Mystery Herd

by Paul Lederer

  ‘Lewis Noble Bates was a man of stature, Trinity,’ Russell said. ‘My father was proud of his name, proud of the Owl, a good father to all of us. I have to discover what he was so troubled about that he wrote to me for help – even knowing that I was still on active duty with the army, that it might mean serious trouble for his son. I have to find out and tackle it.’ As Russell said that, Trinity noticed the young man’s hands tighten into fists. His determination to do his father’s will was not feigned.

  Trinity had whipped the striped saddle-blanket from the back of his spotted pony and was now brushing the animal. He asked:

  ‘Did he leave any last communication for you?’

  ‘None that I could find in his room. Either he didn’t, was unable to … or someone took it.’

  ‘That could only be one or the other of your sisters, couldn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to make that sound as if I were accusing someone,’ Russell said. ‘I don’t know that there ever was a last letter to me. He might have been too frail by that time to write. But,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘to answer your question, the only ones staying in the house are Holly, Millicent and our two servants: Alicia who does the cooking and cleaning, and her son Tonio, who helps her with the heavier household chores.

  ‘I don’t see what we can do then, except keep our ears open and poke around a little,’ Trinity said.

  ‘You really are under no obligation to help me, Trinity,’ Russell said.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he answered, putting his hand on Russell’s shoulder. ‘It’s a sort of a puzzle, and I’ve always liked them. And I am reasonably good at solving them.’

  ‘I thank you,’ Russell said sincerely. ‘Maybe things will come clear when Earl gets here – I don’t know. In the meantime, let’s get you settled in the bunkhouse. Holly was pretty clear about keeping you away from the big house. I don’t know why.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter why. Not many people are comfortable about inviting a total stranger into their home.’

  ‘No,’ Russell agreed. ‘It’s funny, though – I am a stranger too now, even though I’m sharing a home with people I have known all my life.’ He laughed, but the idea obviously did not amuse him.

  Together they exited the stable as the lowering sun painted the upper reaches of the leafless cottonwood trees with a reddish light. Trinity shouldered his bedroll as they made their way toward the bunkhouse, where men were already drifting in from their day’s work. Trinity could smell coffee boiling and beef frying. Smoke rose in an almost unruffled line from a black iron stove pipe to dissipate in the air.

  ‘Cooky’s at it. He burns a fairly good steak,’ Russell commented. ‘At least you won’t have to be living on trail grub for a while.’

  There were hitch rails along the side of the bunkhouse, and the two men glanced at the many brands they wore. ‘From Texas, mostly,’ Trinity said. ‘Rocking R. Hashmark. That one,’ he said indicating a heavily muscled chestnut, ‘is wearing a Poco Tia brand. That ranch is down near Juarez, Mexico.’

  ‘I don’t know much about that part of the country,’ Russell said as a couple of cowboys walked past them. You know, Trinity, I hardly recognize a face I see. I used to know everyone that worked on the Owl.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been gone for a few years.’

  ‘Yes,’ Russell said, ‘but it’s still an odd feeling – like coming home and not finding yourself at home.’

  ‘Probably most of the men rode in with Vincent Battles.’

  ‘I guess. He would have brought a few extra men if he is supposed to be in charge of roundup and the cattle drive.’

  ‘But …’ Trinity began, then halted, shaking his head.

  ‘What, Trinity? What are you thinking?’

  ‘Just that it’s a hell of a long ride up to Colorado for these men with only the promise of a few months’ work.’

  ‘Maybe things are tough down south just now,’ Russell suggested. ‘A man has to ride where the work is.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you in the morning,’ Trinity said as they reached the front porch of the bunkhouse where a few idlers sat in wooden chairs, watching the sun begin to stain the western sky with a flourish of color.

  ‘Want me to go in with you?’ Russell offered.

  ‘No. I’ll just introduce myself around. It’s probably better that way.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Russell agreed affably. ‘Tomorrow morning, just look around and try to get a feel of the place. We’ll put you to work the next day – that is if you’re still planning to stay around for a while.’

