by Janet Dailey
The spring in the petroglyph canyon was no solution. There wasn’t enough water there to support more than a few cows. The neighbors to the south owned a patch of swampland that flooded with water when the rains were good. But this summer the place was nothing but a quagmire that trapped wandering cattle and stank from a mile away. Even if they’d sell the land cheap, it would be useless now.
Cursing, he swung his feet to the floor, sat on the edge of the bed, and cradled his aching head between his hands. The answer was out there, he told himself. All he had to do was find it.
The creek that ran through the Prescott Ranch flowed from artesian water high in the escarpment. Not only did that steady stream provide water for the cattle, it also irrigated hayfields for winter feed and made the difference between success and failure for that big ranch. Even in long droughts, the Prescotts had all the water they needed. There had to be a way for the Rimrock to get a share of it.
Barking dogs and the sound of a truck driving into the yard galvanized him to action. Without taking time to dress, he cocked the .44, charged out the front, and stopped as if he’d hit a wall.
Pulling up to the porch was the old ranch truck, the one he’d given to Jasper. The dogs danced and wagged as the truck door opened and Jasper climbed out with his pack.
Bull’s first thought was that he’d brought his bride for a visit. But Jasper had come alone. He climbed to the porch with weary steps, ignoring the dogs that frisked around his legs. His eyes were sunk in tired shadows. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Jasper.” Bull came forward, unsure of how to greet him. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to eat.”
“That can wait,” Jasper said. “I’m pretty tired. Just point me to a bed.”
“Your old room’s the way you left it,” Bull said.
“That’ll be fine.”
Bull went ahead of him and turned on the light. “What are you doing here, Jasper?” he asked. “I thought you were getting married.”
“Didn’t happen.” Jasper turned toward him. In the glare of the lightbulb, he looked like a man in torment. “A couple of days before the wedding, there was a freak storm—a real gully washer. Sally was driving on a back road. Her car got stuck crossing a wash when the water came down. She couldn’t get out in time. She drowned, Bull. She’s dead.”
* * *
By the next morning, after a few hours of sleep, some coffee, and a good breakfast, Jasper was alert and ready to start the day. He wore his heartbreak like a scar that had aged his features and left hollows of sorrow beneath his eyes, but he was outwardly cheerful and seemed anxious to get to work.
Despite the tragic loss, Bull was grateful to have him back. He’d missed, and needed, his old friend’s experience and wisdom.
Over a breakfast of bacon and eggs, he filled Jasper in on the water problem. “We can’t depend on the well anymore,” he said. “As I see it, the only way to keep our cattle watered is to get them to the creek. And that creek’s pretty much on Prescott land.”
“But not all of it,” Jasper said. “The source, in the escarpment, is on government land.”
“And there’s no way to get cattle up those rocks to where it comes out.”
“Let me finish,” Jasper insisted. “You might or might not know this, but accordin’ to law, surface water on the land—includin’ the creek—belongs to the good old state of Texas. Anybody can use it. But the access to the water belongs to whoever owns the land. So if you can’t get to it, you can’t use it.”
“Never thought about that,” Bull said. “But I guess it makes sense. So how do we get to the water?”
Jasper put down his toast and began drawing an imaginary map with his finger on the table’s Formica surface. “Right up near the mouth of that canyon there’s a thirty-acre parcel of land where an old hermit lives. Cletus McAdoo showed up about the time you lit out, so you wouldn’t know him.”
“So, is it his land? Would he sell?”
“Hell, I don’t know if he even owns the land. He just showed up and built a shack on it. Anyway he’s as crazy as a bedbug, hates the Prescotts. He wasn’t much for your dad, neither—wouldn’t give him access even when he offered to pay.”
“So where’s the water on his land?”
“The creek is the boundary between his land and the Prescott Ranch. Like I said, the Prescotts don’t own the water, just the access on their side. I reckon they’d do just about anything to get that old man’s property. That would give the bastards control on both sides of the creek, so nobody else could use the water—especially the Rimrock. But the old man keeps a shotgun for anybody that comes on the property. He’s been known to use it. That’s probably what’s kept the Prescotts from movin’ in and takin’ over.”
