Telling Vance to cover him, Stovepipe walked down the slanting trail with his Winchester ready for instant use. Even before he reached the bottom, he spotted riders coming fast from the direction of the ranch headquarters, but they were still about half a mile away.
That gave Stovepipe a chance to take a good look around before Wilbur and the others got there. He was especially interested in a cluster of hoofprints he found not far from the bottom of the trail. It looked like the rustlers had paused there for a moment, probably to discuss what they were going to do next.
They had done what outlaws nearly always did when facing capture—they scattered and took off in several different directions at once. Stovepipe knew they would be difficult if not impossible to track down, but that didn’t stop him from hunkering on his heels to study the hoofprints.
He had just straightened from that task when the bunch from the Three Rivers galloped up, led by Wilbur, Keenan Malone, and Andy Callahan.
“Stewart!” Malone boomed. “What the hell happened here?”
“Are you all right, Stovepipe?” Wilbur asked.
“Fine as frog hair,” Stovepipe answered with a grin. “Mr. Malone, all those stolen cows are up at the top of this trail, scattered around and grazin’ now.”
“Where are the no-good sons who took ’em?”
“Well, two of the hombres are layin’ up yonder on the trail, or what’s left of ’em, anyway. Anybody whose stomach is on the sensitive side probably hadn’t ought to look at ’em. They ain’t a pretty sight.”
Malone grunted and said, “I’m not gonna waste any sympathy on a couple of blasted rustlers. As far as I’m concerned, they got what they had comin’ to ’em. Although I wouldn’t have minded if they’d lived to hang nice and slow, kickin’ out their lives at the end of a rope. That’s a fittin’ end for rustlers. What about the others?”
Stovepipe shook his head. “Gone. Vance and me figured it was more important to recover that missin’ stock. Anyway, we took the shots we could at ’em. Couldn’t do much more than that.”
“No, I don’t reckon. What about Brewster? Coleman said he was winged earlier.”
“He’s up at the top of the trail, coverin’ me. He’ll be all right. Just got a scratch on his arm.”
Callahan said, “Miss Rosaleen will be mighty glad to hear that.”
Malone scowled at his segundo for a second, then said, “Maybe we can trail the rest of that sorry bunch of cow thieves.”
“Not likely,” Stovepipe said. “They scattered hell-west and crosswise.”
“Don’t reckon it really matters. We know where they came from . . . the Rafter M.”
“You sure about that, boss?”
“Who else could be responsible for this except that blasted Mort Cabot?”
Stovepipe didn’t answer that, but a frown creased his forehead.
Andy Callahan held out a hand to him. “Swing up here behind me, Stewart. I’ll give you a ride to the top of the trail.”
Stovepipe accepted the invitation. The whole group rode through the gap and found Vance waiting for them at the top. Stovepipe slid down from Callahan’s horse to reclaim his paint.
“Good work, Brewster,” Malone told the young cowboy. “How’s the wing?”
Vance moved the wounded arm and nodded. “A little sore, but it works all right.”
“You can take it easy for a day or two when we get back to the ranch. Let it rest and heal. You got ventilated defendin’ Three Rivers stock, so you deserve a break.”
“That’s not necessary, boss. It’ll be fine—”
“You can argue with me all you want, boy, but you’ll have to argue with my daughter and sister-in-law, too, and that’s a mighty formidable chore.”
Stovepipe smiled and told Vance, “Might as well admit defeat, son. The ladies will have their way. Right now, though, maybe you’ll give me a hand with a little errand.”
“Sure. What is it, Stovepipe?”
“Let’s see if we can find the horses those two rustlers were ridin’. They ran on up here after those fellas met their unfortunate ends, and it ain’t likely they wandered too far.”
“Good idea, Stewart. If those nags have Rafter M brands on ’em, that ought to be enough to get Charlie Jerrico after Cabot and his sorry bunch.” Malone turned in the saddle and waved an arm. “The rest of you boys start gatherin’ these cattle so we can drive ’em back to where they belong.”
