by Max O'Hara
He laughed some more.
“You’re not a fan, either, I take it?”
“You met the man. What do you think? He’s a brigand. A common thug. A thug from New York. Doesn’t belong here. He let that wretched son run off his leash for way too many years. The law was afraid to arrest him, and no one was willing to kill him and suffer the consequences, but”—McCrae snorted another laugh, regarding Stockburn with a jubilant smile—“here you, an outsider, kill him before you even hit Wild Horse!”
He threw his head back and laughed. “I’d give anything to have seen the look on Kreg’s face when he found out. Letting that little rabid coyote run wild all these years . . . molesting young women . . . girls . . . mocking the law . . . common human decency.”
The old rancher laughed again, shook his head. He arched a cautious brow at his guest. “I hope you got eyes in the back of your head.”
“You’re not the first person who’s said as much.”
“You’ll need ’em.”
“So I’ve seen.”
“Please, don’t judge me too harshly. I wouldn’t normally laugh at the death of any man. But Riley Hennessey was not just any man. He was like a slippery wildcat preying on a beef herd.”
“That’s what I heard. I’m honestly sorry I had to be the one to do it. But he would have killed your daughter if I hadn’t.”
“I’m glad you did it. Especially since he was playing rough with Lori. I thought that kid and his father knew to keep their hands off my family. I was the one man in this part of Wyoming the Hennesseys never ran afoul after an earlier conflict involving a proposed opera house in town and an ordinance he tried to pass against it.”
“I heard about that.”
“I’m sure he’s harbored his grievances against me, but he’s never acted on them. For good reason. One, I’m a better man than Kreg Hennessey. A law-abiding citizen. And I have the men to stand against him.”
McCrae took another sip of his Scotch. “When someone messes with my family, my crew, my stock, or my land—there’s hell to pay. The Indians and a good many rustlers found that out the hard way.”
“I guess the Stolebergs have, too.”
McCrae jerked a surprised look at him, beetling his gray brows. “Who told you that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Already? You just got here last night.”
“I learned a lot from your daughter . . . among others I met after the dustup with Hennessey.”
“So you really did become fast friends, you and Lori. I should warn you to take everything she told you, especially regarding me and the Stolebergs, with a big grain of salt.”
“Advice noted.”
Studying Stockburn, the old man smiled. “I like a man who works fast. At first, I wasn’t sure it was good for the Stewarts to bring an outsider in on this matter. Even a Wells Fargo man. Even a man with your reputation.”
“You mean in on the rail crew’s massacre.”
“Exactly.” McCrae leaned forward, reaching for the decanter. “More?”
“Why not? I’ll probably never taste the like again.”
Wolf held his empty glass over the table, and McCrae filled it liberally. The rancher splashed more into his own glass, then grabbed some meat and cheese. “Take some of this. The sausage is from an elk one of my sons shot last fall. Yellow Feather made the cheese. I have a small but good dairy herd.”
Wolf took some of the meat and cheese and sampled each. McCrae had been right. The rich, spicy flavors of the smoked meat and the cheese were a nice complement to the peaty Scotch. “Damn, that’s good,” Stockburn said, chewing.
Also chewing, McCrae sank back in his chair again. It was a large, leather chair, and it appeared to half swallow his lumpy, aged body. “Let’s not discuss the Stolebergs. They’re a sore point for me. Now more than ever.”
Stockburn frowned. “Oh?”
“Never mind.” McCrae wagged his head, brushed cheese crumbs from his trouser leg. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. How do you think I can help you, Stockburn? That’s obviously why you rode out here.”
“The answer to that question is very simple.” Stockburn finished his meat and cheese then gave the rancher a pointed look. “Who do you think might have wanted those men killed, those rails blown, and why?”
“Stoleberg.” McCrae frowned down at his glass again. He was running his right index finger quickly around the rim. His red face had turned a darker red from a sudden flare-up of a deep-burning anger.
He took a quick sip of the Scotch, smacked his lips, and looked at Stockburn. “Stoleberg,” he repeated, flaring his nostrils and narrowing his eyes.
