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An hour later, after the boys had gone to bed and Bernice and Jasper had retired to their quarters, Bull sat alone on the unlit porch with his boots on the rail, an empty Corona bottle at his feet and a half-smoked Marlboro between his lips. The spring night was clear, the stars like a spill of gold dust across a velvet sky.
A bat swooped low over the porch, chasing clouds of newly hatched spring insects. In the distant foothills, two coyotes serenaded each other with lovelorn wails.
The party outside the bunkhouse was in full swing, with a glowing bonfire, raucous music, and laughter, punctuated by an occasional curse over an unlucky throw of the dice. Some horseplay was allowed, but brawling was forbidden, and any cowhand who brought a gun or knife to the celebration would be fired. In the years Bull had been giving these post-roundup parties, he’d yet to be called upon to deal with a problem among his men.
All in all, today had been a good day, he mused. The roundup was over with all the stock accounted for. Even the missing cows Jasper had reported earlier had been found in a hidden gulley where they’d wandered in search of succulent spring grass.
Best of all, perhaps, he’d foiled Ferg Prescott’s latest plot to frame him for a crime, then blackmail him into giving up that creek property. As soon as Rose had told him about those Prescott cattle in the box canyon, he’d known what the conniving skunk was up to. That one phone call was all it had taken to cut the bastard’s scheme off at the pass.
But one thing still troubled him. As he and Will were washing up for the party, Will had told him about finding a man lying on the ground—a man who’d looked as if he might be dead. Rose had sent the boys on their way while she went back and helped him.
Why hadn’t Rose mentioned the incident earlier? Was she hiding something? Had Ferg bought more from her than her old car?
“I was hoping I’d find you out here, Bull.” As if his thoughts could conjure her, Rose came striding around the house and mounted the porch steps. “Now that the roundup’s over, there are things we need to discuss.”
“All right. Sit down.” Bull knew what she had in mind, but he was set on a different conversation. Rose had a pushy way about her, but she wasn’t the one in charge here, he reminded himself. He was the boss of the Rimrock, and within its borders his word was law.
“Before you start on me, I want to talk to you about what happened today.” He tossed his cigarette butt into the gravel below the porch and watched the smoldering dot die into darkness. “I know what you told me about finding the cattle. But tonight Will mentioned that he’d seen a man on the ground—a man he’d thought was dead. I could tell he was pretty upset about it. Why didn’t you say something to me?”
Rose settled back in the chair, her hands clasped around one knee. “I was hoping Will would tell you that he found the man because he disobeyed me and rode ahead of Beau and me. Did he?”
“He did, and he’ll be punished for it. I’ve taught my boys to be honest, especially with their father. But tell me about the man, Rose. Was he really dead?”
“No.” She gazed past him, as if studying the flow of moon shadows on the gravel. “He’d been shot, but the bullet had only grazed his head and knocked him out. I gave him water, cleaned him up some, and made sure he could ride. Then I left him and caught up with your boys. That’s the last I saw of him.”
“Did he say who shot him?”
“He said he’d glimpsed a movement in the rocks above the canyon. But beyond that, he didn’t even remember being shot. Is there any chance you might have cattle rustlers on the Rimrock?”
“If I do, they don’t
work for me. All my men were busy with the roundup. And herding those cattle into the canyon was Ferg’s doing. He was just up to his old tricks, wanting to get me in trouble.” Bull was growing impatient. This was a puzzle, and he didn’t like puzzles. He liked to know what he was dealing with so he could face it head-on.
“You didn’t think to ask his name?”
She turned and looked at him then, with eyes like dark flint. “I didn’t have to. He was the man who drove me to town when I bought the truck.”
“So he was Ferg’s man?”
“Yes. His name was—is—Tanner McCade.”
Bull chewed on that information in silence. Piece by piece, the puzzle was sliding together.
If Ferg had carried out the so-called theft of his own cattle, why would he have ordered the shooting of one of his own men?
Unless, along with cattle rustling, he’d wanted to pin a murder on the Rimrock.
The murder of an undercover TSCRA ranger.
A ranger named Tanner McCade.
* * *
Huddled in the chair, Rose held her tongue, giving Bull time to mull over what she’d told him. She was no mind reader, but she knew she’d done him a favor today. With luck, he might be grateful enough to listen to her request.
But she should have known better.
Bull cleared his throat. “I know what you want, Rose. But let me give you some advice. My father always used to say, ‘Trust a skunk before a rattlesnake, and a rattlesnake before a Prescott.’ I’ve held to the same counsel, and so should you. I know Ferg helped you out, buying that old car and having his man drive you to town. But Ferg never did anything out of the goodness of his heart—if the bastard even has a heart. He wants that creek property, and if I turn it over to you, sure as the sun comes up in the morning, he’ll find a way to take it for himself.”
