31

Mama! Mama!” Jimmy Prewsky came running in the back door. “I got to slop the hogs! It’s so fun!”

Behind him, his sister Ella burst in yelling, “And a baby pig got out of the pen, and I helped Gretchen catch it and put it back in! It’s only this long!” She held her hands apart to show the size. “Did you hear it squealing? The mama charged right into the fence!”

Grinning, Gretchen came in with an armload of wood and rolled it into the woodbox. “Okay, you two, the woodbox needs filling.”

Cassie was laughing with everyone else. “Gretchen, I never heard you get that excited about slopping the hogs. In fact, you’re usually a little grumpy.”

More laughter.

“I must have been doing something wrong.” Gretchen was laughing too. “Come on, let’s get more wood or Mor won’t be able to cook dinner.” The two followed after her, carrying the canvas sling. When they returned, they each had a handle and groaned as they lifted the load into the woodbox. They peered down into the wooden box by the stove and stared at Gretchen.

“Do we have to fill it all up?”

“Not right now.” Mavis saved them with a smile. “Did you all wash your hands?”

Jimmy sniffed. “Now you sound like Mama.”

“I am a mama. Breakfast time.”

Cassie settled with the others at the table. Ransom and Arnett had built a table extension, but it was still crowded. Besides Cassie, Gretchen, Ransom, Arnett, and Mavis, there sat Mr. and Mrs. Prewsky and their three children, Jimmy, Ella, and Jan. Mr. Prewsky was rightly proud that his father had come from Poland as a young man and still pronounced their name the Polish way: Prev-sky. Jan, pronounced Yon, had been the father’s name. Cassie noted that Gretchen was having a high old time with the three children and even had them enthusiastic about weeding the garden, while hauling wood was fast losing its shine.

Mavis had once asked how the time went so fast. Cassie agreed. First the show, then the rodeo on the fourth, then the Prewskys here for a week of adventuring, and five days of that week were gone already. Where did the time go?

Mrs. Prewsky—Evelyn, that is—paused, her mouth working, savoring. “This corn bread is delicious. My grandmother cooked on a woodstove, but we’ve always used gas. Once you get used to it, a woodstove does a wonderful job.”

Mr. Prewsky nodded. “Especially on slow roasts, like this ham.”

Jimmy announced, “After breakfast, Ransom and I are going to shoe Biscuit.”

Mr. Prewsky frowned. “Don’t you have a farrier in town?”

“Only one, and he has three apprentices,” Ransom replied. “But thousands of horses. So most people here do their own shoeing and just take problems to him. If your horse develops a sand crack or toes in or strikes, he’ll build a shoe to correct it. He loves to do that. Sets a very fine scotch toe too.”

Gretchen turned her head to listen. “Someone’s coming in.”

Mavis stood. “You folks take your time finishing up.” She headed for the front door.

Why was the back of Cassie’s neck prickling again? She followed Mavis out. She could feel Ransom right behind her, a reassuring feeling.

Sheriff McDougal drew his horse to a halt and dismounted. “Morning, Mavis. How’s your guest ranch doing?”

“So far, wonderful. Good morning, Ed.”

Beyond him a high-wheel buggy rattled into the yard, with those two dark men driving! Jason’s business associates! Where was Jason? Cassie’s chest tightened. But then, the sheriff was here. She was safe. The two got out of their buggy and stepped in behind the sheriff.

“You all met Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones here. Just to let you know, they’re out on bail. The judge set it kind of high since he decided they’re at risk for leaving town. But they said they were coming out here on business, so after that last altercation, I decided it best if I came along.”

“Welcome.” Mavis’s voice had never in Cassie’s memory sounded so cold.

The sheriff lost his look of business and narrowed his eyes, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’m sorry, Mavis. I have some bad news. That Talbot fellow admitted he owes these people a lot of money, so he drew up a list of all his assets for them to take to partly satisfy his debt. I stood there watching while he was doing it so there’d be no coercion. He had it notarized. Mr. Talbot says Cassie was taking care of some of the things on it for him. He swears they’re his but she’s been keeping them for him.”

“What things? A list. Show me.” Ransom stepped up beside his mother.

Sheriff McDougal handed it to him. “I told him that wagon he listed burned, but he was thinking there might be two and this is the other one.”

Cassie realized Arnett had stepped in between her and Ransom. He took the list from Ransom’s hand and studied it. Cassie caught her breath and swallowed the words she’d been about to utter. Somehow, the rickety old Arnett looked and acted powerful. That was the only word she could think of. Powerful, and he radiated wisdom. That was it! Cassie suddenly felt more confident herself. Apparently Ransom did too, because he was letting Arnett take over.

