g.
The burly proportions of Bob Tucker filled the saddle seat, leaving no room between the horn and cantle. The size of him dwarfed the bay cow pony he was riding, a picture made more incongruous by the wide brim of the felt Stetson atop his small head, and contrasted by the short, slender rider accompanying him. Tucker stopped his horse close to the grazing cattle and shifted in the stirrups, the saddle groaning under his weight.
“I take back everything I thought, Angus.” He studied the rust-colored herd of white faces. “These cattle aren’t culls from the Triple C. They’re prime stock. How did you manage to persuade Calder to turn loose of them? Or am I looking at stolen cattle?” An indignant look crossed O’Rourke’s face. Before Angus could open his mouth to deny the allegation, Tucker laughed. “I guess if you’d stolen them, you wouldn’t be going around telling people you had them, would you?”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” Angus retorted. “They’re my cattle and I’ve got the bill of sale to prove it.”
“I’m not doubting your word.” Tucker was still smiling. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you have a bill of sale or not. It wouldn’t be the first stolen beef I’ve bought if you didn’t.” Cattle rustling was big business nowadays. Tucker knew a man could make a lot of money at it if he had the right connections. And he was never one to look down his nose at money. “The rancher is the only one who loses in a deal like that.”
“Yeah, and the guy who gets caught.”
“Do you know what the odds are against that?” Tucker glanced at O’Rourke and smirked. “In order to prove anything, they’d have to catch you in the act, and the chances of that happening are a million to one. Even if they did, the man would probably never go to prison. It’s a lucrative business with little risk involved. The days when a rancher would hang a rustler on mere suspicion are long gone.”
“That’s true enough,” Angus conceded and eyed the hulking form of the café owner with curiosity. “I never knew you had so much larceny in your blood, Tucker. I’m going to have to watch you when we start dealing on these cattle so you don’t cheat me.”
“Basically, I’m an honest person, Angus. I never try to screw the people I do business with—only the other guy,” he explained with wry humor. “But I’m just as interested in making money as any other poor devil. If it means doing something a little shady, then a man has to balance the returns against the risks and make up his mind whether it’s worth it.”
“I suppose.” O’Rourke sounded hesitant.
Tucker was slightly contemptuous of the rancher’s blindness to the facts. “Crime pays in this day and age. Don’t take my word for it. Look around for yourself. This is a big empty stretch of Montana, and all we have in the way of law enforcement are a couple of state police on the highway, and Potter and his excuses for deputies in the County Sheriff’s Department. If a rustler wanted to steal some Triple C cattle, there wouldn’t be anyone to stop him—or catch him. Even Calder couldn’t patrol every inch of his range.”
“I guess you’re right.” Despite the affirmation, Angus continued to sound skeptical.
Tucker glanced around, as if getting his bearings, then turned his horse toward a ridge. “I’ll show you what I mean.” The cattle scattered as the pair rode through them to climb the rough hill. At the crest, Tucker reined his horse to a stop. Beyond him stretched Calder land. “Do you see that back road over there?” He pointed to a narrow band of dirt in the distance. “All a rustler has to do is have a semi-trailer waiting there while a couple of riders drive the cattle to the fence and load them up. It’s a slick operation—in and out in less than an hour. There’s no one to see you or hear you. It could be days before anyone knows any cattle are missing.”
“If it’s so easy, how come no one has tried it yet?” Angus wondered.
“It’s usually a hit-and-run operation. They move into an area, work it for a month, come away with three or four loads, and move onto the next. The last time I remember hearing about cattle being stolen around here was about ten years ago,” Tucker recalled and stared thoughtfully at the expansive view before him. “Whoever did it got away clean. Around here, though, everybody knows everybody, so they’re quicker to notice a strange vehicle or a strange face and not pay any attention to a local—” He stopped abruptly, not completing the sentence. He’d been thinking out loud. Now he wanted to keep those thoughts to himself, on the outside chance something might come of it. With a quick glance at O’Rourke, he changed the subject. “You never did quote me a price on that beef.”
Angus was mulling over the unfinished sentence, completing it in his head. He realized it was true; the comings and goings of a local person wouldn’t arouse anyone’s curiosity—definitely not as quickly as a stranger. He was slow to follow the shift in the conversation.
“You haven’t said what you’re willing to pay,” he finally countered. With a turn of his stout wrist, Tucker started to rein his horse in a half-circle. His meandering gaze noticed movement along the boundary fence between O’Rourke’s property and the Triple C and he paused. His interest sharpened when he recognized the couple walking hand in hand.
There was curious speculation in his glance at O’Rourke. “So Chase Calder has come a-courting your daughter. I knew you must have had an inside track. I couldn’t imagine Webb selling such high-quality cattle to just anybody.”
At his comment, O’Rourke’s head jerked around to see the pair. Rage flashed through his expression, but his face was averted from Tucker and the man never saw it. Angus kicked his horse to turn it away from the sight and started down the slope ahead of the heavier rider, leading him away from the couple.
Chapter VIII
Angus brooded over that scene for three days. He didn’t confront his daughter with his knowledge of her meeting with Chase Calder; nor did she mention it to him. His darkening thoughts realized that his visit with Webb Calder had accomplished nothing, and to carry another protest to him would be equally futile. There was no justice in the world when a man could take a girl’s innocence and go unpunished.
Before he took matters into his own hands, he resolved to give Calder one more chance to stay away from his daughter. If he left her alone, Angus would let the matter drop. If he didn’t, Angus would make him pay. He had vowed it to himself.
The emptiness of his stomach told him it was nearly noon, so he left the motor to the well pump, half-reassembled, and started for the house. The cantering approach of a horse and rider caused him to stop. His gaze narrowed in sharp suspicion when he recognized Maggie riding up to the corral. He reversed his direction to walk to the corral, where she was dismounting to unsaddle her horse.
“Sorry I’m late, Pa. It’ll only take me a few minutes to fix lunch.” Her face was flushed and her eyes were shining when he stopped beside the board fence.
His glance fell to her mouth and noted the swollen soft curve of her lips. He didn’t have to be told to know what had caused it. “You’ve been with Chase Calder again,” he accused.
She focused all her attention on loosening the cinch. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Pa.” Her low voice was stiff and defensive.
Black anger clenched his jaw, but it wasn’t directed at her. To him she was the victim, a helpless female, thus incapable of knowing her own mind. He had no choice but to take matters into his own hands.
“Don’t bother to fix any lunch for me. I have to go into town to pick up another part for the pump motor,” he lied. It was only half a lie; he was going to town, but not for a motor part.
Maggie caught the note of falsehood in his voice. “Pa, you aren’t going to—”
“I’m going into town, I told you!” he snapped and pivoted from the corral. Driven by a barely contained fury, he crossed the littered ranch yard to the pickup.