There was a brief pause before the sleep-thickened voice replied. “Caleb McCutcheon. I’ll be damned. Man who launched my tumultuous journalistic career. Where in hell are you, and what in hell are you doing?”
Five minutes later, Caleb hung up the phone. He crawled into the hot bath, let his sore body relax, and reflected on the disastrous evening. He was too old to be fighting like that. Three young men full of whiskey and testosterone. Once upon a time Caleb had lived those very same years, but he was too old now. Too damn old. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The hot water felt good. His head ached and the lump on his skull was as big as a hen’s egg, but he had washed the blood away and no more had come. Ice had taken the swelling down in his left eye. He wasn’t on his deathbed yet, though in a few short hours he was fully aware that he might feel a little differently.
There was a light tap at his door. He opened his eyes and sat up in the tub. Had he imagined it? Surely at this hour the rest of Wyoming was asleep…but no, there it was again. His room light was on, signaling to the world beyond the drawn curtains that he was awake, but who would be tapping on his door at 2:00 a.m.? He could simply ignore the knock. The door was locked and he was safe. Or…had he remembered to lock it? Had he flipped the dead bolt? Were those three young men hunting him, still spoiling for a fight? The bathroom door was ajar and he had a clear shot of the motel-room door. He couldn’t see if the bolt was turned. Maybe he should get out of the tub and make sure that it was….
“Mr. McCutcheon?”
He froze. The voice on the other side of the door was Pony’s. What the hell was she still doing up? “Yeah,” he said, hastily levering his sore body out of the tub and reaching for a towel. “Hold on, I’m coming.”
He answered the door, dripping wet and afraid that something was wrong, that the men had followed them here. He cast a quick glance outside. All clear. He dropped his eyes to hers questioningly and she stared back up at him, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry. Your light was on and I…I mean, I didn’t think you’d be…”
“It’s all right. Come in. What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Are you—”
“You were taking a bath, so maybe I should…”
“I was finished. I was just getting out. Please…” He gestured her inside.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Pony, really, it’s all right. Sit down. I’ll be back in a moment.” He went into the bathroom and dressed hurriedly, wincing at the painful protests from his battered body. In jeans, barefoot and pulling on a T-shirt, he walked back into the room. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She was still standing by the door holding a small bundle in her hands. “Nothing is wrong,” she said. “I brought an ice pack for your eye. Some ointment and bandages for your hand.”
He glanced down at his raw knuckles, surprised she’d noticed in all the chaos. “Well, thank you.”
“Sit down,” she said.
He sat on the edge of the bed and she settled herself beside him, placing the ice pack gently against his cheek and letting him hold it there while she competently tended his sore hand. “You’re pretty good with the bandages,” he said, watching her, and he caught a glimpse of wry smile.
“Five boys have taught me a lot about first aid.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You should take some aspirin.”
“Already have.”
“There’s nothing I can do for your split lip,” she said, taping the bandage on his hand and gathering up her supplies.
“You could kiss it,” he said, “and make it better.”
She lifted startled eyes. “Kissing you now would hurt.”
“The pain would be worth it,” he replied, lowering the ice pack. Before she had time to react he had lowered his head and kissed her very, very gently. It was sweet, but she was right. It hurt. He drew back and studied her for a moment. “It was definitely worth it,” he said.
“Caleb…”
“Worth a second try,” he said. “Worth more pain.”
“Caleb.” She touched a trembling finger to the cut on his lip. “I have to know. Will you go to that man’s ranch tomorrow? Will you buy buffalo from the mayor of the town?”
He was taken aback by the question but he didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said.
“How can you even think of doing such a thing?” she cried. “After what happened tonight, and after realizing what might have happened, how could you even consider doing business with that man?”
Caleb didn’t flinch before her outburst. He regarded her steadily. “Because of what you said to the sheriff about the newspaper headlines if anything happened to me. I thought about that, and I realized that I was going to drive out there tomorrow and get the best price anyone ever has or ever will on a bunch of buffalo and a fancy aluminum trailer, and that will be the revenge of the Bow and Arrow.” He took her hands in his and looked her in the eye. “Do you understand why I have to do that?”
