by Janet Dailey
This prime specimen of manhood was his son, Boone Rutledge. But Max’s heart didn’t lift with pride at the sight of him. If anything, it turned stone-hard.
“I should have known I’d find you in here.” His voice had a contemptuous edge to it. “Instead of standing there doing nothing, make yourself useful and fix me a drink.”
Boone turned, a banked anger in his dark eyes. “Bourbon and branch?”
“That’ll do.” Max engaged the controls and glided over to the fireplace, positioning his chair to face the warming flames.
He stared silently into them and listened to the firm tread of his son’s footsteps as Boone crossed to the bar. The sound was followed by the thud of a glass on the leather-topped counter, the clink of ice cubes, and the splash of liquid over them. Then footsteps approached his chair. Max took the proffered drink without glancing up.
“Sykes called this morning,” Boone said. “He thought we’d want to know that a cowboy came into the feed store this morning and tried to charge some grain to the Cee Bar. When Sykes told him the account was closed, the guy paid cash for it.” He swirled the cubes in his drink. “So it looks like the Triple C has managed to hire somebody.”
“What are you doing about it?” The question was more in the way of a challenge than a demand for an answer.
“I thought I’d send Clyde Rivers over there tomorrow and see what he can find out about this new man.”
Max released a derisive snort and shook his head in disgust. Boone reacted with an angry glare.
“What’s wrong with that? That’s exactly what we’ve done every time a new man came on board.”
Max lifted his grizzled head and viewed him with contempt. “You don’t have the slightest clue why this time should be different, do you?” He observed the flicker of confusion and turned away. “Why did I get stuck with a son with more muscles than brains?” he muttered.
His jaw ridged in anger, Boone pivoted sharply and stalked back to the bar. “Maybe you’d care to let me know what you think the next move should be,” he taunted and snatched the whiskey bottle off the shelf, then sloshed more liquor into his nearly empty glass.
“You’re the one who’s going over there, not Rivers,” Max snapped.
“Me?” Shock held Boone motionless for an instant. Confusion reigned in his expression when he recovered. “Why would you want me to go? You’ve always insisted we have to keep our distance from all of this.”
“Since you’re obviously not smart enough to figure it out on your own, I’ll tell you. Now that Cee Bar is without a ranch manager, what’s the most logical thing for the Calders to do to fill that void—temporarily, if nothing else?”
Boone’s frown deepened. “Hire somebody. What else can they do?”
“Send one of their own down here, that’s what,” Max retorted with impatience. “They won’t want to take some stranger’s word for what’s going on down here. They’ll want to check it out for themselves.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you want me to go over there,” Boone protested, recrossing the room.
“Then you might try remembering how much time you spent at the Triple C this past summer trying to convince that Calder girl to marry you. Unsuccessfully, I might add,” Max tacked on spitefully.
“It isn’t my fault that she was stupid enough to marry that fortune-hunting Englishman instead of me.” Boone stood facing the fireplace, a rigid set to his shoulders.
Max ran an assessing eye over his son and muttered, half under his breath, “Unfortunately, her choice wasn’t all that stupid. But that’s whiskey in the river.” He sighed a dismissal of the subject. “You must have met quite a few of the ranch hands while you were at the Triple C, certainly ones in positions of responsibility. That’s why I want you to pay a ‘neighborly’ call on the new man. With any luck, you’ll recognize him.”
Understanding at last dawned in Boone’s expression. “That makes sense.”
“At least you can see that. Of course I had to spell it out for you first.”
Boone whirled around, a black rage glittering in his eyes. “Damn it, will you lay off me?”
Max almost wished Boone would summon up the guts to hit him, but he knew that would never happen. “Save that show of toughness for a time when you’ll need it. We’ve got our work cut out for us now. I’ve heard those Triple C riders are a close-knit bunch, supposedly loyal to the core. But first we have to find out who it is they sent. Then we’ll decide our next move.”
The cold front had retreated to the north again, leaving behind a startling blue sky, swept clean of all clouds. The high, rolling Texas hills lay beneath it, basking in the warmth of the midmorning sun. But the air remained invigoratingly brisk.
A lone tan-and-white pickup traveled along the paved state road, its doors emblazoned with the name SLASH R RANCH. Boone Rutledge occupied the driver’s seat, his hands gloved in the finest calfskin leather. He dipped his head to peer ahead and locate the entrance to the Cee Bar Ranch. Spotting it, he slowed the truck to make the turn.
The board sign above the gate sported a shiny new chain on one end, but the wood itself still carried the scars of old bullet holes. The pickup rolled beneath it and headed up the winding tract, bouncing over its many ruts and potholes. If this was Slash R land, Boone knew he would have long ago called in a grader to blade the drive and smooth out its roughness.
Chickens squawked and flapped their wings in panic as they scurried out of his path when he pulled into the ranch yard. But they were the only sign of life he saw. There were no vehicles around, no horses in the corral. Nothing.
Boone wasn’t fool enough to think that it meant that there was no one about.
