by Janet Dailey
The pasture was in a basin ringed by the cliffs of the escarpment. It provided grass and winter shelter for most of the herd of red-and-white Hereford cattle that had made Bull Tyler a prosperous man.
As Rose parked her truck next to Bull’s pickup and then cut the engine, she could see the meadow where mounted cowboys were separating the remaining cattle to be moved to spring pasture and cutting out the last of the animals to be branded, vaccinated, ear-tagged, and, if meant to be steers, castrated. The spare horses from the remuda were being loaded in trailers to be hauled back to the ranch paddock.
Climbing out of her truck, Rose spotted Bull standing with Jasper on the far side of the branding chute. As she hurried to close the distance between them, the clamor of bawling calves and the odors of wood smoke, hot iron, and seared flesh flooded her senses. She waved her arms to get Bull’s attention.
He strode toward her, then, sensing her urgency, broke into a run. “What is it?” he demanded. “Are my boys all right?”
“Don’t worry, the boys are fine.” She told him what they’d seen and heard, leaving out the mention of Will’s disobedience. That could be dealt with later.
Bull swore. “Damn it, you know Ferg’s going to think it was us that stole those blasted cows.” He turned to Jasper, who’d caught up with him. “Have all our men been here the past couple of days? Nights, too?”
“Far as I know, except for Lee Roy, who broke his arm. I don’t do bed checks, but after a day on roundup those boys would’ve been too tuckered to sneak off and steal cows.”
Bull swore again, then sighed. “I reckon it’s time for some damage control. Jasper, you’re in charge here. Rose, you follow me down to the house. I might need you to back me up on what you and the boys saw.”
In the next instant, he was hauling himself into his pickup. By the time Rose got her own truck started, he was already a quarter mile down the road. Gearing down and bracing her body against the bumps, she stomped the gas pedal and roared after him.
* * *
So far, so good. Ferg poured himself a congratulatory shot of bourbon and tossed it down in a single swallow. Once those stolen cows were discovered on Rimrock property, it would be natural to assume that someone on the Rimrock was behind the theft. If the discovery wasn’t enough to raise the stakes, finding the murdered body of a TSCRA ranger was sure to bring down every law agency in the state.
Deke Triplehorn, Ferg’s security man, had been a sniper in Viet Nam. The man was a dead shot with a scope-equipped high-powered rifle. Today he had orders to gun down McCade from the rocks, then move out of range and circle back to the ranch, where Ferg would provide him with a solid alibi and report McCade missing. A search would lead to the discovery of the ranger’s body. At that distance, there was always the chance that even Triplehorn might miss or only wound the ranger. But the plan could be shifted to cover that possibility.
Ferg’s idea had been to back Bull into a tight corner, then offer his legal assistance on condition that Bull sell him the creek property. At the time, the idea had seemed like a good one. Call the TSCRA and file a complaint about stolen cattle. Ask to have a ranger assigned, then set up a fake crime and a real shooting, with evidence pointing to Bull or one of his employees.
But the plan wasn’t perfect. Tanner McCade was sharp, curious, and unpredictable. It remained to be seen whether he could be counted on to be in the right place at the right time.
The request for a ranger hadn’t been all pretense, Ferg reminded himself. He had definitely been losing stock—a few animals here, a few there, never enough to make a noticeable difference. But his foreman, who kept a close tally, had mentioned that the numbers were off. Maybe he should’ve given McCade time to catch the real rustlers before setting him up to be shot.
Ferg was pouring a second shot of bourbon to calm his nerves when his phone rang. There was no mistaking Bull Tyler’s angry voice on the other end of the call. As soon as he heard it, Ferg knew his scheme had gone off the rails.
“If you’re missing any cows, Ferg, you’ll find them in that box canyon where you dammed the spring. Whoever stole them and left them there, it wasn’t me or anybody on my ranch. You’ve got two hours to get them the hell off my property, or they’ll be dead meat.”
