by Graham Marks
“Yes siree and yes indeedy…got no idea who they were, have you?”
Gramps tapped some ash off the glowing tip of the cheroot. “Not a one, but I can tell you where they were asking directions for.”
“Saving the best till last, I see. Well?”
Gramps coaxed the cheroot a bit with a couple of puffs, blowing aromatic smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “The T-Bone ranch, Bob.”
“You don’t say…”
“I surely do.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall down there right now, so’s I could find out who these guys are.”
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, Bob. Best I can do.”
“Be much obliged if you would, Ace, much obliged. You know trouble’s been brewing since this last April, and it ain’t going to cool down any till after the election.”
“Never a truer word…” Gramps sat back in his chair, thinking of the shenanigans that had occurred during the Republican primaries in Chicago in April. Things had come to a pretty pass when political disagreements were settled by throwing hand grenades! Two leading politicians, and the racketeer Diamond Joe Esposito himself, had been killed. “You think we’ve got ourselves some trouble down here, Bob?”
“You mix up politicians with mobsters, there’s always going to be trouble, Ace. Always…” Gramps heard a sigh come down the line. “You sure your boy saw what he says he saw?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“He’s a pistol, that Trey – no doubt be running the whole Bureau one day, he goes on like this.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind that.”
“You hear anything else, you be sure to let me know, okay? I’ll be speaking to you, Ace, and be sure to give my best to Cecilia.”
“Will do, Bob.”
“And make sure to tell Trey to keep well clear of the T-Bone. Don’t want him poking his nose around when those types are involved, no siree.”
“You think I should send him home?”
Bob paused before replying. “No…no, I’m sure everything’ll be fine. Keep in touch.”
“Count on it.”
Gramps put the handset down, relit his cheroot and sat back in his swivel chair, frowning as he thought about the last few moments of conversation. He wanted to ring Bob Bonner straight back and ask him what that pause had really meant, but he knew that his friend had only told him what he was allowed to. There was, without a doubt, something odd going on down here and he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that trouble was more than just in the air; it was here…
3 ROUND UP!
All through the rest of the day Trey had wondered about his gramps’s reaction to the news that he’d seen gen-u-ine, front-page-news mobsters. Disinterested hardly described it. He had not said anything else about the matter again and now, sitting up in bed, torch in hand and listening to the night sounds – owls and suchlike – Trey was doing what Austin J. Randall advised all aspiring detectives to do in Chapter 2 – Basic Skills. He was “Reviewing All The Facts”, such as they were, which was not an awful lot. Trey looked at what he’d written in his notepad:
1 – Tall Suit (seemed an okay guy, considering), plus:
• Shirtsleeves (friendly)
• a sidekick named Frank (unpleasant)
• and one other man (pleasant), pale, with glasses. All four seen on the North Road this a.m. – early!
2 – Their Buick had Illinois plates, which must mean they’d come from Chicago (mustn’t it?). Where else would they have come from?
3 – If they came from Chicago, they had to have left very early, like the night before. Something urgent to do? What?
4 – BIG QUESTION! Why were these people going to the T-Bone ranch?
Chewing on his pencil, Trey stared at the last thing he’d written and could not for the life of him think of how he was going to find the answer to that particular poser. He yawned and looked at his travelling clock on the bedside table: the glow-in-the-dark hands showed it was almost 11.30! Where had the time gone? He’d best turn his torch off and get to sleep, as in just seven hours’ time, if he wasn’t up and about, Gramps would be knocking on his door giving him the old “rise-and-shine-sonny-boy” routine and informing him, as he invariably did, that if the cows were up then he should be too.
Clicking off the torch, Trey lay back in the pitch darkness, thinking how different life was down here on the ranch from back home in Chicago. He’d been spending most of his summers down here since he didn’t know when and it was his second home. Over the years he’d learned to shoot pretty good, skin a squirrel, ride a horse, rope a cow, climb trees, swim and a whole lot more. In fact this year Gramps had even taught him to drive, on the ranch’s slightly battered Ford Model T. pick-up.
