“No, thanks.”
“Come on, Chase,” Buck urged. “You haven’t sampled any of Jake’s new entertainment yet. You need a wild night of whoring and drinking to get rid of that chip on your shoulder.”
“I’m not interested.” He repeated his refusal. A whore’s sex didn’t interest him, not when he’d just had the satisfaction of the real thing. As for the drinking, that didn’t appeal to him, either.
“Then I’ll go by myself.” Buck shrugged, paused a second, then glanced at Chase. “Loan me twenty dollars till payday.”
“Twenty?” He sliced an impatient glance at his buddy. “You already owe me thirty. That would make fifty you’ve borrowed this month.”
“So? I’ll pay you back when I get paid.”
“Yeah, and then borrow it back the following week.”
“Hell, you can afford it,” Buck retorted. “I’m not the one next in line to inherit all this. What’s the big deal, anyway? All I’m asking for is a lousy twenty-dollar loan from a guy who’s supposed to be my best friend.”
Chase stretched his right leg stiff and lifted himself slightly off the cab seat to reach deep into the pocket of his jeans for his cash. All he had was four singles and a twenty. He separated the twenty from the dollar bills and handed it to Buck.
“Here.” His glance took in the sulky look on the usually grinning face, and a smile eased the stiffness of his own mouth. “Who is being the sorehead now?”
Buck met his glance, then slowly laughed at himself, and took the money, stuffing it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Chase. You’ll get it back. I wish you’d change your mind about coming with me. We could have a high ole time, you and me.”
“I’ll go next time.” He realized he’d been neglecting his best buddy and felt obligated by friendship to do something about it.
Resting a heel on the running board of the truck, Nate Moore took the makings of a cigarette out of his shirt pocket while he watched the riders gathering cattle into a holding pen. Webb Calder stood beside him, an arm braced against the cab of the truck, his expression grim.
“I went by here about ten days ago and noticed that one steer with the split ear wasn’t at the salt block. He’s always been there in the mornings. It got to where I looked for him automatically,” Nate explained. “At first I thought maybe he’d broken a leg or got bitten by a rattler, so I mentioned to Slim to keep an eye out for him when he checked the herd the first part of the week. A couple of days later he told me he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of that steer. That spooked me and I rode out to take a look for myself.”
“How many do you think are missing?” Webb watched the riders bringing the cattle to the pen in small bunches.
“A conservative estimate would be forty to fifty head. It could go higher.” He returned the cigarette papers and tobacco pouch to his pocket, a rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, and raked a match across his jeans to light it.
“Any guess about when the rustlers hit us?”
“It’s hard to say. More than ten days ago.” He squinted at the smoke. “Probably backed a semi up to the fence gate and loaded ’em in. That’s the way it’s usually done.”
Webb breathed in deeply and straightened from his leaning stance against the truck. “Right.” It was a terse agreement. Nate stepped out of the way as Webb reached for the door handle. “Let me know the final count as soon as you get it.”
“Will do.”
Driving out of the pasture, Webb took the ranch road back to the headquarters and stopped the pickup in front of The Homestead. He called to one of the ranch hands passing by: “Find Virg Haskell and send him up to the house. I want to see him.” A hand was lifted in acknowledgment of the order, and Webb continued on his way to the house.
Twenty minutes later, a slim, brown-haired man entered without bothering to knock. None of the employees observed that formality. A Calder was always accessible to those who worked for him. Virgil Haskell walked directly to the den that doubled as Calder’s private office and removed his hat as he entered the room.
“Bevins said you asked to see me.”
“That’s right.” Webb leaned back in his chair to look at the man. He’d never been impressed with Haskell, although he couldn’t fault the man’s work record. Virg had been Ruth’s choice for a husband, and Ruth was a dear friend, closely linked to the family. Yet Webb had always suspected that Haskell trod on that relationship to advance himself at the ranch. There had never been any definite proof of that, and Webb had decided that it was a natural prejudice. No one would ever be good enough for Ruth. Although he’d never admitted it, not even to himself, Webb was half in love with her. After he’d gotten over his wife’s death, he probably would have married Ruth if she had been free. But she hadn’t been, so he had channeled his affection for her into a brotherly concern, his head ruling his heart with typical Calder discipline.
“We’ve had some cattle stolen, roughly fifty head from the north pasture,” Webb began.
“When?” Haskell frowned in surprise.
“Ten days to two weeks ago, as close as we can tell. The first thing I want you to do is organize a count of the rest of our herds, starting with those pastured close to the main roads. Then I want you to take a couple of men and question everybody in the vicinity of the north range. Someone might have noticed a semi-trailer rig, or something out of the ordinary. Report back anything you find, immediately.”
“I’ll get on it right away.” The hat was pushed onto the brown hair as Virgil Haskell left the den to begin carrying out the instructions he’d been given.
With his own inquiry begun, Webb reached for the telephone to notify the sheriff’s department. It was strictly an afterthought that he observed the formality of letting the authorities know about the theft.
Chapter IX