“Who needs to with you around?” Wilbur asked with a shrug.
“What about the Rafter M?” Vance asked. “Where is it located?”
Stovepipe pointed to the northeast, where the terrain was flatter. “It’s even bigger than the Three Rivers, but Malone and Cabot run about the same size herd because the range ain’t as good over yonder and it takes more of it to support each cow. I ain’t sayin’ it’s bad range, mind you. It just ain’t as good as the Three Rivers, which is might’ near heaven on earth for raisin’ cattle.”
Vance nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. It sounds like I’m headed for a good place . . . if I get a job there.”
“Worry about that when the time comes. Like Miss Rosaleen said, you get a good meal and a bunk for the night no matter what else happens. Grub line riders like us got to take life one day at a time. That’s all it gives us, anyway, no matter who we are.”
The ride to the Three Rivers ranch took the rest of the afternoon. Stovepipe spun yarns most of the way, with the occasional interjection of dry wit from Wilbur. Vance enjoyed listening to them. From the sound of the stories, the two drifters had been almost everywhere on the frontier.
“From the Rio Grande to the Milk River, and from the Mississipp’ to the blue waters of the Pacific,” as Stovepipe put it.
The sun had almost touched the hills by the time the wagon and the riders headed up a long valley toward the ranch headquarters. The main house was a sturdy two-story frame structure with whitewashed walls. Several cottonwoods grew around it for shade during the summer. In addition were a long, low bunkhouse, a couple barns with attached corrals, a square, stone building that appeared to be a blacksmith shop, some storage sheds, and a smokehouse.
Pretty impressive, Vance thought. As they came closer, he could tell everything was well-maintained. It was obvious Keenan Malone ran an efficient operation around here.
Stovepipe pointed toward one of the barns. “That’s where the horses go. Head in that direction. Malone’s got a good remuda built up. Of course, you’ve got your own mount, like me and Wilbur, but if you sign on, you’ll be able to rest him some.”
“Sounds good,” Vance said, nodding. “Is that a garden I see over there on the other side of the main house?”
“Yep. And there’s a little chicken house back there, too, so we’ve always got fresh eggs and plenty o’ vegetables in season. I ain’t much on rabbit food, but some taters and carrots and onions always liven up a pot of stew. Ain’t nobody cooks up a stew like the Irish.”
“I’m starting to think I’m going to like it here,” Vance said with a grin.
A brawny, broad-shouldered man walked out of the other barn and strode toward Rosaleen and Aunt Sinead as they veered toward the main house. He had a thick white mustache, bushy brows of the same shade, and walked with the rolling gait of someone born to the saddle.
“Keenan Malone,” Stovepipe told Vance. “Fine man, from what I’ve seen of him.”
Rosaleen reined in the sorrel while Aunt Sinead drove the wagon around the house, probably so the supplies she had picked up in Wagontongue could be unloaded into the kitchen. After a moment, Rosaleen turned in her saddle and beckoned to Vance.
“Looks like she put in that good word for you,” Stovepipe said. “Good luck, son. Hope you get that job.”
“Thanks.” Vance turned his horse and heeled it toward the Malones.
Rosaleen had dismounted by the time he got there, so he swung down from the saddle, too.
She said, “Dad, this is Vance Brewster.”
“Good to meet you, Vance,” Malone said as he stuck out a big hand.
Vance clasped it and returned the rancher’s firm grip. “It’s my pleasure, sir. This is a really fine-looking spread.”
“I’ve been takin’ care of it for many years, just like I’ve been lookin’ after Rosaleen here.” Only the faintest hint of an Irish lilt could be heard in Malone’s voice.
“Like I told Aunt Sinead, I’m getting a little too old to need looking after, Dad,” Rosaleen said.
Malone just shook his head. “A child never gets old enough for a parent to feel that way. You’ll understand that yourself, one of these days.”
Since the sun was low enough in the sky to give everything a bit of a rosy hue to start with, it was hard to tell if Rosaleen blushed at her father’s comment, but Vance thought she did.