She gazed up at him for a long, searching moment. “Yes,” she finally admitted.
“If you don’t want me to go, say so now.”
“Would it make a difference what I said?”
“It would make all the difference in the world.”
“Then we will all go. Tomorrow morning, first thing. We will go out to that man’s ranch together.”
“I’d rather you and the boys stay here. It would be safer.”
“All of us, or none.” Her eyes were as black as basalt and as flinty as granite.
“Okay,” he relented. “All of us. You, me and the boys.”
She nodded. “You should keep the ice on that eye.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you did tonight. No one has ever fought for me like that before.”
His hands tightened on hers. “Anyone would have done the same.”
She slipped her hands quickly from his, and her expression became unreadable. “Good night, Mr. McCutcheon.”
She turned and was gone just like that, in one swift graceful movement, in the sharp and final closing of the door. He opened it again and leaned out, watched her walk to her own room and enter. Waited until she had closed her own door and locked it.
“Fool!” he berated himself softly wondering if he would ever say the right thing at the right time. “You damn fool!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
GUTHRIE SLOANE WAS NOT the sort of man given to premonitions, but when McCutcheon had called the ranch at 6:00 a.m. that morning and asked to speak with him, he took the phone from Roon’s hand with a feeling of foreboding. And when he finally hung up the phone he stood for a moment, then limped out onto the porch where Badger sat with his cup of coffee.
“They’re in trouble,” Guthrie said. “They’re hundreds of miles away from here in some pissant Wyoming town called Jeffords, and it seems they’ve gotten themselves in a real deep pile of cow dung.”
“Their vehicle broke down?” Badger said.
“McCutcheon got himself arrested and thrown into jail.”
“Well now, that’s a stretch. He ain’t exactly the kind of man who goes looking for trouble.”
“Three guys tried to throw Pony and the boys out of some redneck bar, and he mixed it up with them. He got beat up pretty good and arrested.”
“I wasn’t aware that gettin’ beat up while protect-in’ a pretty lady was a crime.”
“The arresting sheriff wouldn’t let McCutcheon call his lawyer. Instead, the sheriff called the mayor of the town, who was the father of one of the men who was harassing Pony. I guess McCutcheon broke the mayor’s son’s nose, and the mayor hates Indians and anyone who hangs out with them because his only other son was killed by a bunch of drunken Indians a few years back.”
Badger sat up straighter. “Oh, lordamighty, this is startin’ to sound real ba
d. Is Boss still alive?”
“The mayor of that town just happened to be the man Caleb was going to buy the buffalo from. He was released from jail when the mayor realized who he was.”
Badger pondered for a moment. “So let me get this straight. Boss got out of jail because the mayor wanted to sell him the buffalo?”
Guthrie heard Roon come out onto the porch. “Yup. He, Pony and the boys spent the night at a motel in Jeffords and this morning they’re driving out to the ranch to look at the buffalo. That’s why Caleb called. He wanted us to know what had happened and where he’d be in case anything went wrong.” Guthrie paused. “He said he’d called somebody else as well. Some big-name reporter in New York. Apparently this guy is connected with a big TV news show.”
Badger snorted. “Never watch TV.”
“Well, this dude is going to help McCutcheon somehow. At least, that’s what’s planned.” Guthrie shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Not to say it couldn’t still go wrong.”
“Well, shoot a duck!” Badger stood up with a creaking of joints. “If somethin’ does go wrong hundreds of miles away from here, what in the name of Sam Hill are we supposed to do?” He spat over the porch railing and wiped his chin on his shirtsleeve. “I sure hope Pony’s packin’ her buffalo pistol, and she’s loaded it with the real thing.”
