This Calder Sky

by Janet Dailey

  After one last look at herself in the mirror, Maggie turned from it. “I’d better change back into my own clothes.” She started toward the dressing room in the back and her schoolmate tagged along, eyeing her with new interest.

  “I heard that you’ve been seeing a lot of Chase Calder lately,” Dorie remarked. “Is that true?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I don’t remember.” The girl shrugged, because the source didn’t seem important. “You know how it is in the store; half the people come in just to gossip. Have you been meeting him?”

  “I’ve seen him a few times,” Maggie admitted and felt herself being elevated to a new position of importance by the association.

  “What’s it like … when he … does it to you?” The girl stammered over the question, too embarrassed to be forthright, yet too curious to keep silent.

  And Maggie realized what kind of gossip had been circulating. Her lips came together in a straight line as she regarded her supposed friend with a steadiness Dorie couldn’t match.

  “When he does what?” Maggie challenged. Then she bluntly added, “Do you mean when he makes love to me?”

  “I wasn’t trying to pry, Maggie. Honest.”

  The end result was the same, and it hurt Maggie, stinging her temper. “Why don’t you go ask Chase to show you? Then you won’t have to ask me what it’s like. You can find out for yourself.”

  “I couldn’t.” The girl drew back in shock.

  “Why not? He’s very good at deflowering virgins.” Maggie closed the dressing room door and began trembling. Her eyes smarted with tears, but she determinedly blinked them away and stripped out of the dress. Dorie had vanished from the back storage area when Maggie came out wearing her blouse and jeans again.

  Webb pulled up to the gasoline pumps and stopped the station wagon. As he climbed out, a teen-aged boy came trotting out of the building. “Shall I fill it up for you, Mr. Calder?”

  “Yes, and check the oil.” Automatically, he glanced at the vehicles parked nearby. The ranch pickup he passed over, but his gaze paused on the truck belonging to O’Rourke. The sight of it aroused the suspicious questions that had been running through his mind for the last week. They were little more than hunches, but Webb often relied on gut feelings, which ultimately proved to be correct.

  He walked over to the truck and wandered around it, stopping to poke at the dirt and gravel lodged in the tire treads and pull out the long grass stems caught in the rusted cracks of the chrome bumper. The grass was a common variety, although it grew in abundance on Triple C land, especially around the Broken Butte. The main road bisecting the rarely used track to that section had recently been resurfaced with new gravel. A sharpedged chip of stone was wedged in the tire treads. Neither item was conclusive evidence that O’Rourke had been in the vicinity, yet they both showed he could have been. Webb strolled thoughtfully back to his car, running this information through his mind.

  “Sometimes I wonder how Angus keeps that truck running,” the boy at the pumps remarked with a shake of his head. The comment revealed he had observed Webb’s close inspection of the pickup. “You were almost a quart low, so I put one in.”

  “Fine.” He nodded, but he was more interested in what else the teen-ager might have noticed. “Trucks take a beating in this country, especially the kind of range land Angus has.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Lately, most of his miles have been put on coming back and forth to town. I’ll bet he’s been here almost as much as he’s at home.” The pump nozzle automatically shut off and the boy clicked it to manual to fill the gas tank all the way to the top.

  “Oh?” It was a prompting sound.

  “If he isn’t in the café having coffee, then he’s at Jake’s having a beer with Tucker,” the boy explained. “It’s no wonder his place always looks like it’s about to fall in around his ears.”

  Tucker. Webb glanced at the café. A “Closed” sign hung on the door. He sifted through the information he knew about the man, ignoring his reputation as a cook. Some years ago, there had been a questionable involvement in the purchase of stolen goods, but there had been no proof that Tucker had known what he was buying. The man kept his hands clean, but Webb was equally certain that Tucker had contacts with dirt on their hands. Tucker could easily act as a middleman for O’Rourke, possibly even a silent partner. He doubted that O’Rourke was in this alone—if he was the one who had stolen the beef.

