“Since then there’s been all manner of strange goings-on in town. My eatery has been abandoned and a new one built. And now there seems to be a boycotting of the saloon. When I was last there I also saw a couple of well-armed strangers who didn’t look as if they had any interest in farming.”

  Pete poured himself a drink and slumped into a nearby chair. “Jennings,” he muttered. “Nothing but bad things have occurred since he showed up. He’s the one turning folks against us.”

  “I’ve thought on that as well. It’s likely you’re right.”

  “He needs killing,” Pete said as he threw his glass into the fireplace. “He needs killing and the whole town of Phantom Hill burned to the ground.”

  Lester Sinclair stared at his son, seeing himself as a younger man—angry, impulsive, mean. It pleased him.

  “Where’s Repete?”

  “He’s taken to sleeping in the barn of late,” Lester said. “You’ll likely find him there. But I don’t want you to go blaming your brother for April’s leave-taking.”

  The last sentence was lost on Pete as he rushed onto the porch and down the steps.

  • • •

  Repete was at the far end of the barn, removing his boots, when his brother appeared in the doorway. The younger Sinclair had been avoiding his father and even the hands for days, fearing that his role in April’s leaving might somehow be discovered. He’d also dreaded Pete’s return.

  “You in here, little brother?” Pete said. There was anger in his voice.

  “Fixin’ to bed down.”

  “We need to do some talkin’ first,” Pete said as he walked past bundles of hay and carefully stacked sacks of grain. “Pa says when you was in town recently you didn’t bother to see to it April returned to the ranch.” His face was inches away and his foul breath caused Repete to turn his head.

  “Ain’t none of my business what she chooses to do.”

  “Where is it she’s gone to?”

  Repete shrugged. “That’s also none of my business, but if I was to speculate, it’s as far from you as she can get.”

  Pete shoved a shoulder into his brother’s chest with such force that it knocked him against the wall. He then smashed a fist into Repete’s face. “You’re worthless and a pitiful excuse for a Sinclair,” he said. “It shames me to call you kin.” He turned and walked from the barn.

  Blood trickled from Repete’s nose as he whispered, “That shame runs both ways.”

  • • •

  It was midday when Tracker, followed by a wagon and more than a dozen men riding two by two, reached Phantom Hill. The town was far busier than it had been when the Indian left to deliver Bagbee’s message. The sounds of hammers and axes filled the air as a new building was being constructed directly across the street from the saloon.

  “Looks as if the cavalry’s arriving,” Jennings said as he joined Bagbee and Clay Tucker in the street to greet the newcomers.

  “As you can see, that’s what they once were,” Tucker said. Several of the men were wearing remnants of Union uniforms. “I’ve cleared it with Weatherby for them to bivouac in the pasture down behind the livery.”

  In short order the wagon was unloaded and tents were being pitched. Ira and Weatherby hauled watering troughs and helped unsaddle the newly arrived horses. Dalton greeted each of the strangers personally.

  Miss Mindy walked across the street to watch the flurry of activity. “Lordy,” she said, “I’m gonna be needin’ more help with cooking. Most likely we’ll have to start feeding folks in shifts.”

  Bagbee smiled. “The man drivin’ the wagon—his name’s Jakie—is also the cook, though I can’t say I’d compare what he prepares to what you serve. Still, I think he’d be more’n happy to help out. He does make fair to middlin’ coffee, and his biscuits are half passable.”

  “Then send him over to the café soon as he’s settled and I’ll make his acquaintance. I hope he thought to bring some provisions.”

  As the men watched the campsite take shape, Bagbee placed an arm on Jennings’s shoulder. “I was thinking while waiting for them to arrive that in your newly elected job as sheriff, you’ll be in need of deputies.” He pointed toward the tent village. “Long as they’re here, consider ’em deputized.”

  “I was countin’ on it when I took on the job,” Coy said.

  “One thing you’ll need to know. For the time bein’, these men are tired and no doubt thirsty. I won’t be able to convince them to refrain from visitin’ the saloon, no matter who’s the owner.”

  “We can make that exception . . . at least till ol’ man Sinclair decides to get stubborn and refuse service.”

  “And should they get a bit rambunctious?”

  Jennings grinned. “Jail’s not yet finished.”

  Bagbee patted the badge on Coy’s chest. “Then all we’ve got to do in the days to come is figure out how we’re going to get my boss’s cattle returned to him.” He paused. “It ain’t my intention to involve the town in whatever it is needs to take place.”

  “I pray things turn out that way,” Coy said, “but I’d like to sit in on your planning just in case.”

  “Seeing as how you know the lay of the land out at Sinclair’s place,” Bagbee said, “I was countin’ on your help.”

  As he left to walk to the encampment, Weatherby approached Jennings, smiling. “I gotta say I’m right pleased to see these folks here,” he said. “You take a look at some of ’em? They appear mean enough to bust an anvil bare-handed. I doubt Sinclair and his hands have met up with the likes of these fellas.”

  Jennings forced a smile. “Well, you recollect they won one war,” he said.

