by Carolina Mac
“I’m thinking that might be a sound idea.”
CHAPTER TEN
Tuesday, April 14th.
McKenna Ranch.
THE boys and I had finished a nice quiet breakfast and I was about to refill my coffee mug when Laney broke her silence and hollered through the screen door.
“One of the bulls is missing from the field. Can’t rightly say which one it is because I don’t know them apart, but I can count to three, and one of them is gone.”
Jack hopped up off his chair. “Maybe he just got out and he’s over on Spinner’s ranch eating greener grass.”
“Didn’t see any breaks in the fencing,” said Laney.
“We’ll come look for him,” I said, “soon as we saddle up.”
Leaving the mess in the kitchen for later, we ran to the corral and saddled our horses while Laney rode off to finish her chores. Five minutes later, the three of us galloped all the way down the lane to the back fields.
Right away, I saw Crusher in with one field of cows and in the next field, Thor grazed near the fence. In the field belonging to Presto and the cows from pen thirteen, it was easy to see he wasn’t there.
“Presto ain’t here,” said Clay. He checked the fences all the way around the field and there were no visible breaks.
I tied Bowie to the fence and walked around the perimeter of the field peering over the fence looking for signs that somebody had come in from Spinner’s property. I knew damned well nobody had gone by the ranch house. The dogs would have barked and woken us up at the first sign of a strange vehicle.
“Uh huh.” I looked down at a spot on the other side of the fence where the weeds were flattened down and on closer examination, the fence in that spot had been cut from top to bottom and then repaired with pliers. Good job too. With a quick glance, you couldn’t tell it had been tampered with.
“Over here,” I hollered, and Jack and Clay came running over. I pointed. “A truck was parked on the other side of the fence about here. Somebody cut the fence and stole Presto.”
Clay examined the repair work on the fence and nodded his head. “Quality work.”
“And I’ve got a pretty good idea who stole him,” said Jack. “It has to be either Ronnie or Buster and I’m betting on Ronnie Palmer.”
The girls had gathered around and weren’t saying much until Kate asked, “Y’all got insurance on those bulls?”
“Uh huh. That’s one thing we do have. Daddy always paid the premiums and kept up the insurance on his bulls. But before I worry about calling the insurance company, I’m calling the sheriff. I want him out here while the trail is still warm.”
I made the call then rode to the barn to saddle up a horse for the sheriff. I was in the corral and almost ready when Sheriff Tucker arrived from Preston with his deputy, Bonnie Sue.
They hopped out of the white Jimmy with the star on the side and moseyed over to the corral fence. “You say’n somebody stole one of Kenny’s prize bulls, Logan?”
“Looks that way, Sheriff. I saddled up a couple for y’all so you can ride back and see what I’m talking about. There’s clear evidence that somebody was back there with a truck.”
“Can’t picture bull rustling going on in my county, but I guess it could happen if there was a blue moon in the sky. Those bulls insured?”
“They are,” I said, “but that’s not my major concern. Me and the boys are just starting up a bull breeding operation and Presto is one of our major assets.”
“Yep. Guess he would be,” said the sheriff.
I led the way down the lane, and we rode all the way to the back of our property. When we dismounted, I showed the sheriff and Bonnie Sue the tire tracks on Jessup Spinner’s side of the fence.
Sheriff Tucker climbed over the fence with some difficulty, him being over two hundred pounds and not in the best shape for climbing fences. He knelt down in the weeds and pushed them out of the way to examine the dirt.
“Yep. Tire tracks, and it looks like the end of a loading ramp dug into the dirt right about here. Whoever it was must have had a fair sized truck. Presto must weigh close to a ton.”
“He’s a big boy,” I said. “I think the last time he was weighed he was around eighteen hundred pounds.”
“Yep. Hard to steal something that big alone,” said the sheriff. “Can’t see this being a one-man operation.”
“You’re probably right on that count, Sheriff. Had to be more than one guy. If it was Ronnie Palmer, he would’ve had to borrow a big truck from somebody and have help.”
