Bull cleared his throat. “What it’s buying me is more than I care to explain,” he said. “But don’t blame Jasper. He told you what I ordered him to tell you. He’s been on your side all along.”
“Let me take you away from here, Rose,” Jasper said. “We both want you safe. When the man who shot your grandpa is arrested, we’ll bring you back to testify.”
“But he won’t be arrested, will he? Not if I leave. You’ll just go right on protecting him. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
The girl was prodding too deep and cutting too close.
“That’s enough,” Bull snapped. “It’s already been decided. You’re going.”
“No,” she said. “If you make me, I’ll run away on my own. You know I can because I’ve done it before. If I have to, I’ll find the sheriff and tell him everything I know. Believe me, it won’t be pretty.”
With that, Rose spun away from the table and stalked down the hall to her room. For a long, silent moment the two men stared after her. Then Jasper shook his head and chuckled.
“This isn’t funny,” Bull said.
“That depends on your point of view,” Jasper said. “From here, you look like you just tangled with a wildcat. That little gal has you over a barrel.”
“We can’t let her go to the sheriff.”
“And we sure as hell can’t risk getting her killed. What’re you thinkin’?”
“As long as she’s made up her mind to stay, all we can do is keep an eye on her,” Bull said. “She should be safe as long as Ham’s out of town. But we mustn’t leave her alone. You’d better stay here tonight and make sure she’s all right. The boys and I can finish the water tank.”
“Suits me,” Jasper said. “Somebody needs to keep an eye on the place here. Besides, if I went with you, I’d be worryin’ about the girl the whole time.”
* * *
As the sun sank behind the escarpment, Bull loaded the truck bed with a big roll of plastic sheeting, several packs of tape and some cutting tools. Taking the two young cowboys, Chester and Patrick, with him, he drove out to the tank. Tonight they planned to put down the plastic liner, then fill the tank with water from the creek.
Bull had left the shotgun in the house with Jasper. But he was wearing his holstered .44. Ham had given his word not to interfere, but his son didn’t seem to be aware of that. After the fight today, Ferg would be spoiling for mischief. Bull hoped nothing would happen. But if trouble did show up, his first concern had to be the safety of the two unarmed boys.
They parked next to the tank, unloaded the rolled sheeting, and began the work of putting down a waterproof layer. It wasn’t an easy job. The slippery plastic had to be held in place while tape was applied to join the edges. Rocks, which they’d dug out of the hole earlier, were carried back to anchor the sh
eets at the bottom and around the top. Only after it was done, and the tank filled with water, would they know whether they’d succeeded in making it leakproof.
By the time the tank was finished, the moon had climbed to the peak of the sky. Sweaty and exhausted, they leaned against the truck to rest. “Good job,” Bull said. “Now let’s run some water down that pipe and see what happens. Chester, grab the flashlight out of the truck. We’ll need to see up close. Patrick, you stay down here. Holler when the water starts coming out of the pipe.”
With Chester holding the flashlight, Bull crouched next to the creek, raised the makeshift gate, and thrust it sideways against the current to force water into the pipe. Was it working? He bent closer, motioning for more light.
That was when he felt a slight vibration through his thin boot soles and heard, from the far side of the creek, the unmistakable rumbling of a cattle stampede.
“Run, damn it!” he shouted. “Get in the truck!”
Chester dropped the flashlight and bent to pick it up. “Leave it!” Bull grabbed his skinny arm and dragged him along, racing back toward the pickup. They had seconds to make it. If the stampede caught them, they’d be trampled to death by the thundering cattle.
Patrick had already clambered into the cab of the truck. Bull opened the door, shoved Chester inside, and, slamming the door, vaulted into the bed of the pickup. He could hear gunshots as the riders drove the panicked herd toward the creek. It was too late to get away in the truck. By the time they got moving, the cattle would be around them like a flood. They’d have nowhere to go.
Damn, Ferg Prescott! Damn him to hell!
Bracing his legs, Bull stood erect and drew his .44. He had six bullets in the heavy pistol. There was more ammo in the glove box but no way to get to it. He would have to make every shot count.
He cocked the gun and saw the herd burst out of the darkness on the far side of the creek. Pounding through the shallow current, they came on like a wave—two hundred head, at least, moonlight gleaming on their horns and chalk-white faces.
Flowing through the empty tank, they ripped the sheeting with their sharp hooves and poured toward the truck.
Bull took careful aim and fired at the leading steer, the bullet striking squarely between the eyes. The animal dropped just short of the truck. The cattle coming from behind stumbled over its body, jamming together before they separated and veered to the sides. Bull downed two more steers, creating a low barrier that would slow the animals and force them to go around the truck. Three shots. He had three more left.
By now the truck was surrounded by a sea of moving horns and bodies. Protected only by the metal sides of the truck bed, Bull braced for balance while they surged around him, rocking the pickup as they rammed and shoved in mindless terror.