Arnett nodded, rubbing his chin. “This says two, but there was only one wagon. Like we said, that burned last winter when those hellions decided to play vigilante. All that’s left of that wagon is the springs. You’re welcome to take the springs, Mr. Smith. I’m supposing the heat destroyed their temper, so we’re right glad to get rid of ’em. And I’ll watch while you cross the wagon off the list so it don’t come up again. The springs are behind that cabin right up the hill there.”

Scowling, Mr. Smith borrowed a pen from the sheriff and scratched out the wagon.

“Hmm.” Arnett pointed. “And it says here three buffalo.” He waved toward the near pasture. “There they are. There’s more than three now, because they reproduce themselves, you know. So pick any three you wish. They’re all available. Ransom, give this Mr. Jones a rope so he can go get his buffalo.”

Cassie realized what was about to happen. Keeping her face straight took a real burst of effort.

“No need,” said Mr. Jones. “We brought our own rope.” He pulled a knot of ropes out of the back of the buggy and strode over to the fence. “Uh, how do you get in?”

Equally sober, Ransom opened the gate for him.

He stepped inside and stopped. “Here.” He thrust his wad of rope toward Ransom. “You go get ’em.”

Ransom stepped back, both hands held up. “It’s your buffalo, you get ’em.”

Mr. Jones waved to Cassie. “Then you come help me. Herd them into a corner.”

“If you wish.” Cassie walked into the pasture, and Ransom closed the gate behind her.

She did not have to tell George what to do. The massive defender of the herd moved forward, his head low, and stopped.

From behind the fence, Mr. Smith shouted, “We want that big one for sure. It’s the only one that looks like a real buffalo.”

“The big one,” Mr. Jones muttered. “Right.” He fought to untangle his mess of rope.

Mr. Smith called, “You! Miss Lockwood! Help him!”

“Yes, sir.” Cassie obediently started toward George, being careful to stay well aside.

Mr. Jones stepped toward George, a rope finally draped at the ready in his hands.

George stepped toward Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones hesitated.

With a snort the huge buffalo lowered his head and lunged forward.

Mr. Jones dropped his rope, wheeled, and raced for the fence. They both arrived at the rails at about the same time.

As the man scrambled over the top rail, George’s curved horn hooked his pant leg. George swung his head high, and Mr. Jones sailed into the air well above the top rail. He landed heavily near Ransom’s feet. The attacker dispatched, George trotted back to his herd, tail twitching.

Mr. Smith scowled at his prostrate business colleague. “Not worth taking the buffaloes. And we don’t want those wagon horses. They’re at least fourteen years old. With automobiles coming in, old horses aren’t worth the expense of taking them to a horse sale. But we want that paint horse out there. Get a good price for that one.”

Cassie gasped. “You can’t have him. My father gave him to me when he was a colt.”

“Prove it.”

She felt the tears burning. “I had registration papers on him, in my name, but they burned with the wagon. I swear, he was never Jason’s. He’s always been mine!”

“Not according to this inventory list.” Mr. Smith waved it for emphasis. “Talbot swore it’s his.”

“Well now, you know,” Arnett drawled, “talk about old horses. This here is the daddy of that horse you saw in the show yesterday. We keep the trick horse stabled elsewhere ’cause those two don’t get along so good.”

Mr. Smith looked at him suspiciously. “Well, I’m taking this one anyway.”

Sheriff McDougal wagged his head. “I’m sorry about this, Cassie. I really am. You can send away, get your registration papers replaced, and then challenge his ownership in court. But as of now, his list is legal, at least as far as we know. Go get your horse, please.”

No! Oh, God, please, no! God, her prayers shot heavenward. Behind her, Ransom was arguing vehemently with Sheriff McDougal, but she knew it would do no good. The men had that list, the list Jason had given them. Jason had willingly lied about Wind Dancer and the buffalo, just to forgive a few dollars more of his debt. To think she gave even a second of thought to signing Jason’s contract! And that was before she knew these two were involved.

Now Ransom was offering to buy Wind Dancer, but Smith refused.

Cassie paused. Why wasn’t Mavis saying anything? Cassie turned so she could see Mavis, who had her head lowered, eyes closed. Please, Lord, hear her prayer! Are you listening?

Cassie shifted her gaze to plead with Sheriff McDougall, but he shook his head, his eyes sad. No! Please, no! She picked up the lead line Mr. Jones had dropped and walked out to Wind Dancer. He stood there, his ears twitching as if he too were trying to understand what was happening. Always aware of her feelings, he stretched his neck and sniffed the rope, then nuzzled her chest. No, God! She tied the rope around his neck in a bowline and flipped a twist over his nose. It was all he ever needed in the way of a halter, not that he even needed that. He’d follow her anywhere. Get on, ride him out! Away! But where? They would always come find them.