Sheriff Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Y’all think Ronnie Palmer stole the bull?”
I told the sheriff about the two visits we had the day before and how Ronnie Palmer told me I’d be sorry I didn’t lend him money.
“Okay, so we have a couple of suspects,” said the Sheriff, “and if they kidnapped Presto for ransom, y’all should be getting a phone call pretty soon.”
“You think they took Presto to ask for ransom money?” asked Jack. “Can’t hardly believe they’d do something that stupid.”
“Why else would they take the bull?” asked the sheriff. “There’s a strong rumor going around the county that you boys inherited millions of dollars from your Daddy when he passed.”
“That’s a lie,” I hollered. “An out and out lie. Why are people making up shit like that and spreading it around?”
“Got nothing better to do, I guess,” said Bonnie Sue.
First thing she’d said, but I’d seen her sneaking a glance or two at Clay and giving Laney and Harper the stink-eye.
“We’ll get this investigation under way,” said the sheriff. “First thing I’ll do is go down the road and talk to old Jessup Spinner and see if he noticed a big truck passing by his porch.” The sheriff chuckled. “Even if he didn’t see it, he damned well should’ve heard it.”
“I’ll follow you over,” I said. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Not a good idea, boys, and not the way I like to work. Why don’t you leave the investigation to me and Bonnie Sue? I’ll call y’all as soon as I have a scrap of information.”
You do your investigation and I’ll do mine.
“Sure, Sheriff,” I said. “Any way you want to play it.”
Palmer Residence.
THE minute the sheriff headed down the road to Spinner’s ranch, Jacky, Clay and I took off in the opposite direction for Ronnie Palmer’s place. He lived in a broken down trailer on about a half-acre of weeds a mile out of Broken Spur on the county road.
“Think he’d take Presto to his place?” asked Clay.
“Hard to tell what an idiot like him is thinking,” I said. “But if he doesn’t have Presto there, we’ll find out which one of his friends owns a truck big enough for the job and go from there.”
Took us fifteen minutes to drive through Broken Spur, out the other side and turn south on the county line. Another mile and we were pulling onto Ronnie Palmer’s weed patch.
His pickup was parked out front and a couple of hound dogs were lying in the dirt in the sun. They didn’t bother getting up, so we walked right past them and pounded on the door.
We each took a turn pounding on the door and hollering and it was a good ten minutes before Ronnie woke up and showed his face at the door. Obvious why it took him so long. He was hung over and half asleep. A bit of bruising around his right eye told me he might have shot off his big mouth and got a fist slammed in his face.
“Tired from your big night out bull rustling?” I hollered at him.
“What?”
“You heard me. One of Daddy’s bulls is gone, and we figure you took him. You were the one at our ranch yesterday mouthing off about what you were gonna do next to get back at us McKennas. Where’s Presto?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Logan. I never took no bull of yours and I shouldn’t have asked y’all for money. None of you McKenna boys ever did me any dirt.”
“I’m not s
ure I believe you, Ronnie. You threatened us and you didn’t sugar coat it.”
“I said sorry. Felt bad about it afterwards. Honest.”
“Not sure I believe you, but I’ll let it be for now. Sheriff Tucker will be by to see you in a bit. You’re at the top of his list of suspects.”
“Shit. Thanks for the heads-up. If I hear anything at the gas station, I’ll let y’all know.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Will there be a reward for finding Presto?”
“Umm… never thought about it. Don’t think so, but you find him for me, Ronnie, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Ronnie nodded and closed the door.
We piled back into the truck and Jacky asked. “Think Ronnie took Presto?”
“He seemed surprised we were here,” I said. “Maybe not.”
“Let’s go try Buster Tate.”
“Yep, that’s our next stop.”
Tate Residence.
BUSTER TATE lived closer to us, but not real close. He and his mama had a small plot of land to the west of Jessup Spinner’s ranch and closer to Broken Spur. They had a few cows and half a dozen sheep, but mostly goats—a whole yard full of bleating, stinking goats.
