This Calder Sky (34 page)

“You'll have to fight to keep the Triple C intact. You'll have to be ready.” There was an urgency to the weak and rasping voice as another spasm of coughing racked him.

“You're not going to die,” Chase insisted, even as he wiped at the blood that flowed from his father's mouth.

It seemed a long time before the coughing stopped and the blood was reduced to a trickle seeping from the corner of his mouth. Webb rested a moment, trying to conserve what strength remained, but there was so much he needed to tell Chase.

“A man should live so he won't be afraid to die. I'm not afraid, but I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you yet.” Pain twisted his face. “It hurts … feels like my chest is on fire … burning me up.”

Chase half-turned his head to snap an order to the group of cowboys standing silently to one side. “Somebody bring some water.”

He didn't notice who brought him the canteen. He just uncapped it and let a little spill into his father's mouth. The pain slowly eased from his features. His mouth relaxed slightly, almost showing a smile.

“That's better,” Webb sighed and lifted his gaze to the sky that crowned the Triple C. “It's clouding up,” he murmured. “Good. We need the rain.”

An icy chill went down Chase's spine. The sky was a solid blue. There wasn't a cloud in sight. The muscles in his throat constricted fiercely to check the protesting sob that rose. His eyes were burning.

“I wish I could stay.” His father's voice was little more than a whisper, the rattle growing louder. “Tell Ruth—” He paused to take a breath, but never finished it.

Chase waited, staring in numbed disbelief, his mind refusing to accept that his father was gone. Not his father. Not Webb Calder, the patriarch of the Calder empire. But the gray head had lolled to the side and Chase looked away as he closed the unseeing brown eyes.

A hand was on his shoulder. Chase looked up to find Nate standing beside him. There was no expression in the man's face. Chase wiped any from his as he stood up and turned to let his gaze swing over the other ranch hands. Some shifted; some looked back; but no one spoke. So many of the Calder native sons were there—Stumpy, Nate, Slim Trumbo, Ike Willis. Their hats were in their hands.

No one came to The Homestead that night, holding themselves aloof as their code dictated to give Chase time to reconcile himself to the loss of his father and do his mourning in private. It wasn't Ruth, but one of the other wives who fixed his meal that evening, set it on the dining room table, and silently withdrew.

The table looked huge. Chase stood beside it and
stared at the empty chair at the head of the table, where his father had always sat and where the plate of food waited for him. He turned and walked from the room. Entering the den, he closed the door behind him and crossed to the bar. He poured a double shot of whiskey, downed it, and refilled the glass.

The silence of the house beat on him as he walked to the cavernous stone fireplace and rested a foot on the raised hearth. He lifted his gaze from the yawning blackness of its mouth to the sweeping set of longhorns above the stone mantelpiece. Their story was familiar to him, an oft-told tale from his childhood: every trail herd had a lead steer. Captain was the brindle longhorn that had led the herd of his namesake, Chase Benteen Calder, on the long, arduous trek up from Texas. The wily steer had lived to a ripe old age on the lush Montana grass. At its death, its majestic set of horns was mounted and hung above the fireplace for future generations to point to and tell their children the story of the dangerous cattle drive: the men lost at river crossings, and the young rider killed in a stampede—the price that was paid to reach free grass and carve out a new beginning in what was then Montana Territory.

Chase turned his head to look at the yellowed map on the wall behind the desk. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he inwardly recoiled from the size of the ranch. All his life he had been raised with the knowledge that one day it would all be his. Nothing else had ever crossed his mind. Suddenly he wondered if it was what he wanted. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the responsibility it carried—not just in running it successfully, but all the people whose lives now depended on his decisions. It was awesome. He was shaken by a self-doubt that questioned if he could handle it.

“It's all yours now, son.” His father's rasping voice spoke to him again. “Keep it intact.”

