“Soon,” Stovepipe promised.
When the operator was finished, he asked, “Are you going to wait for a reply?”
“Yeah, for a while, anyway.”
Stovepipe went over to one of the benches in the waiting room and sat down.
Frowning, Wilbur followed his friend. “One of these days you’re gonna act so blamed mysterious you’re gonna fool yourself.”
“Could be,” Stovepipe agreed with a smile. He sat up straighter. “Hand me that newspaper somebody left, would you? And take a section of it for yourself.”
“What in blazes—” Wilbur stopped short, picked up the folded newspaper someone had left on the bench, and handed a section to Stovepipe while he opened the other section and pretended to read it as he lifted it in front of his face. Stovepipe did likewise.
Wilbur said, “We’re hiding out from somebody, aren’t we?”
“Vance just walked into the depot.”
“Then what are you worried about, if it’s just him?”
“I want to see what he’s gonna do. I’ve got a hunch . . .”
Both cowboys peeked over the top of the newspaper as Vance walked across the lobby to the telegraph window, evidently without spotting them. The young man spoke to the operator, filled out a message blank, and paid for it to be sent. As he turned away, Stovepipe and Wilbur raised the newspapers again to keep him from noticing them.
“So he sent a wire,” Wilbur said when Vance was gone. “What in the Sam Hill is so interesting about that?”
“Who do you reckon a grub line rider would be sendin’ a telegram to?”
“Who knows? I’d tell you to go ask that fella, but I doubt if he’d tell you.”
Stovepipe shook his head. “No need. I got a pretty good idea.”
“Well, are you gonna share it with anybody?”
“Not just yet. Not until I get a reply from the wire I sent. I figure the whole thing will be clear as day then.”
“Maybe for you, but it’s clouding up for a storm in my brain.”
“Don’t worry, Wilbur,” Stovepipe said. “It’ll blow over.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An hour later, they were still sitting in the depot. They had read the newspaper from front to back for real, not using it as camouflage. The paper, which came from Denver, was three weeks old. That was actually fairly current for a frontier settlement like Wagontongue, where news from the rest of the world sometimes didn’t reach for months.
The telegraph operator leaned through his window, caught Stovepipe’s eye, and beckoned him over. Wilbur went along, too, of course, as Stovepipe’s long legs carried him toward the window.
“Here you go,” the operator said as he extended a telegraph flimsy.
Stovepipe took it, scanned the words on it, and nodded slowly.
The operator asked, “That what you were expecting to hear?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” Stovepipe said.
“Dadgum it!” Wilbur said. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on or not?”
Stovepipe held the wire out to him. Wilbur snatched it and read it, then lifted a surprised gaze to his friend. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“And you knew this?”
“I had a pretty good idea,” Stovepipe said. “Some things that didn’t add up before sort of do now.”
Wilbur thumbed his hat back and frowned. “Yeah, I guess so. But what are we gonna do about it?”
“Right now . . . nothin’. I reckon we’ll play the hand out and see where it leads.”
“All right. You haven’t ever steered us wrong yet.”
“Got to be a first time for everything,” Stovepipe said with a chuckle.
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
Wilbur handed the telegram back to Stovepipe, who folded it and stuck it in his shirt pocket. They left the train station, pausing just outside.
Stovepipe took a turnip watch from his pocket and flipped it open. “It’ll be a couple hours at least before Malone and the boys get here with that herd. Plenty of time for us to mosey up to the Silver Star and wet our whistles.”
“I just hope there aren’t any Rafter M men there,” Wilbur said. “I could do without another brawl right now. We can save that for later.”
The saloon was mostly empty on the lazy afternoon. Cy Hartung greeted them warily and drew beers for them.
“I see you’ve got the place fixed up since the last time we were here,” Stovepipe commented as he looked around.
“Yeah, all the damage is repaired. You’re not figuring on starting another ruckus, are you?”
Wilbur said, “We didn’t start that one. Dax Coolidge did.”