“My daughter tells me you pitched in on our side during that scrape with Cabot’s men in town,” Malone went on.
“Yes, sir.”
“Might not have been the wisest thing to do, you bein’ a newcomer to these parts.”
Vance shook his head. “My only regret is that I didn’t get to wallop that skunk Dax Coolidge like Miss Rosaleen did.”
Malone’s eyebrows rose as he looked at his daughter. “You did that?”
She grinned. “With an empty whiskey bottle. He had it coming.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second. Bust his head open?”
“No . . . unfortunately. I knocked him silly for a while, though.”
“Good girl.” Malone turned back to Vance. “Rosaleen tells me you’re lookin’ for a job.”
“That’s right.”
“Top hand, are you?”
Vance said, “I won’t lie to you, sir. I’m not a top hand, but I’ve always been willing to work hard, and I pick up on things pretty quickly, if I do say so myself. I’d rather be honest, though, if you’re thinking about hiring me.”
“I’m thinkin’ about it. I figure this spread can always use a young fella who’s willin’ to work hard.” Malone extended his hand again. “Welcome to the Three Rivers, Vance. You’ve got a job . . . for now. We’ll see how it goes.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Over the next few days, Vance earned his keep on the ranch. Like the rest of the crew, he was up before the sun every day and spent long hours in the saddle, riding the range to check on the stock, roping calves who had gotten stuck in the mud along the rivers and pulling them free, pushing cows from this pasture to that one and generally doing whatever Keenan Malone ordered him to.
Malone served as his own foreman, although he had a segundo. Andy Callahan rode herd on the crew when Malone wasn’t around. Malone worked with the cowboys every day, since he wasn’t the sort of boss who would ask his men to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself.
* * *
The third day after Vance signed on, Wilbur watched with narrowed eyes as the young cowboy walked from the barn toward the bunkhouse. “The youngster looks to be a mite stiff and sore,” Wilbur said to Stovepipe as the two of them ambled along a short distance behind Vance.
“Yeah, I noticed the same thing,” Stovepipe said. “You can tell he’s rode and roped before, but I got a feelin’ he ain’t spent quite so many hours in a saddle as he’s doin’ these days.”
“What do you reckon that means? That he didn’t ride for all those other spreads like he claimed?”
Stovepipe’s bony shoulders rose and fell. “I reckon it’d be goin’ too far to say the boy’s a liar.”
“I didn’t say he was a liar. I just wondered if he’d stretched the truth a mite. You’ve been known to do that, and I wouldn’t call you a liar.”
“Let’s just figure he’ll bear keepin’ an eye on,” Stovepipe said. “Can’t deny he’s a hard worker, just like he said he was. He throws himself full blast right into whatever he’s supposed to do and does the best he can.”
“Yeah. You can’t help but like him. He sorta reminds me of a big ol’ friendly puppy.”
Stovepipe grinned. “Even a puppy’s got teeth and knows how to use ’em if he has to. Be interestin’ to see what kind of bite Vance has got.”
“You mean if there’s more trouble?”
“I reckon it’s more a matter of when than if, ” Stovepipe said.
* * *
The hands took their meals in the big dining room in the main house with Malone and his daughter and sister-in-law. That eve
ning at supper, Malone stood up and said, “Tomorrow we’ll be starting a gather of all the stock in the northern section, boys.”
“Are we puttin’ together a trail herd, Mr. Malone?” Andy Callahan asked.
“That’s right. All of you know, except the three new men, that there was a mighty nice calf crop this spring. We’re gonna need to sell off some older stock so there’ll be plenty of grass for those hungry little critters. Plus, I’ll be writin’ my midyear report for the owners pretty soon, and they like to see a little cash flow.”
“They oughta come out here and see it for themselves,” one of the men said.
“I reckon those men have better things to do than tramp around a ranch,” Malone said. “Anyway, they’ve got jobs of their own that have to be taken care of.
In a half-whisper, Vance said to Stovepipe, “I’m not sure I’d call sitting behind a desk in an office a real job.”
