“Sure. Easy.”
“If you miss, you know you’ll probably hit me, instead.”
“Like I said, it’s easy. Hold on a second, boss. You ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ down there alone?”
“Yeah, I am.” He watched the men below him for a few minutes longer. “Just me. When the sun’s in their eyes, you three spread out along this rim and cover me.”
“Si, señor. But is most foolish.”
“Don’t think so, José. It’s four thousand bucks worth of smart.” He lifted the rifle onto his lap and reined his horse away.
“Don’t worry, José,” Curly said. “Boss knows what he’s doin’. I hope,” he added under his breath. “Let’s spread out, like he said.”
Zach slowly picked his way down the steep, rock-strewn incline, taking care to make no noise. At the canyon entrance he reined up, checked the ammunition in his Colt and dismounted. Above him, his men’s rifle barrels glinted in the sun. With any luck the rustlers were so busy with branding they wouldn’t look up.
Maybe.
Out of nowhere a picture of Dusty floated into his mind. He didn’t want to get himself killed for obvious reasons. He wanted to go back to Oregon with a pocketful of cash, buy his ranch and start breeding cattle. He’d waited all his life for this, and he’d be darned if he’d give it up.
And...
And there was another reason he didn’t want to get killed. If he was dead, he’d never see Dusty again.
Careful not to step on twigs or dry leaves, he worked his way down to the canyon floor and around in back of the three horses tethered to a low-lying cottonwood branch. Carefully he slid his pocketknife out and sliced the lead ropes. Then he shoved a big cocklebur under each saddle blanket. In silence he crept back to his hidden position, picked up a rock and tossed it over the heads of the rustlers.
The men spun toward the noise, and Zach stepped forward.
* * *
Alex waited up long past supper, along with a somber-faced group of men who made a show of nursing mugs of coffee and idly whittling sticks instead of crawling into their bedrolls. She wasn’t fooled. They were as worried as she was about Zach and the three other men who had galloped off so many hours ago.
Roberto paced and hovered and filled coffee mugs, but finally he took himself off to bed. “Must cook breakfast before the sun come,” he announced. “Everyone should sleep.”
As long as she lived she would never understand how the old man managed his grueling schedule. She could scarcely remember the luxury of sleeping until eight o’clock back in Chicago. Nine o’clock on Sundays. But for the past few weeks, every single morning at the first gray finger of dawn she was roused by the cook’s shout of “Come and eat.” Long before the sun even turned the sky pink, Roberto was hard at work. She would have to ask him how he managed it.
A cattle rancher’s life looked like endless drudgery. Definitely not for her.
Cherry ambled into camp, poured himself a mug of coffee and settled his wiry frame next to her. “Any news?”
“No,” she breathed. “It’s been hours and I’m about to jump out of my skin.”
He leaned in close. “You worried?”
She nodded. “Everybody is. I wish I had something to take my mind off what’s happening out there.”
Cherry nodded. “Might be able to help you there, Miss Alex. I’ll just bet you don’t know much ’bout how I keep the remuda together, do ya?”
“Well, no, I don’t. I never thought much about it.”
“Tonight’s a good night to think ’bout it, don’tcha think? Gotta have somethin’ to take yer mind off...you know. And mebbe it’d be interestin’ fer yer newspaper readers.”
“Oh, Cherry, what a good idea!” She pulled a new notepad and a pencil from her shirt pocket.
The wrangler slurped two swallows of coffee and drew a dramatic breath. “Well, Miss Alex, I gotta tell ya, it ain’t easy bein’ in charge of a bunch of horses for a Rocking K trail drive. That’s ’bout thirty mounts fer a crew this size, and keepin’ ’em fed and watered and happy ain’t somethin’ just anybody kin do.”
Jase groaned. “Aw, g’wan, Cherry. Anybody can do it. All you gotta be is plumb crazy.”
Cherry snorted. “Dry up, Jase. What you know ’bout horses would fit in yer ma’s thimble.”
“My ma ain’t got a thimble!”
The men went on wrangling, and Alex’s thoughts began to wander. Where was Zach now? Was he sneaking up on some lowlife rustlers hidden in some camp somewhere? Was he in danger? Could he get killed?
