Quickly folding the note he stuffed it in his pocket and hurried outside to find the deputy. He found him leaning on the top rail of a corral looking over the horses.

  ‘How did things go with the Coulters?’ Connell asked when the company man leaned on the rail beside him.

  ‘I learned a lot, but I’m not here about that. I found this note pushed under my door tonight. It’s too dark out here to read it but it says, CONEL IN DANGER. Whoever wrote it spelt your name wrong, but the message is clear enough.’

  ‘Seems like I’ve trodden on some toes somewhere, or someone is worried that I know too much. I’m danged if I know what it is though. I’ll need to watch my back while I’m in this nest of skunks and I reckon you might, too. What have you learned?’

  Crossley-Hunt said quietly, ‘Just by going on the books of the Diamond R, this whole rustling business has been exaggerated. Herd numbers seem to have been increasing at roughly the same rates each year. Either the rustlers are leaving this herd alone and concentrating on the others, or the whole story is wrong.’

  ‘There is a very minor bit of rustling,’ Connell said. ‘That always happens in open-range country, but it is usually just someone killing for beef. Nobody these days is fool enough to drive off large numbers of branded stock and try to sell them. There might be a few calves wrongly branded, but that’s only a spit in the ocean. A few mavericks might get branded illegally but it’s a bit rich for the big ranchers to claim that all mavericks were descended from their herds. The Sioux wiped out the first ranch around here and their cattle ran wild so the mavericks are not all descendants of the stock that the big ranchers introduced later. My part in this is what is worrying me. I have been hired to handle a problem that doesn’t really exist. The only reason I can see for me being here is that I might worry the small ranchers.’

  ‘From what the Coulters told me, they’re glad you are around. They were pleasantly surprised to find an impartial lawman.’

  ‘It seems we have an unknown ally among the big ranchers,’ Connell said. ‘Do you have any idea at all who wrote that note?’

  ‘Not a clue but take that warning seriously.’

  ‘Thanks, I will – just one more thing. What do you know about those Black Angus cattle?’

  Crossley-Hunt thought awhile. ‘I know that since the first shipment in 1874 they are in great demand for American ranches. The Scots are getting big money for them. They are good for beef and they cross well with other breeds.’

  ‘What do you know about cross-bred Angus cattle?’

  ‘Very little. My job with the company is to oversee administration. I leave the technical details to the actual cattlemen. Will you be going out with the posse in the morning?’

  ‘I expect so if I get through tonight without someone ventilating my hide. I’ll camp a bit away from the ranch just to be on the safe side.’

  Chico was a loner and did not mix much with the other members of the posse. He bedded down in the barn where no one would see him coming or going. Connell had slipped away quietly. He had been roaming around the yard of the ranch house one minute and was gone the next. Without wanting to draw too much attention to himself, the tracker checked the bunkhouse and, as far as he could, the main building, but there was no sign of the deputy. He knew that he would not be far away, but was also aware that Connell was on his guard. Jensen would not be happy, but Chico decided that searching for a wary man in the dark was just too risky a business. As the boss of the Diamond R had not paid him anything, he could hardly complain if the task was not completed immediately.

  Jensen himself was having trouble sleeping. There were enough complications without the unexpected killing of the Double T men. Crossley-Hunt, though he probably did not know it, already had evidence that contradicted the claims about rustlers and Connell was sure to see the falsity of the claims. If there was one reason for optimism it was his expectation that the new deputy would soon be out of the game. Through the night Jensen wondered whether he would hear the shot that solved one of his problems.

  When morning came, the ranch manager glanced out his window. The ranch horses were already corralled and cowhands and posse members were bustling about preparing for the new day. Jensen looked for Connell and did not see him at first. When he did he was both disappointed and alarmed. The deputy was walking around the fenced pasture behind the corrals where the new bulls were held. He tried to tell himself that Connell just had a cattleman’s curiosity for a new breed but some inner voice told him that the deputy knew or suspected his secret. Dressing quickly, Jensen cursed Chico as he made his way to the main dining-room for breakfast.