His fingers tightened on the whiskey glass, his knuckles turning white. He'd never felt so all alone in his life. He wanted to cry out for someone to ease this sharp ache. But there was no one. His mother was long dead, not even a memory of her in his mind. Buck, his best friend, had betrayed him. Now his father was gone, the one unshakable force in his life torn away.

He caught himself longing for a woman's softness. Maggie. It was her image that came to his mind. In her arms, he had always felt so alive. Dear God, how he needed her tonight. But she was somewhere in California—far beyond his reach. Part of him knew if she had been in the next room, he wouldn't have gone to her. They had shared nothing but sex, and sex wasn't what he needed tonight. He needed the support and comforting of someone who cared, someone to stand quietly beside him.

There was no one. He stood alone—tomorrow everyone would look to him for direction—to carry on the Calder tradition. With heavy steps, he crossed the room to the desk. Could he follow in his father's footsteps? No, that wasn't the way it was done. A leader had to blaze his own trail.

Seating himself in the chair behind the desk, Chase began going through the correspondence on the desktop. An official-looking letter gave Chase the first inkling of the trouble his father had warned him to expect.

In a Western-cut suit of dark brown, Chase stood beside the minister at the grave side, holding the cream-colored dress Stetson in front of him. A dry wind ruffled his brown hair and stirred the dust. Indifferent to the words of prayer being offered by the minister, Chase studied the large gathering of mourners that had turned out for the services. His gaze rested first on the delegation from the ranch. All their heads
were bowed, except Tucker's. Chase still didn't understand why the cook was still working for the Triple C, why he hadn't pulled out after he'd got some money put aside. Tucker met his look and returned it with unwavering intent. Chase mentally filed away the warning that Tucker was going to cause him trouble.

His gaze shifted to Ruth and Virgil Haskell. The man had his arm around his wife, who was silently crying. Chase had never told Ruth that her name was the last word his father had uttered. There had been no message to pass on except that, and, glancing at Virg, he decided he had been right not to tell her. No purpose would have been served, and it might have caused more grief.

When he shifted his attention to the townspeople and neighboring ranchers who had gathered to pay their last respects to his father, a slight shock went through him. He recalled that once, long ago, his father had told him that nobody liked someone who was stronger, richer, or more powerful than they were. They were always looking for a way to cut them down. Chase could see it for himself now. It was in their eyes that they hoped he would fall flat on his face and bring about the collapse of the Triple C.

Lastly his gaze fell on Senator Franklin T. Bulfert, who had flown in to attend the funeral and was flying out directly afterward. He considered the things he knew about the politician that the public didn't. That would be his ammunition—that and his willingness to use it.

The minister's “Amen” was echoed by the soft murmur of the crowd. The services were over. Chase glanced at the coffin and pushed his hat onto his head. He knew his father would forgive him for not lingering at the grave side when there was important Triple C business to be handled. Pausing to shake hands with the
minister, he murmured some meaningless response to the sympathy offered and then walked over to meet the senator.

“It's a grim day, Chase, a grim day,” the politician stated solemnly. “I wish I could express what the loss of a fine friend like Webb Calder means to me. I regret that I must leave—”

“I know your time is short,” Chase interrupted. “I'll drive you to your plane. It will give us a chance to talk privately.”

Suspicion flickered in the man's eyes. “That's very kind of you, but I know there are others here who wish to express their sorrow. I wouldn't want to impose.”

“But there are none here as important as you, Senator.” There was a cynical twist to his smile as Chase disposed of that excuse. He personally escorted the senator to the waiting black limousine and its driver, politely thanking those who waylaid him to offer their condolences. Once inside the spacious rear passenger's section of the limousine, Chase closed the glass partition so the driver wouldn't overhear their conversation. The senator offered him a fat cigar. Chase refused. “No, thanks. I have my own.” He took a slim cheroot from his inside jacket pocket and bent a cardboard match, lighting it with a snap of a thumb. He puffed on it, then studied the smoldering tip, the red glow beneath the white ash. “Within the deeded boundaries of the Triple C, there is a ten-thousand-acre parcel that is leased federal graze. The lease expires next year and I've been informed that the government doesn't wish to enter into another long-term lease. Instead, they want to handle it on a year-to-year basis.”