THE MAYOR OF JEFFORDS lived ten miles outside of town on a ranch called the Rockin’ DV. The ranch gate was huge and imposing, and Pony drove the Suburban slowly down the paved driveway, past a large putting green and driving range studded with several man-made ponds, between tall plank fences painted brilliant white, dividing pastures that were obviously mown and manicured on a regular basis. Every tree and bush had been pruned to an exact shape and size. The paved road ended at an enormous custom-built log palace with lots of glass. It stood on the edge of another man-made pond with a little bridge leading to a mown island in the center, complete with a brilliant white gazebo. There was a separate guest house, swimming pool, tennis courts and several luxurious barns.
“Where are the buffalo?” Jimmy said, his head swiveling as Pony parked between a tan Mercedes sedan and a black BMW. “I don’t see any buffalo.”
“You boys stay in the vehicle and keep the doors locked,” Caleb said as he spied the mayor coming out the front entrance of the imposing log mansion. “Pony and I will check out the herd.”
He tried not to groan aloud as he opened the door and climbed onto the asphalt. The mayor walked up to him and thrust out his hand. “I’m sorry. We never formally met last night. I’m David DeVier. I wasn’t sure you’d come this morning.”
“Caleb McCutcheon,” he said as they shook. “And I wouldn’t miss this for the world. This is my herd manager, Pony Young Bear.”
DeVier did not offer to shake Pony’s hand. He nodded his white head almost imperceptibly and his chilly eyes rested a moment on the door panel of the hunter-green Suburban with its fancy gilt lettering and the proud symbol of the Bow and Arrow.
“How big is your ranch?” Caleb asked.
“One hundred acres. I keep the buffalo in pastures behind the barns. Follow me.”
They fell in behind DeVier and walked to the barns. Seven-foot-tall plank fences formed perfect squares of five acres each. Inside each square several buffalo fed on stacks of hay. “Each group has its own pasture, and they are rotated weekly. I run a bull with each bunch of cows. We feed them hay and cake daily, and as you can see, every pasture has a watering trough.”
Caleb peered at the huge animals through the plank fence. Each had a big red ear tag with a black number printed on it. He studied them intently and could find nothing wrong with them, yet somehow these creatures were very different from the buffalo on the Bow and Arrow, or the animals they’d seen driving through Yellowstone the previous day. He looked at them long and hard as he moved along the fence, trying to fathom the difference. Pony said nothing, and her expression was carefully neutral when he glanced at her.
“As you can see, they’re in good shape,” DeVier said. “These are fine animals and they come from a good registry. They’re up to date on their shots and worming. I have all the paperwork on them. You won’t find a better group of buffalo at a better price anywhere on this continent.”
“I believe that’s true,” Caleb said, glancing at his watch. “I’ll take them. Can you load them into the trailer?”
“My men are standing by. We can have them loaded inside an hour.”
Caleb nodded. “Good. I’d like to be on the road before noon. We have a long drive ahead of us. The sooner we can get this wrapped up, the better.”
DeVier smiled thinly. “Come inside and we’ll draw up the papers.”
They followed the mayor into his opulent lodge. He brought them into the great room, with its soaring open ceiling and huge fieldstone fireplace. The furniture was western, upholstered in what looked like the hides of an entire herd of pinto ponies. A huge antler chandelier hung from the ceiling, and over the mantel hung an original Remington. “Please, sit down,” DeVier said, gesturing to the hide-covered sofa. “Would you like a drink? No doubt after last night a whiskey would help to ease your discomfiture.”
“No, thank you,” Caleb said. He wished he could watch DeVier’s men load the buffalo into the trailer. How did these buffalo behave? Already he could hear the sounds of four-wheelers revving up, and a man poked his head into the room.
“Sir?” he said to DeVier. “We’d like to hook the trailer up to Mr. McCutcheon’s Suburban, but the boys inside the vehicle locked all the doors.”
Pony rose. “I’ll go out and speak to them.” Caleb sensed her eagerness to escape the stifling confines of DeVier’s mansion and wished he could follow her. When she’d left the room Caleb waited for DeVier to produce the paperwork for the herd. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I think I’ll take you up on that offer for a drink.”
