Lone Calder Star (8 page)

"Most people think the days of cattle rustlers are long gone. Hell, it's probably easier now than it was back in the eighteen hundreds. Back then, you stood a chance of tracking them. Today they load cattle into trucks, and those wheels don't leave any tracks on concrete roads."

"How true."

Empty gazed at the road ahead of them, a thoughtful furrow creasing his brow. "I wish I could give you an idea of what Rutledge's next move might be."

"He might have already made it," Quint replied.

Empty sat up, his weariness temporarily forgotten. "What do you mean? What'd he do?"

"Somebody came by the ranch yesterday while I was gone."

"How would you know that if you weren't there?" His frown deepened.

"There are ways. Some papers in the desk were out of order, plus some other things that weren't in the exact place that I left them."

Empty shook his head. "I swear those Rutledges are as bold as the most brazen hussy that ever walked the streets. Next thing you know they'll come sneaking around at night." He pinned a piercing look on Quint. "You've got yourself a shotgun, don't you?"

"I didn't bring any firearms with me. I thought there would be a rifle of some kind at the ranch.

But if there was, it's gone now." Nearing the outskirts of town, Quint slowed the truck and made the turn onto the back road that would take him to Empty's trailer house.

"I've got a whole gun cabinet full of weapons-shotguns, rifles, handguns, you name it and I've got it. Why don't you come in with me and pick out what you want?"

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"I can't tonight." Quint swung into the driveway and parked near the steps. "Maybe when I come to get you in the morning."

"It's your funeral ," Empty said with a shrug and climbed out of the cab despite the protest of stiffening joints.

"I almost forgot." Quint leaned sideways across the seat. "I need directions to the Slash R."

"The Slash R!" Incredulity claimed the old man's lined face. "Why in hilly blue blazes do you need that?"

A slow smile spread across Quint's mouth. "I decided I should return the favor and pay them a call-one neighbor to another."

"You're kidding." But Empty could see that he wasn't. "Just what do you think that's going to accomplish?"

"You never know." His smile turned into a full-fledged grin. "since it seems the Slash R has bought every available bale of hay around here, maybe I can talk them into selling me some."

"You've got as much chance of that as a fly getting loose from a spider's web." But Empty relented just the same and gave him directions.

"Thanks. See you in the morning."

"Sure thing." Empty gave the door a push and stepped away from the truck.

As it reversed away from the trailer, Empty headed for the steps. He caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye and turned. There was Dallas coming down the road in their old truck.

and he knew she couldn't help but see the black pickup pulling out of the drive. It didn't matter that they wouldn't be passing each other. A strange pickup in their driveway was bound to spark his granddaughter's curiosity.

Empty realized he would have to step quickly around this. Which wouldn't be easy. Dallas was about as sharp as his wife had been at spotting a lie.

He resumed his path to the steps and managed to get halfway up them before Dallas drove in.

She hopped out of the truck, her gaze locked on the departing pickup halfway up the road.

"Who was just here?" She wore a puzzled look when she came around the white pickup to join him.

"The guy from the Cee Bar, Quint Echohawk." Empty knew he had to keep to the truth as much as possible.

"What did he want?" The question had all the earmarks of simple curiosity, which suited Empty just fine.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He climbed the rest of the steps to the trailer door.

"Wait a minute." Dallas caught up with him before he could step inside, her gaze sharp with suspicion. "He didn't ask you to go to work there, did he?"

"Nothing of the sort," he declared as if the possibility were completely out of the question. "He wanted directions to the Slash R."

"But he could have gotten them from anyone. Why did he come here? For that matter, how did he know where we live?" "Somebody must have told him."

"But that same somebody could also have told him how to get to the Slash R."

"True. But it's likely they would have got on the phone the minute he left and reported it to Rutledge. And I got the impression Echohawk wanted to arrive unannounced. I expect Echohawk knew I'd sooner jump off a cliff than give Rutledge the time of day. "

His explanation appeared to satisfy her, but Empty could see she was still chewing on what he'd told her. "I can't imagine why he would want to see Rutledge." The wheels continued to turn in her mind as she tried to figure it out.

