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High above Justin, a red-tailed hawk turned on its extended wings against the flat blue background of sky and went into a dive toward some distant lunch, a mouse perhaps. Justin reined in Mr. Dobbs to watch. The day was warming up and he wanted to get done before it got downright hot, as it could do. He took out his red handkerchief and rubbed at his neck.
“I want you boys to ride the line outside the ranch,” his Aunt Sara had said. He and Scamp took turns and twice now they had come across a spot where someone had been working at making a hole in their fence. That was not the work of a coyote. She had heard the new owners of the spread next to hers were putting up a fence, but the former Bentley ranch was a big property and they hadn’t gotten around to the side adjacent to her little garden and goat ranch.
The hawk completed its dive and grasped its prey in its talons just as Justin heard the sound of braying. That would be Boxo. She only made a racket when it mattered, so Justin nudged Mr. Dobbs into a trot, since gallop was out of the question.
As Justin got closer he could see Boxo lashing out with kicks of her hind hooves at a spot along the fence where two men stood. One man stood close to the fence and held what looked like tin snips, the wrong tool for the job. The other man had just gotten back to the fence after a trip to his saddlebag. He brought the right tool, a wire cutter. Justin suspected they hadn’t intended on running into anything like Boxo, who was still agitated and braying loudly as she kicked. The men’s horses were standing a few feet away.
They looked up when they heard Justin approaching. One reached for the pistol at his side. Justin didn’t intend to make the mistake he’d made before. His first duty was to warn the others before trying to do anything himself. He pulled the shotgun out of the scabbard pulled back both hammers and fired one barrel straight up into the air.
Both men hit the ground. One rolled to his right and began firing toward Justin, who dove from the saddle and slapped Mr. Dobbs with the butt of the shotgun so he’d get out of harm’s way. The gelding obliged by taking off in a near gallop toward the ranch house. Justin rolled as he hit the hard pasture where the grass had been chewed pretty short by the goats. As he tumbled, he could hear more shots. A bullet ricocheted off a rock not far from his head. He scrambled to his left toward a waist-high rock he could get behind. He also moved away from the goats so these tomfool men wouldn’t kill one of them.
Another shot dug up a furrow of ground near him. He drew his boot in closer and tucked it tight until safe behind the rock as well. The thought crossed his mind that these men intended to wait him out, finish him off. He had only one unused shell in the shotgun, and there were two of them.
As if sensing his dilemma, one of the men scampered up and darted around a stand of cactus, seeking to get behind Justin, while the other shooter fired twice as he moved to his right. They would have him in right pickle soon if they got on both sides of him.
The one on his left stood. Before he could fire, a shot took his hat off and the next hit the ground just in front of his boot toe.
Justin spun and looked behind him. There stood Button with the Winchester. She turned and fired at the other gunman, who was up and running. Both the men got to their horses, hopped on, took off, and soon were going at a full gallop away from the Bolger spread.
Button walked calmly to where the men had been. “Looks like they left behind a pretty good wire cutter.” She picked up the almost new tool.
Justin stood. “Tha . . . Thanks. I was starting to wonder how this was going to end. You saved my bacon.”
Button grinned. “We’d better get back to the house. Slow as that horse goes we’re apt to beat Mr. Dobbs in getting there.”
This was the first she had been cheerful or shown any kindness to Justin since he’d saved her. She had tried to be nicer to him after the rescue, but it hadn’t come natural. He hadn’t figured that out for a spell, though he’d thought on it quite a bit. It now came to him that she was one independent young gal, a tomboy one at that, and his saving her hadn’t sat right with her. But now that she’d been able to save him back, all was well. Leastwise, she chattered all the way back to the house, and smiled more than he’d seen her do in a long time.
Sleeping Bear reached down to quiet his mare while easing her to the left to stay back behind the wide trunk of a tree. He could barely make out Bent Feather’s band below hurrying the stolen horses into a makeshift pen of ropes so the Comanche band could snatch a short rest—not enough for cooking or sleep, but enough to gather water and chew on some now quite-tough dried meat.
Bent Feather may have known or sensed he would follow along behind. Twice he’d sent Crooked Nose or another of the band to shoo Sleeping Bear away. He’d moved back each time so they found nothing. Now he was getting better at hiding his tracks. They hadn’t found him, but it still pained him to watch them from a distance. His stomach had tightened into a clenched fist of hunger. He watched them eat their meager meal then mount up and ride on as the evening grew dark.