  ‘For a while,’ Trinity said. Then he flashed a smile, one of only a few Russell Bates had seen on the tall man’s face. Russell left Trinity on his own and stalked back toward the main house, his mind full of questions. Something was going on on the Owl, and he had no idea what it was. He was happy that he had at least one man he could trust on his side. Trinity was someone a man could count on.

  The looks Trinity got from the men sitting on the porch were cool, appraising. They showed no animosity, but neither did they hold warmth. It wasn’t unusual anywhere to be wary of a new man, but in Trinity’s past experience cowboys had been happy enough to step up, introduce themselves, perhaps ask your name and where you were from. Nobody on the porch said a word to him as he passed by and entered the open door of the bunkhouse, carrying his Winchester and his bedroll.

  At this end of the building, on his immediate left as he entered, was the cook’s kitchen. After it, a long floor which formed a corridor between ranks of double-stacked wooden beds, ran through the bunkhouse to a back door. There was a high, narrow window every ten feet or so along each wall. They admitted little light at this hour. Trinity passed a trestle-table, an iron stove with split wood stacked in a crib beside it, more men with uncommunicative eyes and a few empty bunks with thin, rolled mattresses on them.

  ‘I just got here,’ he said in the direction of two men who were playing cards on an apple crate, positioned between two bunks. ‘Any one of these beds with the rolled up mattress all right to take?’

  ‘Take your choice,’ said the man facing him, a dark haired, wiry cowboy with a nose that had been broken a few times. ‘Anyone that doesn’t like it can tell you about it later.’

  Trinity supposed that was the best invitation he was going to get, so he chose the lower bunk on the second rack from the rear door. He dropped his bedroll and spread the mattress flat, placing his rifle aside. Sitting for a minute, he removed his hat and studied his companions – those he could make out in the murk of falling darkness. No one he recognized – good. And no one who was likely to recognize him – better. If most of these men were up from south Texas, he was probably safe here. He had never worked down along the border.

  Trinity had just smoothed out his blankets when an iron triangle started ringing. It was suppertime. The trestle-table was already crowded with hungry men by the time Trinity arrived. They apparently had a better sense of anticipation than he did.

  A platter stacked with charcoal-dark steaks sat in the middle of the table. There was a bowl of potatoes roasted in an outside pit and bread and butter. Men rose, poked their forks into whatever they wanted and placed it on their plates. Coffee was in front of every seating. Only three or four men had removed their hats to eat, which was common – a man hated to be without his hat out here. Trinity paid attention to his meat and potatoes, not their faces but he did hear one round-faced, redheaded man say to the cook:

  ‘Say Cooky, you got a lot of those chopped up chives on your potatoes, how come I got none of those?’

  ‘Because I grow my own green onions,’ the cook, a slope-shouldered, sharp-eyed man answered around a mouthful of steak. ‘When you do the cooking here, you can have whatever you like; for now you’d just better like whatever you have.’ The men at the table laughed. Another cowhand, a young man barely into his twenties spoke up:

  ‘When I get rich I’m going to go somewhere where they don’t know what a steak is.’


  ‘I thought you liked beef, Bill.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘That’s about all that grows on the Owl,’ the second cowhand answered.

  ‘Nah,’ a third interjected, ‘we’ve got a good crop of hay this year, Bill.’

  ‘I guess your choice is steaks or grazing,’ a third man said.

  Across the table from Trinity, an older man with a sun-wrinkled face and a grizzled beard looked up and asked, ‘Who all’s going up to Dos Picos with me tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be along,’ the younger man called Bill answered. A few others around the table said they would also be riding with him.

  ‘I hate looking for strays up there,’ the older man grumbled. ‘In that tangle of brush and canyons! I never have figured out if the cows were smart enough to hide up there so they wouldn’t have to go along on roundup, or just too stupid to find their way out.’

  ‘We’ll help ’em find their way,’ Bill said

  ‘I lost two good ponies up there last year – both with a broken leg. Damned Dos Picos!’