"He said he was going to try to buy some hay off him."

"Hay?" An abrupt laugh slipped from her. Then she shook her head in dismissal. "The man is clearly a fool."

Empty wasn't sure, but he thought Dallas sounded a little bit sorry.

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"You can't miss it," Empty had insisted after he'd given Quint directions to the Rutledge ranch.

The minute Quint encountered the pristine white fencing that ran for nearly a mile, he knew the old man was right.

The entrance itself was recessed from the road and flanked by high white wings. Arching across to connect them, tall enough to allow a semitrailer rig to pass beneath it, was a span of wrought iron. Scrolled in its center and gilded in gold was the Slash R brand.

The gleaming black iron gates stood open. Quint wouldn't have been surprised to find them shut. He turned onto the paved driveway, bordered by more white fence. Sun-seared grass covered the pastures on either side of the manicured lane, with no scrub brush or mesquite thicket to be seen.

A good half mile back from the road, the arrow-straight driveway opened into the ranch yard with its assorted sheds, stables, and barns all painted a pure white. The white paint accented the ranch's immaculate look, all scrubbed and ready for inspection. Quint found it hard to believe the Slash R was a working ranch. It was more like something Hollywood would come up with.

Off to his left, he noticed a paved road that branched away from the ranch and curved into some trees. He followed it. Within seconds he spotted the sprawling ranch house on the hilltop, hidden from the ranch yard by a screening of trees.

Rock columns supported a low, wide portico that marked the home's front entrance. Quint parked beneath it and climbed out of the truck. On impulse he hit the remote, locking the pickup's doors and activating its alarm system, then slipped the keys in his jacket pocket.

A burly man with a crew cut answered the door when he knocked. Blue eyes made a swift, assessing sweep of Quint.

"If it's work you're wanting, you'll need to go to the ranch oflice and fill out an application," the man said.

"No, I'm here to see Mr. Rutledge if he's available. Mr. Max Rutledge," Quint added in clarification.

The man's impassive expression never changed. "Is Mr. Rutledge expecting you?"

"No. But he'll see me," Quint stated, one corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest suggestion of a smile.

"Your name?" the man requested, unfazed by Quint's claim. "Quint Echohawk with the Cee Bar Ranch."

After a small hesitation, the man stepped back to allow admittance. "Wait here, I will inform Mr.

Rutledge that you're here. But I can't say whether he will see you."

"I understand." Privately, Quint had no doubts at all that Max Rutledge would agree to see him.

He stepped through the doorway and moved to one side, allowing the man to close the door behind him.

"Wait here," the man repeated the instruction and withdrew.

Out of habit, Quint removed his hat and made a visual inspection of his surroundings. The spacious entrance hall provided glimpses of its adjoining rooms, but not enough to encourage exploration. Like all the rest of the ranch, the house seemed designed to impress the visitor, both with its scale and its artful appointments.

The whisper-soft tread of the man's footsteps faded into another part of the house. With typical patience, Quint waited as the seconds ticked by.

The snicking click of a latch drew Quint's glance to the front door an instant before it swung open and Boone Rutledge walked in. He flicked a disinterested look at Quint, then came to a dead stop when recognition set in. He stared at him in bald-faced shock.

"Hello, Boone." Quint nodded, aware that he was likely the very last person Boone expected to see.

As expected, Boone didn't bother to extend a hand in greeting, honest not to pretend a civility he didn't feel. A dark displeasure was in the narrowed look he aimed at Quint.

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"What are you doing here?" But there was a ring of falseness in the question that revealed Boone had already guessed the answer.

Before Quint could reply, the servant reappeared in the entry hall. "Mr. Rutledge will see you now."

Boone made a quick dismissal of the man. "I'll show him to the den , Harold." With a slight nod, the man moved away-. "Follow me ." Boone struck our, taking the lead, then cast a questioning look at Quint. "I guess I should have asked if this was an official visit."

"No." Quint smiled, knowing it was the first question he should have asked, but Boone didn't appear to be very adept at thinking on his feet. "In fact, I quit the ATF shortly after my father's funeral."

