Lin gigged his mount closer. He was astride one of Etta June’s cavvy, a claybank so well trained that he could guide it by his legs alone, leaving his hands free for roping. “Get along there!” he shouted. At the same time Chancy let out a yell.
The bull was supposed to head for the valley floor. Instead, it wheeled, lowered its head and charged the claybank.
“Look out!” Chancy hollered.
Lin was not caught unaware. He reined to one side and used his spurs, and the claybank took off as if fired from a cannon. The bull veered and tried to hook the claybank’s belly with the tip of its horn, but the claybank was too quick. After a short chase the bull stopped.
Lin reined in a wide circle and joined his brother. “This critter is going to be difficult.”
“You don’t say,” Chancy dryly returned.
“I would rather not risk losing a horse,” Lin said. “Come with me.” He headed off.
“Where are we going?”
“I have an idea.”
“Uh-oh,” Chancy said.
Where there was a bull, there was his harem. Lin did not go far before several cows broke from cover and stood staring. “If you were a bull, which one would tickle your fancy?”
Chancy cackled. “There you go again. How in thunder would I know? I like a big bosom and long legs on a female, not an udder and a tail.”
“We will take that one,” Lin said, pointing at the fattest.
“Take her where?”
“To the bull.”
“Oh. I get it. You romantic devil. But what if Mr. Bull is not in the mood for one of your frolics?”
“He is male.”
“I would resent that if it were not true.”
Lin roped the cow and brought her close to the bull so the bull got a good look at her and could smell her. Then Lin led the cow off, thinking the bull would follow. But it did not move a hoof.
“How about if you sprinkle some perfume on the big-eyed miss?” Chancy suggested, grinning.
“How about if you come up with an idea of your own,” Lin said. As a last resort they could rope the bull and force it down to the pen. But it was bound to fight them every foot of the way, and they might lose a horse, or be gored themselves.
“My idea is to leave the critter be. No one is likely to steal him, as mean as he is.”
“What will Etta June think if we give up?”
“That we showed good common sense,” Chancy said. “Besides, I won’t tell her if you don’t.”
Lin freed the cow, climbed back on the claybank and moved toward the glaring bull. He held his rope ready for a sidearm throw.
“What in God’s name are you up to?”
“If I can get my rope over his horns I will have him.”
“If he gets his horns into your horse, he will have you,” Chancy warned. “Be careful.”
Lin watched the bull’s front legs. Sometimes bulls did not give warning before they attacked. They exploded into motion from a standstill.
The next moment, this one did.
Chapter 12
Lin reined to the right and the claybank responded superbly. The bull pounded past. Lin applied his spurs to gallop away, and the claybank started to, then stumbled.
Lin glanced down to see what had caused it to lose its footing.
“Behind you!”
The bull had wheeled on the head of a pin and was on them again. Uttering a rumbling snort, it lowered its head.
Lin tried his best. He hauled on the reins and used his spurs but the claybank had not quite recovered its balance. Before it could, the bull’s horn speared its belly. The claybank squealed as the bull ripped its horn up and out.
The horn cleaved the claybank like a sword. Shearing through flesh and organs and hide, it opened the horse wide. Out gushed blood and entrails.
“Lin!” Chancy screamed.
Lin felt the claybank give out under him and pushed clear of the saddle. Or tried to. A boot snagged in a stirrup. He wrenched to clear it just as the claybank came down its side, pinning his leg underneath. He pushed against the saddle but his leg would not move.
Another snort, nearly in his ear, caused Lin to snap his head up.
The bull’s nose was nearly touching his. Its nostrils flared; its eyes were pools of fire. Blood and gore dripped from the one horn.
Lin froze. One blink, and he was dead. The bull would do to him as it had done to the poor claybank.
Hooves drummed. Lin thought his brother was coming to his rescue. He did not move his head to look. He wanted to shout, to warn Chancy to stay back. The bull was too dangerous. Then, over its back, the shoulders and head of the rider appeared.
It was Etta June.
Stunned, Lin saw her swing a rope overhead, saw the loop arc toward the bull and slip over its head and horns as neatly as could be. The bull grunted and began to turn.
Another rope came sailing at the bull from behind. Chancy’s rope, the loop catching a hind leg but not both.
Both of them reined hard around and the bull crashed down. It raised a fearsome racket and struggled fiercely but could not get back up.
Etta June yanked her Winchester from the saddle scabbard. She worked the lever, then wedged the stock to her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Lin cried.
The rifle cracked and the bull roared in pain and struggled harder. The rifle cracked again. This time the bull’s right eye acquired a hole in the center. The bull’s struggles ceased. Its great bulk went limp and its tongue lolled.
Then Etta June was next to the claybank, offering her hand. “Here. Let me help you.”
Lin could not take his eyes off the bull. “You shouldn’t have. That was a fine animal.”
“It nearly killed you.”
“An animal worth a lot of money,” Lin stressed. For most ranchers her deed was unthinkable.
“I did the same to the mustang that killed my husband,” Etta June said. “I do not let anyone or anything hurt those I care for and go on breathing.”