  ‘How about you, stranger?’ one of them asked, and Trinity saw the eyes of the redheaded man on him. ‘Are you going up there with us?’

  ‘No,’ Trinity answered evenly, cutting another piece of meat from his steak. ‘Not tomorrow, at least. The boss told me just to look around and get a feel for the place.’

  ‘Vincent Battles told you that?’ another man scoffed.

  ‘No, not Battles. I was hired on by Russell Bates. I take my orders from him.’

  ‘I heard the squirt was back,’ the redhead said. No one raised a voice to reply, but there was a muffled, discontented murmur that passed around the table. It was obvious that these men were all loyal to Battles, followed only his instructions and would disregard any orders Russell Bates would issue.

  ‘Have fun, then,’ someone grumbled. ‘The rest of us have to work to earn our pay.’ He rose, slapped down knife and fork and stalked to his bunk. Trinity figured supper was over. He rose and walked to his own bed where he stretched out, hands behind his head, and listened to the sounds of the cowboys preparing for bed, swapping stories, playing cards.

  A shadow fell across him, blocking the lantern light from his eyes, and he looked up. He had seen the man who now stood over him earlier. Dark-haired, wiry with a nose that had seen some trouble in its time.

  ‘I want you up and out of that bed,’ the stranger said.

  ‘Leave him alone, Willie,’ someone shouted. ‘He’s got to rest up to do nothing tomorrow!’

  A small group of cowboys were beginning to gather to watch the exchange. A few of them wore broad smiles.

  ‘You’re the one who told me to choose any bunk I liked,’ Trinity said, swinging his feet to the floor.

  ‘Yeah, and if you remember, I also told you that anyone who didn’t like it could tell you later. Well, I’m telling you now: I don’t like it. I’ve been saving that bunk for a friend of mine; he just rode in.’

  ‘All right,’ Trinity said, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t mind moving.’ Not enough to start a fight on his first day on the Owl Ranch. He began removing his blankets. ‘What about that next one up? Is that all right with you?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ the man named Willie said, stepping near. He smiled, showing two broken teeth. My friend seems to have brought another friend along with him. They kind of like bunking side by side.’

  ‘I see,’ Trinity answered. It was obvious that Willie was enjoying this. His face was illuminated with a sort of dark glee. ‘I’m not particular, which bunk can I take then?’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of friends coming,’ Willie said, barely containing a snicker. Trinity saw that the man’s fists were bunched now. ‘All the bunks are going to be pretty well filled. Why don’t you just take your blankets outside and watch the stars while you fall asleep. The nights haven’t been that cold, and there’s a soft piece of ground over near the hog pen. It might not smell the best.…’

  ‘But you’re saying it would smell better than it does here,’ Trinity said coldly and Willie, seeing the hard look in Trinity’s cold gray eyes seemed to be realizing for the first time that he might have gone too far. But men like that don’t back down; they can’t afford to when, as now, they had a gathered crowd to watch the bullying.

  ‘I didn’t like that remark,’ Willie managed to snarl, regaining his aggressive attitude temporarily.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to,’ Trinity said, dropping his blankets back on the bunk. ‘I’m tired of you, friend. Why don’t you go away and let me get some rest?’

  Willie was a few inches shorter than Trinity, and weighed at least ten pounds less, some of it poorly distributed. Nevertheless, he pushed ahead, glancing at the men who were now grouped more closely around them.

  ‘There’s a lot of men here,’ Willie tried.

  ‘Yes,’ Trinity agreed, ‘but I don’t have to fight them all. I figure once I break you up some, things will settle down.’

  ‘Why you couldn’t—’ Willie didn’t finish his sentence; he hadn’t intended to. With his face now flushed with fury, he swung a wild right hand at Trinity’s head. Trinity managed to draw aside a few inches and Willie’s blow landed painfully, but harmlessly, on Trinity’s ear. Beyond Willie, Trinity could see the excited faces of the crew now crowding ever closer, cheering Willie on.