“And Coolidge has left town, accordin’ to Sheriff Jerrico,” Stovepipe added.
“I heard that,” Hartung said. “I just hope it turns out to be true. Even without Coolidge around, it still feels like a summer day when a thunderstorm’s brewing.”
“You don’t think the Three Rivers and the Rafter M can ever get along?”
“With so many hard feelings between Keenan Malone and Mort Cabot? I don’t see how.”
Stovepipe took a sip of the beer. “Those spreads have been in these parts for a long time. Have Malone and Cabot always gotten along so poorly?”
“No, not at all. Oh, they weren’t friends or anything,” Hartung said with a wave of his hand. “They were business rivals, after all. But there was no real trouble between them. I guess the problem just built up slow, without anybody really noticing. A fight here, some missing cows there, little things that got bigger and bigger.”
“Rustling’s not a little thing,” Wilbur said.
“No, but as long as everybody stays just about even, you don’t go to war over it. Hell, the Rafter M and the Three Rivers used to pool their stock to drive to Miles City before the railroad got here. I can’t imagine them doing that now, can you?”
“Nope,” Stovepipe said with absolute sincerity. “I sure can’t.”
They nursed their beers and continued to chat with the saloonkeeper. Stovepipe was aware of the time passing, so after a while he drained the rest of his beer and said, “We’d best be goin’.” He slid a coin across the hardwood. “Enjoyed the talk, Cy.”
“Come back any time,” Hartung said. “Except when the Rafter M bunch is here. I’d just as soon you not mix it up with them again any time soon.”
Stovepipe and Wilbur stood on the boardwalk outside the saloon and looked to the north.
Stovepipe pointed out the dust cloud rising in that direction. “Herd’s almost here. They’ll circle around town. Let’s go down to the depot and wait for ’em.”
When they reached the train station, they found that Vance and Rosaleen were already there, waiting impatiently.
“I wondered where the two of you had gotten off to,” Rosaleen said.
“We were close by,” Stovepipe said. “Any sign of trouble?”
“You mean Dax Coolidge?” Vance asked. “No, he doesn’t seem to be around town. I looked, while Rosaleen was resting. Maybe he actually did leave.”
“We can hope so.” Rosaleen sighed. “I’m not looking forward to telling Dad about what’s happened with Cabot and the railroad cars.”
“I was hoping the situation would change before the herd got here.” Vance sounded disappointed. “I guess it hasn’t.”
“What was going to change?” Rosaleen said. “You keep talking like there’s going to be some sort of miracle, Vance, but where I come from, such things just don’t happen. Cabot outwitted us . . . this time. We’ll have another chance at him sooner or later, though. Let’s go watch.”
They walked through the depot lobby and out onto the platform.
The Three Rivers hands brought the cattle around the western edge of town to avoid having to drive them down the main street. The holding pens along the south side of the tracks were open. With a lot of bawling from the steers and yelling by the cowboys and clouds of dust swirling in the air, the a
nimals were pushed into the pens.
Keenan Malone rode up to the end of the platform and dismounted, looping his horse’s reins around a hitching post. He came up the steps, a smile on his dusty, rugged face, and asked without any greeting, “Did you talk to the sheriff? Is Coolidge gonna be behind bars where he belongs for a long time?”
“Sheriff Jerrico had to let Coolidge go, Dad.”
Malone’s smile disappeared, replaced instantly by an angry scowl. “Let him go! What in blazes did he do that for?”
“Cabot and his lawyer raised a fuss. They claimed there was no real evidence against Coolidge, and they got the judge to agree with them.”
“Damn it!” Malone smacked fist into palm. “If we’d known they were gonna try a trick like that, you and Vance coulda come into town yesterday instead of waitin’ until today.”
“It’s too late to do anything about it now,” Rosaleen said. “Coolidge had an argument with Mr. Cabot and quit the Rafter M. He seems to have left this part of the country.”
Malone frowned. “I don’t believe it. This is just more of Cabot’s underhanded trickery. I wouldn’t believe that range hog no farther than I could throw him!”
