“This was no housekeeper. She was wearing jeans and boots and driving an old green Buick that looked like something from the forties.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Ferg stubbed out the butt of his illegal Havana cigar in an ashtray made of polished Mexican onyx. Lifting a fresh cigar out of a box, he said, “Tell me more.”
“She was small, midtwenties, tawny brown hair, not bad looking,” Tanner said, understating his description. “The one thing you’d notice about her was a dark red birthmark down the left side of her face.”
Ferg’s expression didn’t change at first. But his fingers clamped so tightly around the cigar that they crushed the fine, brown leaves, releasing their leathery aroma into the air.
“Do you know her?” Tanner asked.
Ferg nodded.
“Do you think she could be connected to the cattle rustling?”
Ferg’s eyes narrowed to slits of anger—or maybe it was something deeper and darker. Almost like fear.
Taking his time to answer, he laid the crushed cigar aside, lit a fresh one, and took a slow puff, drawing it out as if weighing what he was about to say. “I don’t know about the cattle rustling,” he said. “But yes, I do know her. I can’t prove it, mind you, and it would never hold up in court, but I have every reason to believe the little she-devil murdered my father.”
* * *
Tanner crossed the ranch yard to the two-story frame bunkhouse, the one place on the ranch where he had access to a phone. Most of the hands would be out on the roundup. Tomorrow he’d be joining them. But right now he had the time and privacy for a couple of calls.
The pay phone was mounted on a wall outside the first-floor dormitory-style bedrooms. It made sense that Ferg wouldn’t want homesick cowboys running up the ranch phone bill. Still, it struck Tanner as petty that the hired hands couldn’t even order a pizza from town without paying for the call.
After checking to make sure no one was nearby, he placed a collect call to Clive Barlow at the regional office.
“Anything new?” Clive asked.
“Still chasing leads. If any of the Prescott men are rustling their boss’s cattle, they’re doing a good job of covering their tracks. Ferg’s still claiming that Bull Tyler is the rustler. In the absence of anyone else, I’m inclined to believe him.”
“Well, this might change your mind,” Clive said. “I got a call from Bull this mornin’. Seems he’s missin’ cows, too.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth, or that somebody else on his ranch isn’t stealing them.” Tanner told Clive about the strange woman he’d seen that morning. “When I told Ferg about her, he almost crushed his cigar. He told me he suspected her of killing his father.”
“Now that’s middlin’ strange,” Clive said. “I remember that case, ten . . . no, twelve years ago. Ham Prescott was an old bastard. Came onto the Tyler property with a pistol and got himself blasted to smithereens with a shotgun for his trouble. But it was Bull Tyler who admitted to the deed. Bull pleaded self-defense and the grand jury let him off. Now Ferg is sayin’ the woman done it? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Ferg did say there wasn’t any proof.”
“Well, whatever he says, you’d best keep an eye on the lady. Her showin’ up about the same time as cattle disappearin’ is a bit too much of a coincidence to suit me.”
“Agreed. I’ll keep my ears open. Maybe I can pick up something on the roundup tomorrow.” Tanner hung up the phone, wishing he’d had better news to report. True, there were gangs of rustlers who swooped in and drove off cattle to load into trucks for out-of-state markets where they wouldn’t likely be traced. But nine times out of ten, the thieves would turn out to be local, often working on the very ranch where the stock went missing. Tanner had done his best to fit in with Prescott’s men. But he was new on the job, and if there was any business going on behind the boss’s back, they wouldn’t trust him enough to let him know. Most of them, in fact, seemed terrified of crossing Ferg Prescott in any way.
That was why he’d turned his attention to the neighbors. But now Bull Tyler had reported cattle missing, too. Tanner’s gut instinct told him something wasn’t what it appeared to be. But what was it? What was he missing?
For now, all he could do was trust his eyes and ears and get back to work. But there was one more call he needed to make. This call was personal.
After fishing in his pocket for a handful of change, he made a long-distance call to a small ranch at the foot of Wyoming’s Wind River Mountains.
A woman’s voice answered. She sounded anxious, or maybe just tired. Tanner knew his sister-in-law didn’t have it easy. Life on a struggling ranch with a husband and four active kids could take a lot out of any woman.
“Is everything all right, Ruth?” he asked. “How’s Clint?”
Ruth sighed. “He could be better. His back went out just in time for calving season, and now that I’m pregnant again, I can’t be much he
lp. Your brother needs you, Tanner. You need to come home.”
“I’ll try to send more money. Maybe Clint can hire some high school kids for the heavy lifting.”
“Maybe.” She sounded weary and frustrated. Tanner couldn’t blame her.