch. “I take it I’m Tonto since he’s the one in the hat.”

  “Yeah, and I expect you’re the only Comanche within five hundred miles that ain’t parked his ass in front of a slot machine.”

  Ah hell. Garrett knew better than to linger on that comment lest he get another twice as stupid. “Need to head over to meet Bridger real quick. Mind watching the boy awhile?”

  Butch shook his head. “Just tie the horses to the post and I’ll get to them later.”

  Garrett turned in the saddle and looked off into the distance, toward the northeast corner of the ranch where he’d done most of his hunting growing up. “Was thinking about getting up early and doing a little hunting. Saw a decent-size ram in the herd when I was driving in.”

  The Barbary sheep, more commonly known as aoudad, were introduced to the ranch from North Africa sometime after World War II and had thrived in the rocky canyons. They were incredibly agile and a challenge to hunt. Most people wouldn’t eat them, but Garrett had figured a way to make them tasty using a recipe Sanchez’s mom had given him for cooking cabrito tacos using garlic, onion, and a certain kind of red chiles you could only get in Hatch, New Mexico.

  Butch’s eyes lit up. Apparently, he was already salivating over the tacos. “I think that’s a good idea. If the kid’s been through a hard time, as you said, we’ll need to keep him busy as possible.” He gave a nod. “Hunting usually does the trick for me.”

  Garrett was amazed by how the old man could follow his dumb comment about the Comanche with one so smart. “Think you can be up before dawn and whip up some pancakes? Boy might need a little incentive to get out of a warm bed.”

  “My guess is that you might need a little incentivizing too.”

  Garrett smiled. The old man had nailed that one. And there was one request he’d yet to make since his return home. “A little cowboy coffee won’t hurt my enthusiasm.”

  Butch had a way of making coffee over the fire that Garrett had tried to replicate a thousand times but never gotten right. Cowboy coffee tasted like heaven or hell depending on the cook. And for some reason the old man had just the right touch when it came to the process.

  “You got it.” Butch tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Saw ya’ll coming and whipped up some hot chocolate given the boy seems partial to it.”

  Since they hadn’t died from the twenty-year-old cocoa powder yet, Garrett didn’t see any harm. “I’m sure he’s worked up a thirst.” He turned to Asadi, reached over and plucked his cowboy hat from atop the green stocking cap. “Head on in, Outlaw, there’s a cup of hot chocolate with your name on it.”

  Asadi hopped from the saddle and walked a little bowlegged to the porch. He rubbed his stiff thigh muscles, but it didn’t seem to slow his stride. The boy was on a mission and there wasn’t a thing in this world that was going to stop him.

  19

  Garrett walked into Crippled Crows and found Bridger in a dark corner, his back to a wall built from corrugated tin and cedar fence posts. The glowing light from neon beer signs and cigarette smoke created an electric haze that blazed blue like a summer storm. The bar was less depressing packed wall-to-wall—looking less like a hay barn and more like a place you might get stabbed.

  “Cherokee Maiden” by Bob Wills was blasting over the speakers and the raucous roar of the Friday night patrons, as their shouting and laughter reverberated off the concrete floor. It reminded Garrett of the cantina scene from Star Wars. Replace the aliens with a bunch of cowboys and roughnecks and you’d get an exact replica of the joint.

  Garrett nodded at Ike, whose hands were full pouring shots of Crown Royal for a group of camoed-out hunters, then strolled up to Bridger. His brother was sitting under a mounted elk head that was losing its fur. He’d traded his lawyer suit for blue jeans, cowboy boots, and an old denim work coat with a sheepskin lining. There were four empty bottles of Lone Star on the table and a fifth in his hand.

  Bridger kicked out a chair that screeched across the floor. “Have a seat and join the party.”

  Garrett shook his head. “Looks like I’m late.”

  “This is a rare and treasured occasion for me, Bucky.” Bridger hoisted his longneck bottle. “It’s not often I get the chance to kick back like I did in the good ol’ days.”

  “Find it hard to believe Cassidy keeps you on a tight leash. Or any leash, for that matter.”

  Clearly feeling the effects of the fourth beer he’d just downed, Bridger sighed. “She’s too good for me, Garrett. She deserves better.”