“That’s . . . actually not the worst of it, Dad.” Rosaleen had to take a deep breath before she could go on. “Cabot’s got all the railroad’s rolling stock tied up for the next week or more. We can’t ship the herd.”
Malone stared at her in stunned silence while several seconds ticked by. Stovepipe figured the cattleman was building up to some sort of explosion, and he was right.
Malone’s face got redder and redder until his white mustache and bushy eyebrows stood out in sharp contrast to his weather-beaten skin, and then a flood of sulfurous profanity erupted from his mouth. The fact that he would curse so colorfully and vehemently in front of his daughter was a good indication of how upset he was.
Finally, when the storm lost a little strength, he gripped the wooden handle of the gun jutting up from the holster on his hip and said, “Cabot! I’m gonna ride out to the Rafter M and shoot him down like the worthless dog he is! He’s pulled his last snake-blooded trick!”
“And what good will that do?” Rosaleen argued. “With that crew of killers working for him, you’d never get off the ranch alive, and you know it! They’d cut you down before you got within a hundred yards of Cabot.”
“Not if I took every one of the boys with me!” Malone looked at Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance. “What do you say, fellas? You ready to go out there with me and clean up that rat’s nest?”
Vance said, “With all due respect, Mr. Malone, you’d just wind up getting a lot of good men killed if we did that.”
Malone’s jaw jutted out as he glared at the younger man. “What you mean is you’re yellow! I thought better o’ you than that, boy! I thought you had sand, and maybe even . . .” Too mad to go on, Malone’s ranting trailed off in a choked snarl.
Vance’s face paled under the lash of Malone’s words. Anger flared in the young cowboy’s eyes, but he managed to hold it in. “You’ve got it wrong, Mr. Malone. I just don’t want to see anybody get hurt unnecessarily.”
“No, you’ve got it wrong,” Malone snapped. “There comes a time when a man has to fight back, if he’s any sort of man at all!” His lip curled. “Reckon maybe I was wrong about that where you’re concerned.”
Vance’s hands clenched into fists. He looked like he was about to take a swing at Malone, and honestly, Stovepipe wouldn’t have blamed him all that much if he did. But it wasn’t the time—
“Mr. Malone! Mr. Malone!”
They all looked around at the sound of that urgent call and saw Helton, the stationmaster, hurrying across the platform toward them.
He was red-faced, too, and a little breathless as he came to a stop and held up a yellow piece of paper. “I knew your herd had come in, and somebody told me you were out here on the platform. I suppose Miss Malone told you about the problem with the rolling stock—”
“She told me Mort Cabot’s a lying, underhanded, no-good sack of—”
“I just got a wire from headquarters,” Helton broke in as he waved the telegraph flimsy. “By special order of the general manager, two dozen additional cattle cars have been diverted to Wagontongue. They’ll be here tomorrow, and you can ship your herd then!”
Malone and Rosaleen stared at the stationmaster. The news was like a bolt out of the blue.
But Vance didn’t look all that surprised by it, Stovepipe thought as he watched the young man from the corner of his eye.
In fact, Vance looked downright pleased . . . as if this unexpected development was just what he’d been waiting for.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malone and Helton walked off toward the stationmaster’s office to discuss the details of shipping the herd out of Wagontongue, leaving Stovepipe, Wilbur, Vance, and Rosaleen on the platform.
Rosaleen turned a puzzled frown toward Vance. “What did you do?”
“Me? What do you mean, what did I do?”
“You said you’d see to it the problem was taken care of, and now, out of the blue, more cattle cars show up . . . or they will, tomorrow, anyway.” Her frown deepened. “What I want to know is how you managed that.”
Vance shook his head. “You’re giving me too much credit. I’d love to say that I was responsible for what happened, but think about it. You know that’s impossible! I’m just a drifting cowhand. Mr. Helton said earlier that he’d wire the general manager and ask for more cars, so I’m sure that’s what happened. And for some reason the general manager agreed.” Vance shrugged. “That’s all I can figure out.”