  • • •

  As he arrived at the ranch house, Isaac Hatchett, the saloon-keeper, was sweating profusely despite the fact that the first norther of the season had just hit. It was his first visit to the Bend in longer than he could remember, and arriving without an invitation made him nervous.

  Lester Sinclair walked out on the porch. “What brings you here on this chilly morning?”

  “There’s things going on in town I felt you needed to know of.”

  Sinclair invited him inside to sit by the fire. “I’m already aware folks have chosen to stay away from the saloon.”

  “That was far from the case last night,” Hatchett said. “The place was filled with men I never seen before. Near as I can tell, they just arrived. At first, I figured they was just passing through. But seems they’ve camped down behind the livery.”

  “Did they state their reason for being in town?”

  The bartender was hesitant to admit that he’d carefully avoided asking questions of those for whom he’d poured drinks until past midnight. “I found them to be a secretive lot,” he said. “Wasn’t much talking I could hear. But I can tell you they was all wearing sidearms and looked as if they knew how to use ’em.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’m told Phantom Hill’s now got itself a sheriff,” he said.

  “And who might that be?”

  “That Jennings fella.”

  • • •

  Sinclair sat alone long after his visitor left, pondering Hatchett’s news and trying to determine what it all might mean. Something, he knew, had dramatically changed in Phantom Hill since his men failed so miserably in their attempt to drive Buck Burton from his farm. It puzzled him that the townspeople seemed suddenly united and determined to improve the town, even feeling a need for a sheriff. And who were these recently arrived men the saloon-keeper spoke of?

  Despite the fire, he felt cold, and his stomach tightened.

  He walked into the yard and signaled to one of the hands. He instructed him to locate his younger son and send him to the house. Repete soon arrived with his nose badly swollen and the skin below one eye turning purple.

  “Your brother and Poppy took a wagonload of supplies to the Flats this morning,” Lester said. “I want you to ride down and catch ’em before they head back.” He didn’t bother asking about his son’s injured face.

  Repete showed little response to the urgency in his father’s voice. “What is it I’m to tell ’em?”

  “Have ’em bring the Mexicans back with them,” Lester said. “They’ll now be staying in the bunkhouse.”

  Part Two

  Chapter 18

  For several days most of the hands at the Bend followed morning orders to arm themselves and ride the perimeter of the ranch, watching for any unusual activity. Poppy, accompanied by Blanca and two of his men, took up sentry duty at the ranch’s entrance.

  All remained quiet, however, testing Lester Sinclair’s patience and adding to his concern.

  “Could be you’ve got no call to worry. Might be nothin’s gonna happen,” Pete said as he leaned against a rail on the front porch. Still, as he’d done every day since hearing the news the saloon-keeper had delivered, he urged his father to allow him to ride into town. “I could set your mind at ease by learning what’s going on,” he said. He had quit mentioning his desire to determine the whereabouts of April McLean.

  “What day is it?” Lester asked.

  “Unless I’ve lost track, it’s a Friday.”

  “That being the case, I’m thinking tomorrow night we should keep to our normal routine by riding into town and having us a drink or two.” He poured the remainder of his bitter coffee into the dirt. “If, as I believe, there’s some manner of confrontation brewing, it should be us who starts it. Alert some of the boys to ride with us.”

  “What about the Mexicans?”

  Lester shook his head. “We’ll leave them here for Poppy and Repete to look after,” he said. “They can see to it nothing gets stolen from the house.”

  • • •

  Miles away, Coy Jennings was using a stick to draw a map in the dirt as Bagbee watched.

  “I wasn’t there long enough to get a full understanding of the size of the place,” he said. “But I do know that the biggest part of Sinclair’s herd is kept here.” He pointed to the southern edge of his crude map. “There’s a canyon not far, next to a camp where some of his hands once stayed. That’s where the stolen cattle are kept until they’re brought in for branding.”

  “Our intent’s not to take all his herd,” Bagbee said. “We only want what belongs to our boss . . . and perhaps a few more to account for our time and risk.”

  “Is there any chance what you’re plannin’ might be carried out peacefully?” There was no real hint of hope in Jennings’s voice.

  Bagbee shook his head. “You’ve begun sounding like a sheriff,” he said. “Truthfully what you’re askin’ ain’t likely. Not if what you’ve told me of this Sinclair fella is true. Once he’s made aware that his cattle have disappeared back to where they belong, he’ll likely want someone to be held accountable and pay. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t already in that frame of mind, even before he finds his cattle gone.”

  Weatherby had told him of the gunfight at the Burton Farm, and how the event had aroused the townspeople. He’d also shared with him the warning that April McLean delivered.

  “I hope you’ve come to realize you’re safe here only as long as we’re in town,” he said.

  “That’s about how I’m thinkin’,” Coy said.

  At first, Jennings thought it strange that Bagbee had let so much time pass since the arrival of his men. He hadn’t even bothered to ask how many men there would be at the Bend. Coy finally realized he was not planning a cattle rustling so much as preparing for a military action. Bagbee’s patience was impressive. Not only was he showing attention to the possibilities that might occur; he was allowing his men—his troops—to be rested and ready.