Clay screwed up his face when we got out of the truck. “Stinks, don’t it?”
“Goats.” I held my hand over my face, but it didn’t help.
Jacky knocked on the door of the little frame house. It had been painted white at one time, with blue trim around the windows and front door, but years of weather had turned the white paint gray.
The inside door was open and only the screen was closed. I could see Mrs. Tate in the kitchen sitting at the table smoking and reading one of the supermarket rags. A big chunky woman, with a rat’s nest of gray hair, she didn’t appear to be too friendly towards us.
Without getting up she called to us, “Y’all wantin Buster?”
“Uh huh. He home?” asked Jack.
“Ain’t seen him since yesterday.”
“His truck’s here,” said Clay.
“Bobby Paisley picked Buster up last evening,” she hollered. “Y’all know him?”
“Umm… not sure,” said Jack. “Where’s he live?”
“He’s got a place about a mile past the feed mill on the opposite side. Y’all can see his mailbox.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
We piled back into the truck and I turned around. “We’re only a few miles from there. Want to check it out?”
“Might as well,” said Clay. “Save us a trip later.”
FOLLOWING the directions Mrs. Tate gave us, we spotted a mailbox marked ‘Paisley’ and turned down the laneway. From what we could see from the truck, the ranch looked to be about a couple hundred acres. Small for these parts, but big enough to hide a stolen bull.
I drove near to the house and parked behind a green pick up. “Don’t see any big cattle truck.”
“Maybe they borrowed it,” said Clay.
We stood on the porch of the one storey frame rancher and knocked politely. The door was answered by an older lady and she was friendlier than Mrs. Tate. “Morning, boys. Y’all looking for Bobby?”
“We are ma’am. Bobby here?”
“He’s in the barn. Y’all can find him there.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Clay opened the barn door and we walked inside. The light was dim, and my eyes had to adjust for a few seconds. There were voices down at the end of a row of stalls and we walked towards them.
“Who are y’all and what do you want?” hollered a hefty cowboy. I guessed he was Bobby Paisley, but he could have been anybody. He was standing next to younger guy with shaggy brown hair and a straw fork in his hand. Not Buster Tate.
“We’re looking for Buster Tate,” I said.
“Ain’t seen Buster for a couple weeks.”
“You Bobby Paisley?”
“Course I am. Who in hell did you think I was?”
“Buster Tate’s mama said you picked him up last night.”
“She made a mistake. Ain’t seen Buster.” He stepped out of the stall and took a stance in front of Jack. “Who are y’all anyway? Should I know y’all?”
“We’re the McKenna brothers,” I said. “One of our bulls went missing and we’re hunting it down.”
“You think Buster Tate took it?”
I shrugged. “Anybody could’ve taken him. Even you.”
“Why would I want one of your bulls?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
“Well, I ain’t seen Buster so y’all can be on your way. I’ve got work to do.”
We trudged back to the truck no further ahead than when we got here. “What do you think?” asked Jacky boy. “Was Bobby lying?”
“I think so. Presto might even be here on this ranch, but we can’t go looking for him.”
“We can tell the sheriff where the trail led us,” said Clay.
“Uh huh. We can do that much.” I started the truck, turned around and headed out to the road. “Let’s stop into the Spur for lunch and tell Miss Jane what’s going on. Maybe she’ll hear something and point us in the right direction.”
“I could use a cold brew,” said Jacky. “My throat is parched.”
Broken Spur Roadhouse.
THE Spur wasn’t too busy in the middle of the day, but we chose to sit at the bar anyway hoping to get a chance to talk to Miss Jane. She buzzed around all over the roadhouse taking care of details, but mostly she was near the bar or in the kitchen.
First time she came out of the kitchen she spotted us and hurried over with a big smile on her face. “My boys are here for lunch. This is my lucky day.” She hugged each of us in turn then moved in close and whispered. “I heard some of the local riff raff have been dogging y’all for money.”
