“What about the land in between McAdoo’s parcel and the Rimrock?”
“Open range for nigh onto a mile. Mostly sagebrush and mesquite. The graze is poor, and not a drop of water. But if we had access to the creek, there’d be no problem drivin’ our herd across that stretch.”
“Then I guess it’s time to go and talk to McAdoo.”
“You’re sure you want to do that? He’s liable to blow you full of buckshot, or worse.”
“Do you know any other way to get to that water?” Bull finished his coffee. “Tell you what, I’ll pay a call on the old man. Later today you can drive into town, check the records, and find out for sure who owns that parcel.”
“Fine, you’re the boss,” Jasper said. “But be careful.”
Half an hour later, with the sun just coming up and the two boys busy at chores, Bull buckled on his pistol, mounted up, and headed for the old man’s property. Strange, he hadn’t noticed the place in the two years he’d been home. But it was beyond the borders of the Rimrock, with federal land in between. If Jasper hadn’t told him how to get there, he might have ridden right past it.
As he approached, the sound of the creek rushing over rocks reached his ears. Where the land leveled out on the Prescott Ranch, he knew that the creek slowed and widened, to make easy drinking for cattle in the Prescott pastures. But here the current was swift and musical. Water in this part of Texas was more precious than gold. He was hearing a treasure.
Now he glimpsed the shack, screened by a stand of willows. He could also see the barbed wire fence and the KEEP OUT, TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT signs boldly displayed in front. Jasper had told him that the property covered thirty acres. If so, its shape would have to be irregular. Here the distance was no more than fifty yards from the fence to the creek.
As an afterthought, Bull had tucked a white dish towel in his saddlebag. Now, after dismounting, he took it out and tied the end to a stick. It might not help, but it wouldn’t hurt to let the old hermit know he’d come in peace. With his horse tethered in the willows, one hand holding the makeshift flag and the other resting on his holstered pistol, he walked slowly forward.
The shack was fashioned out of scrap lumber with a corrugated tin roof and a metal chimney. A ramshackle chicken coop stood at one end, with a well-tended vegetable garden in what would have been the front yard. A dozen yards away, screened by a few willows, stood an outhouse. The creek ran on the far side of the shack, reflecting glints of sunlight through the overhanging willows. There was no visible gate in the wire fence and no sign of human activity about the place.
“Mr. McAdoo!” Bull walked toward the fence, keeping the white flag in plain sight. “I don’t mean any harm. I just need to talk to you.”
He caught the movement of a wooden shutter. In the next instant, a shotgun blast roared past his head. The shot missed, but it was close enough to make him jump and leave his ears ringing. Recovering his equilibrium, he raised the white flag higher. “It’s all right,” he called. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Lay down that pistol, Mister!” The voice sounded more like a child’s than an old man’s. “Nice and slow-like. No tricks, or I’ll blast you to kingdom come!”
Moving slo
wly, Bull drew the gun from his holster and laid it on the ground.
“See that white rock? That’s where the gate is. There’s a wire loop. Lift it off and come in slow and easy with your hands where I can see ’em.”
Bull did as he was told. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he reached the plywood door. The speaker didn’t sound like a killer, but the first blast had come close. Now he was even more exposed.
“The door’s unlatched, Mister. Open it a little, just enough to step inside. You can close it behind you. That’s it.”
Bull stepped into a dark, closed space. At first his sun-dazzled eyes could see nothing but shadows. He was aware of a sickly smell and the rasp of labored breathing.
Only as his vision cleared did he see the undersized figure standing in front of him—a pigtailed girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, her arms barely strong enough to steady the heavy double-barreled shotgun she aimed at his chest.
“It’s all right,” Bull said. “I’m not here to hurt anybody. You can put the gun down.”
Still tense, she lowered the weapon. Bull’s gaze took her measure. Dressed in jeans and an oversized flannel shirt, she was lean and wiry, with plain brown hair and a face that was too thin for her large hazel eyes. As she turned toward a beam of light that fell through the shutter, he saw the port-wine stain that spattered the left border of her tear-streaked face.
Without a word she stepped aside. In the shadows behind her, Bull saw a narrow cot. On the cot, covered by a thin quilt, lay an old man with a scruffy, iron-gray beard. From the look of him, and the sound of his shallow, wheezing breath, he had to be in excruciating pain.
“My grandpa got shot last night,” the girl said. “He’s hurt bad. Can you help him?”
“I’m no doctor,” Bull said. “I’ll do what I can, but it might not be much.” Bending closer, he eased the quilt off the old man, opened his stained canvas vest, and peeled away the folded sheet that served as a makeshift dressing. He stifled a gasp at the sight of the wound below his ribs. The old man appeared to have been hit by a high-powered rifle firing a soft-point bullet that had expanded on impact, tearing through vital organs. The amazing thing was, he was still alive.
His eyelids fluttered open. Bloodshot eyes glared up at Bull. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered.
“Bull Tyler. I’m a friend, Mr. McAdoo. What happened here?”
“Prescotts . . . bastards . . .” His face was grayish in the faint light, every word an effort. “Ol’ Ham’s been after me all summer t’ sell. Came last night . . . said it was my last chance . . . I told him go t’ hell . . .”
The girl hovered close. “Can’t you do anything for him?” Her face was streaked with silent tears.