Now that he’d learned the basics he usually got some practice in by being the first person at the barn in the morning; after he’d loaded the back of the truck up with hay and a sack or two of grain he’d then drive it out to where the ranch’s remuda of horses came in each morning to feed. It was a real incentive to get up early, and as he drifted off he wondered if that was why his gramps had taught him…
In his dream a woodpecker was outside the room where he was – and it sure must be a large one, the racket it was making. Then, from one instant to the next, Trey was awake and aware that the knocking was actually someone hammering at the front door of the ranch house. The luminous hands on his clock said that it was a quarter to five and still pitch-black. Now Trey could hear someone – sounded like the head ranch hand, Deacon Ames – shouting “Boss!” Something big had to be up, Trey thought to himself as he leaped out of bed and started for the stairs, but at least Mr. Ames wasn’t yelling “Fire!”
“What’s the matter?” he called out, halfway down the staircase; in the darkened hallway Trey could make out Deacon Ames, who had let himself in, and behind him he could hear Gramps’s bedroom door opening.
“That you, Trey?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Ames!”
“Git yer grandaddy, son, we got ourselves a situation.”
“I hear him coming, Mr. Ames – what’s happened?”
“Been a break-out in the north forty. Got at least a hundred head of cattle on the loose up there.”
“How in tarnation they get out, Deke?”
Trey glanced behind him and saw Gramps appear in a shaft of moonlight at the top of the stairs in his slippers, hair dishevelled and still tying up the tasselled cord of his dressing gown.
“Abe Williams was out early and saw ’em. Said the fence was down, boss,” said Deke. “He did the neighbourly thing and came by to tell me.”
“But…” Trey moved aside to let his grandfather by. “Weren’t we out checking that run the other day, Gramps?”
“Sure were, son. Let me get my boots on, Deke, and I’ll see you outside in five minutes…” Gramps turned to go back upstairs and stopped as he passed Trey. “You too, Trey, we’re going to need every hand we have!”
Someone had lit a couple of oil lamps at the stables, but they created more shadows than useful light, so Trey had mostly saddled up Biscuit by touch. Luckily he’d done the job so often that it was almost second nature to him and he was ready to go right along with Deacon Ames, Gramps and the three other ranch hands.
It must’ve been twenty past six by the time they rode out into the still cold, still dark morning and there was at the very least a good half an hour or more before sunup. They were riding in pairs, a loose pack of half a dozen dogs excitedly running with them, and Trey was alongside Jimmy Tin, an 18-year-old, part-Cherokee boy, who had been with the Circle M for some six months now. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he could ride a horse better than anyone else Trey had ever seen. It was as if he could just think what he wanted them to do and they’d do it; he didn’t even need reins, a saddle or spurs or anything.
Watching Jimmy with a horse, Gramps had said once, was like watching a virtuoso at work. Trey had had to look that particular word up
, but having done so he had to agree with his grandfather: Jimmy Tin was a gen-u-ine genius.
They rode as fast as the time of day would let them, getting to the north forty just as the sun began to creep its pinky-orange fingers up over the horizon away to their right. Then they split up and spread out to look for the hundred or so cattle that were wandering off who knew where. It was, thought Trey as he spurred Biscuit into a gallop, going to be a long time till breakfast…
Everything belonged to someone in these parts. All of the great, rolling prairie was divided up somehow, either by the invisible county and state lines on maps, or by the actual, physical borders created by mile upon mile of barbed wire that separated ranch from ranch. And each ranch had a brand: a simple, recognizable design seared into the hide of every cow it owned so that, if an incident such as today’s should occur, animals could be returned to their proper owner. The job now was to search out all the Circle M cows that had got themselves mixed up with cattle from the neighbouring T-Bone ranch, separate them and bring them home. And as Trey knew, it was a task easier said than done.