  Coyotes were cowardly thieves. A single coyote would slink away rather than confront an opponent of equal or superior strength, but with others of his kind, he gained courage and exhibited a cunning unequaled by any other, more forthright predator. Webb classified Angus O’Rourke in that category, an essentially spineless man with flashes of brilliance.

  Webb was convinced he was being harried by coyotes who struck under the cover of darkness and then stole away into the night. He even hazarded a guess at the cowardly justification for the illegal act—the affair between Chase and O’Rourke’s daughter. The fifty head of cattle he’d given O’Rourke hadn’t appeased the man. It had merely whetted his appetite. The stolen cattle amounted to involuntary payments of blackmail. The thought burned through Webb like a hot iron. It was an intolerable position, and he reacted to it accordingly.

  With a shake of his head, he overruled his emotions. So far his suspicions had uncovered nothing but a workable theory, no matter how much his instincts insisted it was fact.

  Even he would not condemn a man on that alone. If he could never prove it beyond the law’s doubt, he would prove it beyond his own. In those cases, there were ways range justice could be served while the legal branch of government wore its blindfold.

  Webb signed his name to the ticket, charging the purchase to the ranch account. “Thanks, Mr. Calder,” the boy said.

  An absent smile came and went from Webb’s face as he turned away. He recalled the boy had said if O’Rourke wasn’t in the café, he was usually at Jake’s having a beer. He angled a course for the bar. The interior had the definite flavor of an old-time saloon, complete with hand-carved mahogany bar and its brass footrail. Behind it was the large mirror backing mahogany-carved shelves for liquor bottles and glasses. There was an assortment of round tables and unmatched straight-backed chairs. Dirty spittoons were strategically located for those who chewed or took snuff; an abundance of sawdust was scattered on the plank floor for those who missed. Beside the bar, there was a staircase leading to the second-floor rooms, the steps worn from a thousand footprints. The staircase was conveniently situated by the bar to permit Jake to see who went up and down the stairs with his “nieces.” In addition to the private poker room in the back, there was a jukebox and a pool table.

  Unlike the old saloons, it lacked swinging doors—the flies were too plentiful in the summer. The walls were dingy, their color long ago lost under layers of nicotine, smoke, spilled drinks, and tobacco juice, not to mention good ole dirt. There wasn’t any red brocade wallpaper or wood paneling. There were no chandeliers or wall sconces. The lights were few and scattered, which was just as well, since the dimness hid the dirt. Most of the pictures on the walls were cheap Russell prints, not portraits of voluptuous naked ladies lounging on purple beds. Instead of a fan turning slowly overhead, an air-conditioner whirred in the corner. In truth, Jake’s was probably a more accurate representation of the true Western saloon than those depicted in Hollywood movies.

  It served its purpose as a gathering place to exchange gossip and bellyache about life, or kill time over a few beers. Usually there was less than a handful of people inside, unless a bunch of cowboys came in to party and raise hell. That’s when Blue Moon was as lively as it ever got.

  Webb paused inside the screen door while his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the afternoon light to the relative dimness of the saloon. His appearance brought a pause to all conversation, except for an exchange of quick whispers on his left. In his side vision, he noticed the trio sitting at a table an
d identified the large-built man dwarfing the other two. There was not another man in town that big or that solid—or who possessed a head so small for the size of his body. Without question, it was Bob Tucker. Seconds after Webb entered, Tucker pushed his massive frame out of the chair and spoke in a deliberately loud voice.

  “I’d better get the café opened before the supper crowd starts coming. See you around, Angus.” It was all very nonchalant, very casual.

  The remark permitted Webb to let his gaze stray to that table. He took a step away from the door, but remained in Tucker’s path to it. They exchanged nods instead of verbal greetings, and Webb stopped, forcing Tucker to do likewise.