  The bulls were quiet and were used to human contact, consequently they took little notice as Connell moved among them. Without going too close he saw what he was seeking. He was walking toward the bunkhouse when the cook rang the triangle announcing to the cowhands that breakfast was ready. Connell had not been invited to dine at the ranch house with the sheriff and the other ranch bosses.

  The cowhands complained, discussed horses or joked as each man collected a tin plate of bacon and beans and a mug of coffee from the cook. The kitchen was crowded and the others had no intention of making room for the deputy so he went out and sat on the porch. Another man also sat there: Chico.

  ‘I saw you looking at them muley bulls,’ the half-breed muttered as he chewed. ‘What do you think of them?’

  ‘They don’t look anything special. I’m danged if I’d bring cattle like that all the way from Scotland.’

  Chico chewed a bit more and said, ‘Me neither. Real cattle have horns anyway. I wonder how those things will go in a bad winter.’

  ‘They’ve proved they can stand up to rough conditions. The cold won’t worry them.’

  ‘It ain’t only the cold,’ Chico continued. ‘There ain’t gonna be much feed around when Coventry’s cattle arrive.’

  Connell stopped eating. ‘Do you mean there are more cattle coming in here?’

  ‘Sure are. There’s fifteen hundred head comin’ up from Texas. They’ll be here in about a month. I know because I started out with them, but the trail boss is Coventry’s son and he’s as mean as his old man. I quit and came on ahead because I wanted to see some relatives of mine.’

  ‘This country is overstocked now,’ Connell said. ‘A bad winter will wipe out a lot of cattle. How on earth does Coventry expect them to fit in?’

  Chico swallowed the last of his breakfast and stood up. ‘The way I figger it, he’ll have to shift some of the cattle already here.’ With that announcement he walked inside to dump his empty plate in the cook’s wreck pan.

  Connell finished his breakfast and went to saddle his horse. He found Sheriff McLeod engaged in the same task. ‘Do you still want me with the posse today, Monty?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I think we are wasting our time. Chico can’t seem to pick up any tracks and he’s supposed to be good. What have you found out about them rustlers?’

  ‘Do you know anyone around here who does rawhide work? I found a butchered steer with the hide missing.’

  ‘You’ve only confirmed what someone else already knew. Jason Martel on Alder Creek used to make a lot of rawhide lariats, bosals, whips and hobbles and stuff like that. He used to make good money from it too, but the hides were not from the few head that he was running. He was the first rustler the vigilantes hanged.’

  ‘And you have no idea where these vigilantes came from?’

  ‘I haven’t, and if the Good Lord gave you the sense of a gopher, you won’t either. The rustlers are the problem, not the ones stopping them. You might as well go back to investigating those folks along Alder Creek today. Just remember what side you’re on. See me in Lodge Pole a week from now and you had better have a few results.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Connell told him earnestly. ‘I intend to get results.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The hunt for the murderer was scaled down. McLeod dropped the Diamond R men from the posse and departed. He would search back through the open range and the men from the Double T and Wineglass ranches would drop off as they reached their home bases.

  Connell was about to depart when Crossley-Hunt walked across to where he was making the final adjustments on his pack. ‘I see you got through the night in one piece, Tom,’ he greeted. ‘What are your plans now that the big murder hunt is over?’

  ‘I’ll ride around for a few days, but don’t expect to find much. I report to Monty McLeod in about a week and then I reckon I’ll be out of a job. When do you go back to England?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it in a few days, but I’m in no hurry. I have spent so much of my life outside the British Isles that I am not sure that I belong there anymore. I doubt that the non-existent rustler crisis will justify my remaining here much longer. Ollie Jensen will be happy to see the last of me.’

