by Anna Schmidt
Chet understood that beef from Arizona Territory most likely went to California, rather than north and east. “How far?”
“Round about two hundred miles, give or take.”
Chet did some figuring. If they could make about ten or maybe fifteen miles a day, it would take around three weeks. Of course, that only figured on there being no problems. Coming back, they could cover more ground, so, all in all, a trip of about four or five weeks.
“Better get some shut-eye, Hunt. Gonna be a long haul.”
Any cattle drive meant long days in the saddle, and the drive to Yuma was no different. Chet had plenty of time to wonder what Maria was doing. She had this habit of taking things in hand without much thought for the consequences and that worried him. In addition, Bunker had reported that the number of stock the Porterfield outfit had lost due to rustling, disease, or the ongoing drought was at least twice what Johnson or any of the other small ranchers had suffered.
“Course, Mr. Porterfield always had the largest spread until the Tiptons come along. In those days he could afford to lose stock, but these days…”
The pieces were beginning to come together. The Tiptons had made no secret of their ambition and probably thought that if they got their hands on the Porterfield land, the other smaller ranchers would fall in line. So the Porterfield spread had been targeted. Trouble was, Chet couldn’t any more prove that the Tiptons were behind Maria’s troubles—other than the dam—than she could prove that Turnbull had something to do with her father’s death. He tried to come up with a connection—Turnbull had left the ranch to work for Tipton and then come back, but was that because Turnbull had been mad at Maria or because he was in the process of betraying her?
Bunker reined up alongside Chet as the trail boss called out orders and cowhands up and down the line began herding the stock into grassland to one side of the trail. “Two more down,” he reported. “Screwworm. Worst case I ever saw.”
“Ours?”
“Yep.” Bunker spit tobacco and stared at the horizon. “Don’t make no sense.”
“Not all that uncommon after branding. Animal has a sore, and they get in.”
“Got that part. What don’t make sense is how come it’s only our stock?”
“So far,” Chet said. “Trail boss is apparently stopping the drive so all the stock can be checked. Besides, the other ranches finished branding weeks ago.”
“I’ll lay you a wager that once we get going again, the only infected cows will belong to Clear Springs.”
Bunker would have won that bet when several hours later, Roger came riding up to tell them that from this point on, the Porterfield stock would be separated from the rest and travel alone.
“But cutting our stock from the herd will cost us valuable time,” Bunker protested. “By the time we get these animals to market—”
“It’s been decided,” Turnbull barked, cutting off any further protest. “Now get to work.”
They lost nearly a day as the men cut the stock from the larger herd, shot and buried the infected cows who were beyond saving, and finally settled in for a couple hours of sleep. At dawn, they were up and once again on the trail, but even after spending sixteen to eighteen hours a day in the saddle, they had a long way to go before they reached Yuma.
“Hunt, do you think any more bad stuff will happen?” Trey asked Chet as the two of them rode together.
“Hard to say, Snap. You’re seeing the tough side of this business now. Lots of stuff like weather and disease can affect the herd.”
In the distance, they heard a train whistle telling them they had at least reached the place where the railroad ran parallel to the herd. Eventually the two would meet in Yuma.
“Bunker says we’ve got nearly a week before we get there,” Trey said. “And I heard one of the men say we might even miss the train altogether.”
“George Johnson will make sure the train don’t leave till we can get there, Snap. Now, take Crack and go on and get that steer trying to head off on his own. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”
Trey grinned and took off, waving his hat and hollering until the stray rejoined the march. He looked back at Chet, who gave him a salute. Of course, Chet had no idea if Johnson or any of the other ranchers would stand up for Maria. Somebody was bound to mention the screwworm and that would make the beef buyers nervous. No, any way he turned this business, it came out bad for Maria and the Porterfields.
* * *
Maria slipped into the bunkhouse and immediately spotted Roger’s bunk. It was the only single bed in the room, the others being double stacked to make room for those times when the bunkhouse was full. She quickly searched the items on the small shelf above Roger’s cot and found nothing. Then she searched the bedding, being careful to restore the military precision of the corner tucks and the pristine fold of the blanket once she’d finished. Again there was nothing. Where would he hide the damaged bolo? Of course, he might have gotten rid of it, and then where would she be? The broken bolo was the only shred of evidence she had. No, she had to believe he still had it. She couldn’t let herself doubt.
She glanced through the small window when she heard Amanda’s voice and saw her sister head for the chicken coop. Ezma followed her, carrying the baby. They were laughing and the baby squealed with delight when Ezma bent to show him the chickens.
Maria waited for them to go around the side of the coop, where Amanda would spread the feed for the chicks. Then she slipped outside and headed for the office. Roger had been spending a lot of time there, though she had removed any ledgers and documents that she didn’t want him to see, claiming she had misplaced the ones he needed and would help search for them to buy time.
Inside the office, she sat in her father’s chair—the place Roger took nowadays, adjusted to fit his greater height. She placed her hands on the worn wooden arms and swiveled from side to side, surveying the room. Why would Roger risk hiding anything here? Because he believes that he has won.