“What about the land in between McAdoo’s parcel and the Rimrock?”
“Open range for nigh onto a mile. Mostly sagebrush and mesquite. The graze is poor, and not a drop of water. But if we had access to the creek, there’d be no problem drivin’ our herd across that stretch.”
“Then I guess it’s time to go and talk to McAdoo.”
“You’re sure you want to do that? He’s liable to blow you full of buckshot, or worse.”
“Do you know any other way to get to that water?” Bull finished his coffee. “Tell you what, I’ll pay a call on the old man. Later today you can drive into town, check the records, and find out for sure who owns that parcel.”
“Fine, you’re the boss,” Jasper said. “But be careful.”
Half an hour later, with the sun just coming up and the two boys busy at chores, Bull buckled on his pistol, mounted up, and headed for the old man’s property. Strange, he hadn’t noticed the place in the two years he’d been home. But it was beyond the borders of the Rimrock, with federal land in between. If Jasper hadn’t told him how to get there, he might have ridden right past it.
As he approached, the sound of the creek rushing over rocks reached his ears. Where the land leveled out on the Prescott Ranch, he knew that the creek slowed and widened, to make easy drinking for cattle in the Prescott pastures. But here the current was swift and musical. Water in this part of Texas was more precious than gold. He was hearing a treasure.
Now he glimpsed the shack, screened by a stand of willows. He could also see the barbed wire fence and the KEEP OUT, TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT signs boldly displayed in front. Jasper had told him that the property covered thirty acres. If so, its shape would have to be irregular. Here the distance was no more than fifty yards from the fence to the creek.
As an afterthought, Bull had tucked a white dish towel in his saddlebag. Now, after dismounting, he took it out and tied the end to a stick. It might not help, but it wouldn’t hurt to let the old hermit know he’d come in peace. With his horse tethered in the willows, one hand holding the makeshift flag and the other resting on his holstered pistol, he walked slowly forward.
The shack was fashioned out of scrap lumber with a corrugated tin roof and a metal chimney. A ramshackle chicken coop stood at one end, with a well-tended vegetable garden in what would have been the front yard. A dozen yards away, screened by a few willows, stood an outhouse. The creek ran on the far side of the shack, reflecting glints of sunlight through the overhanging willows. There was no visible gate in the wire fence and no sign of human activity about the place.
“Mr. McAdoo!” Bull walked toward the fence, keeping the white flag in plain sight. “I don’t mean any harm. I just need to talk to you.”
He caught the movement of a wooden shutter. In the next instant, a shotgun blast roared past his head. The shot missed, but it was close enough to make him jump and leave his ears ringing. Recovering his equilibrium, he raised the white flag higher. “It’s all right,” he called. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Lay down that pistol, Mister!” The voice sounded more like a child’s than an old man’s. “Nice and slow-like. No tricks, or I’ll blast you to kingdom come!”
Moving slo
wly, Bull drew the gun from his holster and laid it on the ground.
“See that white rock? That’s where the gate is. There’s a wire loop. Lift it off and come in slow and easy with your hands where I can see ’em.”
Bull did as he was told. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he reached the plywood door. The speaker didn’t sound like a killer, but the first blast had come close. Now he was even more exposed.
“The door’s unlatched, Mister. Open it a little, just enough to step inside. You can close it behind you. That’s it.”
Bull stepped into a dark, closed space. At first his sun-dazzled eyes could see nothing but shadows. He was aware of a sickly smell and the rasp of labored breathing.
Only as his vision cleared did he see the undersized figure standing in front of him—a pigtailed girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, her arms barely strong enough to steady the heavy double-barreled shotgun she aimed at his chest.
“It’s all right,” Bull said. “I’m not here to hurt anybody. You can put the gun down.”