  ‘There’s one thing that might delay you a bit longer,’ Connell suggested. ‘It’s those Angus bulls that the Diamond R paid so much for. I think that your company has been taken for a ride. The breed is new and not a lot is known about them in this country yet, but from the little I know, the Diamond R did not get what it paid for. Those are not good bulls and I think that they might not be pure-bred.’

  The company man looked surprised. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Some time ago I met an old Scot who came across with one of the early shipments. He told me that the breed is so strong that when crossed with other breeds the calves mostly look like the Angus. But if crossed with dairy breeds, they show a bit of orange inside the ears and inside the split of the hoofs. Those bulls have that orange and I think that they are cross-bred and not the pure-bred stock that your company paid for. They don’t even look like good stock. A couple of those bulls have very poor conformation for a beef breed.’

  ‘Are you sure? I know that a respected expert carefully selected the bulls in Scotland. If these are not the same bulls what happened the original ones?’

  ‘That’s a question you might need to ask. They might have been switched in Scotland, or they might have been switched after they landed here, but I would put my money on substitution somewhere along the way. My guess is that someone took, and probably sold, those very valuable bulls and switched them for cross-breeds. Whoever it was would know that the cattlemen here are un-familiar with the breed and might not notice the difference.’

  ‘Do you think Jensen could be involved in this?’ the company man asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Be careful how you raise this because you are alone here with skunks like him and Adams. If they were involved and thought they were in danger of discovery, they’d kill you.’

  ‘Tougher men than them have tried to kill me in several different countries, Tom. I’m not afraid of them.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Connell admitted, ‘but then you had troops behind you and your enemies came from the front. I have to go now. Remember – be careful.’

  From high on a heavily timbered ridge, Chico saw the deputy riding away from the Diamond R. The man and his horses seemed ant-like when viewed from that point, certainly too far for a rifle shot. I wonder what you’re up to, he asked the distant horseman silently. What did Connell know that made Jensen want to kill him?

  The half-breed returned to his pony. He would follow his man and see what he did. If the deputy met anyone, he would be interested in seeing who it was. Chico was playing a deadly game and liked to be sure of what was happening around him. Since McLeod had paid him off, there was no need for him to linger where he was but Chico had some killing to do.

  Connell did not know that he was being watched but the very nature of his work made him cautious. He kept a watch on his back trail and changed direction regularly so that it would be hard for someone to determine where he was going and set an ambush.

  Many cattle had died on the rangeland over the years and scavenging animals had often scattered their bones about. By examining all the carcasses he encountered, the deputy found another with a bullet hole in the skull. The hide was missing, another of Jason Martel’s victims. The ears were still attached to the skull and both were intact. In the absence of earmarks, it was certain that the animal had been a maverick. It appeared that Martel had not been killing indiscriminately and in this case he had taken the hide from an ownerless cow.

  Aware that the three big ranches were claiming all mavericks he thought that the number of such animals might have made rustling a paying proposition but he doubted it. The only unbranded stock he saw were small calves following branded mothers. These would be collected in the fall roundup.

  Connell was giving his horses a drink at a creek when he saw two riders approaching. They were riding straight at him and did not appear to be in a hurry, but something about their approach warned the deputy that their intentions were not friendly. The deputy lifted his horse’s head and turned toward the newcomers. ‘Howdy,’ he said.

  His greeting was not returned.

  The foremost rider, a hard-faced young man in a faded red shirt halted his horse a couple of yards away. Jesse Quinn was a bully at the best of times and with the odds in his favour, he was worse. With his right hand resting on his gun butt, he demanded, ‘What are you doing here? This is Double T range.’

  Connell could see trouble looming but ignored the question. ‘This is open range,’ he said evenly. ‘The Double T range, what there is of it, is miles to the north. I have as much right here as you do. I don’t think Joe Raymond would like to see his men rousting strangers. Does he know you are doing this?’