Suddenly, he was deadly serious. Grave. His head swelled until it looked as though it might explode.
When he said nothing more but just sat casting that glassy, ancient-warrior’s blood-thirsty gaze at Stockburn, Wolf said, “Would you, uh . . . like to tell me why you suspect your neighbor, Mister McCrae?”
“Surely Lori told you about our, uh . . . trouble?”
“Your daughter was fairly tight-lipped on the topic.”
“Ah.”
“But a few others told me about the old trouble. Is that why you think the Stolebergs are responsible for the carnage?”
“Yes.” McCrae took some more cheese and an egg and looked across the table at Stockburn. “I haven’t seen or heard from Rufus in a while. I usually see him on the range a few times a year. Mostly from a distance or when we’ve hoisted the truce flag to cut our beef from the mixed herd during the fall gather.
“We’ve started the roundup now, just taking a break today to rest the men and horses, but I haven’t seen old Rufus. He’s hanging low. Likely keeping his head down.” The rancher popped the meat and cheese into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “He always stays low when he’s up to something.”
He popped the egg into his mouth.
Pondering, Stockburn leaned forward and plucked a couple of the egg halves off the plate. He ate one and said, “And his motive for killing those men and sabotaging the rails and the work train is simply he’s peeved that the Hell’s Jaw Company didn’t buy the right-of-way from him.”
“Sure.” McCrae brushed his hands on the legs of his corduroy trousers. “That’s reason enough for that old devil. I made good money off that deal, and I’ll make more when they start contracting with the mines up at the pass. There’s a lot of gold in that mountain up yonder. More than I ever thought. It’s all gonna come down . . . across Triangle.” He grinned in devilish delight. “And three percent of what the rail line makes will line my pockets. Not Stoleberg’s. Mine. And it gravels that old son of a bitch more than you could ever know!”
“You take delight in that,” Wolf observed, chewing the second half of his egg, picking up his glass again, and leaning back in his chair.
“We hate each other, Stockburn. As only two rival landowners can. He hates me because I got the better graze and the better water. He tried to take my land by underhanded ways, wicked schemes, by force. When he couldn’t get it that way, he tried to steal my cattle.”
“You hanged one of his sons for just that, I hear.”
Here came that keen anger again—the fuming dark fury of an old Scottish warrior as he sharpens his broadsword on the eve of battle, anticipating the spilling of buckets of English blood. “Yes, I did. And I’d do it again. Riley Hennessey didn’t have anything on Sandy Stoleberg.”
“How do your sons feel about the spur line?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are they both in agreement that it’s a good thing for you?”
McCrae cast the detective a knowing smile. “Boy, you do work fast. Someone told you Law isn’t on board with it.”
Stockburn waited, holding the man’s amused gaze.
McCrae chuckled. “It’s true that my son doesn’t agree with the mining. He thinks it’s going to somehow impinge on Triangle graze, and that the spur line is going to bring more unwanted settlement. He migh
t have a point, but I disagree. That disagreement, however, is certainly not motive enough for Law to commit murder. Besides, my oldest son would never, ever cross his old man.”
He cast Stockburn a grave, direct look, smiling certainly. “That might sound naïve, Stockburn, but it’s true.”
Stockburn drank the last of his Scotch, set the glass on the table.
McCrea reached for the decanter. “More? There’s plenty.”
“No, no.” Stockburn laughed. “The day is still young, and I have a few miles to ride.”
“You goin’ over to Stoleberg’s?”
“I aim to venture that way, yes. Can you give me directions?”
“Might be trouble. I know your reputation, Stockburn, but you’re only one man. Ol’ Rufus doesn’t really employ cow punchers anymore. Most of his men are gunnies. Leastways, that’s what I’ve heard and what my sons and other men have seen. He’s working himself up into something.
“I don’t know what. Maybe his move against the Hell’s Jaw Rail Line was only the beginning. I can send men over there with you. Be happy to, in fact.”
