Coyotes were cowardly thieves. A single coyote would slink away rather than confront an opponent of equal or superior strength, but with others of his kind, he gained courage and exhibited a cunning unequaled by any other, more forthright predator. Webb classified Angus O’Rourke in that category, an essentially spineless man with flashes of brilliance.
Webb was convinced he was being harried by coyotes who struck under the cover of darkness and then stole away into the night. He even hazarded a guess at the cowardly justification for the illegal act—the affair between Chase and O’Rourke’s daughter. The fifty head of cattle he’d given O’Rourke hadn’t appeased the man. It had merely whetted his appetite. The stolen cattle amounted to involuntary payments of blackmail. The thought burned through Webb like a hot iron. It was an intolerable position, and he reacted to it accordingly.
With a shake of his head, he overruled his emotions. So far his suspicions had uncovered nothing but a workable theory, no matter how much his instincts insisted it was fact.
Even he would not condemn a man on that alone. If he could never prove it beyond the law’s doubt, he would prove it beyond his own. In those cases, there were ways range justice could be served while the legal branch of government wore its blindfold.
Webb signed his name to the ticket, charging the purchase to the ranch account. “Thanks, Mr. Calder,” the boy said.
An absent smile came and went from Webb’s face as he turned away. He recalled the boy had said if O’Rourke wasn’t in the café, he was usually at Jake’s having a beer. He angled a course for the bar. The interior had the definite flavor of an old-time saloon, complete with hand-carved mahogany bar and its brass footrail. Behind it was the large mirror backing mahogany-carved shelves for liquor bottles and glasses. There was an assortment of round tables and unmatched straight-backed chairs. Dirty spittoons were strategically located for those who chewed or took snuff; an abundance of sawdust was scattered on the plank floor for those who missed. Beside the bar, there was a staircase leading to the second-floor rooms, the steps worn from a thousand footprints. The staircase was conveniently situated by the bar to permit Jake to see who went up and down the stairs with his “nieces.” In addition to the private poker room in the back, there was a jukebox and a pool table.
Unlike the old saloons, it lacked swinging doors—the flies were too plentiful in the summer. The walls were dingy, their color long ago lost under layers of nicotine, smoke, spilled drinks, and tobacco juice, not to mention good ole dirt. There wasn’t any red brocade wallpaper or wood paneling. There were no chandeliers or wall sconces. The lights were few and scattered, which was just as well, since the dimness hid the dirt. Most of the pictures on the walls were cheap Russell prints, not portraits of voluptuous naked ladies lounging on purple beds. Instead of a fan turning slowly overhead, an air-conditioner whirred in the corner. In truth, Jake’s was probably a more accurate representation of the true Western saloon than those depicted in Hollywood movies.
It served its purpose as a gathering place to exchange gossip and bellyache about life, or kill time over a few beers. Usually there was less than a handful of people inside, unless a bunch of cowboys came in to party and raise hell. That’s when Blue Moon was as lively as it ever got.
Webb paused inside the screen door while his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the afternoon light to the relative dimness of the saloon. His appearance brought a pause to all conversation, except for an exchange of quick whispers on his left. In his side vision, he noticed the trio sitting at a table an
d identified the large-built man dwarfing the other two. There was not another man in town that big or that solid—or who possessed a head so small for the size of his body. Without question, it was Bob Tucker. Seconds after Webb entered, Tucker pushed his massive frame out of the chair and spoke in a deliberately loud voice.
“I’d better get the café opened before the supper crowd starts coming. See you around, Angus.” It was all very nonchalant, very casual.
The remark permitted Webb to let his gaze stray to that table. He took a step away from the door, but remained in Tucker’s path to it. They exchanged nods instead of verbal greetings, and Webb stopped, forcing Tucker to do likewise.
“It’s been more than a month since you mentioned to Chase that you’d be out to buy some beef to butcher. We’ve been wondering what happened to you?” The slight curve of his mouth was challenging.
“Angus gave me a good deal on some cattle he bought from you. So I’m still selling Calder beef at my place, its ownership once removed,” Tucker replied without a trace of unease, then shrugged. “I guess I should have let you know, but I’m not what you would call one of your big buyers, so I didn’t think it was important.”
“It isn’t.” The mention of O’Rourke gave Webb an opening to shift his attention to the short man still seated at the table with his son. “How are those cattle doing, Angus?”
“Fine. Just fine.” Despite the casual tone, O’Rourke was watching him closely, as if trying to detect some other meaning to the question.
“I’ve gotta move on.” Tucker walked around Webb. “Stop in for coffee sometime.”
“I’ll do that, Tucker,” Webb promised with a fixed glance at the big man. He saw Tucker’s gaze dart to Angus.
It was a small thing, but in Webb’s mind, it added up to a connection between the two men stronger than just an exchange of idle talk over a glass of beer. There was some truth to the old phrase, “thick as thieves,” since they usually sought out each other’s company in a need for moral support. He didn’t attempt to hide the silent speculation in his gaze when it swung back to O’Rourke.
“Why don’t you sit down, Webb? Let me buy you a drink.” Angus exuded a cocky confidence in both the invitation and familiar use of Webb’s first name, when he usually addressed him with more of a show of respect. Webb walked to the chair Tucker had vacated in mute acceptance of the offer. “What will you have? Whiskey? Beer?”
“Beer is fine.” Webb sat down and nodded to O’Rourke’s son.
“Dolly?” Angus gestured to the gum-cracking blonde perched on a stool at the end of the bar. “Bring Mr. Calder a beer.”
The Calder name brought an instant response from the brassy blonde. Sliding off the stool, she ducked behind the bar to tap a glass from the keg. While it was being drawn, she discreetly slipped her gum out of her mouth and fluffed her already-puffy hair. As she crossed the room with his beer, she managed a fairly provocative wiggle, which Webb observed with passing interest. A long time ago, he’d made it a rule to avoid Jake’s girls and satisfy his occasional needs during visits to Miles City or Helena. It was inconvenient at times, but it guaranteed that his private life remained private and didn’t become a subject of local conversation.
“Have you had any more trouble with those rustlers?” Angus inquired. Webb wondered whether the man was clever, or just a fool for broaching the subject.
“Not in the last few days,” he admitted. “Since I put the men out patrolling the roads, it looks like they’ve decided to lie low for a while.”
“Do you think they’re still around?” Angus appeared surprised. “All the talk going around town has been guessing that the rustlers skipped the country, headed for greener pastures and fatter cattle.”
“They’re still here.” Webb nodded decisively and held the man’s look. “I’d bet on it.”
“What makes you say that?” Angus leaned back in his chair.
“Because they outsmarted themselves by knowing too much about this area. These cattle thieves aren’t strangers. They’re locals.” Out of the corner of his eye, Webb noticed the boy shift in his chair, but Angus released a disbelieving laugh.
“You don’t really think it’s someone we all know?” he scoffed.