He pulled up to the old ranch house, stepped onto the truck’s running board, and reached back inside to give the horn a couple of long blasts. He listened, his gaze scanning the pastures beyond the yard. A horse whinnied in the distance and a chicken clucked in annoyance, but there was no other response. Boone swung to the ground and gave the door a push. Its closing sounded loud in the stillness.
In no hurry, Boone idly gave his gloves a tightening tug and surveyed the ranch yard and its few structures. All of them had a dingy, timeworn look that not even a fresh coat of paint could cure. It definitely wasn’t a place a man could point to with pride.
For the life of him, Boone couldn’t guess why the Calders hung on to the ranch. Supposedly it had once been owned by a long-ago ancestor. Yet it had been years since any of the Calders had set foot on it.
Considering that a ranch this size could never show much of a profit, the Cee Bar couldn’t be anything more than a headache to the Calders. Boone smiled, thinking how much worse that headache was going to get. Sooner or later they’d wash their hands of it and sell; it always worked that way.
After another look around, he headed for the house. He paused at the door and rapped loudly on it. As he expected, there was no stirring of movement inside.
With curiosity getting the better of him, Boone cast a quick glance behind him and tried the knob. It turned easily under his hand. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Still cautious, he called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
There was nothing but the echo of his own voice.
Satisfied that he was alone, Boone wandered through the old ranch house, snooping to see what he might find. The place was remarkably tidy and clean. All the beds were made, and dishes sat in the drying rack next to the sink counter. Boone found virtually nothing of interest lying about.
Even a search of an old desk in the living room failed to unearth anything of importance. The kitchen table yielded the only noteworthy items: two local newspapers folded open to the want-ad section. Circles had been drawn around ads offering hay for sale.
Boone smiled when he saw them. He’d given his foreman orders yesterday to buy up all the hay in the surrounding counties. He knew there was no longer any to be had in the area. Calder would have to truck in his hay, and that wou
ldn’t be cheap.
He lingered in the house a while longer. When no one showed up, he let himself out, climbed back in his pickup, and drove away.
It was after three in the afternoon when Quint arrived back at the Cee Bar. He had managed to switch his rental car for a black pickup that came equipped with a gas tank lock and security system. Both of which he’d left instructions to be installed in the ranch pickup once its repairs were complete.
He collected the part for the broken windmill from the pickup’s rear bed and started for the house. Sundown came early at this time of year and there might not be enough daylight left to get the parts switched and the windmill up and running before dark. He decided to give Empty the task tomorrow while he did a little fence-riding and checked on the cattle and pasture conditions.
Quint pulled the screen door open, caught it with his shoulder, and reached for the thin black cord he had shut in the door when he left. But it was lying on the threshold.
There had been a visitor at the Cee Bar while he was gone.
Chapter Five
It took Empty Garner most of the morning to get the windmill back in operation. After lunch, he gave Quint a hand replacing a long stretch of fence, using steel posts in place of old tree limbs and stringing new wire. By then, it was after four o’clock; time to call it a day.
Empty hauled his muscle-weary body onto the black pickup’s passenger seat and settled back for the ride into town. His thoughts drifted back over the day’s work. It had been months since he had felt this tired. But it was a good feeling, a kind of honest, achy soreness.
He cast a considering glance at the man behind the wheel, recalling how Quint had sweated and strained right alongside him, sometimes even shouldering more than his share. It wasn’t a trait he’d necessarily seen in young cowboys anymore—especially ones that had gotten a taste for giving orders. Those usually did more telling than doing.
It never occurred to Empty to comment on his observations. He was of the opinion you didn’t praise a man for doing what he should. When he did speak, it was as a former rancher. “I don’t know how many cattle you’re supposed to be running, but I’ve got the feeling if you do a count, you’re going to come up short.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Quint acknowledged.
“Most people think the days of cattle rustlers are long gone. Hell, it’s probably easier now than it was back in the eighteen hundreds. Back then, you stood a chance of tracking them. Today they load cattle into trucks, and those wheels don’t leave any tracks on concrete roads.”
“How true.”
Empty gazed at the road ahead of them, a thoughtful furrow creasing his brow. “I wish I could give you an idea of what Rutledge’s next move might be.”
“He might have already made it,” Quint replied.
Empty sat up, his weariness temporarily forgotten. “What do you mean? What’d he do?”
“Somebody came by the ranch yesterday while I was gone.”
“How would you know that if you weren’t there?” His frown deepened.
“There are ways. Some papers in the desk were out of order, plus some other things that weren’t in the exact place that I left them.”
Empty shook his head. “I swear those Rutledges are as bold as the most brazen hussy that ever walked the streets. Next thing you know they’ll come sneaking around at night.” He pinned a piercing look on Quint. “You’ve got yourself a shotgun, don’t you?”
“I didn’t bring any firearms with me. I thought there would be a rifle of some kind at the ranch. But if there was, it’s gone now.” Nearing the outskirts of town, Quint slowed the truck and made the turn onto the back road that would take him to Empty’s trailer house.
“I’ve got a whole gun cabinet full of weapons—shotguns, rifles, handguns, you name it and I’ve got it. Why don’t you come in with me and pick out what you want?”