He arched his brows, letting Wolf know it wasn’t an idle offer.
Stockburn smiled. “Thanks, Mister McCrae.” He rose, snatching another chunk of meat off the plate and popping it into his mouth. He plucked his hat off the chair’s left arm. “I think it might be best if I mosey over minus the war paint.”
“Are you sure?” McCrae rose with a grunt. “If he’s going to make a move on me directly, I’d just as soon he made it, and we got it over with.”
“I’m sure.” Stockburn shook the man’s hand. “Nice talking to you. And, uh”—he glanced at the food and the whiskey decanter—“and the repast. I’ll remember it fondly.”
“The pleasure was mine, Stockburn. I’d hoped I’d meet you one day. Thank you for snatching my daughter from the claws of that savage Hennessey boy.”
“I’m glad I was there. I like Lori, and I hope she’s feeling better soon. Please give her my regards.”
“I will. Good luck to you. Mind your top knot, as they say in Indian . . . and Stoleberg . . . country.” McCrae laughed dryly then turned to the study door. “I’ll draw you a rough map to the Tin Cup and send you on your way.”
Stockburn followed the man back through the house. He paused at the base of a staircase and stared up toward the dark mouth of a second-floor hall.
Lori.
He set his hat on his head and followed McCrae to the front door.
CHAPTER 17
It took Stockburn an hour to ride back into the canyon of the Big Sandy River, where the scene of the massacre lay and where he’d narrowly escaped his own untimely demise at the hands of the bastard with the big rifle.
He’d made a mental note to keep an eye out for that fella. He hadn’t gotten a good look at him. All Wolf knew was that the man had long hair, a low-crowned black hat, and a Big Fifty or something similar. A long range, single-shot rifle of some kind.
The kind of rifle that would stick out in a crowd. If the man was ever in a crowd. Probably a loner.
Probably a regulator. Most regulators were loners.
Who had hired this one?
Stockburn had a feeling that when he found that out, he’d have the man who’d sent the killers out to massacre the Hell’s Jaw rail crew.
As he crossed the canyon, passing the work-train wreckage, he checked his time piece. It was pushing on toward four in the afternoon. He didn’t have much light left. Only an hour or two. He wouldn’t make it to the Tin Cup headquarters before dark. He’d look for a good camping sight and then throw down his gear, tend to his horse, and build a fire.
He needed a night out under the stars, alone, to think over what he’d learned so far. And what he was going to do with what he’d learned. He had trouble thinking in town. Too much noise, too many people. Stockburn didn’t like distractions.
The thing about him was, and he’d always known this to be true, was that he was a loner. He’d probably have made a good regulator.
Enjoyed his solitude. Had a sharp aim. Good power of concentration. Picked up after himself. Always kept an eye skinned on his back trail.
The trouble was, he was severely allergic to hemp.
He chuckled to himself as he trotted Smoke through the gap in the canyon’s southeast wall. Stoleberg’s graze started just beyond the wall.
As he entered that land now, the rock walls pulling back behind him, another valley opened before him. He was at the high end of it. He rode straight ahead and down into the valley, which instantly appeared drier than the terrain behind him.
He could see far ahead, because there were few trees, only short brown, ochre, and yellow grasses spiked here and there with prickly pear cactus. The lower land ahead was gently rolling, peppered with sparse cedars and aspens. There were bare patches where cattle had been allowed to overgraze.
Fingerling hills cropped out into the valley from steep ridges on both sides. Those ridges, too, had a dry look about them. If there were trees on them, they were sparse and stunted, mostly consisting of willows and small cottonwoods growing in shallow troughs running down the sides of the slopes.
Cattle grazed here and there, obviously a shorthorn hybrid, with very few white faces. From what Stockburn could see as he loped down the center of the gently dropping valley floor, Stoleberg’s cattle didn’t look as healthy as those he’d seen of McCrae’s herd. They appeared smaller, scrubbier, some with ribs showing, hips pushed up like saddletrees beneath the lusterless hides.
