Ty shook his head. “We’ll have to put him down,” he said, aware of young ears listening intently.
Chase nodded his acceptance of the verdict and looked beyond him toward the bluff area, gathering the reins in an obvious signal that he intended to look the situation over himself. Ty swung his horse half a step to the side, blocking his path, and glanced pointedly at Quint, then back to his father.
“It’s bad,” he said.
Chase lifted his head, then nodded and turned to his grandson. “I have a job for you, Quint. We need someone to keep a lookout for the sheriff’s car and direct him back here. This is very important, now. Do you think you can do that?”
“Sure.” Bright-eyed and eager, Quint sat straighter in the saddle.
“Come with me.” A hundred yards away, the rough, rolling ground lifted to a high swell. Chase rode to the top of it and waited for Quint to draw alongside of him. “Do you see that gate by the road?”
“Uh-huh.” Quint nodded, his gaze fixing on it.
“I want you to ride down there and wait at the gate. When you see a police car coming down the road, I want you to wave your hat so he’ll know where to stop. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be over by that bluff. When the officer gets here, you’ll need to show him where we are.”
“I will.” Quint booted the mare forward, clicking his tongue in encouragement.
Chase waited atop the rise until Quint reached the gate, then rode back to rejoin Ty. “How bad is it?” he asked when he reined in.
“Bad. From the looks of it, they were killed a couple days ago,” Ty told him. “The buzzards and coyotes have already been at work on them.”
“Are you sure it’s not the work of scavengers?” Chase questioned, then raised another possibility. “There’s been some cattle mutilations reported over in the Dakotas.”
“I’d bet on the coyotes here.”
“Let’s go look.” He lifted the reins. Side by side, they rode to the scene of the slaughter.
A rooster tail of dust plumed behind the fast-traveling patrol car as it sped along the isolated dirt road that traversed an outflung section of the Triple C Ranch. Just ahead the road made a wide, sweeping curve to swing around a hill. Slowing the car to make the turn, Logan checked the crudely drawn map on his clipboard and located the curve in a road that ran otherwise arrow-straight. He glanced one last time at the directions scribbled in the right-hand margin of the map, then laid the clipboard on the passenger seat.
It couldn’t be much farther. Leaning forward, Logan peered upward through the top half of the windshield, scanning the sky. Off to the west, buzzards drifted on rising air currents. Rounding the hill, the road straightened again. He brought his gaze back to it and the fence line that crowded close to it. Slowing again, he watched for the gate.
Logan saw the rider first—a small boy on a full-grown horse, waving his hat in sweeping arcs over his head.
Given a choice, Logan would have steered clear of the Triple C and anything that had to do with the Calders. But duty hadn’t allowed him that luxury. When the call came in, he had been the only one available. All the rest of the deputies had been either off duty, too far away, or tied up on other calls.
Seeing that the pasture gate was shut, Logan stopped the car on the road and stepped out, automatically adjusting the holstered gun on his hip. The boy had his hat back on his head, the overhanging brim shadowing a face that
couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.
“Afternoon.” Logan touched his hat in greeting.
“Afternoon, sir.” The boy sat as tall as he could in the saddle, his shoulders squared with adultlike importance. “I waved my hat so you’d know where to stop.”
“Good thing you did,” Logan acknowledged. “I might have driven past the gate before I saw it.”
The dozing mare flicked a curious ear at him as Logan approached the gate. When he went to unlatch the gate, his glance fell on a set of tire tracks. Close to a dozen cattle had been reported killed, a number that represented a sizable loss to any outfit, and one that couldn’t be taken lightly. Logan crouched down to study the tracks.
“Whatcha looking at?” the boy asked, the saddle creaking as he leaned forward, trying to see.
“Some tire tracks.” Logan straightened and turned his thoughtful gaze on the boy. “You don’t know whether anybody’s come through this gate in the last couple days?”
“No. Is it important?”
“It could be.”