Tom answered with, “Hear you two’ve been in O’Hara Hill, talking to Ernie and Dorrie.”
So I didn’t even need to tell him Diana was with me and listening.
“How do you know that?” I wasn’t surprised. More curious about which branch of the Cottonwood County grapevine transmitted this time.
“Mike messaged. Says we’re going for another late-night discussion at your place tonight.”
“If you can’t because of Tamantha—”
“She’s fine. Has a sleepover tonight. Already scheduled.” A sleepover scheduled the same night we’d had a date scheduled… I jerked my thoughts away from that when he added, “Remember Clyde?”
“Your neighbor. Member of the grazing association. One of the people who had cattle rustled, presumably by York.” As well as another run-in, according to Needham. But I wasn’t bringing that up right now. “That Clyde?”
“Yep. Wants you to come by and hear what he has to say.”
“He wants us to or you want us to?”
“Both.”
“Okay. Are you going to tell us what it’s about?”
“Nope.”
He then gave directions to Diana that lost me after “Turn off the highway — you know where.”
“Something else,” he said when he was done. “I talked to Badger.”
“Great. What did he say?”
“No way,” Tom said, at the same time Diana gave me a you-had-to-know-that-wouldn’t-work grimace. “When we’re all together, just like you.”
“I have a question — at least an observation — that doesn’t need to wait until we’re all together.”
His reply nicely balanced wariness and amusement. “What’s that?”
“You’ve never been this gung-ho about investigating.”
Before anything came through the phone from Tom, Diana said to me, “I’m betting you aren’t the only one Tamantha told to get busy.”
“Oh-ho. And you were going to set things straight with her.”
He sighed. “Are you two comedians coming or not?”
“We’re coming. We haven’t even started with the jokes, but we’re coming.”
* * * *
Diana guided us easily to where two ranch trucks kept company along the side of the road.
I parked behind Tom’s truck. As we walked past it, the men finished placing tools and a roll of barbed wire in the back of one truck, presumably Clyde’s.
Tom made an economical introduction of “Elizabeth, this is Clyde. Clyde, Elizabeth,” as he pulled off work gloves. Diana and Clyde said their hellos with congenial nods. Clyde pulled off only his right glove to shake my hand.
He was a few inches taller than me, with a chin beard growing gray and brown in a distinct pattern, like a dog’s markings. The outside corners of his eyes turned down, so when he squinted, they became crescents.
A silence fell.
Silence can be a powerful tool for an interviewer, pulling truths or revelations from reluctant interviewees.
This silence felt as if it had the potential to last forever.
“So, Clyde, Tom tells us your sharp eyes spotted some of his branded cows with calves carrying the Lukasik brand.”
“Yep.”
“How did you happen to see them?”
“Went to Furman York to get my horse trailer back. Used it months ago for that ugly brute of his Bonedrin.” He shook his head. “Knew a call wouldn’t get him to bring it back, so went to get it. Came up on young Gable and he told me in general where York was.
“Got there and didn’t see anybody. Followed this little track and there he was, off in a draw on the Lukasik place I doubt half a dozen people in the county know about. When I got there, York and a new hand they’d signed I wouldn’t trust around a polecat, much less cattle, were branding calves.
“Never seen York work so hard. Never seen him turn so green when he spotted me, either. Wanted to know right off who sent me there. Told him I didn’t know the hand. Seemed familiar, but couldn’t identify him.”
Clyde allowed himself a tight smile.
“He was that eager to get me out of there, he even agreed on the spot to take me to the trailer — and for once he did what he said he would. Probably afraid I’d return to his hidey-hole. But I’d seen what he’d tried to hide. Circle B cows.”
“When was this, Clyde?”
He rubbed his chin. “Two days before yesterday, it was. Got with Tom right off.”
“And I confronted York the next day at the grazing association. He’d already unloaded some of my cows with their calves branded Lukasik, but caught him with more in the hauler.”
“Took video, too,” Clyde added.
“Were you there?” I asked him.
“Yep. I took the video.”
Diana asked Tom, “Have you shown it to Shelton?”
“Not yet. Been busy.” His head tipped toward the fence. “Did mine before we came over here.”
I asked, “The rustlers tear down fencing to get the cattle out?”
“Not always.” He might have left it at that, until I popped up my eyebrows sharply in impatient questioning. “A lot put the fence back so it’s not noticed right off. These thieves left it gaping.”
Adding destructiveness to theft.
I turned to Clyde. “You’re one of the grazing association members who had rustlers hit you here, on your home ranch?”
“Yep. Others before. Tom and me most recent.”
Diana asked, “Have you talked to the others, Tom?”
“Not yet. Was there something else you wanted to say, Clyde?”
I waited for the story about York luring him into writing a check to the Bernie Madoff of the West, only to be saved by a fluke of timing when law enforcement made the arrest.
“Strange thing about this? They could have hurt me a lot worse if they’d taken my registered Angus from the next pasture over.”
He jerked his head toward an up-sloping area past the side fence, where five cows grazed peacefully.
“They’re high-performing purebreds,” he said with pride. “Don’t get me wrong, the rustlers hurt me plenty. But it could have been worse. Could’ve been a whole lot worse if they’d taken them, too.”
Tom nodded in silent agreement.
“Could the rustlers have known about them in the dark?” I asked.
“They’d have known,” Clyde said. “Rustlers don’t come blind to a spot in the middle of the night. Too risky. They know ahead of time where they’re going to hit and how they’re going to do it. That means they find the spots in daylight. Know where there’s not traffic that somebody going by could spot them, where they can’t be seen from a house, not even reflected light.”
I nodded wisely to all this, as if I’d known rustlers cased the joint, so to speak.
“But you’re still leaving those — the Angus — out here?”
“Sleeping in my truck,” Clyde said. “Got a couple of the dogs out, too. They’ll raise a fuss if anybody comes ’round. It’s only ’til I can get fences up on a section near the house. The airport wants me today and with this loss I can’t say no to any work they’re willing to give.”
“We’ll get that done, Clyde. Tomorrow suit you?”
“More than suit, Tom. But—”
“I’ll make a few calls. Let you know when. If you’re at the airport, get your dad to come by and keep us on track.”
“He’ll do that. He’ll definitely do that, the old buzzard.”
And thus was passed the danger of giving or receiving gratitude.