She sobbed into his mane. Oh, please, dear Lord, don’t let them take Wind Dancer! She wiped her tears. Maybe she ought to pray differently. God already knew she didn’t want to lose her horse. How? What to do? She stroked his neck. Please, Lord, show me how to save Wind Dancer from these people. Please help me!

From the corral rail, Mr. Smith snarled, “Hurry up!”

She called back, “I can’t!” She needed more time for God to answer. She knew Mavis was praying mightily, probably the others were too. “Slow and easy.” The words her father always used when working with animals. “Slow and easy.” She started the long walk back toward the group, slowly putting one foot in front of the other.

A wicked, intriguing thought popped into her head, part of an old show routine, a really old routine. She and Wind Dancer had not performed it for years. Would he even remember the voice command? She must try!

Again the fellow called, “I said, Hurry up! We don’t have all day.”

Quietly, she murmured, “Oh, drop dead.”

Obediently Wind Dancer buckled his knees and rolled to his side on the ground, playing dead. He waited, all relaxed, for her command to rise.

She called to the men, “There, see? I told you I can’t hurry. When he tries to hurry, this always happens. Now we have to wait till he wakes up.”

A whole lot of arguing broke out over at the rail. Mr. Jones was back on his feet and holding his belly. The two dark men barked at each other, at the sheriff, at Ransom. Cassie watched, her eyes widening as Sheriff McDougal handed Mr. Smith a pen. They were making some adjustment to that inventory list. Scratching out the paint horse? Oh, she hoped so!

The two men climbed into their buggy, twisted their horse’s head aside roughly, and sent it at a fast trot out the lane.

“Well, I’ll be. Guess their list wasn’t so important after all.” He turned to watch Cassie, who was just closing the gate on Wind Dancer. Her beautiful, clever, wonderful horse, which had dramatically regained his health or lost his excess years, tossed his head and nickered. The sheriff smiled. “He is one beautiful animal, Cassie, and I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am I didn’t have to haul him away.” He went back to watching the spiral of dust departing out the lane. “How’d you get him to do that?”

Cassie grinned back at him. “I’ll never tell. Guess he just got tired.”

McDougal turned to Mavis and rubbed his hands together. “Now! That invitation to coffee still open?”

———

Mavis felt so relieved she could dance. Or sing. Or something. Thank you, God! She led the way toward the house. “It is, but I have a question. You think Smith and Jones were their real names?”

“I’m sure they weren’t, but I didn’t bother to try to find out more. They’ll run out on their bail, and I’m fine with that.” Ed lifted his hat and tipped it toward Cassie. “I know it sounds hackneyed, little lady, but my hat is off to you.” He looked at Arnett. “When did you get to be so wise? I woulda thought you were a lawyer or some such the way you studied those papers.”

But Arnett was frowning. “Somethin’s bothering me over that, Sheriff. Why’d you believe liars and thieves like that over us, folks you’ve known and trusted for all these years?”

Mavis opened the front door and ushered them inside.

“They had a legal piece of paper is all I can say, and any judge would have said I had to enforce it. That’s one side of my job that I’d gladly give away. I’m just grateful it all ended well.”

“Thanks be to God.” Mavis led the way to the kitchen to find the table cleared, the dishes washed and put away, and their guest family out weeding and hoeing the garden. “Well, I’ll be . . .” She rattled the grate and, after inserting a couple of small hunks of wood, carried the coffeepot to the sink to wash and refill. “Cassie, would you please bring the applesauce cake from the pantry, and Gretchen, a pitcher of cream.”

“I promised that young man we’d shoe Biscuit, so I’ll pass on the coffee.” Ransom headed out back. Mavis heard him call, “Come on, Jimmy, and anyone else who wants to come too. We’ll shoe Biscuit, and when we finish, Gretchen can give you kids another riding lesson.”

When Cassie picked up the cake pan, she caught her breath and fought the tears that threatened. She’d almost lost Wind Dancer. She locked her knees to keep them from buckling and grabbed on to the counter. How could a man who claimed to be her friend, even to being called Uncle Jason, act like that? How could she ever have trusted him? He even lied about her father.

“Are you all right?” Gretchen asked, standing right at her shoulder. “Should I get Mor?”

Cassie shook her head. “I’ll talk with her later.” She picked up the cake pan again. “We have company, so on with the show.” She could keep it all together till evening, couldn’t she?