“Well . . . maybe,” Rosaleen said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“Honestly, I’d love to do something to impress you, but this . . . I’m just glad it worked out.”
“Me, too.” Rosaleen cocked her head to the side. “And just why would you be interested in impressing me, Mr. Brewster?”
“Well, I, uh . . . I sort of feel . . .”
Stovepipe felt a mite sorry for the young man. Rosaleen probably knew good and well how Vance felt about her. She would have had to be pretty dense not to have figured it out. Her question was sort of like a cat tormenting a hapless mouse before it moved in for the kill.
Stovepipe inclined his head toward the holding pens and said to Wilbur, “Come on. Let’s go see if we can give somebody a hand with those cows.”
“That’s a good idea,” Vance said quickly, seizing the opportunity to escape from Rosaleen’s intent gaze. He started toward the end of the platform and added, “Come on, boys. There’s work to do.”
That was true, Stovepipe thought. And since he had gotten that telegram, he knew his real work was just getting started.
* * *
By nightfall, Andy Callahan had picked some of the men to stand guard over the herd in shifts. It was unlikely that anybody would try to cause trouble on the edge of the settlement, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out completely. Better to be vigilant, even if it turned out to be unnecessary.
Stovepipe and Wilbur volunteered for sentry duty since they hadn’t done any of the work of pushing the herd down from the ranch. Vance offered as well, but Callahan turned him down.
“You’ve still got that sore arm,” the segundo told him. “Don’t worry. By the time we get back to the Three Rivers, you oughta be healed up enough to start riding the range again. There’ll be plenty of work to do. There always is around a cattle spread.”
“I’m learning that,” Vance said with a nod.
Callahan frowned. “What do you mean, you’re learning that? You’ve been riding the grub line for a while, you said.”
“Well, sure. I just meant that every ranch is a little different, and I’m learning how things are on the Three Rivers.”
Callahan just grunted, shook his head, and moved on, clearly thinking that Vance was an odd one.
Next to one of the holding pens, Stovepipe and Wilbur were standing nearby and
overheard the conversation. Stovepipe looked at his stocky friend and smiled. Like Callahan, Wilbur just shook his head.
The crew spent the night at one of the cheaper hotels. Malone had laid down the law—the Silver Star and the other saloons were off-limits until after the cattle were loaded onto the railroad cars and no longer the responsibility of the Three Rivers riders. Once that was the case, a little blowout might be all right before the men headed back to the ranch.
It was after midnight when Stovepipe and Wilbur took their turn on sentry duty. They patrolled one side of the pens while another pair of cowboys was posted on the opposite side.
“Reckon anybody’s gonna try anything?” Wilbur asked quietly as they walked along with Winchesters tucked under their arms.
“Not likely, but you can’t ever tell for sure until it happens,” Stovepipe said.
“If Mort Cabot has heard that his little trick with the rolling stock didn’t work, he’s liable to make some other move.”
“He might. He’s bound and determined to get the best of the Three Rivers. Not much doubt about that, what with Cabot blamin’ Malone for all his troubles.”
“Yeah, but Malone’s not actually behind any of it,” Wilbur said. “We’d know that by now if he was.”
“I reckon we would. Malone’s a hot-tempered old codger, but he ain’t what I’d call sneaky or secretive. Any moves he makes against the Rafter M are gonna be out in the open.”
“So Cabot’s just using that as an excuse to cause problems for the Three Rivers.”
“Maybe—” Stovepipe stopped short, then said in an urgent whisper, “Somebody movin’ around over there . . . by the far corner of the pens.”
Only the flicker of a shadow had alerted him, but it was enough.
Like a phantom himself, Stovepipe glided along the pens, holding the rifle slanted across his chest. Wilbur was right behind him, moving equally as silent.
Stovepipe spotted a sudden spurt of orange. Whoever was skulking around the pen had just lit a match. Stovepipe’s heart slugged in his chest as he saw sparks start to leap.
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