She opened the drawers to the desk—one slender one that held paper and pencils and other supplies. Another larger one that held receipts and files—the history of her father’s years building this place from a shack and thirty head of cattle to the showplace it was when he died. Closing that drawer, she looked at the array of items arranged on the desktop. A sepia photograph of her mother and father in a silver frame, an inkwell and pen, an arrowhead Amanda had found when they were adding a room to the house, and a crude sketch of her father that Trey had done when he was around seven and confined to bed most of the time.
Her attention came back to the photograph. She picked it up and carried it to the light. Her father was standing behind her mother with his arms around her. He was wearing the silver ring that her mother had had made for him as an anniversary gift. Maria closed her eyes, then opened them in shock.
Her father had not been wearing that ring the day his body had been found. She had failed to notice and her mother had been too distraught to call the missing ring to anyone’s attention. Could it have been taken from his body before they found him? He never would have taken it off. One thing at a time, Maria.
She placed the photo back on the desk and looked around the room cluttered with her father’s collection of books on ranching and the beef industry, a quiver of arrows he’d been given by a warrior after he’d saved the women and children of that tribe from a stampede, and…
Her gaze stayed on the quiver. There was something not right. She got up and walked over to where it hung. “Backward,” she muttered. Both she and her father were left-handed, but whoever had hung the quiver last was right-handed. Roger was right-handed. She took it off the nail and gathered the arrows, pulling them out before peering inside. She turned the quiver upside down and the bolo fell onto the desk. She shook it again and even dug inside with one of the arrows, fully expecting her father’s ring to be there as well.
But it wasn’t. Quickly, she replaced the arrows and hung the quiver back on the nail. Then she took the chips she’d found and fit them to the damaged stone. But why had he kept it? It didn’t matter. She’d figure that part of the puzzle out in time.
“Perfect.”
Roger Turnbull had some explaining to do, because now, besides the damaged bolo, there was the matter of the missing ring. Whoever had that ring had the answer to the mystery of who had killed her father.
* * *
Chet felt as if he’d been in the saddle so long that the leather had become like a second skin. But by morning they would reach Yuma, and that alone was enough to keep everyone in the Porterfield outfit moving forward. Every man among them would happily eat another twelve hours of dirt and dust if it meant they were so close to being paid that they could practically taste that first shot of whiskey. Bunker was planning to buy himself a new pair of boots while Rico had his sights set on a new suit of clothes—one nice enough for courting Louisa Johnson. Every man had given a lot of thought to how he would spend that money, including Chet. In fact, he was so lost in his thoughts of Loralei getting on a stage that he failed to notice the lone rider coming fast across the plain or the lineup of half a dozen more men waiting on the rise they were heading toward.
“What’s up?” Trey asked, his voice shaky with fear.
“Trouble, that’s what,” Rico muttered as they all watched Turnbull approach the stranger.
Bunker translated for Trey. “See the way the boss is gesturing? He’s offering him and his boys a steer from the herd in exchange for us passing over their land.”
“I thought all the tribes had been moved to the reservation,” Trey said.
“There’s some that don’t hold with being told what to do by a government they don’t recognize,” Slim said.
The brave shook his head vehemently and held up one finger, then waved his arm over the area where the herd waited and repeated the one finger gesture.
“He’s asking for a toll—a dollar a head.”
“We can’t pay that kind of…”
Turnbull’s laugh could be heard all the way back where they waited.
“Get ready, boys,” Bunker said. “This ain’t looking good.” He reached slowly behind him and pulled his Colt revolver from his bedroll.
“Move ’em out!” Turnbull shouted and then whistled and shouted until the herd moved slowly forward. The men spread out, every one of them keeping his eye on the renegade.
To their amazement, the gang backed away and watched as the herd moved slowly toward the rise. Then Chet saw the leader give a signal and suddenly the others came riding down out of the hills, firing their rifles and yelling as they bore down on the herd.
That was all it took to start the stampede, and with a cliff on one side and a rocky ridge rising up on the other, the stock headed straight for the open vista beyond the cliff. The last Chet saw of the Indians as he whipped off his hat, slapped it against his thigh, and whistled loudly as he and the other drovers tried to head off the stampede, the renegades were whooping in victory as they rode over the rise, apparently satisfied that they had exacted a fair price.
By the time the men had managed to turn the herd and the dust settled, it was near sunset and they still had to count the herd and go in search of stray and wounded animals. They’d be lucky to make it to Yuma by week’s end.
* * *
Maria had counted the days—marking them off on a calendar in her father’s office—as she waited impatiently for the men to return. She paced the courtyard, thankful that her mother, Amanda, and Ezma had taken the baby down to the creek. She scanned the horizon. The men—certainly Roger—should have been back days ago. A neighboring rancher’s wife on her way into town had seen George Johnson outside his house a day earlier. Literally the clock was ticking on settling of the loan she’d gotten from the bank. The deadline for repayment was upon her, and if she did not deliver that payment to Clyde Cardwell by noon the next day, they would lose everything.