  “It’s been more than a month since you mentioned to Chase that you’d be out to buy some beef to butcher. We’ve been wondering what happened to you?” The slight curve of his mouth was challenging.

  “Angus gave me a good deal on some cattle he bought from you. So I’m still selling Calder beef at my place, its ownership once removed,” Tucker replied without a trace of unease, then shrugged. “I guess I should have let you know, but I’m not what you would call one of your big buyers, so I didn’t think it was important.”

  “It isn’t.” The mention of O’Rourke gave Webb an opening to shift his attention to the short man still seated at the table with his son. “How are those cattle doing, Angus?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” Despite the casual tone, O’Rourke was watching him closely, as if trying to detect some other meaning to the question.

  “I’ve gotta move on.” Tucker walked around Webb. “Stop in for coffee sometime.”

  “I’ll do that, Tucker,” Webb promised with a fixed glance at the big man. He saw Tucker’s gaze dart to Angus.

  It was a small thing, but in Webb’s mind, it added up to a connection between the two men stronger than just an exchange of idle talk over a glass of beer. There was some truth to the old phrase, “thick as thieves,” since they usually sought out each other’s company in a need for moral support. He didn’t attempt to hide the silent speculation in his gaze when it swung back to O’Rourke.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Webb? Let me buy you a drink.” Angus exuded a cocky confidence in both the invitation and familiar use of Webb’s first name, when he usually addressed him with more of a show of respect. Webb walked to the chair Tucker had vacated in mute acceptance of the offer. “What will you have? Whiskey? Beer?”

  “Beer is fine.” Webb sat down and nodded to O’Rourke’s son.

  “Dolly?” Angus gestured to the gum-cracking blonde perched on a stool at the end of the bar. “Bring Mr. Calder a beer.”

  The Calder name brought an instant response from the brassy blonde. Sliding off the stool, she ducked behind the bar to tap a glass from the keg. While it was being drawn, she discreetly slipped her gum out of her mouth and fluffed her already-puffy hair. As she crossed the room with his beer, she managed a fairly provocative wiggle, which Webb observed with passing interest. A long time ago, he’d made it a rule to avoid Jake’s girls and satisfy his occasional needs during visits to Miles City or Helena. It was inconvenient at times, but it guaranteed that his private life remained private and didn’t become a subject of local conversation.

  “Have you had any more trouble with those rustlers?” Angus inquired. Webb wondered whether the man was clever, or just a fool for broaching the subject.

  “Not in the last few days,” he admitted. “Since I put the men out patrolling the roads, it looks like they’ve decided to lie low for a while.”

  “Do you think they’re still around?” Angus appeared surprised. “All the talk going around town has been guessing that the rustlers skipped the country, headed for greener pastures and fatter cattle.”

  “They’re still here.” Webb nodded decisively and held the man’s look. “I’d bet on it.”

  “What makes you say that?” Angus leaned back in his chair.

  “Because they outsmarted themselves by knowing too much about this area. These cattle thieves aren’t strangers. They’re locals.” Out of the corner of his eye, Webb noticed the boy shift in his chair, but Angus released a disbelieving laugh.

  “You don’t really think it’s someone we all know?” he scoffed.

  “I’m convinced of it.”

  “Just who do you suspect?” Angus was still pretending it was a joke.

  Not once did Webb release him from the iron directness of his gaze. “It could be any number of people, but you know who I believe it is.” The stress on the pronoun was deliberate, made to put the emphasis on O’Rourke without actually naming him.

  There was a significant pause before Angus replied with a challenge. “If you are so positive that you know who it is, why haven’t you done something about it? You’re just guessing. You don’t have any proof. If you did, Potter would have an arrest warrant ready.”

  “The law is very slow, and not very dependable. Even if Potter had enough evidence to arrest the man, the thief would get out on bail pending trial, which might be months away. There’s no guarantee he would be convicted by a jury. And if he was, it’s conceivable he could be paroled after serving only a short sentence. What’s to stop him from rustling more cattle while he’s awaiting trial, or after he’s out of prison?” Webb eyed Angus coldly. “Things were a lot different in the old days. Rustlers were hanged on the spot, and a running iron was all the evidence a rancher needed.”

