by Janet Dailey
He’d started toward the door when Jasper called him back.
“Hang on. I’m not finished talkin’.”
Something in Jasper’s voice stopped Bull in his tracks. He paused, turning around.
“Before you think too hard, there’s somethin’ you need to hear,” Jasper said. “I promised your dad I wouldn’t tell you this, but wherever he is now, I think he’d forgive me.” He nodded toward one of the two battered lawn chairs on the porch. “Sit down.”
Wide awake now, Bull sat. Since his return to the ranch, he’d sensed that Jasper was keeping secrets. Whatever he was about to learn, something told him it would change his life.
Jasper took the other chair and turned it toward Bull. “I know you’ve had a hard time believin’ your dad loved you. Maybe you’ll believe it after you hear this.” He cleared his throat. “Williston Tyler might not’ve been the best man who ever lived, but he sure as hell was one of the toughest. You been wantin’ to know how he died and what killed him. Fine. Here’s the real story.”
Jasper paused for a moment, gazing out across the yard. In the stillness, the vanes of the windmill creaked in the wind. A horse nickered in the paddock. Bull waited, knowing better than to rush the story he was about to hear.
“Last year, Williston was having some pain in his gut,” Jasper began. “At first I thought maybe it was his liver, from the drinkin’. When it didn’t go away I finally talked him into seeing a doctor. They did an X-ray. It was cancer.”
Cancer. The word sent a chill through Bull’s body. He’d known a few people with cancer, and he’d seen what it did to them. All of them were dead now. “What kind of cancer?” he asked.
“I don’t remember the details. It was a kind that spreads and kills if it isn’t stopped. But the doctors told Williston he was one of the lucky ones. They’d caught it early. With surgery and chemotherapy, they said, there was a good chance they could save his life.”
“What happened?”
“About what you’d guess. Williston found out what the treatment would cost. The only way to pay for it would be to sell the Rimrock. He refused to do that. He said he wanted to save it for his boy.”
“Oh, Lord . . .” Bull hunched over his knees as if he’d been gut kicked. The awareness of what his father had chosen and why was like an auger boring between his ribs, drilling into his heart. He’d seen cancer—the wasting away, the ungodly pain. His father—the man he’d cursed and vowed never to see again—had gone through that hell, with no treatment, to preserve this land for his son—and his future descendants.
Jasper leaned closer. “Through it all, right up to the week he went missing, Williston dragged his body into the saddle every morning and went out to work the stock. Except for me, and maybe a couple of the hands who’d known him a long time, nobody knew he had cancer. They just thought he was drunk, which he pretty much was toward the end. It was the only way he had to dull the pain.”
“So the Prescotts didn’t know?”
“Not unless they guessed. Williston kept away from them as much as he could.”
“So when he went over that cliff . . .” Bull swallowed hard. “He could’ve stepped off on purpose.”
“Lord knows he was in enough pain. But it wasn’t like him to quit that way. And I know for a fact he wanted to see you again before he died.”
Bull gazed down at his hands, letting the words sink in. What if he’d forgiven his father and come home to make peace? But why wonder? It was too late to change things.
“Wouldn’t the autopsy have shown he had cancer?” he asked.
“It couldn’t have been much of an autopsy. The body was in bad shape from the fall, and old Gaines is just a general practitioner, not even a surgeon. He probably didn’t do any more poking around than he had to.”
Jasper rose from his chair. “The last thing Williston told me was to go and find you. That’s what I did. So take that thought to bed with you, Bull Tyler. And ask yourself what your dad would want you to do about that partnership.”
Jasper walked down the steps, then paused and looked back. “Your dad loved you all along. If he was hard on you, it was only because he knew you’d need to grow up tough.” With that he headed across the yard, toward the horse paddock.
Bull watched Jasper’s lanky figure vanish into the dark. Rising from the chair, he turned toward the screen door to go inside, then changed his mind and moved off the porch. Earlier, he’d been ready for bed. Now he was too strung out to sleep.