  The mention of his boss might have caused a wiser man to reconsider, but Quinn, who considered himself an up-and-coming gunfighter, was eager for action. This stranger would be the first man he killed in a stand-up gun battle.

  ‘We’re asking the questions here,’ the second man said. He was also young with straggly, shoulder-length fair hair. ‘There’s been a couple of our men murdered around here, and you might just be the hombre that’s doing it. So you’d better start giving us answers, or you won’t be riding away from here.’

  ‘My name is Tom Connell. I’m a deputy hired by the Cattlemen’s Association to investigate rustling.’

  ‘And I’m President Grant,’ the long-haired one mocked. ‘Now hand over your gun or start shooting.’

  Something about the pair warned Connell that both were in a murderous frame of mind, so, with little choice, he chose the latter option.

  But he did not react as the others were expecting. He drove his heels into his horse jumping it forward to the right of the pair. This forced them to twist in their saddles and placed one cowboy in the other’s line of fire.

  All three grabbed for their guns. The deputy’s sudden move took Quinn by surprise but the cowhand’s Remington .44 had cleared the holster in a fraction of a second. By doing the unexpected, Connell got away the first shot. The bullet burned along the man’s ribs. He flinched slightly sending his shot at the deputy wide of the mark. While he was trying to bring his horse under control, he fired again but everything was against accurate shooting and once more he missed. Long Hair started firing although his companion was partially between himself and his target.

  The scene became a blur of plunging horses, gunsmoke and shots ringing out. Connell had no idea how many times he had fired until the hammer clicked on a fired shell. He had switched targets when he saw the red-shirted man reeling in the saddle. Through a cloud of powder smoke he saw that the long-haired man was on his face on the ground and the one in the red shirt was slowly sliding from his horse as the animal danced nervously about. He hit the ground and moved feebly, choking on the blood that was coming from his mouth.

  The deputy wasted no time celebrating his survival. He holstered his gun and debated grabbing the Winchester from his saddle but saw that it would not be needed. Both men’s fallen guns were in full view and neither was in a position to use them. He dismounted quickly and hurried across to the men on the ground.

  Even as he reached Quinn, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head, blood trickled from his mouth and he was beyond any help.

  A glance told him that the other man was also dead. Though he had not been aiming at Long Hair’s head, Connell saw that one of his bullets had struck him in the forehead. He had very nearly missed him.

  The red-shirted one had a bloody furrow along his ribs, a broken left arm and a gaping bullet wound in his chest, Puzzled by the size of the hole the deputy turned the man over. To his surprise, he found a much smaller bullet hole. A slug had hit him just near the spine and torn through his body. The big hole in his chest was an exit wound. The man had been shot in the back and with something more powerful than a .45 Colt bullet.

  He glanced about and saw a pine thicket about seventy yards away but there was no sign of movement. No black powder burns showed on the back of the red shirt as would have been the case if he had moved into his friend’s line of fire. Connell suddenly had the chilling thought that a fourth person had intervened in the battle. If that was the case, which side had the mystery shooter taken? The three antagonists had been close together and moving about. Had the hidden shooter accidentally hit the wrong man?

  Just in case the shooter was still there, he stepped behind his horse to reload his Colt before drawing his Winchester from the saddle boot. He was almost certain that the fourth man had fled the scene but advanced cautiously from one piece of cover to the next. There had been ample time for the hidden man to shoot him in the period immediately after the gun battle if he had wished to do so, but Connell was in no mood to take chances.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Connell quickly found where the rifleman had hidden. The shooter had hitched his horse to a nearby tree and fired through a screen of berry bushes. A brass shell caught his eye. He picked it up and saw that it had been from a .45/.75 Centennial model Winchester, a weapon much more powerful than the .44/.40 favoured by most ranch men. The ground showed enough prints for him to see that the rifleman had not been lying in wait to ambush someone at the creek. He had arrived at the scene, observed what was happening, taken a shot and fled as soon as he saw that he had hit someone.

 

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