Stovepipe and Vance mounted up and went in search of the rustlers’ horses. As Stovepipe had predicted, the animals hadn’t gone far. They had found each other and were less than a mile away, grazing in peace and contentment, unaware that their previous owners were both dead.
Stovepipe caught the reins of one horse while Vance took charge of the other. From the saddle, Stovepipe studied them and located unfamiliar brands. Neither horse wore Rafter M iron. He pointed that out to Vance.
“That doesn’t really prove anything, does it? Isn’t it possible that when Cabot’s men set out to steal Three Rivers stock, they would use horses with brands that don’t come from around here? That way, no trail would lead straight back to them . . . in a case like this?”
“That makes sense, all right. A remuda strictly for rustlin’ purposes. That wouldn’t be cheap, but a big enough operation could justify it.”
Stovepipe tugged at his right earlobe for a moment, then rasped his thumbnail along his dark-stubbled jawline. Those little habits were indications he was deep in thought. After a few seconds, he smiled and shook his head. “Oh, well, we wouldn’t want all the answers to just fall right into our laps, would we? If a fella got what he wanted without havin’ to fight for it, he’d likely feel it wasn’t worth very much.”
“So you’re saying it’s the journey that’s worthwhile, not the destination.”
“Reckon a fella could put it like that, if he was of a philosophical bent. Which I ain’t. Come on. Let’s take these cayuses and get back to the others.”
Malone met them with avid interest on his rugged face. “Tell me those are Rafter M horses.”
“Can’t do that, boss. The brands they’re wearin’ ain’t quite as bad as Mexican skillet-of-snakes marks, but they ain’t any I’ve ever seen before, either.”
Malone and Callahan checked out the brands with similar lack of recognition.
Malone didn’t bother trying to hide the disappointment he felt. “So we can’t just charge over to the Rafter M and settle things with that sorry bunch.”
“Ride in there with guns blazin’, and Cabot would have an excuse to call the law down on your head,” Stovepipe said.
Malone smacked his knobby-knuckled right fist into his left palm with a resounding pop. “Blast his eyes, that’s probably just what the sorry son is hopin’ we’ll do! Well, he ain’t gonna get his wish . . . this time.” He looked around at the other men. “But I’m tellin’ you this, boys . . . I’ve had enough. The next time Rafter M makes a move against us, it’s war! And if it comes to that, I plan on wipin’ the whole blasted lot of ’em right off the face of the earth!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was late in the afternoon before the men made it back to the Three Rivers headquarters. They had driven the recovered stock to the pasture where the rest of the herd was being held. Keenan Malone left half a dozen men there to watch over the cattle, including Andy Callahan. They would be on high alert, and if the rustlers tried to strike again, they would find themselves facing a hot lead welcome.
Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance were with the bunch that returned to headquarters. The dogs pitched their usual barking fit as the riders approached, so Rosaleen and Aunt Sinead were on the porch waiting with anxious expressions on their faces as the men reined to a halt.
“Dad, are you all right?” Rosaleen asked as she went down the steps and then put a hand on the shoulder of her father’s horse.
“I’m fine,” Malone said. “Didn’t hardly come close enough to trouble to even hear the shootin’.” He nodded to
ward Stovepipe and Vance. “These two had already done for a couple of the cow thieves and routed the rest of ’em by the time we got there.”
Rosaleen turned to Vance. “I know you’re hurt.”
He lifted the arm with a bloodstained rag tied around it as a bandage. “It’s not enough to worry about.” He grimaced a little as he moved the arm, though.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Aunt Sinead said in a tone that made it clear there would be no argument. “Get down off that horse and come in the house, young man. I’m sure Mr. Stewart did the best he could, but that injury needs to be cleaned and bandaged properly.”
“Yes, ma’am, it sure does,” Stovepipe said. “My skills as a sawbones are kinda limited.”
“Don’t worry about your horse,” Wilbur told Vance. “We’ll take care of it.”
With the two women fussing over him, Vance was ushered into the house.