To Stockburn’s left, beyond the lower ridges and quartering behind him as he continued east along the valley, loomed the gray, snow-tipped peak of Gannett Mountain. It was near the base of that formidable-looking formation that Hell’s Jaw Pass lay, and all the gold being ripped out of it and needing transportation down the slopes to Wild Horse.
If what Stockburn learned here on Tin Cup range didn’t satisfy him, he’d head up toward the pass tomorrow. Mining camps were usually good places to sniff out secrets.
Stockburn stopped and set up his night camp forty-five minutes after beginning his trek down the dry valley toward the Tin Cup headquarters. The sun had dropped suddenly behind the peaks to his right, and deep, cool shadows bled across the range. Stars flickered to life in the soft velvet sky, and coyotes yammered from the surrounding knobs.
Cattle lowed and owls hooted mournfully.
The detective tended his horse, gathered wood, built a fire in a stone ring, and set his coffee pot to boil on a flat rock in the crackling flames. He’d packed fatback and beans in his war bag, and he cooked the meal now in a tin pot over the flames.
He ate the simple meal sitting close to the fire, his back to it so’s not to compromise his night vision. A knife-edged cold had tumbled down from the higher reaches, rife with the smell of pine and cold rock, and even wearing his buckskin coat, which he’d carried wrapped around his bedroll and rainslicker, Stockburn shivered against the penetrating chill.
For a time after he’d turned into his bedroll, he lay sleepless against the wooly underside of his saddle. He thought about Lori McCrae. Maybe he should have intervened on her behalf. Her family’s actions against her simply wanting to stay home instead of returning to school in the East seemed insensibly, damn near savagely, harsh.
He remembered her father mentioning letters and wondered what that had been about. Lori’s letters to whom? Who hadn’t answered them? The letters had really set her off, poor girl.
Finally, Wolf let it go. It was a family affair. It had nothing to do with what he was here to investigate.
He turned his thoughts to the business at hand—to what Norman McCrae had told him about Rufus Stoleberg and about how McCrae so firmly believed that his competing rancher was responsible for the massacre and the attempt to ruin the rail line.
McCrae couldn’t be considered a disinterested party. Nor an objective one. Obviously, McCrae would like nothing better than to see Stoleberg run out of the country
.
It sounded like both ranchers had been trying to destroy the other one for years. McCrae had even hanged a Stoleberg son. Stockburn took what McCrae had told him with a grain of salt. The same grain of salt with what Lori had told him.
But she hadn’t told him that much. Not about the Stolebergs.
Finally, Wolf let that matter go, as well, for now. Tomorrow was another day.
He slept deeply, rose early, built up the fire to rewarm the leftovers of the previous night’s supper, including the coffee, and ate watching a spectacular sunrise straight ahead of him to the east and slightly south. It was an explosion of light—bayonets of golds, salmons, coppers, and yellows stabbing across the high-arching sky belted with flat clouds and sending shadows scampering like a vast pack of frightened coyotes.
He took his time smoking an Indian Kid, lounging a little longer than usual to further enjoy the show. He had not lived so long, nor become so jaded by all that he’d experienced, that he did not still enjoy the simple, magical spectacle of a western sunrise.
As the air warmed, Wolf wrapped his coat around his bedroll and strapped the roll to Smoke’s back, behind the cantle of his saddle. He kicked dirt on his fire, mounted up, and continued his journey down the long, broad valley.
He headed toward a craggy stone formation, shaped roughly like a giant clipper ship run aground and humping up out of the valley floor a few hundred yards ahead. According to Norman McCrae’s hastily sketched map, the Stoleberg headquarters lay another five miles beyond that formation, identified as “Ship Rock” on the map.
He was two hundred yards from the rock when four riders appeared, moving into view from the other side of the ship-like formation, angling around its left side in single file and then spreading out across the valley as they continued trotting toward Stockburn.
“Well, well—what have we here? Welcoming party?” Wolf slowed Smoke to a fast walk, scowling curiously beneath the brim of his black sombrero. One of the riders riding toward him turned his head toward the others, issuing orders.
