This Calder Sky (18 page)

“What's wrong?” She moved over to see what he was looking at.

“A rosette's missing.” He pointed to the round patch of unweathered leather where the ornamental tie had
been. “It must have gotten ripped off when my horse scraped up against the fence post. What if they find it, Maggie?”

She knew what he was thinking. It was evidence that he'd been on the scene. “I'll get it for you,” she promised.

The road in front of the gate to the Broken Butte was crowded with parked vehicles the next morning. All of them belonged to the Triple C, except for the sheriff's car. Out in the fenced range, riders were rounding up the remaining herd to make a tally of the loss. Elsewhere, a chain was being attached to the truck that had been shot up the night before so it could be towed to the ranch garage for repairs. Sheriff Potter, a harried-looking man in a crisply starched uniform, was off to one side talking to Slim Bevins, the man who had surprised the rustlers. The grim trio standing in the shade of one of the horse trailers was made up of Webb Calder, Nate Moore, and Virg Haskell.

“We nearly had them,” Virg grumbled. “If Slim could only have held them another fifteen minutes, your plan would have worked.”

“Close doesn't count, Virg,” Webb replied.

“Whoever these rustlers are, they know this country,” Nate observed. “They either did some damned thorough scouting, or they're local. This road isn't on any maps. And it doesn't look like any more than a pair of ruts where it joins the other.”

“They're smart,” Virg declared.

“They can't be too smart,” Webb denied, “or they would have figured out we were patroling the roads and had someone on lookout.” He glanced at Nate. “But you are right about one thing, Nate. Only someone who has been on this road before would know it isn't an abandoned one. It's entirely possible we have someone local working with this band. The problem is—who?”

None of the three would speculate. The discussion wasn't continued as Webb noticed Sheriff Potter crossing the road toward him. The short, wide-hipped man walked with small, jerky steps, as if his feet were hurting him. He wasn't a man to exert himself, firmly believing that things had a way of working themselves out if left alone. He was neither incompetent nor dishonest, but somewhere in the shadows of laziness.

“I talked to your man, Webb,” he stated as he came to a mincing stop to complete the circle partially formed by the three men. “I can't see where we have any more to go on than we did before. The ground is too churned up to leave any tire tracks that might do us some good. The bullets we got out of the truck are unlikely to tell us anything. They're an ordinary thirty-thirty slug. Every man in the state of Montana has a hunting rifle. With no license number, no description that would do us any good, I'd say we're still on square one. But”—the sheriff brightened, or as much as his tired expression would allow—“I think you scared them good, surprising them like that. I'm sure they won't be back.”

“I hope you're right, Potter. Thanks for coming out personally.” Webb shook the man's limp hand.

“It's my job, Webb.” He shrugged and toddled toward his car.

“And what happens if they do come back?” Nate grumbled to the sheriff's back.

There was a flicker of amusement in Webb's dark eyes before they turned to the tired and drawn face of Slim Bevins, who hadn't yet had any sleep. With the sheriff gone, he wandered across the road to join them. His expression was still apologetic, unable to shake the feeling that he had let his boss down.

“Sorry I couldn't be of any more help,” he apologized to Webb, and not for the first time. “It just all happened so fast I never really got a good look at
anything or anybody. The riders were crouched so low in the saddles that I couldn't tell if they were tall or short, or fat or thin. All I saw for sure was that there was two of them, plus the driver and another big guy. The trailer was just an ordinary cattle truck, and I couldn't see any lettering on the cab. If there was a license plate, it was all muddied up,” he sighed and shook his head. “There for a while there was so much lead flying through the air, I thought I was in the middle of a shootout in a Western movie.”

“You did the best you could under the circumstances. I don't ask more from a man than that.” But Webb was conscious of the frustration he felt at the lack of information the man had been able to obtain.

“Are you positive there isn't anything, Slim?” Virg Haskell persisted. “None of them called each other by name?”

“Nope.” The man shifted uncertainly and gnawed at the inside of his lip. “There was something familiar about one guy's voice.”

“Do you mean you had heard it before?” Webb's gaze narrowed on him.

“Well, it kinda sounded like … Angus O'Rourke,” Slim admitted finally.

“Are you sure?” There was a steel quiet to Webb's voice.

“That's just it,” the cowboy sighed. “I'm not sure. That's why I didn't mention it before. Hell, it could have been anybody's voice.”

On that negative note, Webb turned to the man at his right. “Take Slim back to the headquarters so he can get some sleep. And, Virg, let Ruth know I probably won't be back for lunch until around one.”

“I'll tell her.” Virg nodded and moved off toward one of the parked trucks, with Slim Bevins tagging along a step behind.

“Seems to me you could use some sleep yourself.”
Nate ran a critical eye over the sharply etched lines on Webb's face. “In case you forgot, you've been up all night, too.”

“I've gone without sleep before,” Webb retorted.

“Yeah, but you weren't pushing fifty when you did it,” Nate pointed out.

“What's the matter, Nate?” A wry glance was cast in the foreman's direction. “Do you want me to send you back to the bunkhouse so you can get some sleep? You've been up all night, too, and you're right up there with me, pushing close to that half-a-century mark.”

But Nate just grinned. “I'm not the one who's got a son you might be thinking you have to keep up with.” He glanced toward the cowboys with the herd where Chase was. “Looks like he wore out a horse already,” Nate observed as both Chase and Buck left the herd to ride their sweating horses toward the fence gate to get fresh mounts that were picketed along the fence line. Seeing Chase made Nate wonder, and he did it out loud. “Do you suppose it was O'Rourke?”