“That's unfortunate,” the senator murmured, rolling the cigar between his lips, “most unfortunate, but that seems to be the trend the government is following in such matters.”

“I'm not interested in a long-term lease, either,” Chase stated and felt the sharpness of the senator's glance. “I want to negotiate the purchase of that parcel. It's already surrounded by deeded Calder land. Since the government already owns roughly thirty percent of Montana, they shouldn't miss ten thousand acres.”

There was a brief chortle from the senator. “The same could be said for the Triple C. What's ten thousand acres compared to what you already own?”

“The difference is, Senator”—Chase turned his narrowed gaze on the man—“that you are talking about Calder land. I'm going to correct the mistake my predecessors made and buy that chunk of ground. I'm not going to be at the mercy of Uncle Sam's whims.”

“I don't think you understand what you're asking.” The man shook his head skeptically.

“I'm asking you to arrange the sale of the land to me.”

“That's a tall order. I don't know if I can do it,” the politician hedged, unwilling to make a firm commitment.

Chase let an interval of silence lapse. “You're up for re-election this November. I understand your opponent has been closing the gap, giving you a real run for your money. Rumor has it he could beat you with sufficient campaign funds. I wonder what would happen if the Triple C decided to back him.”

“That man would be of no help to you. He hasn't the connections that I do,” the senator protested. “Besides, it would take more than money for him to win against me.”

“What would it take? Maybe if someone leaked to the press about your apartment in a Washington suburb where a blonde and a little boy named Frank, Junior, live, would that do it?” Chase suggested.

“That's blackmail.” The senator glared. “I have done many favors for your father in the past. I can't
help but feel he would not approve of your threats to a loyal friend of his.”

“I mentioned it, Senator, only to make it clear that we need each other.” Chase flicked the ash from his slender cigar into the metal ashtray located in the car's upholstered armrest. “You need my support to ensure your re-election. And I need your connections to purchase that government land. If you wish to interpret it as a threat of blackmail, that's your problem.” The limousine pulled up at the edge of the airstrip. “Your plane is waiting, Senator. I'll expect to hear from you at the end of the week.”

There was an expression of reluctant admiration on the senator's face as he shook hands with Chase. “I think we understand one another, Chase.”

“I'm certain we do,” he agreed dryly.

From the landing strip, Chase returned directly to The Homestead and entered the den. He spent an hour studying the map on the wall before he called down to leave a message with Nate that he wanted him and the other foremen to meet him in the den after the evening meal.

He was seated behind the desk when they arrived. He noticed the startled flicker in their eyes when they saw him; they were too accustomed to his father occupying that chair. It was something he hadn't fully adjusted to himself, so he understood their brief shock and didn't interpret it as a reflection on his leadership.

When the last man appeared, Chase put a question to all of them. “Where is the best grass and water located on the Triple C?”

“The north range,” Virgil Haskell replied and frowned. “We've been saving that for winter graze.”

“I know.” Chase stood up and moved to the map. “On the boundary of the north range, we have the Shamrock ranch, the Circle Six, and Bill MacGruder's
outfit. All of them are in bad shape. It's my guess that they are going to decide to move their cattle onto the north range—either individually, or as a group.”

“I imagine it's tortured them to see their cattle starving with all that grass and water on the other side of the fence,” Stumpy remarked with an agreeing nod of his head.

“My thought exactly.” Chase observed the affirmative looks of the others.

“What do you want us to do about it?” Ike Willis asked, watching Chase closely, as were the others. “I hate to see cattle starve.”

“All cattlemen do, but they should have done something before now—sold and cut down their herds to a size their range could support in a drought. We save the north range for our cattle, and we're going to need every blade of grass on it if we don't want to end up like them. When they make their move, we're going to be waiting for them to drive their herds back to their own side of the fence.”