As well as being an astonishing rider, Jimmy Tin could also read tracks like they were words on a page and he soon picked up a trail. Along with Blaze and Scratch, the two dogs that’d chosen to come with them, they set off in a vaguely westerly direction until they crested a hill to find themselves looking down a long, gentle slope to a large, natural waterhole. By now the sun was up, the chill was off the air and day had properly broken. In front of them, scattered around the deep bowl, were maybe fifty or sixty head of cattle, a lot of which were the russet-brown, horned Herefords the Circle M specialized in. Trey caught Jimmy’s eye and they nodded at each other, one going left, the other right so that they could, with the dogs’ help, bring all the animals together and then begin the job of weeding out theirs.
Trey and Biscuit had done this kind of work before, but he knew that Jimmy was the expert here, the one who should take the lead. His own job was to work with Blaze and Scratch to keep the Circle M cattle together, once Jimmy had successfully taken them out of the milling, lowing, increasingly agitated drove of animals. All was going very well until Trey saw Scratch lining himself up to nip the hocks of a skittery young calf, a bad habit he’d had since a puppy, and one even the ever-present threat of a kick in the noggin from the cows had failed to get him to drop.
“Scratch!” Trey yelled and whistled at the dog. “Back!”
But Trey’s command came too late and Scratch launched his sneak attack. Separated from its mother, the calf panicked, rolling its eyes and mooing loudly and plaintively. Wheeling Biscuit around to go over and sort out Scratch, Trey and his mount were both taken by surprise when the calf’s mother unexpectedly lurched into action right next to them.
From being in complete control, Trey’s world went into a spin as Biscuit reared unexpectedly, violently jerking him out of his saddle and making him lose his right stirrup. In an effort to stop himself being thrown, Trey instinctively grabbed for Biscuit’s mane, dropped the split reins as he did so, and found himself clinging awkwardly to the horse’s neck. But worse, much worse, his left foot was now slowly slipping out of its stirrup, making it next to impossible for him to boost himself back up!
Trey knew that if he didn’t do something, and do it quick, he would find himself flat on the ground and in danger of being trampled on by the jittery cattle now stomping and shoving all around him. And the likelihood of being able to get up and walk away if that happened was not good.
Almost as bad was the possibility that Jimmy Tin would see him messing up; he did not want that. And it was this thought that gave him the idea. He’d seen Jimmy get himself up onto a trotting and unsaddled horse just using its mane, and, as far as Trey could see, attempting this trick himself was his one and only chance.
Taking a deep breath, Trey allowed his boot to slip out of the left stirrup – there was ab-so-lute-ly no going back now – and let both his legs swing down in an arc towards the ground as he hung onto a nervous Biscuit’s burr-encrusted mane for dear life. He knew he’d only have one chance to bend his knees and spring back up the moment they hit the ground, like he’d seen Jimmy Tin do. If he messed up, he thought as his feet hit the ground, he’d had it…
It took a moment or two for Trey to take in that he’d actually made it, a feeling of intense relief surging through him; then, quickly settling himself, he leaned forward, patting the horse’s sweat-covered neck. “It’s over, Biscuit…”
“Everything okay?”
Trey looked round to see Jimmy Tin galloping his way and he smiled and waved, inwardly cursing that Jimmy must’ve seen the whole incident. “Yup!” he called back.
“You did good.” Jimmy pulled his horse up next to Biscuit, leaned over, grabbed the dangling reins and handed them over to Trey. “Nice piece of riding there. Only a few more to cut out. Be done soon.”
Trey watched Jimmy canter away, shaking his head in amazement. He had never heard Jimmy praise anyone’s riding before. Ever. As he watched him manoeuvring the last Circle M cows out of the mixed-up herd, he patted Biscuit again. “We did good!”
Ten minutes later they were driving the reclaimed animals back towards the pasture they’d escaped from during the night, cutting across some T-Bone land to make the journey shorter. They weren’t far from their destination when a young, feisty bull cut loose from the back of the herd and made a break for it, heading for a nearby stand of trees.
“He’s mine!” Trey yelled, urging Biscuit into a gallop and taking off in hot pursuit, Blaze running with him; he knew he was showing off, but there was part of him that wanted to prove he was good at riding, as well as not falling off.