From the head of the table, Malone asked, “You got something to share with us, Brewster?”
Vance looked abashed and shook his head. “Uh, no, sir. Sorry.”
“Well, then, as I was sayin’ . . . we’ll put together a herd of about five hundred head and drive it over to the railhead at Miles City. Ought to get a decent price for it and make everybody happy. So I hope you fellas are ready to work. We won’t be loafin’ around like usual for a while.”
Vance sighed at Malone’s description of what they had been doing. Loafing didn’t seem quite right to him.
Later, he and Stovepipe and Wilbur stood by one of the corrals and leaned on the rail fence as they enjoyed the evening air. Since the three of them had been on the ranch the shortest amount of time, they had gravitated together naturally and become friends.
“Ever been on a trail drive before, Vance?” Stovepipe asked as he looked up at the stars twinkling in the deep black sky overhead. Montana Territory was called big sky country, and the heavens loomed just as large at night as they did during the day.
“Sure I have,” Vance said. “I helped push several herds up the Chisholm Trail from Texas to Kansas. I drove cattle to market in Colorado, too.”
“Why, this won’t seem like much of a chore to you at all, then. It ain’t near as far to Miles City as it is to the railheads in them other places.”
Wilbur said, “Yeah, a few days of being in the saddle fourteen or sixteen hours a day ought to get us there.”
Vance winced slightly at that comment, but neither Stovepipe nor Wilbur seemed to take any note of the reaction.
A soft step behind them made them turn. Enough light came from the moon and stars for Vance to recognize Rosaleen. She was wearing a dress rather than her riding getup.
He had thought she looked lovely at supper, and reached for his hat, yanking it off without even thinking about what he was doing. “Miss Rosaleen,” he greeted her. “Good evening.”
“Vance,” she said. “Mr. Stewart. Mr. Coleman.”
“Miss,” Stovepipe said. “It’s a beautiful evenin’, made more so by your presence.”
“You’re a flatterer, Mr. Stewart,” she said with a smile.
“No, miss, just a truthful man.”
“What brings you out here?” Vance asked, then added quickly, “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I wanted to check on my horse and make sure he’s in good shape for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Were you planning on going somewhere?”
“I’m coming along on the roundup, of course.”
Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance exchanged glances in the moonlight. It was obvious all three men wanted to say something, but they were reluctant to do so.
Stovepipe finally took the plunge. “Miss Rosaleen, I ain’t sure it’s a good idea for you to get mixed up in a deal like that. It’s liable to be a lot of hot, dusty, dangerous work.”
“I know what a roundup is like, Mr. Stewart. I’ve been around them before.” She squared her shoulders. “It’s just that I intend to take part in this one, instead of being merely an observer.”
“Does your pa know that?” Wilbur asked.
“He’ll find out soon enough.”
“When he does,” Stovepipe said, “he might just lay down the law and tell you, you ain’t goin’.”
Rosaleen’s chin came up defiantly. “He’ll have a fight on his hands if he does. He’s the one who made sure I know how to rope and ride and treated me like a boy, much to my mother’s dismay. If he doesn’t like the way I act now, he’s got no one to blame but himself.”
“Can you shoot?” Vance asked.
“I always have a saddle carbine with me, and I’m a good shot with it, if I do say so myself. I shot the head off a rattlesnake once at fifty feet.”
“That’s good shootin’, all right,” Stovepipe said. “You’ve got me might’ near convinced, Miss Rosaleen.”
“And if I do get into any trouble,” she said, “I’ll have a bunch of cowboys around to help me, won’t I?”
“I reckon they’ll be linin’ up to give you a hand,” Stovepipe said.
Vance Brewster would probably be the first one in that line, he thought.
* * *
Aunt Sinead prepared an especially big breakfast the next morning, since the men would be in their saddles just about all day and would have to make do with what they could carry for a midday meal. When they had stoked themselves with coffee, flapjacks, eggs, and thick steaks, they went out to the barn to get their horses ready.
