Page 81 of Runaway Hucow

“Out of the question,” he said. “Too dangerous.”

He was being stubborn. That was to be expected. But Tess knew how to be stubborn too.

“It won’t be dangerous if you do it right,” she said. “And I’ve got a plan.”

Roscoe’s expression remained stern, but Tess could see a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. She stared him down for a full minute before he finally broke.

“Alright, little hucow. I’m listening.”

CHAPTER 41

The auctioneer had a smile on his face as he made his way across town. It had been a good long while since he’d been so happy. A fortnight, to be exact. He’d been in a black mood ever since that night in the stable when that little bitch of a hucow had gotten the better of him. It had taken a full week for the ache in his balls to go away, but the ache in his mind had persisted, like a storm cloud that wouldn’t go away.

Until tonight.

A messenger had arrived at his office just as the sun was going down. The auctioneer had been closing up shop, and he’d almost turned the man away, until he’d heard the message he was carrying.

“Come quick,” the man had said. “There’s a bounty hunter waiting for you down at the Mother Lode, and he’s got that runaway hucow you been looking for.”

“You’re sure it’s her?” the auctioneer had asked.

“Pretty sure,” the man had said. “She fits the description. Long black hair. Big brown eyes. And tits…” The man used his hands to illustrate the size and shape of the mammaries in question.

Of course, all hucows were built like that, and black hair and brown eyes weren’t such rare traits either. Still, the auctioneer wanted to believe it was true. For the past fourteen days, all he’d thought about was getting his hands on that sneaky little heifer—and all the things he was going to do to her afterward.

He was going to make that bitch pay.

So now, here he was, marching his way down the boardwalk in the newly fallen dark. The shops were all closed up for the evening, but the lights were on in the restaurants and various dens of inequity where the night life lived. A few of the whores called to him from their windows overlooking the street, but the auctioneer ignored them. Tonight he was on a mission.

Why had the bounty hunter chosen the Mother Lode, he wondered. Why hadn’t he just come to his office directly? Maybe the man was worried the auctioneer would try to shortchange him on the reward, so he wanted to do the transaction in public.

Or maybe the bounty hunter was planning a double-cross of his own. Well, just let him try it. The auctioneer had two of his biggest cowboys with him tonight, and both of them were wearing pistols on their hips. Their boots thunked heavily on the boards as they walked behind him. The two cowboys would be more than a match for a lone gunman, and as soon as the bounty hunter saw them, whatever foul play he might have been considering would immediately be forgotten.

You never could trust bounty hunters.

In general, they were a lazy, shiftless lot. The auctioneer had hired three of them the very same night the runaway hucow had pulled one over on him. The men must have given up on their mission however, because they’d never returned. The buggers were probably down in New Mexico by now, drinking away the small advance he had paid them.

After that, he’d put wanted posters up around Crooked Valley, promising a reward of five hundred dollars to any man who brought the hucow in. By then, the man who’d bought her at the auction had demanded his money back and returned to his ranch in Colorado Springs.

Then, about a week ago, a message had come across the airwaves. The auctioneer had a deal worked out with the local telegraph operator. Usually, he just paid the operator to keep an ear open for any messages that might be good for business, which was how he had gotten his hands on the runaway hucow in the first place. But after the hucow had escaped, the auctioneer had paid the telegraph man to transcribe everything, and he had read every message that came through the office. Every last one.

When the auctioneer had seen the message to Shannon Duffy down in Lamentation, Arizona, he knew he was in luck. Shannon Duffy was the woman rancher who had arranged to buy the hucow several months back, before the auctioneer had swooped in and taken her for himself.

The telegram had contained a set of coordinates that didn’t seem to match any town or settlement on the map, but the auctioneer was sure that was where the runaway hucow was hiding. He’d dispatched a pair of bounty hunters to go look for her at that location.

That had been a week ago, and those men still hadn’t returned either.

The dumbasses had probably gotten lost.

But none of that mattered now. Some enterprising bounty hunter had found the hucow on his own, and he’d brought her back to Crooked Valley to claim his reward. Soon the bitch would be back in the auctioneer’s possession, and then the fun would start. He had a special cattle prod picked out especially for her, and the batteries were fully charged. He could hardly wait.

The Mother Lode Saloon was one of the oldest gin mills in town. Its name was a holdover from the days when Crooked Valley had been a boom town, back before the firestone mines had run out. The saloon had seen better days. The sign over the door was weathered and faded with age, and a few of the panes in the windows had been broken out by brawlers and never replaced. The location was good, though. Right in the heart of Crooked Valley. Directly across from the auction block, in fact.

The auctioneer pushed open the swinging doors and stepped inside. His two bodyguards followed right behind him, spurs jingling.

Business was slow tonight.

Aside from the bartender, there were only two people in the saloon. The two people the auctioneer had come to meet.