Rather than follow the animal through the trees, Trey skirted round them and headed it off, sending the dog to return it to the herd. As he was about to ride back a flash of white caught his eye and he looked down the hillside where the T-Bone spread nestled in the valley below. It didn’t take him long to see where the glint of light had come from – a big white automobile, under some live oaks way out back of the ranch house. A big white, brand-new Buick Monarch, if he wasn’t very much mistaken. But what was it doing parked up like that? It made you think that they didn’t want anyone who happened to come visiting to see it was there. Leastways, he was sure that’s what Trent Gripp would think.
As he gently urged Biscuit into a trot, Trey puzzled over what he’d just seen and what it could mean. It was, he reckoned, highly unlikely that there was a second white Buick Monarch in the neighbourhood, so the men he’d seen yesterday had not only called in on Bowyer Dunne – the man who owned the T-Bone ranch – they’d stayed over.
Trey knew that Gramps and Mr. Dunne were not on what anyone would call “friendly terms”. Gramps really did not like the man at all, but Trey had never heard him refer to his neighbour as a gangster. Last time Trey had been around when Dunne’s name was mentioned, Gramps had called him a “low-down, no-good snake-in-the-grass”, and then apologized for his language to Gramma Cecilia.
This, thought Trey as he rejoined Jimmy Tin, definitely came under the heading of “interesting”…
4 CURIOUSER...
It was late on that same day when the telephone rang in the study, loud in the now-silent house. Gramps, who had fallen asleep by his desk, jerked awake and grabbed the receiver on the second ring.
“That you, Bob?” he said, stifling a yawn.
“Who else you expecting to call you back at this time of night, Ace – Mae West?”
“Hope springs eternal!” said Gramps, smiling at the thought of the “blonde bombshell” actress.
“They do say… So, don’t keep me in suspense, why’d you leave a message for me to get in touch, pronto?”
“Got some more information about the Buick with the Illinois plates.”
“What’d you find out?”
“Trey saw the car again.” Gramps took a sip of the brandy he’d brought with him to the study while he waited for Bob Bonner
to return his call.
“At the T-Bone?”
“Yup. Parked where it wouldn’t ordinarily be seen, out behind Bowyer Dunne’s place.”
There was a fairly long, crackly silence. “He sure?”
“I’m sure, Bob. Took a quiet ride up there myself and checked.”
“Interesting. That Dunne, he’s something big in the local Republican party, right?”
“Not local, Bob. He’s treasurer for the whole midwest area; and, I am reliably informed, this includes Chicago.”
“Which begs the question: what is such a fine and upstanding type like Bowyer Dunne doing getting all hugger-mugger with a bunch of lowlifes?”
“And in an election year, no less.”
“As you say, Ace, in an election year…”
Upstairs, Trey lay in bed, having been jolted awake by the two short rings of the telephone; he’d tried real hard to stop himself falling asleep, but considering he’d been up since way before dawn – and on the go ever since – it wasn’t surprising he’d dozed off. He sat up, wondering who it was at the other end of the line. He’d kind of been expecting the call, as earlier in the evening he’d happened to be going by Gramps’s study and, what with the door being ajar and all, couldn’t help but overhear him talking to someone and asking them “to get Bob to call back, as soon as possible, if not sooner”. He’d sounded very emphatic. Like it was extremely important.
Who was this Bob character? And what could be so vital that Gramps had to talk to him?
Trey didn’t dare get out of bed to see if he could hear what was being said as the stairs creaked wildly, no matter how hard you tried to tiptoe, and he did not want to be caught in the act. Instead, he checked his travel clock and saw that it was 11.45. Very nearly tomorrow.
He thought about getting his torch out, but decided not to (you never knew when you were really going to need a torch, so there was no point in wasting the batteries when you could think perfectly well in the dark). Lying there in the pitch-black, Trey ran over in his head all the things that had happened since Deacon Ames had turned up with the news of the break-out in the north forty.
