It was a good bet the horses were stolen. It was equally certain a cautious man wouldn’t say so. They were obvious hardcases, all.
The four men sat their horses easily, ranged around the thirty or so head of horses, keeping them bunched. The obvious leader of the four, hands folded on his saddle horn with the reins between them, chatted amicably with the rancher.
‘I don’t recognize any o’ them brands,’ the sun-bronzed rancher offered. ‘They ain’t from around here.’
‘Naw, they ain’t,’ the horse trader agreed. ‘We been tradin’ for a good piece a’ready. We started out north o’ Laredo with seven good mules. We worked our way up through the Indian Nation, swung over into Colorado, along the east slope o’ the mountains, there. We been on the trail for pertneart a year.’
‘Uh huh,’ the rancher fretted. It was obvious he was uncomfortable. ‘What’re you askin’ for ’em?’
‘If you can use the whole bunch, we’ll let you have ’em for fifteen dollars a head. If you just wanta pick out some, they’ll be twenty.’
‘Uh huh. They all well broke?’
‘Yup. Some better’n others, naturally. Some of ’em are good workin’ horses. Some are rideable, but ain’t been taught much. Them two roan geldings are right good ranch horses. They got a lot o’ cow in ’em. The sorrel stud ain’t so good for workin’. He tends to be pretty studdy, but he’d make a fine stud for buildin’ a herd. Them three paint mares are gentle, but two of ’em are a mite lazy. Over all, it’s a good bunch o’ horses. We’ll sell ’em for cash money or trade, if you got some you’re wantin’ to get rid of, or just want some new blood in your remuda.’
None of the four had failed to notice the half dozen ranch-hands that seemed to be drifting aimlessly around the ranch yard. As they appeared to be attending to various chores, they had positioned themselves so that they formed a large half circle. The horse traders and the small herd they were proffering were well covered, should a confrontation develop.
Watching his crew from the corners of his eyes, without appearing to, the rancher became more confident enough to broach what he considered the most important question at hand. He said it as a statement of fact, but it was an undisguised question. ‘I ’spect you’ve got bills o’ sale for all of em.’
The horse trader grinned as if there were no implied accusation in the question. ‘Sure thing. And I’ll sure give you a bill o’ sale on any or all of ’em as well. They’re sure clean.’
‘They’re clean, but they ain’t yours.’
The words shot through every man in the ranch yard like a bolt of lightning. All eyes swivelled as one to the speaker.
As if he were an apparition from out of nowhere, he stood facing the leader of the horse wranglers. Nobody present had ever seen him before. Nobody had seem him approach. That, in itself, seemed impossible, but there he stood.
His pale blue eyes were hard and flat. His posture was deceivingly casual. His left thumb was hooked in the front of a cartridge belt. It, in turn, held a well-worn Colt .45, tied low on his right thigh. His right hand hung relaxed just by its grip.
The leader of the horse wranglers moved his own hand nearer his gun butt. ‘Whatd’ya mean, they ain’t mine? I got a bill o’ sale for every one of ’em. Who are you, anyway?’
‘If you got a bill o’ sale, you wrote it yourself,’ the newcomer accused in a conversational tone, as if commenting on the weather or the price of beef. ‘Them roan geldings and two o’ the pinto mares belong to my boss. They was stolen two weeks ago. I been trailin’ you since.’
The horse trader glanced nervously around at the other three of his comrades, assuring himself they were well situated and ready for whatever action might be necessary. He turned back to the intruder. ‘Are you callin’ me a horse thief?’
The answer was as cryptic as it could possibly have been. ‘Yup.’
The horse trader’s hand gripped his pistol and started to pull it from the holster. It had scarcely moved enough for the cylinder to clear the top of the holster when he was knocked from the saddle by a slug from the newcomer’s .45. Nobody had seen him draw it, any more than they had seen his arrival. It was just there, in his hand, a tendril of smoke drifting lazily from the end of the barrel.
That Colt had already swung to cover the nearest of the other three. Hands on their guns, the trio looked around in rising panic. Half a dozen guns were suddenly trained on them. Slowly, each released his grip on his pistol and raised his hands.
The rancher turned to the newcomer. ‘Who’re you? I didn’t even see you ride up.’
Without taking his eyes from the surrendering wranglers, he said, ‘I rode up behind the barn and walked from there. You was all pretty intent on watchin’ one another. I been tailin’ these boys since they drove off horses from the outfit I work for.’
The rancher digested the information a moment, then addressed the nearest of the dead man’s companions. ‘Where’s them bills o’ sale you boys got?’
The man swallowed hard, then said, ‘They’re in Red’s saddle-bag I think. That’s where he usually kept ’em.’
Without averting his eyes, the rancher called one of his hands. ‘Clint, come take a look.’
One of the ranch-hands holstered his gun and walked to the dead man’s horse. He lifted the flap on the left saddlebag and rummaged briefly through its contents. His hand emerged with several pieces of wrinkled and dirty paper. ‘Would this be them?’ he asked.
‘Bring ’em here and we’ll see.’
The rancher looked over the writing on the several pieces of paper carefully. ‘Now there’s a real surprise,’ his voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Every one o’ these bills o’ sale seem to be written by the same hand.’
He addressed the man he had spoken to before. ‘Maybe you can tell me how six different bills o’ sale, signed by six different names, can all look like they have the same man’s writing.’
The man’s face had paled in increments as the rancher spoke. From a visage almost devoid of color, he said, ‘I don’t know. Red, he took care of all that stuff.’
The rancher turned to the newcomer. ‘What’s your boss’s brand?’
‘Rafter J.’
The rancher nodded. ‘I spotted that brand on a couple at least.’
‘I’d guess you’ll find a Flying R, and a Rocking CJ too. They’re two more outfits close to us that lost some horses about the time these boys rode through.’
One of the ranch-hands called out, ‘I see two with the Rocking CJ.’
Another chimed in. ‘There’s a Flying R on a couple geldlings, and a Rafter J on the stud.’
The rancher turned back to the wrangler. ‘You boys wanta come clean?’
The three looked at one another, then back at the rancher. Their choices were reduced to three, all equally devoid of any probability of survival. They could whip their horses around and run, hugging close to their animals’ necks, hoping to escape pursuing bullets; they could try to shoot their way clear, or they could submit meekly to a noose.
They chose to go out fighting. All three grabbed their guns.
Instantly a roar of gunfire erupted from the newcomer’s weapon. It happened before any of the ranch-hands could squeeze a trigger. It ended before any of the horse thieves’ weapons had cleared leather. It was all over before anyone but him had time to react. Three reports from the hunter’s .45 blended together into one continuous sound. Three horse thieves slumped, then toppled from their saddles. Dust blossomed from beneath each of them as they sprawled on the ground at almost the same instant.
Every ranch-hand’s head swivelled to stare at the newcomer. Jaws hung loose as if each had witnessed the impossible. The stranger casually ejected the spent brass from his .45, replaced each with a fresh cartridge, and dropped his pistol back into its holster. He addressed the rancher, still in that conversational tone, as if discussing the weather. ‘I’ll be cuttin’ out my boss’s horses, and the others I know belong to our neighbors, if you folks don’t mind.’
After waiting a couple heartbeats, the rancher said, ‘You might take a look at the other brands, too. Spread the word on your way back that they’re here, if their owners want to come an’ claim ’em.’
The man’s eyes were expressionless as he nodded. He turned and walked back to the side of the barn where his horse patiently waited his return. It, too, bore a Rafter J on its left shoulder.