he rode higher into the mountains, he saw his breath and swore he could almost smell snow in the air. In this country, the weather could change in a heartbeat and often did. Once the snow started in the fall, it often stayed in the high mountains until spring. With luck he could get the six hundred head of cattle rounded up and down before winter set in.
But as he neared the spot where Bob had seen the dead cow, J.T. wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.
The late-afternoon sun felt warm on his back as it bled through the pines. He caught the scent of burned grass on the breeze before he saw the edge of the charred area.
He drew his horse up and dismounted. Over the years, there’d been days he had pushed what had happened that fall at the cow camp out of his mind. Murder was hard to forget. But this had been more horrifying than murder. Much more.
And it had started with one dead cow.
He ground tied his horse and walked through the deep golden grass. On the ride up, he’d convinced himself that lightning had killed the cow. Although rare, it happened sometimes, especially in an open area like this high on a mountainside. Much better to believe it was just a freak occurrence of nature than the work of some deranged man.
But as he neared the burned grass, he saw that the cow was gone. There were tracks where it had been dragged off. He shuddered, remembering the burned man who had also been dragged off into the woods and the grizzly tracks they’d found nearby.
J.T. glanced toward the dense pines. It was too late to go looking for the cow, even if he’d been so inclined. He turned and walked back to his horse, anxious to get to the line camp before dark.
As he rode deeper into the Bighorns, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching him. Maybe even tracking him. An animal? Or a man?
He didn’t relax until he glimpsed the light of the campfire through the pines. The men had built a fire in the pit in an open area between the wall tents and the line shack. Shadows pooled black under the cool dark pines and the familiar scent of the crackling fire drifted on the breeze, beckoning him with warmth and light.
Everything looked just as it had for years. The two wall tents were pitched a good distance to the right of the fire pit. The cook’s cabin, a log structure almost hidden by the pines, sat back some off to the right. The ranch hands slept on cots in the tents. The boss and foreman took the bunks in the cabin with the cook.
Past the campfire and down the hillside sat the hulking outline of the old stock truck. He was glad to see that the truck had made it up the rough trail. It would probably be its last year. He’d put off buying another truck because this one had been doing roundups almost as long as he had and there was something about that that he liked.
As he turned his horse toward the corrals, he felt his earlier unease settle over him like a chill. Something was very wrong. The camp was too quiet. Usually the hands would be standing around the campfire, talking about cattle or horses, telling tales and arguing about something. And typically, his foreman would be right in the middle of it, Buck’s big deep bellow carrying out over the pines like a welcoming greeting.
Instead, the men were whispering among themselves and Buck was nowhere to be seen.
Riding over to the corral, he dismounted. Something had happened and whatever it was, it must not be good. The cowhands’ horses milled in the corral. Eight horses, six the hands had ridden up individually during the day from the trailhead. The two extra horses Buck had brought up in the stock truck.
As J.T. began to unsaddle his horse, Buck came out of the line shack and headed toward him as if he’d been waiting anxiously for his arrival. Not a good sign. J.T. tried to read the look on the elderly foreman’s weathered face. Worry? Guilt? Or a little of both? Whatever it was, J.T. feared it spelled trouble.
He waited for his foreman to bring him the bad news as he busied himself unsaddling his horse. His first thought was that Buck had lied about finding a camp cook. Their regular one had broken his leg riding some fool mechanical bull. Without a camp cook, they’d be forced to eat Buck’s cooking, which was no option at all. Ranch hands worked better on a full stomach and there was a lot less grumbling.
Buck’s cooking was so bad that the men would want to lynch J.T. from the nearest tree within a day, so Buck damned sure better have gotten them a cook.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked as Buck sidled up to the corral fence.
A mountain of a man, large, gruff and more capable than any hand J.T. had ever known, Buck had been with the Sundown Ranch since before J.T. was born. Buck was family and family meant everything to a McCall.
But J.T. swore that if Buck hadn’t found a cook he’d shoot him.
“What makes you think somethin’s wrong?” Buck asked, taking the defensive, another bad sign.
J.T. wished he didn’t know Buck so well as he studied the older man in the dim light that spilled through the trees from the campfire. He would have sworn that the men over by the fire were straining to hear what was being said. Oh yeah, J.T. didn’t like this at all.
He stepped closer to Buck, not wanting to be overheard, and realized he’d been mistaken. The look on the foreman’s face wasn’t worry. Nor guilt. Buck looked sheepish.
J.T. swore. He couldn’t help but remember Buck’s cockiness a few days earlier: “I’ll find you a camp cook or eat my hat.”
“Tell me you found a cook,” J.T. demanded, trying to keep his voice down.
“Well, I need to talk to you about that,” Buck said.
If it came down to a choice, he’d rather eat Buck’s hat than Buck’s cooking. “What’s to talk about? You either hired a cook or you didn’t.”
“Have I ever not done something I said I would?” Buck demanded.
J.T. shot him a let’s-not-go-there look and counted heads around the campfire. Six men sitting on up-ended logs around the fire, all as silent as falling snow. An owl hooted in a treetop close by. Behind him, one of the horses in the corral whinnied in answer.
“Do I know any of the men you hired?” he asked Buck, that earlier uneasiness turning to dread as he let his horse loose in the corral with the others.
“A couple. I was lucky to find any. Hell, I had one lined up but he got hurt in a bar fight and another one—”
“I wish I hadn’t asked.” He could tell by the foreman’s excuses that he’d had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get six hands together for this roundup. He hated to think how bad the six might be.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, hefting his saddle and saddlebag with his gear in it, as he headed for the campfire.
The men all got to their feet as J.T. approached with Buck trailing along behind him.
“Evenin’,” he said to the assortment of men standing around the campfire resting his saddle and saddlebag on a log by the fire. “I’m J. T. McCall.” At a glance, he’d seen the men ranged from late twenties to late thirties. They seemed to study him with interest.
“Luke Adams.” A thirty-something, slim cowboy held out his hand.
J.T.