He knew they would ride through the night, to distance themselves from any followers, and now he had an idea of where they were headed. He’d been with Bent Feather’s band when they had traded stolen horses for guns and ammo. With that knowledge he could ride ahead and perhaps catch some rest, even find food.
The quarter moon had risen and fallen and light was beginning to show on the far horizon by the time he neared the place where Bent Feather had traded before. He led his mare down to a small rill of a stream and let her drink her fill, then eat at a thick stand of buffalo grass that ran along beside the water.
He got down and drank too, was so hungry by now he nearly grabbed at a small frog that sat half in the water at the edge of the stream and seemed to be mocking him. He had eaten worse. The frog dove and swam away, taking away the momentary desperate temptation.
Sleeping Bear got on his horse, looked around for the highest ground, and headed that direction. As he got to the top he slowed, could smell a campfire. Below he caught his first glimpse of Honoré Talfourt’s camp. He dismounted and tied his mare to a scrub mesquite limb. Then he eased back to the lip of a row of rocks he could crouch behind and began his vigil of watching the campsite.
The men below went about their morning business of making a meal. Even though the wind was headed the other way, an occasional swirl of breeze wafted the smell up the hill and tore at his senses. He began to chant a song to himself in his head trying to drown out the smells and his hunger.
He watched the sun slowly climb into the sky as the day grew bright and hot. The men below didn’t worry him. They were clearly waiting. The occasional rustle in the bushes up a rise on the far side of the camp held Sleeping Bear’s attention. Hard as he peered he still hadn’t seen anyone. But that was no deer or Comanche. He knew that.
Sheriff Reagan Cawley looked up at the sky, took in the position of the sun, and estimated that Sara Bolger’s little spread was a three-and-a-half, almost four hour ride out from Bentley. The adobe fort converted into a home was just coming into sight ahead. He’d wasted a good chunk of daylight getting here and would waste more getting back to town, so he nudged his stallion Lucifer into a faster pace. He just hoped she’d listen to reason. Knowing her, he doubted it, doubted it very much. But here he was.
Though he was still half a mile away someone had spotted him. The front door burst open and a small figure shot out, went around to the back of the house and soon appeared on the roof. That would be the girl. Too far to tell yet, but she probably had the muzzleloader. He’d had a chance to get familiar with the family’s arms a year or so back. That would be a Winchester sticking out one gun port of a window in the former pueblo fort, and a shotgun sticking out the other. All this for one rider. This family was prepared. Perhaps, these days, that was best.
As he got closer they recognized him and Sara came out the front door, though she still held the Winchester in front of her with both hands. Cawley took in the spread, the goat pen behind the shed and the modest garden, both the family’s only source of income. Then he spotted the buggy pulled up by the goat shed, and saw an extra horse in the back pen. Someone had to have rented that from Seth at the livery.
“What brings you out here, sheriff?” Sara’s voice was neutral, maybe waiting to see if she had reason to be friendly and inviting, or not.
Cawley stopped his horse a dozen feet from her, but didn’t dismount. “I’ll get right to it, Sara. I got a complaint.”
“Really?”
“Seems a couple of Grintly’s men claim they were shot at from your place.”
“That’s true enough.”
“You admit to it?”
“Without regret.” Sara’s right hand slid up closer to the trigger. “They were trying to cut my fence, turn my stock loose.”
“Now why would they go and do that? You’re such a tiny ranch. Why would they bother?”
“Greed. Plain raw greed.”
“I’m hard pressed to believe it.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Sara hadn’t so much as smiled yet and her mouth was a hard line.
“Nevertheless, some KXT ranch hands say they were shot at. They have a right to put up a fence, even if most ranchers still feel cattle raising works best with an open range.”
“They weren’t putting up a fence. Weren’t you listening? They were trying to tear down mine. They mean to gobble up my tiny piece of homestead land the way Bentley tried to do. You’d certainly defend them if someone was destroying their property.”
“What are you implying, that I’m in Grintly’s pocket?”
“I’m not the one who said it.”
He felt his cheeks flush. All his life the one thing that defined him was that he was a man of honor, that he couldn’t be bought. When he’d been a Texas Ranger he had rode and fought hard and led his men well. When he had opted to become Bentley’s sheriff he thought it would a more relaxed role, one where he didn’t have to make complex decisions. That was turning out not to be the case. Worse, he’d always thought his honor was obvious. Now he was having to prove himself all over again to these people. That’s what comes of following a sheriff who was as crooked as a pig’s tail.