“We have been having a time of it, Miss Jane. A lot of lies circulating around our heads these days.”
“I’ll put a stop to it, boys. People don’t want to work for a living anymore.”
“Something else happened,” I whispered back. “Last night Presto was taken out of the back pasture field. He was stolen and Sheriff Tucker is investigating.”
Miss Jane made a sad face and I thought she was about to tear up. “Oh, not one of Kenny’s bulls. He loved them just like he loved you boys.”
“Daddy said he didn’t play favorites, but I always thought he favored Presto,” I said.
“I’m not sure which one he liked the best. He talked a lot about each one,” said Miss Jane. “Don’t know when Wade Tucker has ever found a robber or even found his own ass, but maybe this will be the first time.”
“We’re doing our own snooping around,” said Jack, “but we haven’t turned up much yet.”
“I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” said Miss Jane. “A lot of talk happens here in the Spur. And I’ll put Hank on alert too. People tell him all kinds of stuff every single night.”
“We need all the help we can get,” I said.
Clay glanced up at the blank chalkboard and asked, “What’s the lunch special, Miss Jane?”
Miss Jane laughed. “That’s what I came out here to do, and I completely forgot when I saw my boys were here.” She took the chalkboard down and wrote on it. “Cheryl is making chicken fried steak with mashed and a side of coleslaw. Y’all want that?”
“Sure, sounds good,” I said. “We’ll take three of those.”
Clay and Jacky nodded in agreement. They’d eat anything put in front of them long as they had a fork.
Spinner Ranch.
AFTER a delicious lunch that came with a free slice of apple pie—compliments of our almost mama—we headed back to our own ranch. But before turning in our own lane I drove on past and stopped into old Jessup’s place to ask him a couple of questions. The sheriff might have already been there and asked the same questions, but it didn’t matter, we wanted to hear his version of how the truck got into his back field.
He was rocking on the porch like he al
ways was with his pipe in his mouth. Sometimes it was lit but most times it wasn’t. Today the pipe was lit, and old Jessup was puffing on it. A cloud of smoke swirled around his head as he rocked.
“Morning boys. Wondered when I’d see y’all. Sheriff Tucker was by earlier about Presto, and I must say my heart went out to Kenny. He would have shot anybody touching one of his precious bulls, and I hope you boys are prepared to do the same.”
“Hope it doesn’t come to shooting, Mr. Spinner,” I said. “You didn’t happen to hear a big truck rumbling by your house in the wee hours of the morning, did you?”
“Told the sheriff I didn’t hear nothin, but that don’t mean much. I been hard of hearing the past few years.”
“Did you go back with him and look at the spot where they parked the truck?”
“Did so. And we came to the conclusion that they could have come into that field from the next sideline over just as easy. Tucker said he’d go around that way and check it out.”
“Okay. We can do that too. Thanks for your time, sir.”
“Hope you find Presto, boys. That’s a mighty fine bull and your Daddy won’t be resting easy until y’all get him back.”
“Thanks. I hope we find him soon.”
THE sideline running behind old Jessup Spinner’s ranch wasn’t heavily populated, and the piece of land where the truck had bounced through to get to Spinner’s property was vacant pasture land.
I parked the truck and we got out and followed the fresh truck tracks through the long grass from the road to Spinner’s fence. It had been cut and repaired the same way our fence had. Skillfully repaired by someone who knew what they were doing when it came to fences. Who could that be? I couldn’t see Ronne Palmer doing it or Buster Tate. More like Bobby Paisley—a rancher who’d fixed his share of fence breaks.
“Whoever did this, put some thought into it,” said Clay. “They didn’t toss back a few and then do it. They had to scout out these county roads for the easiest access to our property, then map out the route they were taking and bring the right tools for the fencing.”
“You’re right. It wasn’t on the spur of the moment,” I said. “More than one person planned this, and it took time. Let’s go home. We’ve got tons of work to do and I’d better let the insurance company know we’ve got a bull in the wind.”