“Not at all. I’ll join you.” The mayor poured each of them a generous shot of whiskey. He raised his glass. “To a satisfactory business transaction,” he said.
“Amen.” Caleb tossed the drink back and set his glass down on the coffee table. The slow burn of the smooth malt settled in his stomach and he hoped it would ease some of his physical torment, because the handful of aspirin he’d taken earlier hadn’t made a dent in the pain.
“Now then, here are the papers on the buffalo. We bought them at auction from a very reputable ranch. The Double A. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Yes. They’re out of South Dakota.”
“That’s right. Biggest outfit in the nation raising buffalo right now. Their animals demand top prices.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“So you understand that I’m giving you a great deal on these buffalo.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, Mayor. I understand that I’m going to be driving out of here with a practically brand-new thirty-foot, twenty-five-thousand-dollar Featherlite stock trailer and twenty head of some of the best buffalo on the northern continent for the price of a black eye, a split lip and some skinned knuckles,” Caleb said without missing a beat.
DeVier set his shot glass down carefully. “As you will recall, the price quoted was sixty thousand dollars. The price for the buffalo and the trailer is sixty thousand dollars, Mr. McCutcheon. If you aren’t willing to pay that, then you’re wasting my time and I must ask you to leave.”
“And I was more than willing to pay that price until last night. I’ll leave when the buffalo are loaded and the bill of sale signed.” Caleb patted his pockets and frowned. “Would you have a pen?”
“I don’t think you heard me very well.”
“Oh, I heard you just fine.”
“I’m asking you to leave, Mr. McCutcheon. Right now, if you please.”
Caleb sat back on the sofa and studied the mayor’s face for a few seconds. “The sheriff told me what happened to your youngest son, Mayor DeVier. I’m very sorry. But that tragic accident has nothing to do with the p
eople I’m traveling with.”
“You have no right to talk about my son!” DeVier snapped.
“No right? I was taken into custody and denied the right to call my lawyer, and the sheriff who arrested me didn’t read me my Miranda rights. Instead, he called you at home, and you came immediately with three big goons. Don’t talk to me about rights, Mayor.”
“I did nothing wrong! You were arrested because you broke up a bar and brutally assaulted several people, including my son!”
“I was arrested because I stopped your son from harassing a woman and four boys who happened to be Indians,” Caleb countered, his voice hardening. “It was ten-thirty at night when you came to the police station. Is that normal for you? What awful things might have happened to me, that young woman and those four boys if I hadn’t been the wealthy rancher from Montana who had come to town to buy your little herd of buffalo? I may be retired from major league baseball but I still know a lot of big hitting investigative reporters who would love to sink their teeth into a story like this!”
Pony stepped quietly into the living room just as Caleb rose to his feet, his body rigid with anger. She stopped, obviously sensing the tension in the room. Neither man acknowledged her presence. When the phone rang, the shrill noise jarred them all. There were swift footsteps in the hall and a woman in a maid’s uniform stepped past Pony.
“That phone call is for you, Mr. Mayor,” she said.
“I’m not taking calls at the moment,” DeVier snapped.
“Sir, the caller said it was important,” the woman apologized. “He produces a TV show in New York City and he wants to speak with you about Caleb McCutcheon.”
DeVier stiffened. His icy eyes flickered. “You’re bluffing,” he said.
Caleb nodded to the desk phone. “Try me.”
DeVier hesitated, then picked up the phone. “This is Mayor DeVier,” he said. There was a pause while the mayor listened, his eyes fixed on the Remington painting above the mantel. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, uncertainty edging his voice. And then, “No, that’s not true. We don’t discriminate against Indians in this town,” followed by “No! No, my son was just defending himself against… But he didn’t…!” Pause. “Yes. I understand,” he said in a voice that had lost all its aggression. DeVier replaced the receiver slowly, his eyes still fixed on the painting. His complexion had taken on a gray pallor.
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