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Rose’s truck bounced over ruts and holes as she tore up the winding dirt road to the Rimrock’s canyon pasture. Bernice, who’d taken charge of the boys, had told her where to find Bull. Driven by urgency, she’d broken all sensible speed limits getting to him. Any way you looked at it, finding stolen Prescott cattle on Rimrock property was serious trouble.
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.”