On the horizon, she saw a cloud of dust and her heart pounded with anticipation. Finally, she thought.
But instead of the men she expected, it was Jasper Tipton and his younger brother, Buck, coming her way.
“Afternoon, Miss Porterfield.” Jasper tipped his hat but remained seated on his horse. Maria did not miss the fact that this put her in the uncomfortable position of having to look up at him and into the hot noonday sun. She shaded her eyes.
“Now ain’t she looking pretty today, Jasper?” Buck said as he moved his horse around her.
“Mind your manners, Brother,” Jasper replied. “Miss Porterfield, I see your men have not yet returned.”
“I expect them any time now.”
“They ain’t comin’ till tomorrow earliest—maybe the day after,” Buck said.
She wheeled around to face him. “How would you know that?”
The younger Tipton shrugged and just kept grinning at her. She turned her attention back to Jasper. “What is it you want?”
“My brother and I have come to make your family an offer, Miss Porterfield. We will buy you out for twenty-five cents on the dollar. That gives you more than enough money to repay the bank and find someplace you and your mama and sister and brother can settle.”
“What about the offer you made at the ranchers’ meeting—the one allowing the owners to stay on their place?”
“The one you called ‘sharecropping’—yes, well, sadly that offer is no longer on the table.”
“How do you know about the loan?” She was blustering, stalling for time so she could think. Of course Tipton knew about the loan. He knew everything that went on in town.
Jasper smiled. “Well, you see, our company just bought the bank, so it’s kind of my business to know.”
“Tell her the rest,” Buck said.
“Not wishing to upset you, Miss Maria, but word has it that your stock didn’t make it to market in such good shape. You know how it is on even a short trail drive. I heard there was some screwworm that slowed ’em up and separated ’em from the rest of the herd. Then Turnbull pissed off some renegades, and they retaliated by stampeding your herd. Thing is, by the time your boys got that stock to Yuma, word had spread about the screwworm, and…”
With each word out of the man’s mouth, Maria felt her insides cramp until she was sure she would throw up. “Get off this land,” she managed, and behind her, she heard Juanita cock the rifle.
“I understand,” Jasper replied as he gathered the reins and turned his horse. “You need time to consider. Talk things over with your mama. There’s time. My offer is good until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He nodded to her, and then he and his brother started across the land, riding slow as if they already owned it. He had set his deadline for one hour before the bank note came due.
So, the men had not been paid—Bunker did not get to order his boots nor Rico his suit. Chet could not buy Loralei a ticket. Unless…
She hurried back to the house. “Nita, have Javier saddle my horse—and put that gun away.”
Juanita stuck the rifle back in its place and then followed Maria down the hall. “What are you up to, mi hija?”
“I am going into town,” she said as she threw off the dress and pulled on a pair of her brother’s canvas trousers and a cotton shirt. “It’s past time I got Marshal Tucker involved in this.”
“You got nothing to show ’cept your word against the Tiptons,” Juanita argued. “At least wait till the men get back, then—”
She pulled on her boots and headed back toward the kitchen, where she grabbed her father’s hat. “According to the Tiptons, that may be too late.”
“You gonna believe those ratos? You aren’t thinking straight, Maria. Stop before you…”
Juanita continued her tirade as she followed her to the corral, where Maria saddled a
horse and mounted it. “If it gets late, I’ll stay in town with Addie. You are not to worry Mama or Amanda with any of this, understood? If they ask, tell them I went to town to see Addie.”
“They’ll not believe me,” Juanita protested, “the way you been pacing around here like a skittish colt these last two days.”
“Make them believe you,” Maria shouted and took off. As she rode, she mentally calculated how she might juggle the money they’d make from supplying beef, milk, butter, and cheese to the fort for the coming months to cover paying the hands and repaying the loan. She could maybe sell that bull George Johnson kept asking to buy, and maybe some cows to the other small ranchers looking for breeding stock. Maybe that would be enough to get them through the winter. Of course, she’d have to do something about the dam or find another way to get water onto her family’s land. Chet would have some ideas.
The two hours it took to ride hard and reach town flew by, and by the time she tied up her horse outside the marshal’s office, she was no closer to knowing what she would tell the lawman than she’d been when she’d left the ranch.
Marshal Tucker met her at the door, but instead of inviting her in, he took hold of her arm and led her to a nearby chair. “Why, Miss Porterfield, has something happened out your way?”
Just before he’d closed the door to his office, Maria had noticed someone sitting in that office—someone comfortable enough to have propped his boots on the marshal’s desk. She recognized those boots. She’d been eye-to-leather with them just a few hours earlier. They belonged to Jasper Tipton. Her mind turned to a mush of doubts.
“You’re busy, Marshal. This can wait. I’ll just…” She fingered the bolo that she had tucked inside the pocket of her vest. “I was just worried about my men,” she said. It was only a half lie. “They’re overdue, and according to Jasper Tipton…”
She did not miss the way the marshal glanced nervously at the window of his office. The Tiptons had not only bought the hotel and saloon and bank in this town. Apparently, they also owned the law.