Still tense, she lowered the weapon. Bull’s gaze took her measure. Dressed in jeans and an oversized flannel shirt, she was lean and wiry, with plain brown hair and a face that was too thin for her large hazel eyes. As she turned toward a beam of light that fell through the shutter, he saw the port-wine stain that spattered the left border of her tear-streaked face.
Without a word she stepped aside. In the shadows behind her, Bull saw a narrow cot. On the cot, covered by a thin quilt, lay an old man with a scruffy, iron-gray beard. From the look of him, and the sound of his shallow, wheezing breath, he had to be in excruciating pain.
“My grandpa got shot last night,” the girl said. “He’s hurt bad. Can you help him?”
“I’m no doctor,” Bull said. “I’ll do what I can, but it might not be much.” Bending closer, he eased the quilt off the old man, opened his stained canvas vest, and peeled away the folded sheet that served as a makeshift dressing. He stifled a gasp at the sight of the wound below his ribs. The old man appeared to have been hit by a high-powered rifle firing a soft-point bullet that had expanded on impact, tearing through vital organs. The amazing thing was, he was still alive.
His eyelids fluttered open. Bloodshot eyes glared up at Bull. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered.
“Bull Tyler. I’m a friend, Mr. McAdoo. What happened here?”
“Prescotts . . . bastards . . .” His face was grayish in the faint light, every word an effort. “Ol’ Ham’s been after me all summer t’ sell. Came last night . . . said it was my last chance . . . I told him go t’ hell . . .”
The girl hovered close. “Can’t you do anything for him?” Her face was streaked with silent tears.
Bull shook his head. The old man was dying. All he could do was find out as much as he could before the end. “Who shot you?”
“Ham . . . hurt me bad.” Cletus McAdoo closed his eyes, as if gathering what was left of his strength. “Managed to crawl back inside . . . After Ham rode off, three of his bastards showed up. They would’ve come in, or torched the place, but Rose scared ’em off, shootin’ through the window.” His hand came up and seized Bull’s wrist, his bony fingers like an iron vise. “Get her out . . . they’ll be back. Mustn’t find her here . . .”
Bull glanced at the girl. Rose. The name didn’t suit her. She was more like a tough little weed than a flower. “Do those men know you’re here?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Grandpa always made me hide when they came.”
“Did you see the man who shot him?”
She nodded. “He was older, with a mustache and a big belly.
That had been Ham Prescott, all right. Lord, Ham had murdered this old man in cold blood, shot him with his own hands. Then he’d sent his thugs back to clean up the mess.
“Listen . . .” McAdoo pulled Bull down close to him. His whisper was so faint that Bull could barely hear. “When I go, this place is hers . . . Deed’s in a wooden box . . . already signed . . .” He was slipping away. “Keep her safe . . . She’s all I . . . got.”
His eyelids fluttered and closed. His breath eased into silence. The girl’s tears had become quiet sobs.
Knowing what he had to do, Bull covered the old man’s face and drew a deep breath. Whatever happened next had to happen right. He couldn’t be moved by pity or kindness. Everything he did now had to be done for the Rimrock.
“Listen, Rose.” He gripped her shoulders, forcing himself to be gentle. “You’ve got to get out of here. Do you know where the Rimrock Ranch is?”
She nodded, wiping her eyes.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Run out front and get my pistol. Bring it back to me. Then take my horse and ride like hell for the Rimrock. Find Jasper, my foreman—he’ll be tall and thin, maybe driving an old pickup. Tell him everything that happened. Only him. Nobody else. Understand?”
“What about you?”
“When those men come back, I’ll hold them off. With luck, they’ll think your grandfather’s still alive. When it’s safe, I’ll see that he’s buried. Now get going. They could come back anytime.”
“But . . . what about my chickens? I can’t just leave them here.”
“I’ll save your damned chickens.”
“Promise?”
“Hell, yes. Now go.”
She was out the door like a shot, taking only a moment to find Bull’s pistol before she brought it back to him.
