45

IF HE WAS right—if—it could explain a lot. If.

Seventy head of cattle trailed across the Sheephorns to the reservation last spring and seventy head again last fall. A hundred forty head driven over there last fall. A hundred forty. Same number that the winter kill report was off the mark.

One hundred forty head of M Bar C stock that were driven away in broad daylight for . . . what had it taken? . . . eight or nine days each time . . . by M Bar C hands, Jug included. But if he was right about this, Eli Poole went and stole those beeves from his employers. And while he was at it the son of a bitch stole the work of the cowboys who unknowingly helped him with his thievery.

That, Jug thought, was pretty damned low.

If he was right.

He grimaced. Felt pretty sure he was right about it. The coincidence of the numbers was just too great to ignore.

Poor, stupid Eli must’ve been some kind of nervous once he discovered those letters all got wet and Jug put them back in order. Otherwise neither Jug nor any of the boys could’ve had any inkling about the theft they’d gone and committed for a foreman they trusted and against the very employer who was paying their wages.

That was disloyalty in spades, wasn’t it? Like to made Jug’s stomach turn.

But it fit. It was after Jug handed over those opened and sorted-out letters that Eli quit joining Jug for breakfast.

Of course he couldn’t sit there at the same table. He didn’t want to be questioned about things that he’d have no answers for.

Jug was willing to bet that was also just exactly when Eli started looking for ways and excuses to get Jug off the place lest he peach to the deal.

Eli needed to get rid of Jug before Jug turned around and got rid of him. SOB sure came up with a king-sized lie to get that job done, too. Jug wondered how long it’d taken him to work it out.

He could count on Jug making time for all the kids on the spring drive. He always did. Always took time for them and their sometimes silly questions. Always told the same ghost story and pretty much always taught the same few rope tricks . . . it wasn’t like Jug knew so all-fired many that he could come up with new ones year after year if the truth be known.

All of that made it easy for Poole though, didn’t it? Once he got the idea—and such a mean and miserable idea it was, to put something like that onto a man who’d given him nothing but loyalty—Eli only had to bide his time for a few weeks and then start the rumors to flowing.

God, it was an ugly thing he’d done.

Jug’s own question now was what he could do about it.

He scowled and pondered and after a few minutes of fuming decided the first thing he needed to do was make sure he was right about this.

Then . . . well, then he’d see. He would just have to see.

“C’mon, horse. You got more walking t’ do.” He reined the brown higher and deeper into the Sheephorns while behind him Eli Poole and Evie Goodrun romped and played in the meadow.