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Triplehorn didn’t reply, but
his expression went rigid. “You don’t scare me, Mister. I got a medal for gunning down twenty-six Viet Cong in ’Nam. The next time I catch you alone, you might not be as lucky as you were the last time.”
The words rocked Tanner, but he knew better than to show it. It made perfect sense that Triplehorn had been the one to shoot him from the escarpment that day in the desert. But if the man had been acting on orders from Ferg, the implications were staggering.
Triplehorn got into his Jeep and roared out of the parking lot. Tanner gave him a head start, then drove off the way the Jeep was headed. If the vet was going to the Prescott Ranch, there was no need to hurry. If not, it didn’t matter. Triplehorn was small potatoes. Tanner’s business was with the man’s boss.
He was mad as hell, but he kept his pickup below the speed limit. There was little doubt in his mind that Triplehorn had been sent to kill Rose’s lambs. Maybe the bastard had been paid to spy on Rose, too, or at least somebody had. As for the shot that had nearly killed him that day in the canyon . . . but that would have to wait until he had proof.
For now, he knew better than to think he could pin anything on Ferg legally. Ferg was too slippery for that. But if he could put some fear into the Prescott boss, at least it might stop him from harassing Rose.
Ferg wouldn’t be glad to see him, Tanner knew. Twice he’d been the bearer of bad news—the first time after Ferg had faked the theft of his cattle, and the second time when Ferg’s own son had been caught rustling the family’s prime steers. His .38 pistol and gun belt were under the seat of the truck. He might be smart to strap them on, in case anybody had ideas about taking him by surprise.
It was twilight by the time he reached the Prescott Ranch. Acting on a hunch, Tanner parked next to the barn, strapped on the gun belt, and, keeping to the shadows, made his way toward the house.
His hunch paid off. Triplehorn’s Jeep was parked at the foot of the front steps. Tanner was keeping low, behind the shrubbery, when the front door opened. Triplehorn, clearly in a sour mood, came outside, stomped down the steps, and roared away in his Jeep.
Tanner gave him a few minutes, then walked into the open.
Ferg’s office was dark, but Tanner could see light and movement in the windows of the dining room. With luck he’d caught Ferg at dinner. He could only hope his visit would give the bastard indigestion.
His anger mounted as he climbed the front steps, crossed the porch, and rang the front doorbell. When the aging cook opened the door, Tanner pushed past him without a word and strode into the dining room, with its ghastly array of mounted trophies around the walls.
Ferg was about to cut into a thick rib eye steak. His jaw dropped as Tanner walked in to face him across the table, but he recovered swiftly, arranging his features into a crocodile smile.
“I don’t recall inviting you to dinner, McCade. Sorry I can’t share this steak with you. I trust you’ll forgive me if I eat it before it gets cold.”
He cut himself a bite. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Only to tell you that the next time you send Deke Triplehorn to do your dirty work, even if it’s just killing lambs, it’s going to be on you.”
“Triplehorn?” Ferg feigned ignorance. “I’d remember that name. But I’ve never met the man.”
“That’s not what I heard at the Blue Coyote. And unless I need glasses, I saw him leaving here a few minutes ago.”
Ferg’s gaze flickered to the pistol at Tanner’s hip. “You can’t prove a damned thing, McCade. Hell, you’re not even a lawman. You’re a TSCRA ranger, a friggin’ cowcatcher. So get out of here and let me finish my dinner.”
“Not until I tell you that if you or your goons ever go near Rose again, and that includes spying on her . . .”
A smile slid across Ferg’s face. “So it’s you. I heard the little lady had a gentleman caller. Congratulations. She’s a nice piece of ass—in the dark, at least.”
Tanner battled the urge to hurl himself across the table and smash the man’s ugly face. “So you are spying on her!”
Ferg laughed. “That’s my right, to keep an eye on the neighbors as long as I don’t go on their property. The young man I’ve assigned to the job has orders not to disturb her. So it’s perfectly legal, and there’s nothing—”
He broke off as the front door burst open. A gangly young man with a big nose and a bumper crop of pimples burst in, wild-eyed and out of breath.
“Something’s up!” he gasped. “I saw two men, sneaking around her trailer! I couldn’t see their faces in the dark, but I could hear them talking. They were talking Mexican!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE CHICKENS WERE STIRRING IN THEIR COOP, CLUCKING, SQUAWKING, and ruffling their feathers. Rose, who had a long history with chickens, knew the signs. Something was spooking them.
It was most likely a coyote nosing around, she thought. Or maybe a weasel, or even an owl. The coop had been built to keep out predators, but it wouldn’t hurt to chase the creature away, in the hope that it wouldn’t come back.
But what if the intruder wasn’t an animal?
She rose from her seat on the step of the trailer and went inside, locking the door behind her. Her loaded gun was under the pillow, where she kept it. Her hand closed around the weapon’s cold, reassuring weight. It was too bad the batteries had burned out on her flashlight. She could have used it now. But she wasn’t about to cower inside the trailer and leave her chickens unprotected. Thumbing back the pistol’s hammer, she opened the door of the trailer and stepped outside again.