She went cold all over. Zach could get hurt. Shot, even. Oh, God, he could die.
All at once she wanted to fill up her coffee mug with some of Roberto’s whiskey. The stuff tasted awful, but it might ease the sharp pain lancing across her chest.
“Roberto?”
She didn’t even have to ask. The cook, who obviously hadn’t been able to sleep, lifted her half-empty mug away, and when he set it down beside her it was full. When she took a sip she realized what the old man had done. She downed a big gulp, and her eyes watered.
“Gracias,” she choked out.
“De nada,” he murmured.
It helped some. She wrenched her thoughts away from Zach and gradually became aware of Cherry’s voice, still talking about his remuda.
“Gotta get up before any of the other fellas even crack an eyelid and get them horses saddled up for ya, and then drive the rest to wherever Wally’s picked out for the next camp. That’s maybe fifteen miles. Then I got to—”
“Sometimes,” Jase interrupted, “it feels more like twenty or thirty miles. And we’re working hard all that way. All you’re doin’ is trottin’ along easy-like.”
“That’s all you know,” Cherry said. The wrangler picked up his narrative again, but once again Alex couldn’t keep her mind on it.
Zach, don’t do anything brave or foolish. Nothing was worth dying for, especially not a bunch of cows. There were much more important things to do in life. Beautiful things. Oh, please, God...
“Are you listenin’, Miss Alex?” Cherry asked.
“What? Oh, yes. The remuda. Tell me more, Cherry.”
The wrangler sent Jase a hard look and cleared his throat. “Then, when I get them horses to Wally’s picked-out spot, I got to rope off a corral for them an’ brush all of ’em down and take care of ’em after you boys run ’em half to death.”
Alex had never seen Cherry so worked up about anything before. The wrangler was trying his best to keep her mind off Zach and the other three men out there somewhere risking their lives for a bunch of stolen cows. Steers, she amended.
She gulped another big swallow of her whiskey-laced coffee and closed her eyes. Darn it all, Zach Strickland, if you don’t ride into camp pretty soon I will never forgive you!
* * *
Zach aimed his rifle at the man in the center of the three hunched over the branding fire.
“Hands in the air, gentlemen. Drop your sidearms.”
“What the—” The tall man went for his revolver, but a bullet from the canyon edge thudded into the ground a scant yard in front of the man’s worn boots. He hesitated, and another shot from above whined into the dirt even nearer to his feet.
The other two men threw down their guns and backed toward the fire, where four branding irons lay heating in the coals. Zach stepped forward and snagged their revolvers out of the holsters, then hurled them into the sagebrush.
“You’re gettin’ off easy,” he said. “In these parts, cattle rustlers don’t live long.” He signaled to Curly up on the ridge.
“Now,” he continued, “you gentlemen have a choice.” He waved one arm at the brush. “You can catch your horses and ride on out of here, or you can walk. Either way you’re gonna run into my companions, and they’re well armed.” He paused. “Which you aren’t. Now, strip down to your long johns.”
The men stared at him. “Howzzat?” one of the men blurted out.
“You heard me. Strip.”
Zach watched the men peel off their duds and scramble into the scrub to retrieve their mounts. The tall one climbed onto his horse and was promptly bucked off.
“Cockleburr,” Zach said, his tone conversational. “One for each of you.” The others fished under their saddles for the thorns, sent Zach an angry scowl and then mounted up.
“Walk ’em,” Zach ordered.
“Y-yessir.”
He kicked dirt over the branding fire and eyed the milling steers. Sure enough, a new brand had been burned into the hides of about half the animals, turning the Rocking K into a crude Circle V. He figured a little less than half the herd wore Orren Gibson’s Double Diamond brand, now rebranded into a heavy Bar W. They’d be easy to separate out.
By the time Curly, Skip and José reached him, the three rustlers had skedaddled.
“Gosh, boss, how come you let ’em go?”
“Had no choice, Curly.”
“Sure ya did. Coulda strung ’em up for cattle rustling.”
“Maybe. But that’d take time. Besides, the steers are all I want. Let’s move ’em out.”