  “Humph, I’ve been saying that for years.”

  Bridger ignored the jab and signaled the waitress for two more beers. “I mean it. Cassidy and the girls are everything to me. My whole world. I couldn’t live without them.”

  Ah hell. Bridger was getting that look of a weepy drunk, which meant it was time to go. Garrett had turned to find the waitress and cancel the order when he spotted a crew of cowboys and rig hands a few tables over. Bo Clevenger was at the head of the table.

  Garrett turned back to Bridger whose contrite look had switched to vengeful. “You got your eye on somebody over there?”

  “Oh yeah. I see the two I threw out of my office.”

  Garrett kept himself from turning around again, just in case they were watching. “How many at the table, you think?”

  “Half a dozen or more.”

  “Think they’ll want to start any trouble?”

  Bridger shrugged. “Let ’em.”

  The more Bridger drank, the hotter his blood ran. It had always had that effect on him. And knowing his brother the way he did, Garrett figured at least one or two of those guys were the ones who’d killed Scooter.

  “Bridger, I need you to be on your best behavior. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on yet and we need to get your ass out of trouble. Not into more. Got it?”

  Bridger didn’t respond.

  The waitress walked up and set down two Lone Stars. “Be anything else, boys?”

  Garrett turned to the rail-thin bleach-blond waitress in cutoff jeans and a red tank top. Her shirt was doing its damnedest to wrestle back her aftermarket double D’s, but a hard sneeze would’ve ripped it to confetti.

  “We’re fine for the moment,” Garrett assured her with a nod.

  “No, we ain’t,” Bridger slurred. “How about some shots?”

  Her Texas drawl was bigger than the state itself. “Well . . . what’ll it be, cowboy?”

  Bridger mimicked her thick accent, which she fortunately didn’t notice. “Well . . . whatcha got for a special occasion?”

  The waitress thrusted out what she considered a hip and planted her hand atop it like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. The move looked well-rehearsed. “Depends. What are you celebrating?”

  Bridger took a swig of his fresh beer. “A reunion of sorts.”

  “A reunion?” She was clearly feigning both interest and enthusiasm.

  “Yep, my brother’s back in town.” Bridger paused and added, “And I was never quite sure if we’d ever be sitting here like this again. So, we’re celebrating.”

  Garrett could tell the poor waitress didn’t know what to say. She probably had a quip for every bad pickup line known to man, but there was nothing in her arsenal to combat a guilt-stricken brother fessing up to something bad he’d done.

  Her voice rose with uncertainty. “Tequila?”

  Hoping to end the awkwardness quickly, Garrett answered for Bridger. “Tequila will do just fine, ma’am.”

  The waitress scampered off, clearl
y glad to escape. “Okay, Bridger, cut the crap. I know you’ve gotten yourself into trouble. Now what’s going on?”

  Bridger took a swig and let out a defeated laugh. “Hell if I know. But it ain’t good.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “Exactly what?” Garrett looked to the cowboys and truck drivers who were eyeing him then back to Bridger. “Look, I’m trying to help you out here. Either be straight with me or handle this yourself.” He rose to leave but Bridger grabbed his arm.

  “Whoa, Garrett. Wait a minute.”

  Garrett eased back down. “You ready to talk for real?”

  Bridger was quiet for a moment, but the wheels were clearly turning upstairs. “So . . . some of the deals I did for Mescalero weren’t exactly on the up-and-up.”

  “Okay, spill it. What happened?”

  “There’s nothing to spill, really. Some of the contracts I was writing up were a little sketchy. And the further I dug, the sketchier they got.”

  Garrett did a quick glance over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Sketchy how?”

  “Some of the investors I was doing contracts for didn’t look legit.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Years as an oil and gas attorney teach you a few things. And one of those is how to smell a load a crap from a mile away. When I couldn’t put real names and real people behind the entities backing the money that was coming into Mescalero prospects, I started to do some courthouse research and made a few phone calls. And I found out that some of the companies investing in Mescalero wells and buying minerals were based out of South Texas. Laredo. Harlingen. Kingsville. At first, I figured they were just investors who’d made money drilling down in the Eagle Ford looking for new opportunities. But the further I dug on the names on these participation agreements, the less I could find.”

  “What’d Kaiser say about it?”