Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

CHAPTER 9

BULL LAY AWAKE IN THE DARK, TOO RESTLESS TO SLEEP. NEARLY A week had passed without word from Susan. He could understand that she might not want to see him again. But what if something had gone wrong—an accident, or a clash with Ferg’s explosive temper? He knew he had no right to be concerned about her. All the same, he was worried.

But Susan was the least of his troubles now. Three days ago he and the boys had erected the windmill tower and reconnected the pump. The new setup had worked perfectly. But the water flow was still dwindling. It was time to face reality. The water table beneath the land was shrinking. The well was going dry.

How much time did he have before the water ran out? Days? Weeks? Would the hire of a drilling contractor be a waste of time and money? What if he paid and the new well proved to be as dry as the old one?

If he could find another source of water for the stock, saving the well water for the house, maybe the ranch would be all right until winter storms replenished the ground. But what if those storms never came? And where was he going to find enough water for more than a hundred head of cattle? He might be better off selling the lot of them.

The spring in the petroglyph canyon was no solution. There wasn’t enough water there to support more than a few cows. The neighbors to the south owned a patch of swampland that flooded with water when the rains were good. But this summer the place was nothing but a quagmire that trapped wandering cattle and stank from a mile away. Even if they’d sell the land cheap, it would be useless now.

Cursing, he swung his feet to the floor, sat on the edge of the bed, and cradled his aching head between his hands. The answer was out there, he told himself. All he had to do was find it.

The creek that ran through the Prescott Ranch flowed from artesian water high in the escarpment. Not only did that steady stream provide water for the cattle, it also irrigated hayfields for winter feed and made the difference between success and failure for that big ranch. Even in long droughts, the Prescotts had all the water they needed. There had to be a way for the Rimrock to get a share of it.

Barking dogs and the sound of a truck driving into the yard galvanized him to action. Without taking time to dress, he cocked the .44, charged out the front, and stopped as if he’d hit a wall.

Pulling up to the porch was the old ranch truck, the one he’d given to Jasper. The dogs danced and wagged as the truck door opened and Jasper climbed out with his pack.

Bull’s first thought was that he’d brought his bride for a visit. But Jasper had come alone. He climbed to the porch with weary steps, ignoring the dogs that frisked around his legs. His eyes were sunk in tired shadows. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Jasper.” Bull came forward, unsure of how to greet him. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“That can wait,” Jasper said. “I’m pretty tired. Just point me to a bed.”

“Your old room’s the way you left it,” Bull said.

“That’ll be fine.”

Bull went ahead of him and turned on the light. “What are you doing here, Jasper?” he asked. “I thought you were getting married.”

“Didn’t happen.” Jasper turned toward him. In the glare of the lightbulb, he looked like a man in torment. “A couple of days before the wedding, there was a freak storm—a real gully washer. Sally was driving on a back road. Her car got stuck crossing a wash when the water came down. She couldn’t get out in time. She drowned, Bull. She’s dead.”

* * *

By the next morning, after a few hours of sleep, some coffee, and a good breakfast, Jasper was alert and ready to start the day. He wore his heartbreak like a scar that had aged his features and left hollows of sorrow beneath his eyes, but he was outwardly cheerful and seemed anxious to get to work.

Despite the tragic loss, Bull was grateful to have him back. He’d missed, and needed, his old friend’s experience and wisdom.

Over a breakfast of bacon and eggs, he filled Jasper in on the water problem. “We can’t depend on the well anymore,” he said. “As I see it, the only way to keep our cattle watered is to get them to the creek. And that creek’s pretty much on Prescott land.”

“But not all of it,” Jasper said. “The source, in the escarpment, is on government land.”

“And there’s no way to get cattle up those rocks to where it comes out.”

“Let me finish,” Jasper insisted. “You might or might not know this, but accordin’ to law, surface water on the land—includin’ the creek—belongs to the good old state of Texas. Anybody can use it. But the access to the water belongs to whoever owns the land. So if you can’t get to it, you can’t use it.”

“Never thought about that,” Bull said. “But I guess it makes sense. So how do we get to the water?”

Jasper put down his toast and began drawing an imaginary map with his finger on the table’s Formica surface. “Right up near the mouth of that canyon there’s a thirty-acre parcel of land where an old hermit lives. Cletus McAdoo showed up about the time you lit out, so you wouldn’t know him.”

“So, is it his land? Would he sell?”

“Hell, I don’t know if he even owns the land. He just showed up and built a shack on it. Anyway he’s as crazy as a bedbug, hates the Prescotts. He wasn’t much for your dad, neither—wouldn’t give him access even when he offered to pay.”

“So where’s the water on his land?”

“The creek is the boundary between his land and the Prescott Ranch. Like I said, the Prescotts don’t own the water, just the access on their side. I reckon they’d do just about anything to get that old man’s property. That would give the bastards control on both sides of the creek, so nobody else could use the water—especially the Rimrock. But the old man keeps a shotgun for anybody that comes on the property. He’s been known to use it. That’s probably what’s kept the Prescotts from movin’ in and takin’ over.”