Keenan Malone’s only concession to the fact he was the boss was letting the ranch’s horse wrangler, a stove-up old hand named Asa, saddle his mount for him. When Malone came out of the house and strode toward the barn, Asa had a big, sturdy dun ready for him.
“Thanks, Asa,” Malone said as he took the reins. He checked the cinches although he knew there was no real need to do so. The wrangler was absolutely trustworthy, but it was a habit of decades’ standing, and Malone wasn’t about to quit.
Asa had gone back into the barn, but he came out again before Malone could mount up. The old wrangler was leading a saddled sorrel.
“Wait a minute,” Malone said with a frown. “That looks like—”
The sound of the house’s front door closing interrupted him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Rosaleen walking quickly toward him. Her riding outfit was the same as any of the other hands’—a man’s shirt, thick denim trousers, and high-topped boots. Her hair was tucked up in the high-crowned hat she wore with its strap taut under her chin.
“Aw, no,” Malone said as he began shaking his head. “Not hardly!” He raised his right arm and pointed toward the door. “You might as well turn around and march on back into the house, missy!”
Rosaleen’s chin jutted toward him. “Or what? You’ll turn me over your knee and spank me like I was a little girl?”
“You ain’t too big for me to do that if I have to, that’s for dang sure!”
“Yes, I am, and you know it. Just like you know there’s no good reason why I can’t help you with the roundup. I ride as well as most of the men do, and I’m a better hand with a rope than some of them.”
The members of the crew, all mounted, drifted over from the barn in time to witness most of this confrontation. A hint of a knowing smile tugged at the corners of Stovepipe’s mouth under the drooping mustache. Things were working out pretty much the way he had expected. Keenan Malone was being stubborn . . . and Rosaleen was being stubborner.
Andy Callahan nudged his horse forward. “It’s true, boss. I’ve seen Miss Rosaleen handle a lariat, and she’s better than, say, Brewster here.”
“Hey,” Vance said. “I’ve done all right so far.”
Malone narrowed his eyes at Callahan. “Andy, you won’t be offended if I tell you this ain’t none of your business, will you?”
“Nope. You’re the boss. You can say whatever you want. I’m just sayin’ Miss Rosaleen would give us an extra hand, that’s all.”
“We got plenty of men to handle a roundup.”
Callahan shrugged. “That’s true, too. Why don’t the rest of us head on up to the north range and leave you two to work it out however you want?”
Malone agreed. “That’s what I was just about to say.”
Callahan lifted his reins, turned his horse, and motioned with his head. “Come on, boys.” He rode north away from the ranch with the rest of the crew in a loose bunch behind him.
“I sort of wanted to stay and see how the argument came out,” Wilbur said as he rode alongside Stovepipe and Vance.
“I’ll bet you when Mr. Malone catches up, Rosaleen is with him,” Vance said.
“No bet,” Stovepipe said. “Man’d be a fool to buck the odds on a sure thing.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The northern section of the Three Rivers ranch was mostly hilly terrain, but a broad, level pasture lay in the center of those hills. It was there Andy Callahan led the cowboys.
“We’ll hold the gather here,” he told them. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple days to round up five hundred head like the boss wants. Leave the calves and their mamas where you find them. We just want steers.”
He split up the crew into two groups, one bunch to work the hills to the east, the other to head west. Before they could set out, two riders appeared to the south, riding in their direction.
Callahan tried not to smile as he said, “Looks like here comes the rest of the outfit.”
From a distance the newcomers appeared to be two more punchers, but Stovepipe recognized the dun and the sorrel they were riding.
So did Vance. “Looks like Miss Rosaleen won the argument.”
“I don’t reckon anybody here expected any different,” Stovepipe said.
The newcomers rode up and Malone said, “The boys got their jobs laid out, Andy?”
“Yep. Half goin’ east, half goin’ west.”
Rosaleen said without hesitation, “I’ll go west.”
Stovepipe wondered if her decision was because he, Wilbur, and Vance were with that group.
Hang Them Slowly Page 3