His wandering footsteps took him around the back of the house and up the slope of the small hill where his parents were buried. It wasn’t his first visit to the spot. The day after his return to the ranch, he’d paused for a moment there, out of familial duty. But tonight was different. As he stood by the sad, bare mound of earth, he imagined his father, in the throes of excruciating pain, mounting up to work cattle on the land he loved—the land he was determined to save for his son, for his grandchildren, and for generations to come.
At that moment, something flashed in Bull’s mind. He remembered asking Ham Prescott whether Ferg would be involved in the partnership. And he remembered the essence of Ham’s reply.
Ferg wouldn’t be a partner. Neither would Susan. It would just be the three of us. We’d set up a trust with the partners as heirs.
With the partners as heirs . . .
Bull swore out loud as the truth hit home. If Ferg and Susan wouldn’t be heirs to the trust, neither would his own future family. At his death, which could come a lot sooner than expected, the Rimrock would revert to the partners. His offspring would get nothing.
Trust a skunk before a rattlesnake, and a rattlesnake before a Prescott.
His father and Jasper had been right. Once the partnership was drawn up and signed, Ham would pay some thug to see that Bull met with an “accident.” After that, Ham would likely buy out Rutledge’s share at half the ranch’s value. Just like that, the Rimrock would be Prescott land.
Bull’s curses purpled the night air. Why hadn’t he seen through the scheme right off? Maybe the brandy had gone to his head—or maybe it had been the girl. For all he knew, she’d been told to flirt with him.
Never again, he vowed. If the Prescotts wanted a war, he would give them one. If they came at him, he would fight back double. If they were smart, he would be smarter, tougher, and meaner.
He looked down at the grave of the man he’d never understood until now. “I’m back, Dad,” he said aloud. “And I’m back to stay.”
* * *
At first light the next morning, Bull saddled Pete, the stallion that had been his father’s favorite horse. By now, all four animals were sound enough to be ridden. It had become a pleasure to mount up in the fresh dawn air and ride the fence lines, looking for spots to be mended.
But pleasure wasn’t what Bull had in mind this morning. He’d spent most of the night lying awake, thinking about the ranch and how he could keep it running. But he did his best thinking in the morning, in the saddle. And he didn’t plan to come back to the paddock until he’d made up his mind about a few things.
This morning he chose to ride the higher pasture in the part of the escarpment that bordered the Prescott Ranch. It was a peaceful section of land, cooler than the flatland below. He could check on the grass, with the idea of moving his small herd of cows and calves up there.
As he rode, taking the old stallion at a walk, he pondered the decisions that had to be made. Williston had left the ranch clear of debt. That meant as long as no money was owed on it, the land would be safe. If worse came to worst, he could sell off all the cattle, get a job somewhere, hunker down, and let the grass grow, or even lease pasture to a friendly neighbor, until he could afford to start ranching again. He didn’t like that idea, but he needed to keep it as an option.
He could also sell off part of the land for enough cash to keep the ranch going. He liked that idea even less. The Rimrock wasn’t a large ranch. Every acre was precious and needed. And Wil
liston had given up too much to keep it.
He weighed the idea of making more coyote runs to Rio Seco. If enough men wanted to come north, and if he didn’t get caught, he could clear enough to cover food and supplies for the rest of the season. But no, Jasper was right. Smuggling illegals across the border was a federal crime. If he tried it again, and got caught, his father’s suffering and death would be for nothing.
Somehow, he had to survive until the calves were ready to sell to a feed lot operation in the fall. With the profits, he could then buy enough harvest-time hay to tide the cows over the winter.
But that would be worth doing only if the cows were pregnant. Otherwise, he’d be better off selling the lot of them.
Damn that fool girl and her nighttime adventure! Bull felt the loss, and the anger, every time he saw Jupiter’s empty pasture. Without a decent stud bull, the small herd had no future.