  “Could I persuade you to take a ride with me out to this canyon you’ve mentioned?” Bagbee said. “Maybe tomorrow night? We could have Tracker accompany us. It would be to our advantage to better know the lay of the land.”

  “Fine by me.”

  As the two stood up, Penelope McLean approached, skipping across the dusty street. “Mr. Jennings, my mama said to tell you there’s chili left over at the kitchen,” she said, “and pie for Mr. Dalton, if he’s hungry.”

  Coy called out toward the livery, “Ira, you’ve been invited for pie.”

  For a moment, the appearance of an excited Ira Dalton and the smiling face of a little girl allowed him to forget the troubles he feared were soon to come.

  • • •

  Armando Blanca was invited to accompany the Sinclairs and their ranch hands into Phantom Hill. As the men gathered in front of the ranch house, Lester issued instructions. “It’ll not be our intent to confront anyone or do any fightin’. This is only to appear as one of our regular Saturday-night visits—and show our numbers. Our purpose is to look and listen, and determine who these new folks in town might be and their purpose for being there.”

  Pete stood next to his father, noting that for the first time he could remember, Lester Sinclair would be wearing a pistol to town.

  “It will be good to taste some of the whiskey your son promised but failed to deliver,” Blanca said. “Will there be senoritas at this place?”

  Lester glared at the Mexican, then spoke to him for the first time since his arrival at the Bend. “Just see to it,” he said, “you cause no trouble unless you’re told. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sí, senor,” Blanca replied.

  By the time they arrived at the saloon, it was almost filled with patrons, and a half moon was on the horizon. A man none of them had seen before sat outside near the doorway, a beer bottle in one hand as he petted a mangy-looking dog with the other. He nodded as Sinclair passed.

  • • •

  Bagbee, Jennings, and Tracker had ridden in the opposite direction to take a southern route to Blue Flats.

  When they arrived, Bagbee shook his head as he surveyed the deserted encampment. “People was actually livin’ here?”

  “Men from Mexico, hired to rustle cattle and other things.”

  “Like occasionally raidin’ somebody’s farm?” He pointed to a fresh mound of dirt near the old adobe building. “Don’t reckon I need to ask why such a big hole was recently dug over there.”

  Jennings didn’t reply. He led Bagbee and Tracker to a nearby ridge that provided a view of the box canyon, then pointed toward the horizon. “If the moon was a bit brighter you could see there’s a trail that heads that way,” he said. “It leads to the pasture I spoke of. You’ll likely find a large herd of longhorns grazin’ there. It’s probably the best way to enter the ranch.”

  • • •

  With Pete following him, Lester Sinclair made his way to the back of the saloon. Three strangers were seated at his table. “Seems you fellas are in my place,” he said. None of the men looked up. Pete pushed past him, but his father held him back.

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me to have a sit and buy you a drink,” Lester said. Only when he introduced himself did one of the men look up.

  “Name’s Clay Taylor. Boys, let’s provide Mr. Sinclair some room,” he said.

  Sinclair sat and called for whiskey. After the bartender placed a bottle on the table, the ranch owner looked at Taylor. “We don’t get many strangers in here,” he said. “Certainly not as many as I’m seeing tonight. Where you fellas from?”

  “Up north,” Taylor said.

  “And what is it brings you our way?”

  Taylor reached for the bottle and filled his glass. He downed the shot in one swallow, then stood. “Pleasure meetin’ you, Mr. Sinclair,” he said as he nodded toward his companions. “Time we turned in.”

  Pete had been standing at the bar. As they walked away, leaving Sinclair alone at the table, he walked over. “They have anything of interest to say?”

  “It seems they’re not much for talking.”

  “Same with the others,” Pete said. “I never heard this place so quiet. Could be that’ll change once they’ve had more to drink.”

  But by the time he returned to the bar, the crowd was already beginning to thin. Blanca sipped at his whiskey as he watched the young Sinclair signal the bartender for another shot. He was well on his way to getting drunk.

  “You drink like a man whose heart is heavy,” Blanca said.

  The young Sinclair stared into his glass. “You ain’t been hired to make conversation—or observations. I’ve got something I need to do, so I’ll ask that you to keep a watch on my pa till I return.” He downed another drink, then made his way toward the doorway.

  He walked in the direction of the livery.

  He wondered what the half-completed building across the street was intended to be. When he reached the darkened kitchen, he stopped in front of it to silently curse the strange changes that were taking place.

  • • •

  Across the street, the front door of the livery was partially open. He walked over and stood listening. Only the breathing of horses resting in their stalls broke the silence. “Anybody to home?” he called out.

  When there was no reply he made his way into the dark building. He staggered through the livery to the back door that opened onto the pasture where the visitors were camped, stumbling over something that blocked his way. Opening the door slightly to allow in moonlight, he was able to see the dim outline of a buggy.

  As he stood staring at it, he heard a faint sound coming from the loft. Someone was humming a hymn.

  Pete listened for a moment, then spoke. “Show yourself.”

 

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