Lin was so intent on the dead bull that it was a few seconds before the import of her comment sank in. She had just said she cared for him. “I am obliged,” he said, his throat oddly raw. “But I have let you down.”
Etta June grasped his hand and pulled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I have lost you a horse and a bull, both,” Lin noted. “I can never begin to pay you their worth.”
“Who asked for money?” Etta June said, and grunted. “If you would help, this might go better.”
“Sorry.” Lin pushed against the claybank, straining mightily, and bit by bit extracted his leg. His boot nearly came off but he got it out, and sat up.
A pool of blood was forming under the bull’s head and already flies were gathering.
Chancy strode up, coiling his rope. “That was something,” he said to Etta June.
“Why didn’t you shoot? Your brother could have died.”
“He would have been mad if I did,” Chancy said. “I know him, know how he thinks.”
Etta June regarded them both. “Let me make this plain. If at any time either of you is in peril because of my stock, you have my permission to do whatever is necessary. I don’t care whether it is a bull, a cow, a horse or a chicken. I would rather they were dead than either of you.”
Chancy chuckled. “A chicken on a rampage? Now that is something I would like to see.” He walked toward his horse.
Lin bent and began brushing himself off. His leg was sore but otherwise he was fine.
“Are you all right?”
“Embarrassed is all.”
“I was riding up and saw the whole thing. It could have happened to anyone.”
“How did you find us?”
“I saw some cows you had flushed and figured you had to be close by,” Etta June said while coiling her rope.
“I am glad you made it out again. I thought you had work to do at the house.”
Etta June shrugged. “Truth to tell,
I like working the range more than I like housework. But I can’t stay as long as I did yesterday.” She paused. “I brought a meal in a basket. I left it at the branding pen.”
“You are the best boss anyone could have,” Lin heard himself say.
“A good boss would pay you. Montfort pays his punchers forty a month. His gun sharks earn more.”
Lin turned to the claybank and set to work stripping his saddle and saddle blank. It took some doing, but at last he got the saddle out from under, and straightened. “I will carry these down and get another mount.”
“Nonsense,” Etta June said. “I will take you. You can ride back up bareback and get your rig. It will save you time.”
“If that is what you want.”
Etta June climbed on. She offered her hand.
“I have never ridden double with a lady before,” Lin said.
“There is a first time for everything,” was Etta June’s rejoinder. “And it is no different than riding double with a man.”
Lin begged to differ, but he dutifully swung on behind her. He had to sit close, so close he breathed in the scent of her hair and her body.
“Hold on to me.”
Reluctantly, Lin hooked an arm around her waist. It brought her nearer. He could practically feel her back against his chest.
“Don’t be shy,” Etta June told him. “I will not break.” With that, she flicked the reins.
The movement brought Lin flush against her. He tried to draw back but they were going down the slope at a trot and he could not help but press his body to hers. He grew so hot, he thought he would burst into flame.
“You are a good man, Lin Gray,” Etta June said over her shoulder.
Lin winced. He had forgotten about his lie. “I am?”
“You were more worried about my loss than your life. Devotion like that is uncommon.”
“You will not think me so devoted when you hear about the cow I gave away.” Lin explained about the Indians, concluding with, “I did what I figured you would do. If I was wrong, say so, and I will never let them have another.”
“You did right. The last thing I need is Indian trouble.” Etta June paused. “We had an incident of our own at the house last night. It scared Beth something awful.”
“Were the wolves howling again?”
“No. Nothing like that. I was in bed reading. I had tucked Tom Jr. and Beth in at the usual hour and figured they were sound asleep. Then Beth called my name. I ran to her room and found her at her window. She had been tossing and turning and could not get to sleep, so she got up to look out at the stars. That was when she saw him.”
“Him who?”
“She claims a man was skulking about the stable. She could not say who it was, or whether he was white or red, but she was sure she saw him.”
Lin remembered the figure in the stable who pushed the ladder out from under him. Apparently the man had come back—or had never left. Both prospects were troubling. “What did you do?”
“What else? I lit a lantern and took a rifle and went to the stable. No one was there.”
“Do you reckon she imagined it?”
“She is only eight,” Etta June said. “And for the life of me, I can’t think of why anyone would be prowling about my place so late at night.”
Neither could Lin, but someone definitely was. “Chancy and me should cut the roundup short and come back.”
“Don’t be silly. You have only begun. I am perfectly safe. I always lock the doors at night, and the windows are kept latched.”
Lin did not share her confidence. Whoever was prowling about must be up to no good. He decided he should do something about it, but not say anything to Etta June.
Over the next several hours the three of them roved the brush and timber, adding a considerable number of cows and calves to the herd. They broke to eat the meal Etta June had brought, which consisted of thick slabs of beef, potatoes and Saratoga chips. Enough coffee was left from breakfast that Lin did not need to heat up a new pot.
Etta June stayed until nearly four. She did as much work as they did, and as well.
Lin could not get over her comment that she liked him. His gaze strayed to her often—when she was not looking.