The large bulk of a body that was Francis stepped out through the front door. He grinned at Cawley. “Howdy, sheriff. Seems you’ve taken the opportunity to refresh yourself on how delightfully feisty Sara can be.”
“I’m not enjoying her spirit in the least. I rode all the way out here to give her a message.”
“I’ve got to agree with her. The way you put it does make you sound like you’re in Grintly’s pocket, whether you are or not. Is there a chance you’re being played like a puppet on its strings?”
“Big as you are, don’t think I won’t get off this horse and tend to you.”
“You can try.” Francis shrugged. “But let me ask you something. Who was it gave you that lead that Gabe Bentley might be over there in Houston?”
“Why I got that from the sheriff of Harris County himself.”
“And he doesn’t know this Grintley?”
“Not that I know, or that he said.”
“Give me just a second.” Francis spun and went back inside the house.
Cawley waited, frowning and looking out across the land around him, the wind sweeping up a cloud of yellow-red dust before petering over a thick stand of cactus.
Francis came out carrying a folder newspaper. He walked over to Cawley and handed it up to him. The paper had been folded open to page three.
“The picture,” Francis said. “Take a good gander at that.”
Cawley frowned, then held the paper out at arm’s length. His close-up sight wasn’t what it once was. Wouldn’t be long before he’d have to get himself a set of spectacles for reading, one reason he’d opted for a sheriff’s life.
The picture showed some sort of social dinner event that had taken place a few weeks back. There at the table sat Grintly, and just across from him sat the sheriff of Harris County. The caption said the event was to encourage investors to come to the Houston area.
“What’s this prove?” Cawley said.
“It confirms Grintly and that sheriff have met, maybe they know each other well enough Grintly could ask him for a favor, maybe with some election money thrown in.”
“That’s a lot of smoke in the air, son. Why would he do that?”
“Did anything happen in the time you were gone all the way over to Houston?”
“Well . . .”
“Out with it.” Francis shared a smug grin.
“The Stokely spread got bought up by Grintly. The Stokelys packed up and lit out for California, so I heard. Never said a word to anybody, just sold and went. That’s all. Theirs was just a tiny homestead ranch.”
“Like this one?” Now Francis’s grin was wide.
Cawley took a deep breath. He looked up to where the girl on the roof stood, but still held her muzzleloader. One boy, Scamp, peered out the gun port of a window. The other boy, Justin, had sidled out the front door to watch. Cawley also took in Sara’s expression. While the kids seemed to enjoy Francis’s presence, the way they might if a circus came to town, Sara didn’t look so happy. Cawley knew Francis’s publisher had a while back agreed to pay her owed taxes to help her keep her land. Now that he knew Francis had money of his own, he wondered if that had been Francis’s money. He did know that Francis was smiling at Sara and that she sure wasn’t smiling back. Well, isn’t love grand!
“By the by,” Cawley said, “I did get a wire from Marberry. He’s a captain of the Texas Rangers. He tells me that Bent Feather and his renegade band of Comanches were spotted around in these parts. Hard to tell how much of a threat he is just now. That blamed Injun does seem to come and go. But he’s been up to stealing horses. Thought you oughta know.”
“I appreciate knowing that. I truly do.” She glanced back to the house, then looked at the area all around them, on the lookout for Comanches already.
“Sara, I’ll bid you good day. I have a long ride back to town.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” she said as he turned his horse. He looked back to see if he could read anything light-hearted on her face. Nope. She looked serious as a stone.
He turned his horse, headed back toward Bentley. Wasted trip coming out this far. He could see two sides to the story. About what he’d expected. He would sure enough have time on the long ride back to town to ponder how life had felt a whole lot more worth living when he’d been riding with the Texas Rangers. He’d left because he knew his strict cavalry training made him tend to be a little too proper and orderly for a rough and tumble bunch like the Rangers. But being sheriff hadn’t turned out to be so orderly either. Instead of one immediate superior he had to report to, now he had many, just about all of the leading citizens of the town. They all wanted him to serve their separate interests and often to opposing ends. If the job was just keeping peace he could do that, but these people tugged and pulled in all directions. He’d accomplished little and here he was out watching the cactus plants go by.
A thought came to him. As long as he was all the way out here, what the heck? He turned Lucifer and instead of going back to Bentley he headed toward the former ranch house of the late Captain Samuel Q. Bentley. Something Francis had said burned like an ember in a morning campfire that can easily be stirred back into a new flame. He had a sudden notion to stir that fire.