Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“Oh.” The young man turned to the large map that was mounted on the wall. “Here’s the parcel matching the legal description. It’s here—west of the Rimrock Ranch, on the caprock above the escarpment. You’re looking at about a hundred sixty acres. See?”

“You’re sure?” Bull’s pulse rocketed. The parcel wasn’t huge, but caprock land was precious for one reason—the water-bearing rock under the flat plain. Sink a well and there’d be plenty of water for cattle, hay, or anything else.

“How would I get up there to see it?” he asked.

“There’s a gravel road here.” The clerk traced a line on the map. “It’s a roundabout way, but it’s the only way there is. I can mail you the deed when it’s been recorded.”

“Thanks, but I’ll wait here for it,” Bull said. “In case there’s a question, I want evidence in hand that the land belongs to the Rimrock.”

The clerk sighed. “Fine. Take a seat. It’ll be about twenty minutes.”

Bull waited in a folding metal chair, his thoughts racing. Now he could understand why Williston Tyler had cheated his friend to get the deed. If the land was everything he hoped for, it could mean the difference between success and failure for the Rimrock.

But what if all this was too good to be true?

If finding the deed was such a godsend, why did he have the feeling his troubles were just beginning?

CHAPTER 15

WITH THE RECORDED DEED IN HIS VEST, BULL FOLLOWED THE NARROW, graveled road he’d seen on the wall map and copied on a sheet of paper. It led him up a broad canyon, to where it ascended the escarpment in a series of switchbacks with sharp hairpin turns. He had no memory of such a road being there when he was younger. It must have been built during the years he was away from the ranch.

As he drove, his head swarmed with plans. If the land was good for grazing—and he had high hopes it would be—he could move the cattle up there until fall, when much of the herd would be sold off. The remaining animals could be brought down to winter pasture close to the heart of the ranch.

For now, at least, stock and horses would need to be trailered back and forth—a challenge on the narrow, winding road, but it could be done, especially with the right kind of trailer. There was plenty of underground water on the caprock, but if there were no wells on the property, he’d need to get some drilled. He could be looking at a lot of expense—at least as much as he’d made on the rodeo circuit this summer. But this land could save the Rimrock. The money he’d planned for the house, if needed here, would have to be spent.

The road led up over the edge of the caprock and joined with a paved two-lane highway. Bull glanced at his map, made a left turn and headed south. Here, for as far as the eye could see, the land was as flat as a tabletop, the fields and farms green, irrigated with well water from the aquifer below.

According to the directions, the turnoff to the property was seven miles down the road. Since the parcel of land was bounded on the east by the edge of the caprock, it shouldn’t be hard to miss.

It wasn’t hard at all. In fact, Bull knew the land the minute he saw it. In a sea of cultivated green fields, it was yellow, dry, and weedy. A length of rusty barbed wire served as a gate. Clearly, the place hadn’t been worked since Sam Perkins had lost it to Williston in that fateful poker game.

Bull got out of his truck to unfasten the wire from the post that held it. Only then did he see—in the distance—a log cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. A small windmill turned on its wooden tower.

Somebody was living on his property.

His .44 was in its holster, under the driver’s seat. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it, but just in case he took it out and laid it within easy reach. Cautiously now, he drove toward the cabin.

As he came closer, he could see a couple of old cars, a small camping trailer, and somebody in the yard chopping wood. A woman in a long skirt had seen the truck. She pointed and must’ve called out because two more people, a man and a woman, came running outside. No weapons in sight, and nobody was trying to flee or hide. So far so good, but Bull knew enough to be wary.

He stopped the truck fifty feet from the cabin. The man who’d been chopping wood was coming out to meet him—lanky, and bearded, his long, stringy brown hair bound by a band across his forehead. He wore flowing green pants, a Mexican serape vest, and strings of beads around his neck. As he approached the truck he raised his right hand in a two-fingered peace sign.

Hippies, Bull concluded. Most of the ones he’d met seemed harmless enough, but Bull knew he couldn’t be too careful. If things went bad, he’d be outnumbered here.

Slipping the gun into the back of his belt, he stepped down from the truck and waited for the bearded man to speak.

“Peace, brother. What can we do for you?”

“I’m the new owner of this property,” Bull said. “I’ve got the paperwork, if you need proof. How long have you folks been living here?”

The man scratched his belly through the opening in his vest. “Going on three years. We thought the place was abandoned, so we fixed up the little shack that was here and moved in with our wives. My brother and I hire out to work in the towns around here—we’re carpenters and general handymen.” His speech, educated and articulate, belied his scruffy appearance. “We’ve never had trouble here. We don’t want any now.”

Looking past the man, Bull took in the cabin. The brothers had built an entire wing and a wide porch onto what must’ve been a small line shack. Most of the new structure was logs, carefully cut and laid. The windows were glass. The front door, which stood partway open, looked as if it had been salvaged from some expensive job. It was solid oak, with a stained glass insert. Below the porch, vegetables grew in well-tended rows. The dwelling looked solid and comfortable, even charming.

“Nice place,” Bull observed.

“Thanks. We do a lot of scrounging. Most of the materials here were given to us or bought on the cheap as salvage. The name’s Krishna, by the way. My brother’s Steve.” He held out his hand.

“Bull Tyler.” Bull accepted the handshake and felt the light scrape of calluses on Krishna’s palm. A good sign, although he’d bet his best horse that the fellow wasn’t using his real name. Then again, neither was Bull.