By now he’d reached the upper pasture. Here the grass, though sparse, was still green, the older wood fence posts undamaged, at least on the surface, but it wouldn’t take much to push them over. He was weighing the wisdom of moving the herd up here when a new sight riveted his attention.
The land here bordered a large pasture that belonged to the Prescott Ranch. In the near distance, he could see cattle grazing—white-faced, red-coated Herefords, all registered stock, he was sure. Among them was a bull—huge, healthy, and as horny as all get-out. The way he was going after those cows, licking, smelling, and mounting, was a beautiful sight to behold.
A hulk like that bull could easily push down a weak wire fence to get to more cows—especially if he had some help. And if a few stray cows wandered over the downed fence to the richer grass on the other side, who would be to blame except the bull?
Wasting no time, Bull dismounted, wrapped his rope around a fence post, and used the horse to yank the post off its partially rotted base. It broke easily, bringing the wire down as it fell. After toppling a second post the same way, Bull laid the wire flat and checked it to make sure no cattle crossing through the gap would become tangled and cut. That done, he coiled his rope, mounted up, and rode back down to the lower pasture to get help moving his herd.
Ham would be apoplectic if he learned what had happened. If he discovered the truth, he’d be capable of killing any Rimrock cattle on his property. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and that was a chance Bull would have to take. He could only trust nature to take its course.
As long as the partnership offer was on the table, he would probably be safe from retaliation. Since healthy cows came into estrus every two or three weeks, it would pay him to stall, to delay his decision as long as possible while the Prescott bull made babies with his cows and heifers. Once he turned Ham down and told the old bastard to go to hell, all bets would be off.
Three weeks with the bull should be enough time to cover most of his cows. He might be pushing his luck, but if the gamble paid off, at the end of the third week he would sort out his own branded stock from the Prescott herd, mend the fence, and wait for a nice crop of spring calves.
* * *
In his search for funds to tide the ranch over, Bull came across a newspaper ad for temporary work as a roustabout, helping dismantle a giant oil rig. The work would be hot, dangerous, and miserable, and he would need to drive to the Gulf Coast for the job. But the two-week window was perfect, and the money would be good, especially if he was willing to work double shifts, seven days a week. A phone call got him the job.
After renting a junk loaner from a garage, for Jasper to drive while he was gone, he loaded up his gear and left. He hated being away from the ranch for that long, but Jasper was capable, and the Mexican boys would be a lot of help. He could check in by pay phone to make sure everything was all right.
After two weeks of backbreaking work in the torrid sun, eating junk food, and sleeping in the truck to save money, Bull pulled into the ranch yard at dawn to find Jasper waiting for him.
“Damn it, it’s about time you showed up,” Jasper said. “I was beginnin’ to worry that you’d got yourself crushed or drowned . . . Lord have mercy, you look like you’ve been broiled alive. You smell like it, too.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry anymore,” Bull said. “As of now, I’m done with the oil business. Anything new around here? Are the cows all right?”
“The cows are fine. I checked on ’em yesterday. The fence is still down, and that big, old bull is goin’ to town on both sides of it. But you won’t want to leave your herd there much longer. Ham came by yesterday. He said to tell you he’s waitin’ on your answer to his business proposition. When you turn him down he’ll be on the warpath. If he finds your cows on his side of the line, he’s liable to shoot the lot of ’em.”
“Let’s chance it for a few more days,” Bull said. “We can always claim the bull pushed the fence down, and we didn’t know about it.” He reached in his hip pocket, took out the wad of bills from his two-week paycheck, counted off $1,000, and thrust the money toward Jasper. “Before I forget, here’s some of your back pay.”
“No need for that.” Jasper put up a hand in protest. “I know you need every cent to run the ranch.”
“Take it,” Bull insisted. “I’ll manage.”
Jasper knew better than to argue. He thanked Bull and pocketed the money. “One more thing,” he said. “Raul and Joaquin came and talked to me last night. One of their friends spotted Carlos’s Buick, with two men in it. They’re camped down by that old gravel pit, about five miles from here.”