The slam that ended the call made Ferg’s ear ring. He sighed as he replaced the receiver in its cradle. The plan, a long shot to begin with, hadn’t worked. But never mind. An even better plan had rolled into sight driving a vintage 1947 Buick. This one was even legal. All he had to do was charm Rose Landro into letting him help her get her land back. The rest would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
He pushed his hefty frame up from behind his desk and walked out onto the front porch. The hands who’d driven the cows into the box canyon last night were close by and could be called to herd them home. No problem. But one question remained.
What had happened to McCade?
* * *
More than an hour had passed since Tanner had watched Rose leave and heard her ride off. Sitting on his horse and drinking from the canteen, he’d given her time to gain some distance. Then, after allowing a few minutes more for his head to clear, he’d turned the horse back toward the canyon and the lowing of the stolen cattle. He’d felt as if the devil were drilling on his skull. But he had a job to do. That job was to investigate and stop the cattle rustling.
Instead of going straight in, as he had when he’d been shot, he’d made a wide circle and approached the canyon from the side. Pistol drawn, he’d taken his time, checking the ground and the rocks before moving in close. He’d found the Prescott steers alone in the canyon, with rope strung between the rocks at the mouth to keep them from escaping. There’d been no one guarding them and no sign of vehicle tracks.
Puzzled, he’d backed off, holed up in a stand of cedars, and waited on the off-chance that the rustlers might return. When, after forty-five minutes, nobody had shown up, he’d decided to go back to his room in the Prescott bunkhouse, take something for his splitting headache, and return in time to wait for dark, when the cattle would most likely be loaded and moved.
Waiting, he’d had plenty of time to think about Rose and how she’d leaned close to sponge his wound, her breast brushing his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear. The lady had definitely stirred his blood. But he’d be a fool to buy her story about riding out here with two young Tyler boys and having to leave to catch up with them. For all he knew, she was the lookout for the rustlers and she’d hurried off to warn them away.
Now, as he rode back toward the ranch, Tanner saw three riders approaching. He recognized them as cowhands from the Prescott ranch.
“Well, look at you, McCade,” one of the men hooted. “Did you get run over by a cattle stampede?”
“Long story, Lem,” Tanner muttered. “What are you boys doin’ out here?”
“The boss sent us out to fetch some cows that ended up on the Rimrock,” the man named Lem answered. “Seems somebody found ’em and called the boss to come herd ’em back. He said we was to keep an eye out for you on the way. Sweet Jesus, you look like you got kicked by a mule, or maybe got yourself shot.”
“Right the second time,” Tanner said, tilting his hat to show the bandanna. “The bullet just put a crease in my scalp and gave me a hell of a headache.”
“That sounds like somethin’ Bull Tyler would do,” one of the man said. “He’s a mean son of a bitch. You’re lucky you didn’t get your brains blowed out.”
“You think it was Tyler who shot me?”
“Who else? Unless it was his foreman, Jasper Platt. He’s a mean one, too.”
“You don’t look so good,” Lem said. “Can you make it back to the ranch by yourself?”
“I think so. Long as the horse knows the way,” Tanner said.
“We’d ride back with you,” Lem said, “but the boss will skin us alive if we don’t get them cows back pronto.”
“Don’t worry. I can make it on my own.”
&n
bsp; Tanner watched the three cowhands ride off toward the escarpment. Then, turning the horse, he nudged it to an easy walk and headed back toward the heart of the ranch. At least he wouldn’t have to return to the canyon tonight, as he’d planned. He could clean up in the bunkhouse, swallow a fistful of ibuprofen, report to Ferg, and then maybe get some sleep.
Only by chance did he happen to look down at the ground, where the three riders had left a fresh trail, superimposed over the tracks of the cattle and the thieves herding them.
One set of hoofprints showed signs of a loose shoe—a shoe with two nails missing.
Ignoring the ache in his head, Tanner dismounted and compared the new and older prints to be sure of the match. It was perfect. Something strange was going on here. Assuming the horse hadn’t been switched between riders, the men he’d just met, the ones who were headed out to bring in the so-called stolen cattle, were the same ones who’d herded them onto Rimrock land in the first place.