“My horse is tied in the willows. He won’t give you any trouble. Now, blast it, girl, get out of here!”
By the time she was out the door, Bull was already taking stock of the place. There were two windows, one on the door side and one on the creek side. Both were protected by drop-down shutters hinged at the top, opening inward. The window in front had a cracked glass pane. The one that faced the creek had none.
No doubt Prescott’s men would be back. Ham would have told them that the old man was wounded. Once they felt confident that he was dead or helpless, they would either cross the creek and ransack the shack for whatever they could find or burn the place to hide all evidence of a crime.
Bull had to hold them off, at least long enough to find the deed and get away.
His .44 was loaded with six bullets, but he’d brought no extra ammo. Six shots wouldn’t last long in a standoff.
However, the old man’s shotgun was a formidable beast of a weapon—a ten-gauge, breech-loaded, double-barrel model capable of blasting a man in two at close range.
The girl had fired one barrel when he’d arrived. Maybe the other one would still be loaded. But no such luck. When Bull thumbed the lever to break open the gun and check the breech, he found both barrels empty. He uttered a foul curse. He should’ve asked young Rose about extra shells. Now, if there were any left, he would have to find them himself.
But first things first. McAdoo’s signed deed could make all the difference for the Rimrock. With that deed in hand—if it proved legal—he would have what he needed to gain access to the water. Find it before Prescott’s thugs showed up, and he could simply take it and leave, without their knowing he’d been there at all. Let them rip the place apart if they chose to. They’d find nothing but the body of the man their boss had killed.
Which made Rose the witness to a murder.
But he’d think about that later. Driven by urgency, he tore into the clutter of the small shack, emptying drawers and cupboards, prying up floorboards, dumping out bins of flour and sugar, even lifting up the mattress where the old man’s body lay. No shotgun shells and no wooden box that might hold the deed.
And now, from the direction of the Prescott Ranch, he could hear the sound of approaching horses.
Swearing, he redoubled his frantic search for the shotgun shells. He’d looked every place he could think of. What was he missing? If there were any shells left, they’d be kept somewhere close, where they could be reached in a hurry, like . . .
Bull cursed his own ove
rsight. Lunging for the bed, he lowered the quilt and groped in the pockets of Cletus McAdoo’s vest. One pocket held two shotgun shells. He’d hoped to find more, but they would have to do. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t afford to waste them.
The shotgun lay on the table, still open to expose the breech. Willing himself to stay calm and think clearly, he dropped the shells into place, snapped the weapon closed, and released the safety catch.
The riders were getting close now. Crouching below the window, he raised the shutter just far enough to see out. There were three men. This time Ham wasn’t with them. Bull watched as they reined their horses on the far side of the creek and dismounted. Pistols drawn, they walked toward the flowing water that marked the property line. The current was swift but shallow. They’d have no trouble wading across.
The air inside the cabin was stifling. Sweat trickled down Bull’s face as the men approached the creek, weapons drawn. His hands were sweating, too. After raising the heavy shotgun to his shoulder, he rested the barrels on the window frame. There were two triggers, one for each barrel, placed side by side and slightly offset. His finger rested on the nearest one. He would shoot one barrel, then wait to fire again when he knew where the blast would do the most damage.
He could only hope for a swift resolution to the fight. After the second shot, he’d have nothing left but six bullets in his pistol. Once they were gone, he’d be lucky to get out of this mess alive.
The man in the middle was closest, a stocky fellow Bull recognized as one of the hired thugs who’d pulled down his windmill. Bull gave him time for a few more steps. He had one chance to stop the bastard. He couldn’t afford to miss.
Bull aimed the shotgun at the man’s chest. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he felt an unexpected resistance. He increased the pressure, squeezing harder. Sweat blurred his vision as he forced the gun to fire.
The shotgun blast roared in his head like dynamite going off in a cave. The recoil slammed his shoulder hard enough to knock him onto his back. Only as he struggled upright again did he realize what had happened. Somehow he had pulled both triggers. The two barrels had fired at the same time.