“I know the place,” Bull said. “But how in the devil did those boys get the word? They’ve hardly been off the ranch since they got here. They don’t even have access to a phone.”
“That’s a thing about Mexicans,” Jasper said. “They’ve got their ways of keeping in touch between the farms and ranches where they work. A few of ’em will have a car, or even a bicycle. They’ll visit back and forth at night and out on the range. They’ll send messages, have places where they get together and have a few beers. Somethin’ tells me our boys have been busier than you think.”
“All right.” Bull stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. He’d been behind the wheel for more hours than he wanted to think about. He needed a good shower and a few hours of sleep. “So when do they want to go after those men?”
“They wanted to go last night, but I said they had to wait for you. They can’t go alone and unarmed. One of us will need to go with them, that is, if the murdering buzzards haven’t moved on already.”
“I’ll go,” Bull said. “You stay here and keep an eye on things.”
“You’re sure? This is damned serious business.”
“I promised myself I’d even the score for what they did to Carlos,” Bull said. “I’m grateful for the chance.”
“Fine,” Jasper said. “For now, you might as well get some rest. The boys and I can take care of the chores. I’ll tell them it’s on for tonight.”
* * *
Bull doused the pickup’s headlights as he turned off the narrow asphalt and found the washboard road that led to the old gravel pit. Abandoned years ago, it had become a hangout for teenage alcohol parties, lovers, and homeless tramps. He could only hope the men who’d killed Carlos and stolen his car hadn’t moved on.
Carlos’s sons sat next to him on the truck’s bench seat. They’d made a plan before leaving the Rimrock, but between Bull’s high school Spanish and their limited English, he couldn’t be sure how well they’d understood each other. Bull had strapped on his. 44. Raul and Joaquin were unarmed except for their switchblades, some lengths of rope, and a six-pack of Dos Equis beer.
A quarter mile from the gravel pit, Bull pulled the truck onto a wide spot in the road. The three of them got out quietly, barely closing the doors. In the distance they could see the faint glow of a fire and hear the unmistakable blare of a radio tuned to a Mexican station. The two young men glanced at each other and nodded.
Bull carried the ropes l
ooped over his shoulder, the pistol cocked and ready in his right hand. Jacinto carried the six-pack of beer. As they neared the gravel pit, Bull hung back, keeping out of sight among the clumps of sage and mesquite. The plan involved putting the two criminals at ease before overpowering them and tying them with the ropes. It would have been simpler for Bull to shoot them from cover, but Carlos’s sons had wanted to take their revenge with their own hands. Bull understood and respected their sense of honor. If he ever learned who’d murdered his own father, he would do the same.
The stars were bright overhead, the moon just rising. A small animal—a mouse or lizard—skittered across the path and vanished into the long, dry grass. The pistol was cold in Bull’s hand. He’d never killed a man. Neither, he suspected, had the two boys. One way or another, tonight would change them all.
Bull stayed in the shadows outside the shallow ring of the gravel pit as Raul and Joaquin walked into the firelight with the six-pack of beer. He could catch only a few words of Spanish, but he could make out laughter and sounds of greeting.
Carlos’s Buick was parked a few yards from the fire. When the stockier of the two men turned into the light, Bull could see the ugly slash of a scar across his face. There was no doubt these were the murderers who’d killed the old man.
Bull kept the pistol cocked and aimed, ready to fire if either man made an aggressive move. He was a decent shot—his father had taught him, railing at him, even cuffing him, every time he missed a target. After a while he’d learned not to miss.
Now the four Mexicans were sprawled around the fire drinking beer. The two thugs didn’t appear to be armed, and Bull couldn’t see any guns within reach. They were downing their second bottles, laughing and singing along with the music on the radio, when Bull stepped into the firelight.
“Manos arriba!” he barked, ordering the men to put their hands up. Playing along, Joaquin and Raul raised their hands. The two thugs hesitated, but the sight of the heavy pistol in the gringo’s hand was enough to convince them not to try anything.