Lem had mentioned that Ferg wanted the animals brought back at once. That would imply that Ferg knew exactly where they could be found. And Ferg wouldn’t have known that unless he’d ordered his cattle moved there in the first place.
Tanner swore out loud. What in hell’s name was going on? Was Ferg trying to frame his neighbor, Bull Tyler, for cattle rustling? If so, it was a lame-brained idea. Any of the men who’d done the herding could testify that they’d been acting under orders from Ferg.
So what had his own role been in this charade?
Ferg had sent him after the so-called stolen cattle, knowing exactly where he would find them. If things had gone as planned, he would have found the animals and assumed the thief was Bull. Tanner could only guess that somebody, most likely Bull himself, had learned of the scheme and ordered Ferg to come and get his livestock.
He’d been set up, Tanner realized. The TSCRA had been set up as well, sending him here and wasting valuable time and resources. The more Tanner thought about it, the angrier he became. Ferg Prescott was going to answer for this.
But what about the gunshot that had nearly killed him?
And what about Rose?
Overcome by a wave of pain-shot dizziness, Tanner leaned against the big dun’s shoulder and pressed his face against the horse’s warm coat. Nothing he’d learned so far could explain what had happened to him or who had fired the shot, let alone the reason why.
Perspiring with effort, he dragged himself back into the saddle and gave the horse its head. In an effort to focus, he thought about Rose, bending over him, giving him water and cleaning around his wound. Had she been the one who’d shot him?
In a way it seemed to fit. After winging him and knocking him off his horse, she could have ridden down to make sure he was dead. After he opened his eyes and saw her, she could easily have shot him again, at close range, to finish the job. Instead she’d decided to save him.
That didn’t make sense. But who else could it have been? Someone else from the Rimrock? Maybe Bull Tyler himself?
Tanner unscrewed the lid from the canteen and gulped the water to the last drop. If he could make it to the stable without passing out, he would put the horse away, wash up in the bunkhouse, take something for the pain, and get a few hours of rest. As soon as his head cleared, he would do whatever it took to unravel this mystery.
The first step would be to confront Ferg Prescott.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE ROUNDUP ENDED WHEN THE LAST ANIMAL WAS BRANDED, tagged, castrated, inoculated against disease and parasites, and moved to new pasture. After that, even if the hour was late, it was time for celebration.
Ignacio, the bunkhouse cook, and his two young helpers had been busy since last night, pit barbecuing a prime beef. Bernice had helped out by providing fresh-baked rolls to go with the beef and beans and a chocolate cake for dessert. According to tradition, the cowhands would save their carousing until the family had eaten and left. After that, there would be loud country music, free-for-all gaming, and enough beer to last until the tired men staggered off to bed.
Bull, Rose, Bernice, Jasper, and the two boys had filled their plates at the head of the line and sat at the plank table near the bunkhouse to enjoy the feast. After they’d gone back to the house, the merrymaking had begun in earnest, with a boom box blaring old country music and the cowboys helping themselves around a tin washtub filled with ice and Mexican beer.
An hour later, after the boys had gone to bed and Bernice and Jasper had retired to their quarters, Bull sat alone on the unlit porch with his boots on the rail, an empty Corona bottle at his feet and a half-smoked Marlboro between his lips. The spring night was clear, the stars like a spill of gold dust across a velvet sky.
A bat swooped low over the porch, chasing clouds of newly hatched spring insects. In the distant foothills, two coyotes serenaded each other with lovelorn wails.
The party outside the bunkhouse was in full swing, with a glowing bonfire, raucous music, and laughter, punctuated by an occasional curse over an unlucky throw of the dice. Some horseplay was allowed, but brawling was forbidden, and any cowhand who brought a gun or knife to the celebration would be fired. In the years Bull had been giving these post-roundup parties, he’d yet to be called upon to deal with a problem among his men.
All in all, today had been a good day, he mused. The roundup was over with all the stock accounted for. Even the missing cows Jasper had reported earlier had been found in a hidden gulley where they’d wandered in search of succulent spring grass.