  “Have you found a running iron?” Inside, Angus was squirming. The challenge was sheer bravado.

  “No, but Slim Bevins recognized a voice when he surprised the rustlers at the Broken Butte.” Webb watched O’Rourke turn pale under his tan, and knew with absolute certainty that he was the cattle thief.

  “So?”

  “So … I want to make my warning clear to this man. If one more head of Calder beef turns up stolen, I’m coming after him personally.” It was stated quietly, a deadliness in its flat tone.

  “Why are you telling me?” Angus sat up straighter. “You’re just bluffing, Calder.”

  “All the man has to do is call my bluff.” Webb pushed the chair away from the table and stood up, dropping a bill on the table for the beer he hadn’t touched.

  Chapter XII

  When he left Jake’s saloon, Webb walked back to the grocery store-gas station. The station wagon was still parked by the gasoline pumps, but he walked past it to enter the store. Behind the counter where the cash register was located, there was a side window which gave him a view of both the front of the saloon and the café. Webb bought a pack of gum and chatted with Helen Kirby, the plump wife of the owner, while he unobtrusively kept watch on the two buildings.

  He saw Chase and Buck climb into the pickup and drive away in the direction of the ranch, but it was five minutes before Angus O’Rourke and his son emerged from the saloon to head directly for the café. Webb didn’t believe for one minute that it was coffee or food that O’Rourke was seeking, but the courage of the pack. Tucker was involved, without question.

  Satisfied with the confirmation he’d seen, he left the store. As he came out, O’Rourke’s daughter was approaching the door. He noted the sudden lift of her head when she saw him, the wary defiance that prompted her to squarely meet his gaze. She was not only an unusually attractive girl, but she also had spirit and guts. He experienced a twinge of pity that she had such a worthless father. It was unfortunate that she would suffer because of her father.

  An age-old courtesy insisted that he hold the door for this young member of the opposite sex, while a sense of male responsibility made him speak. “Miss O’Rourke.” Circumstances made him be formal with her.

  “Yes?” She stopped, stiff and defensive, but not intimidated.

  “Tell your father that I never warn a man twice,” he said. “I want him to understand that—for your sake and your brother’s.” There was a momentary flash of anxiety in her eyes before it was quickly hidden with a sweep of her lashes. When they lifted, she was once more cool and composed. />
  “I’ll tell him what you said, although I don’t think it’ll make any more sense to him than it does to me,” she replied, and Webb had to admire her calmness, unusual in such a young person.

  “I’m sure he’ll understand.” He touched his hat as she swept smoothly past him to enter the store. Webb closed the door behind her and walked to his station wagon.

  Buck entered The Homestead all slicked up in a white Western shirt with pearl snaps and a string tie. The new straw Stetson was atop his curly hair, and his smooth cheeks were tangy with the spicy fragrance of an after-shave. There was an eager impatience about him as he glanced swiftly around the living room. The double doors to the dining room stood open. When a sound came from inside the room, Buck moved with a quick, buoyant stride toward it and stuck his head inside.

  Webb was seated at the head of the large walnut table, puffing on a cigar, a cup of coffee in front of him. The blonde-haired woman clearing the table of the night’s dishes looked up and paused when she saw her son, a smile coming onto her mouth. His glance shifted from his mother to Webb Calder and back again. More than once he had suspected there was more between them than mere friendship. If his own father was dead, Buck suspected his mother might marry Webb Calder. Sometimes he couldn’t resist fantasizing about a role as Webb Calder’s stepson, and the increased importance of his place on the ranch, a part of the hierarchy. He fancied owning all this someday.

  “Did you want something, Buck?”

  He shook his head, smiling quickly. “Just looking for Chase.”