Malone turned to Stovepipe and Wilbur. “I meant what I told you earlier. You boys can take it easy for a day or two.”
“That sorta goes against the grain for us,” Stovepipe said. “We’re used to workin’ for a livin’.”
“We can probably force ourselves to ease up a mite, though,” Wilbur said. “If we really try.”
Malone said, “I’ll count on you, then, Coleman, to pound some sense into your scrawny partner’s head. I’ll see you at supper. If Sinead don’t already have somethin’ special planned, I’ll see to it that she does.”
While they were unsaddling their horses, Wilbur said quietly to Stovepipe, “I saw you taking a good long look at something on the ground when we rode up. Hoofprints?”
“Yeah. Appeared those rustlers stopped for a minute to palaver ’fore they went hellin’ off hither and yon.”
“Did you recognize any of the prints?”
Stovepipe shook his head and said, “Nope. Most of ’em had nothin’ to set ’em apart from a thousand other hoofprints. But a few were distinctive enough I reckon I’d know again, happen I was to lay eyes on ’em.”
“Did you see anything to indicate the Rafter M wasn’t behind the raid?”
“Nary a thing. But there’s no proof Cabot was to blame for it, either.”
Vance came up behind them and asked, “What are you fellas talking about?”
“Oh, nothin’ important,” Stovepipe said. “Got that arm tended to?”
Vance held up his left arm, which sported a clean, fresh bandage around the upper part where the bullet had grazed him. “Yeah. Aunt Sinead said you did a really good job patching it up. She seemed a little reluctant to admit that, but credit where credit is due, she said.”
“Stovepipe’s tended to plenty of bullet wounds in his time,” Wilbur said. “More than his fair share.”
“That’s because we keep wanderin’ into trouble,” Stovepipe said. “You wouldn’t think that would happen to a couple peace-lovin’ hombres like me and Wilbur.”
Wilbur snorted at that idea. Vance just grinned. He would have had to be pretty dumb not to have figured out already that peace and quiet seldom lasted long around his newfound friends.
* * *
As it turned out, Aunt Sinead had spent the afternoon baking pies, in the hope they would have something to celebrate when the men returned to ranch headquarters, so supper was indeed special.
Wilbur was groaning from feeling a mite overstuffed as they headed back to the bunkhouse. “I reckon both your legs must be hollow,” he said to Stovepipe. “I never saw a man who could eat as much as you do and stay so skinny. How many slices of pie did you have, anyway?”
“I disremember,” Stovepipe said with a grin. “All I recollect is that they were good. Anyway, I burn up what I eat by thinkin’ so hard.”
“What are you thinking about these days?”
Stovepipe pursed his lips but didn’t answer.
“I get it,” Wilbur went on. “You don’t have everything figured out to your satisfaction, so you’re going to clam up and keep it all to yourself like you usually do.”
“It ain’t that I’m clammin’ up. I just don’t know anything for sure yet. I got a few ideas, mind you, but until I can prove ’em, it might be better to play my cards close to my vest.”
“And if somebody blows a hole in that vest and you wind up buzzard bait, nobody will ever know what you were thinking, will they?”
“We’ll just be careful and not let that happen,” Stovepipe said.
“Because we have such a long tradition of being careful.” Wilbur sighed. “I’m wasting my breath. You’ve got a certain way you do things, and nobody’s going to budge you from it.”
“It’s worked out pretty well so far.”
“I’ll give you that.”
* * *
Since the Three Rivers had plenty of hands to finish the roundup without them, Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance agreed to stay close to headquarters the next day and take it easy, the way Keenan Malone wanted them to.
Vance’s wounded arm was stiff and he was glad he didn’t have to go out and help with the gather. In a few days, the Three Rivers crew would be driving the herd into Wagontongue to ship the cattle to market. He hoped that with some rest, his arm would be healed enough for him to take part in the drive. Actually, he didn’t mind the time off.
Malone had less luck getting his daughter to do what he said. After the dangerous incidents during the past thirty-six hours, he didn’t want Rosaleen anywhere near the gather. She knew that.