Best of all, perhaps, he’d foiled Ferg Prescott’s latest plot to frame him for a crime, then blackmail him into giving up that creek property. As soon as Rose had told him about those Prescott cattle in the box canyon, he’d known what the conniving skunk was up to. That one phone call was all it had taken to cut the bastard’s scheme off at the pass.
But one thing still troubled him. As he and Will were washing up for the party, Will had told him about finding a man lying on the ground—a man who’d looked as if he might be dead. Rose had sent the boys on their way while she went back and helped him.
Why hadn’t Rose mentioned the incident earlier? Was she hiding something? Had Ferg bought more from her than her old car?
“I was hoping I’d find you out here, Bull.” As if his thoughts could conjure her, Rose came striding around the house and mounted the porch steps. “Now that the roundup’s over, there are things we need to discuss.”
“All right. Sit down.” Bull knew what she had in mind, but he was set on a different conversation. Rose had a pushy way about her, but she wasn’t the one in charge here, he reminded himself. He was the boss of the Rimrock, and within its borders his word was law.
“Before you start on me, I want to talk to you about what happened today.” He tossed his cigarette butt into the gravel below the porch and watched the smoldering dot die into darkness. “I know what you told me about finding the cattle. But tonight Will mentioned that he’d seen a man on the ground—a man he’d thought was dead. I could tell he was pretty upset about it. Why didn’t you say something to me?”
Rose settled back in the chair, her hands clasped around one knee. “I was hoping Will would tell you that he found the man because he disobeyed me and rode ahead of Beau and me. Did he?”
“He did, and he’ll be punished for it. I’ve taught my boys to be honest, especially with their father. But tell me about the man, Rose. Was he really dead?”
“No.” She gazed past him, as if studying the flow of moon shadows on the gravel. “He’d been shot, but the bullet had only grazed his head and knocked him out. I gave him water, cleaned him up some, and made sure he could ride. Then I left him and caught up with your boys. That’s the last I saw of him.”
“Did he say who shot him?”
“He said he’d glimpsed a movement in the rocks above the canyon. But beyond that, he didn’t even remember being shot. Is there any chance you might have cattle rustlers on the Rimrock?”
“If I do, they don’t
work for me. All my men were busy with the roundup. And herding those cattle into the canyon was Ferg’s doing. He was just up to his old tricks, wanting to get me in trouble.” Bull was growing impatient. This was a puzzle, and he didn’t like puzzles. He liked to know what he was dealing with so he could face it head-on.
“You didn’t think to ask his name?”
She turned and looked at him then, with eyes like dark flint. “I didn’t have to. He was the man who drove me to town when I bought the truck.”
“So he was Ferg’s man?”
“Yes. His name was—is—Tanner McCade.”
Bull chewed on that information in silence. Piece by piece, the puzzle was sliding together.
If Ferg had carried out the so-called theft of his own cattle, why would he have ordered the shooting of one of his own men?
Unless, along with cattle rustling, he’d wanted to pin a murder on the Rimrock.
The murder of an undercover TSCRA ranger.
A ranger named Tanner McCade.
* * *
Huddled in the chair, Rose held her tongue, giving Bull time to mull over what she’d told him. She was no mind reader, but she knew she’d done him a favor today. With luck, he might be grateful enough to listen to her request.
But she should have known better.
Bull cleared his throat. “I know what you want, Rose. But let me give you some advice. My father always used to say, ‘Trust a skunk before a rattlesnake, and a rattlesnake before a Prescott.’ I’ve held to the same counsel, and so should you. I know Ferg helped you out, buying that old car and having his man drive you to town. But Ferg never did anything out of the goodness of his heart—if the bastard even has a heart. He wants that creek property, and if I turn it over to you, sure as the sun comes up in the morning, he’ll find a way to take it for himself.”
Rose’s smoldering anger flared. “Does that make him any different from you, Bull? You cheated me out of the land my grandpa left me. That property is mine, and I want it back. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll get it some other way.”