“I can’t tonight.” Quint swung into the driveway and parked near the steps. “Maybe when I come to get you in the morning.”
“It’s your funeral,” Empty said with a shrug and climbed out of the cab despite the protest of stiffening joints.
“I almost forgot.” Quint leaned sideways across the seat. “I need directions to the Slash R.”
“The Slash R!” Incredulity claimed the old man’s lined face. “Why in billy blue blazes do you need that?”
A slow smile spread across Quint’s mouth. “I decided I should return the favor and pay them a call—one neighbor to another.”
“You’re kidding.” But Empty could see that he wasn’t. “Just what do you think that’s going to accomplish?”
“You never know.” His smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “Since it seems the Slash R has bought every available bale of hay around here, maybe I can talk them into selling me some.”
“You’ve got as much chance of that as a fly getting loose from a spider’s web.” But Empty relented just the same and gave him directions.
“Thanks. See you in the morning.”
“Sure thing.” Empty gave the door a push and stepped away from the truck.
As it reversed away from the trailer, Empty headed for the steps. He caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye and turned. There was Dallas coming down the road in their old truck. And he knew she couldn’t help but see the black pickup pulling out of the drive. It didn’t matter that they wouldn’t be passing each other. A strange pickup in their driveway was bound to spark his granddaughter’s curiosity.
Empty realized he would have to step quickly around this. Which wouldn’t be easy. Dallas was about as sharp as his wife had been at spotting a lie.
He resumed his path to the steps and managed to get halfway up them before Dallas drove in. She hopped out of the truck, her gaze locked on the departing pickup halfway up the road.
“Who was just here?” She wore a puzzled look when she came around the white pickup to join him.
“The guy from the Cee Bar, Quint Echohawk.” Empty knew he had to keep to the truth—as much as possible.
“What did he want?” The question had all the earmarks of simple curiosity, which suited Empty just fine.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He climbed the rest of the steps to the trailer door.
“Wait a minute.” Dallas caught up with him before he could step inside, her gaze sharp with suspicion. “He didn’t ask you to go to work there, did he?”
“Nothing of the sort,” he declared as if the possibility were completely out of the question. “He wanted directions to the Slash R.”
“But he could have gotten them from anyone. Why did he come here? For that matter, how did he know where we live?”
“Somebody must have told him.”
“But that same somebody could also have told him how to get to the Slash R.”
“True. But it’s likely they would have got on the phone the minute he left and reported it to Rutledge. And I got the impression Echohawk wanted to arrive unannounced. I expect Echohawk knew I’d sooner jump off a cliff than give Rutledge the time of day.”
His explanation appeared to satisfy her, but Empty could see she was still chewing on what he’d told her. “I can’t imagine why he would want to see Rutledge.” The wheels continued to turn in her mind as she tried to figure it out.
“He said he was going to try to buy some hay off him.”
“Hay?” An abrupt laugh slipped from her. Then she shook her head in dismissal. “The man is clearly a fool.”
Empty wasn’t sure, but he thought Dallas sounded a little bit sorry.
“You can’t miss it,” Empty had insisted after he’d given Quint directions to the Rutledge ranch. The minute Quint encountered the pristine white fencing that ran for nearly a mile, he knew the old man was right.
The entrance itself was recessed from the road and flanked by high white wings. Arching across to connect them, tall enough to allow a semitrailer rig to pass beneath it, was a span of wrought iron. Scro
lled in its center and gilded in gold was the Slash R brand.
The gleaming black iron gates stood open. Quint wouldn’t have been surprised to find them shut. He turned onto the paved driveway, bordered by more white fence. Sun-seared grass covered the pastures on either side of the manicured lane, with no scrub brush or mesquite thicket to be seen.
A good half mile back from the road, the arrow-straight driveway opened into the ranch yard with its assorted sheds, stables, and barns all painted a pure white. The white paint accented the ranch’s immaculate look, all scrubbed and ready for inspection. Quint found it hard to believe the Slash R was a working ranch. It was more like something Hollywood would come up with.
Off to his left, he noticed a paved road that branched away from the ranch and curved into some trees. He followed it. Within seconds he spotted the sprawling ranch house on the hilltop, hidden from the ranch yard by a screening of trees.
Rock columns supported a low, wide portico that marked the home’s front entrance. Quint parked beneath it and climbed out of the truck. On impulse he hit the remote, locking the pickup’s doors and activating its alarm system, then slipped the keys in his jacket pocket.
A burly man with a crew cut answered the door when he knocked. Blue eyes made a swift, assessing sweep of Quint.
“If it’s work you’re wanting, you’ll need to go to the ranch office and fill out an application,” the man said.
“No, I’m here to see Mr. Rutledge if he’s available. Mr. Max Rutledge,” Quint added in clarification.
The man’s impassive expression never changed. “Is Mr. Rutledge expecting you?”
“No. But he’ll see me,” Quint stated, one corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest suggestion of a smile.
“Your name?” the man requested, unfazed by Quint’s claim.