Webb flashed him a sharp look but didn't answer as he stepped out of the shade of the trailer to walk to the fence. “How's it going?”

“The herd didn't have a chance to scatter much,” Chase replied, already dismounted and tugging the cinch loose on his saddle. “We should have a count somewhere around noon.”

“Is there any coffee in that Thermos yet?” Buck wanted to know as he looped his horse's reins around the gate post. “I sure could use some.”

“There might be half a cup in the bottom. It's in the cab.” Nate motioned over his shoulder to the truck parked behind him.

Buck started to open the gate when something in the grass caught his eye. He bent down to pick it up. “Is this off your saddle, Chase?”

Chase glanced to see what it was, then shook his
head. He didn't need to check his saddle to know. “It isn't mine. The leather ties on mine are plain circles. That's scalloped.”

“It isn't mine, either.” Buck looked at it again. “Maybe it's off Clay's saddle.”

“Or it might be off one of the rustler's saddles,” Webb suggested striding forward. “Let me see it.”

His suggestion prompted both the foreman and Chase to walk over for a closer look. It was a slim lead, but at this point, it could turn out to be the only important clue they had. Nate was the first to hear the canter of a horse on the road and looked up just as the rider came into sight.

“Someone's coming,” he told the others, and they turned their attention to the rider.

When Chase recognized the slim, supple rider, his tiredness fell away. Maggie had reined in her horse at the sight of all the vehicles and people. Turning at a right angle to them, her horse danced sideways for several steps before she brought it around to approach them at a trot. A single black braid fell across the front of her shoulder. When she stopped her horse near the gate, he could see the faint tension in her features, the subdued flash of defiance in her green eyes. His father had a way of intimidating people; because of her slight inferiority complex, Maggie was obviously affected by it.

“Hello.” It was an all-encompassing greeting, given as she swung out of the saddle in a single fluid motion. “I heard you had some excitement here last night.”

“And where did you hear that?” The sharp demand of his father drew Chase's glance. The harshness didn't seem necessary.

But Maggie just smiled, the green flashing a little brighter in her eyes. “Anything that happens to a Calder travels through this area like wildfire. Birdie Johnson called me this morning.” Then her glance
lighted on the leather rosette with its twin strips of rawhide. “Hey, that's mine. Where did you find it?” She took it from his father's hand before any of them had a chance to react to her startling announcement.

“Buck found it in the grass by the gate,” Webb answered.

“I noticed it was gone the other day, but I didn't have any idea where I had lost it.” Her mouth had relaxed slightly to smile.

“We thought it might have come off the saddle of one of the rustlers,” Webb said, looking at her carefully.

The laugh she made was slightly forced. “I assure you it is off my saddle, and I was in bed asleep last night by nine-thirty.”

Webb let his gaze wander around the immediate area before returning to her with pinpoint sharpness. “This is quite a ways from your father's place. What were you doing here when you lost this?”

Chase would have spoken up at that moment, but he held his silence when he saw the bold way she challenged his father. He had been on the receiving end of one of those daring looks before. A mixture of pride and amusement surged through him.

“I had arranged to meet your son,” she retorted in a very clear voice.

Beside him, Buck shifted and cleared his throat. His sparkling blue eyes said he found the situation very entertaining.

“And did you meet him?” his father prompted.

“Yes, she did,” Chase answered for her, coming to her support, but the glance she sent him didn't thank him for it.

“Yes, I met him,” Maggie confirmed in a spark of temper. “And I don't like it when people infer I'm lying,
Mr.
Calder.” The emphasis was arrogantly sarcastic as she pivoted away to mount her horse.

Chase started to push his way forward to stop her
from leaving, but his father laid a restraining hand on his arm, not taking his eyes off the girl reining her horse in a circle. When Chase attempted to shrug aside his father's hand, the grip tightened.

“Let her go, son,” was all he said. “We have work to do.”

The incident gave Webb something to think about. He was willing to concede that the O'Rourke girl hadn't been one of the rustlers, but it was entirely possible she was covering for one of them. Even if she wasn't and the saddle tie had come off her saddle when she'd met Chase here, it became highly likely that she knew the cattle were being moved to this pasture, information the rustlers had to obtain somewhere. There were several definite possibilities to keep in mind.

PART III
 

A sky of challenge,
A sky of right,
This sky that strikes with
A Calder's might

Most of the clothes in the little dry-goods store in Blue Moon were work garments, designed for durability rather than fashion. Of the two racks of dresses in the ladies' section of the store, only half of one rack was reserved for dressier clothes. The rest were all house-dresses. Whenever Maggie had the extra time, she looked through the dresses on the hangers. It was better than a catalog because she could actually touch the clothes and hold them up against her while she looked in the full-length mirror.

This afternoon she had the time to spare because her father and brother were in Jake's having a beer. She entered the store and made her way slowly toward the ladies' section. Lew Michels, the proprietor, was measuring a length of chambray for a customer when Maggie passed the yard-goods department. He glanced up and smiled in recognition.

“Hello, Maggie. Dorie is out back in the storeroom. Stop in and say hello. It will give her an excuse to take a break,” he said.

Doris Michels was his daughter and a classmate of Maggie's at school. They had never been friends, but not because Maggie didn't like her. Dorie was nice, but her best friend was Cindy Schaeffer, who also lived in town. The two of them were inseparable, and there never seemed to be room for a third person to join in their gossipy girls' chatter. Besides, with her parents owning the store, Dorie always had nice clothes to wear, and Cindy's mother could sew anything and not have it look homemade.