  Trinity raised both fists and sent a jolting straight left jab into Willie’s face. The belligerent cowboy staggered back a few steps, coming up against the neighboring double bunk bed.

  ‘Why you bastard,’ Willie growled as if taking offense that someone would fight back. He tilted his head back, took a deep breath and lunged forward, wind-milling lefts and rights at Trinity, striking the top of his skull and his shoulders. There was more rage than muscle behind the blows.

  The two men had turned during the exchange. Trinity now faced the back door of the bunkhouse. A panting, hunched-forward Willie stood in front of him. The broken-nosed man drove his body against Trinity’s, his shoulder meeting Trinity’s chest solidly and Trinity was driven roughly backward. Grinning faces swam past his vision. The cowhands continued to cheer Willie’s efforts. Unable to stop the rush, Trinity’s leather soled boots slid across the aisle of the bunkhouse until he was brought up sharply.

  He hit the iron standing stove violently, the metal slamming into his back just above his belt line, and he felt his kidneys jolt free. The pain was stunning. Trinity gasped for breath, tried to fight back the hurt. Willie had his man where he wanted him and now he stretched out his stubby, powerful hands and grabbed Trinity by the throat, trying to throttle him.

  The pain swirled in Trinity’s head, lighting a small fireworks display behind his eyes. He was alert enough, however, to bring his arms up inside of Willie’s and slam them outward, breaking the wild-eyed man’s grip. Willie took one step back and Trinity struck down with his forearm, driving it into Willie’s nose. Blood spewed from it and Willie bent down in a protective reflex. Trinity’s knee drove up and slammed into Willie’s face. If Willie’s nose had not been broken by the forearm smash, it definitely was now.

  Willie lifted his fists as if to continue the fight, but he didn’t have it in him. Trinity swung a jolting uppercut into his adversary’s blood-smeared face and Willie’s eyes rolled back, the intelligence battered out of them. Willie went to his knees and then slumped forward on to his face to lie against the wooden floor.

  The men gathered around them were silent now. Trinity let his gaze sweep over them, not knowing what their intentions might be now. Then, pushing a few men aside, he staggered to his bunk and lay down to try to ease the demanding ache in his lower back.

  It was a while before Willie was carried back to his bunk and the bunkhouse lanterns were turned down. Then Trinity lay awake and alone in the long depths of the building, listening to a few men whisper, cough, mutter, then pull their blankets up to fall into communal sleep. He watched the sliver of a yellow moon rising beyond the high window o
pposite his bunk. He heard frogs grumping outside somewhere. The pain in his back seemed to ease a little as the hours passed and he finally fell into an uncomfortable sleep, his Colt revolver in his hand beneath the blankets, ending his first day on the Owl Ranch.

  THREE

  The pale red glow of coming dawn could be seen through the window when Trinity next opened his eyes, and he rose quickly – though he was brought up short by a stab of pain in his back; he had definitely had a kidney jolted loose of its moorings. He pulled up his boots, keeping an eye on the still forms of the sleeping men around him. He didn’t know what sort of reception he could expect on this morning, but he wanted to be the first one out of the bunkhouse to solve any possible problems.

  As he walked toward the front door, carrying his Winchester, he smelled coffee boiling and bacon being fried. He went into the kitchen where the cook was busy slicing thick strips from a side of bacon. Two black cast iron skillets already sizzled on the stove, loaded with bacon. Three or four dozen eggs, mostly white-shelled, filled a ceramic bowl. The cook glanced up without much apparent interest.

  ‘You’re early,’ Cooky said. ‘Come when you hear the triangle ringing.’

  ‘I won’t be staying for breakfast. I just wanted to see if I could snag a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Help yourself – it should be boiled by now. Boys gave you a pretty rough time of it last night, didn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t mind a little razzing,’ Trinity said, pouring coffee into a tin cup he had found, ‘being a new man here. But that went a little beyond hazing. Willie was trying to do some real damage.’

  ‘That’s just Willie,’ Cooky said without apparent sympathy. ‘I hope you’re not going to let him drive you off. Not if you need a job.’