At the same time, she wanted to see what was going on.
* * *
Vance could tell Stovepipe and Wilbur were restless. They were the sort of men who felt like they ought to be accomplishing something all the time, especially when they weren’t hurt.
Vance watched them walk to the barn then followed them inside. They were saddling their horses.
“Where are you two going?”
“Just thought we’d scout around a mite,” Stovepipe said. “With all the activity goin’ on up on the north part of the ranch, troublemakers might figure it was a good time to get up to mischief somewheres else.”
That was actually a good idea, Vance thought. He started toward the stall where his horse was kept. “I’ll come with you.”
“I reckon not,” Stovepipe told him. “Hours in the saddle ain’t gonna do that arm of yours any good, and if that wound busted open and started bleedin’ again, Aunt Sinead would be liable to skin me alive. No, you just stay here and take it easy.”
“You didn’t like it when Mr. Malone told you to do that.”
“No, but we ain’t been shot, neither. He feels grateful to us, but that maybe ain’t the best way to express his gratitude.”
Stovepipe and Wilbur swung up into their saddles, waved in farewell, and rode out from headquarters. Vance watched them go, shaking his head.
It looked like he was stuck at ranch headquarters, whether he liked it or not.
Facing a long, boring day, he went back to the bunkhouse, found a pad of paper and a pencil, and figured he would write some letters. The first one was to his father, telling the old man all about what he’d been doing, trying not to embellish the tale too much.
* * *
The thought that someday she might be running the ranch still nagged at Rosaleen’s brain. It wasn’t likely the owners back east would ever entrust the Three Rivers to a woman . . . unless she could demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the best person for the job.
With those thoughts going through her mind, she slipped out to the barn around the middle of the morning, dressed in range clothes again.
* * *
From the corner of his eye, Vance spotted movement through the window facing the barn. The glass was pretty smudged and grimy, but he was able to make out the shape of a slender cowboy walking toward the barn.
Something about the figure’s movements struck him as surreptitious, so he set the letter aside, stood up, and moved closer to the window. The cowboy disappeared into the shadows inside the
barn.
Making a close study of the fella from behind convinced Vance of one thing. That was no fella. The curve of the hips in those denim trousers was distinctly feminine. Since there were only two women on the ranch and the one he’d just seen definitely wasn’t Aunt Sinead, that left only one answer.
Rosaleen was skulking around the barn . . . and she was dressed for riding.
She was going to disobey her father and ride out to the roundup again. Vance was sure of it.
Malone had ordered her to stay close to home, but Rosaleen didn’t like being told what to do. Vance hadn’t known her for long, but he had already figured out that much about her.
* * *
Rosaleen saddled one of the ponies she usually rode and led it well away from headquarters before mounting up and heading for the hills where the rest of the gather was taking place.
* * *
When she didn’t emerge from the barn for several minutes, Vance left the bunkhouse and walked over there. He found the door in the back of the barn open, and through it he spotted a person on horseback moving away in the distance to the north. He didn’t need Stovepipe’s field glasses to know who the rider was.
Some of the older hands who worked at headquarters most of the time were around, but Vance didn’t even consider telling them what he’d seen. He just went to his horse’s stall to saddle the animal.
The sore arm made the task more difficult, but he managed without damaging the wound . . . he hoped. Once he was mounted, he left through the back door, too, and followed the rider he could barely see ahead of him.
* * *
It was a glorious day with a vault of blue sky arching overhead, dotted here and there with fluffy white clouds. The air had just enough of a bite to keep the sun from being too warm. Rosaleen felt a sense of prideful possession as she rode over the rolling landscape. She knew the spread wasn’t hers—she was well aware it belonged to those nameless, faceless tycoons back east—but in all the ways that mattered, this was her home. It was where she had grown up and where she planned to spend the rest of her days.
Her father had wanted a son and had raised her accordingly, but she bore no grudges against him for that. She’d always been glad she could ride and shoot and dab a loop on a steer if she needed to. Those were useful skills for anyone to have on the frontier, male or female.
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