"I didn't know."

"There's no reason why you should."

Crossing to a set of double doors, Boone pushed them wide as he walked through the opening into the spacious den. A wheelchair-bound Max Rutledge glided silently from behind a gleaming wood desk and rolled forward to meet Quint when he entered.

Boone rushed quickly to make the introductions. "I don't believe you've met Quint Echohawk, Max. He's the grandson of Chase Calder."

"I've heard of you, of course. Welcome to the Slash R, Quint." After a slight pause, he added,

"Although I can't help wondering what brings you here."

The unabashed curiosity in Max Rutledge's expression seemed utterly genuine. Quint took it as a warning of the man's canny shrewdness.

"He didn't come on official business." Boone crossed to the bar. "Quint's already told me he quit the ATE"

"I didn't think for one moment he was here in any official capacity," Max said easily.

"I suppose you could call it official," Quint said with a smile and added the qualification, "at least in the sense that Jessy asked me to come down and take charge of the Cee Bar."

"Really?" Max said with a startled widening of his eyes. "I guess I assumed you would be looking after your mother's ranch. Although I seem to recall it adjoins the Triple C. I suppose it would be a simple matter for the Calders to assume management of it.

"That's right." From the bar area came the clatter of ice dropped in a glass.

"Do you have time to join us for a drink?" Max asked. Quint's hesitation was only slight, but deliberately calculated. "Sure," he agreed. "Whiskey Seven."

"Pour Quint a whiskey Seven, Boone," Max ordered. "And I'll have my usual bourbon and branch." He swung his wheelchair toward a conversational grouping of chairs and swept out his hand in an inviting gesture. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." Quint crossed to a cowhide-upholstered chair and laid his hat on its wide armrest as he folded his tall frame onto the seat.

"How's Chase these days?" Max positioned his wheelchair in the open space within the grouping.

"Doing remarkably well, considering his age."

"Your grandfather is a remarkable man in many ways."

"I agree," Quint said and smiled. "Although naturally I am prejudiced."

"As you should be." A smile grooved deep lines in Max's gaunt cheeks. Then a small line furrowed his brow in a faint show of puzzlement. "You said earlier something about taking over the Cee Bar. What happened to the ranch manager you had running it? What was his name?" He turned a frowning look to Boone for the answer when he arrived with their drinks.

"Evans, I think it was."

"He's gone now." Quint took his drink from Boone's outstretched hand.

"Help is always a problem, isn't it?" Max remarked in a commiserating fashion. "The good ones are too often lured away by better offers. And the bad ones-well, you don't want to keep them anyway."

"Very true." Quint raised his glass in a toast. "To finding good help and keeping them."

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Boone and Max acknowledged the toast with a slight lift of glasses. The gesture was followed by the muted clink of ice against the glass sides as each took a sip. Boone drifted off to the side and hooked a long leg over the high armrest of a leather sofa, but Quint was conscious of the heavy bore of his gaze. If, as he believed, the Rutledges were orchestrating the current spate of trouble at the Cee Bar, the son was likely the muscle behind it, and the lather, the brains. And it was on the latter Quint centered his attentlon.

"It just occurred to me," Max began, "did your mother come with you?"

"No," Quint replied with a slight, negative movement of his head.

"I thought she might have welcomed a change of scenery, not to mention the warmth of a southern winter. And with Tara in Fort Worth, it seemed likely. I know they are former sisters-in-law, but it's always been my understanding that the bond between them has remained a close one."

"I know Tara is of that opinion." Quint's impression was that his mother had retained a healthy suspicion of Tara. Although in recent years Tara had been more of a pain in the neck to the Calders than the troublemaker she once had been. "Actually my mother has moved back to the Homestead to look after Chase. Right now, though. .." He paused, idly swirling the liquor in his glass. "Most of the family is in England to attend Laura's wedding."

The remark was designed to get a rise out of Boone. Quint observed Boone's reaction to the comment in his side vision ,the faint jerk of his head and the white-knuckle tensing of the hand holding the drink glass.