Toward sunset Lin and Chancy called it a day. They returned to their camp at the branding pen. After stripping their mounts, Chancy rekindled the fire while Lin sat cleaning his rifle.
“Fixing to use that soon, are you?”
“You will be on your own for a while tonight. I have something to do.” Lin told his brother about Beth, and about his own close shave.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was going to, but I forgot.”
“You think it is the same hombre you tangled with?”
“I will find out.”
“We should both go,” Chancy suggested. “One of us can watch the house and the other the stable.”
Lin had thought of that. But they had something else to consider. He nodded at the string and then at the cattle. “We have them to protect too.”
“You think it is a rustler?”
No, Lin did not, but he could be wrong. “It is best you stay here. If I am not back by daybreak, come look for me.”
An hour after dark, Lin saddled the buttermilk. He stepped into the stirrups and lifted the reins.
Chancy came up and patted a saddlebag. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Big Brother?”
“No.”
“If ever there was a time to take it out, this is it,” Chancy said. “You can’t hide from what you did forever.”
“Watch over the horses,” Lin said gruffly, and gigged the buttermilk.
The wind was at his back. A sliver of moon cast a pale glow over bunches of cattle. To the north and south, stark peaks were silhouetted against the stars. The highest were cones of white against the black.
Lin held to a walk. It was early yet, and the skulker seemed to like to do his skulking a lot later. He doubted it was an Indian. The band he gave the cow to had moved on; their tracks had gone off to the northwest, deeper into the mountains.
Lin was convinced it was a white man. That the man had not harmed anyone was of little comfort. Whoever it was had no business sneaking around the ranch.
Squares of light appeared to the east. A few windows in the house were aglow.
By the time Lin came within a quarter mile, only one window was lit. The children had turned in. He rode at a walk until he was about two hundred yards from the stable. Then he dismounted, shucked his Winchester and advanced on foot, leading the buttermilk. He stopped often to listen and probe inky patches near the buildings.
The corral was empty. Lin looped the reins around a rail and crept to the front corner of the stable. The wide doors were closed. Etta June’s doing, he figured. He hunkered and scanned the area between the stable and the house. The blacksmith shop, the chicken coop, the outbuildings, all were quiet and still. Nothing moved anywhere.
The night was deceptively peaceful.
Lin leaned against the corner. He would wait there all night if he had to. He glanced at the lit window. Etta June’s bedroom. He imagined her sitting in bed in her nightdress, reading. His throat grew tight and he felt twitches where he should not feel twitches. Upset with himself, he closed his eyes.
A sound stiffened him, and Lin opened them again. The soft sound of a stealthy step warned him he was not alone. He strained his ears and heard the sound again. But it did not come from the direction of the house or from in front of the stable.
The footfalls came from behind him.
Chapter 13
Lin glanced back.
A man, moving furtively, was midway along the wall. The skulker kept looking over his shoulder and glancing all around. One hand appeared to be on his hip, but Lin knew better; that hand was on a revolver.
It occurred to Lin that the man must have seen his buttermilk tied to the corral. Which meant the man knew he was there, and must be searching fo
r him. He was surprised the man had not spotted him. Perhaps because he was in pitch-black shadow.
Lin sank lower and gripped his rifle with both hands. He tensed his legs to spring. Scarcely breathing, he waited until the man was almost on top of him and had twisted to glance toward the rear of the stable.
Heaving erect, Lin swept the Winchester’s hardwood stock up and around and slammed it against the side of the man’s head. The man’s hat went flying. The revolver started to rise. Lin hit him again, and then a third time. At the last blow the man’s legs buckled and he pitched to his knees. The six-shooter fell with a thud. Both arms went limp and the man oozed to the ground like so much mud.
Lin palmed the prowler’s revolver and tucked it under his belt. Bending, he grabbed hold of the man’s shirt at the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the double doors.
A glance at the house showed that all the lights were out. Good, Lin thought. He did not want to disturb the Cathers—or be disturbed.
Another minute, and Lin was lighting a lantern that hung on a peg. He closed the wide door he had opened and hauled the limp form to the middle of the aisle.
The man was in his mid-thirties or thereabouts. He had short, curly brown hair and bushy eyebrows. There was nothing remarkable about his clothes or his boots, but the gun belt decorated with conchas and the nickel-plated Colt Lin took from him were far from typical. Scowling, Lin poked him in the side. The man stirred but did not come around. Lin poked him again. When that did not have an effect, Lin stooped and slapped his cheek.
Suddenly the man’s eyes were open. They were brown and filled with fury.
He swore, about to lunge upward.
Lin was quicker. Taking a step back, he leveled his rifle. “Try it,” he warned.
The man gave his head a toss, as if to clear it, then gazed about them. “What do you want with me?”
“I will ask the questions and you will give the answers,” Lin said. “We will start with your name.”
“Go to hell.”
Lin kicked him in the knee, hard.
Clutching his leg, the man writhed in pain and growled through clenched teeth, “You bastard! You rotten bastard!”
Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail Page 9
