Stovepipe and Wilbur looked at each other again.
“You better tell us the rest of it,” Stovepipe said.
For the next five minutes, Sam did so, explaining how someone had opened fire on him and Matt, wounding Matt and leading to them being discovered by Caballo Rojo, Juan Pablo, and the rest of the Navajo.
“I think the bushwhackers must have tried to kill us because we came along just as they were about to deliver those rifles to someone,” he said. He told Stovepipe and Wilbur about the marks he had found on the ground at the base of the bluff. “Those were definitely wagon tracks I saw, and they looked like it was heavily loaded. And a crate full of Springfields would have left an impression on the ground like that, too.”
Sam grunted and shook his head.
“And I thought at first that it was a coffin.”
“Not a coffin,” Stovepipe said, “but in the wrong hands, what was in it sure might fill a bunch of ’em.”
“I backtracked the bunch to Flat Rock,” Sam went on. “I think they must’ve gotten spooked and postponed the deal. They probably have the rifles hidden somewhere close to the settlement. The boss, whoever he is, put guards on the trail outside town to see if anybody followed them. When I did, they tried to kill me again.”
“And they trailed you out here today and tried again, more’n likely,” Stovepipe said.
“And why did you follow me?”
“Just keepin’ an eye on you,” Stovepipe said. “To tell you the truth, we sorta thought you might attract trouble like a magnet, given your reputation for gettin’ mixed up in things.”
“And we weren’t completely convinced you weren’t mixed up somehow with the gang we’re lookin’ for,” Wilbur added.
Stovepipe winced.
“Now, you didn’t have to go and tell him that.”
“Just like you didn’t have to tell Lady Augusta that I like her,” Wilbur shot back.
Sam said, “So when somebody tried to kill me, that convinced you that I wasn’t one of the gang?”
“Didn’t figure they’d be shootin’ at you if you was one of ’em,” Stovepipe said.
Wilbur nodded at his companion.
“That’s what he said. If I had as many thoughts crammed into my head as Stovepipe does, I swear I’d go plumb crazy. That’s why I mostly let him do the figurin’ .”
“And what I’m studyin’ on now,” Stovepipe said, “is what brought you out here today, Sam. The hombres out at the Devil’s Pitchfork don’t cotton much to strangers.”
“Especially ones with Indian blood,” Sam said. “I know. But I got curious about those cattle that were stolen from out here. Boyd and Lowry blamed the rustling on the Navajo, but that just doesn’t seem right to me. Caballo Rojo and his people are the closest ones to the settlement, and I spent enough time with them to know they wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“Most of ’em probably wouldn’t,” Stovepipe agreed. “But all it takes is a handful who take after Manuelito.”
Sam shrugged.
“Maybe. But the whole idea is to increase the tension between the white settlers and the Navajo until a shooting war is inevitable. The men behind it are even going to give the Navajo those rifles to make it unavoidable. Right?”
“That’s the way it looks to me,” Stovepipe replied with a nod.
“So rustling cattle and making it look like the Navajo are responsible would just up the stakes.”
“He’s right, Stovepipe,” Wilbur said. “I reckon he’s about as good a detective as you are.”
“I never claimed to be no genius. What you say makes sense, Sam. The same bunch is playin’ the settlers and the Indians against each other to set up a land grab.” Stovepipe rubbed his beard-stubbled chin. “Question is, what are we gonna do about it?”
“The first step is to find out who they are,” Sam said. “Maybe if we track those stolen cows that will tell us something.”
“It sure might.” Stovepipe inclined his head toward his horse. “All right if we mount up again? We’ve all decided to trust each other?”
Sam slid his Winchester back in the saddleboot.
“I think so. And we’ll come closer getting to the bottom of this if we work together.”
Stovepipe nodded and said, “Sounds good to me.”
All three of them swung up into their saddles. As they started looking for the tracks left by the stolen herd, Wilbur said, “You know, there’s somethin’ that’s botherin’ me. You said you left your partner Bodine with the Navajo, Sam?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s got to be at least a few members of that clan who are workin’ with the gang that stole the rifles.”
That same worry had started gnawing at the back of Sam’s thoughts.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “And if that’s true, they might want to get rid of Matt just to make sure he doesn’t stumble over what’s really going on.”
Stovepipe said, “Yeah, and that means we’d better find the varmints we’re lookin’ for and bust up their plans as quick as we can ... because the longer your pard spends with those Injuns, the more danger he’s in.”
That thought made Sam’s jaw clench tightly. Matt was stuck there in the canyon, trying to recover from his wounds, probably with no idea that lurking among the Navajo was at least one man who wanted him dead.
“Speakin’ of danger ...” Wilbur said.
The other two men looked at him and saw him pointing toward the southern end of the valley.
“Riders comin’ fast,” Wilbur went on. “I’ll bet it’s John Henry Boyd and his bunch of gun-throwers, and they ain’t gonna be happy to find us here.”
Chapter 25
All three men reined in and turned their horses to face toward the oncoming riders. Wilbur moved his hand toward the butt of the gun on his hip, which drew a sharp comment from Stovepipe.
“Don’t do it,” the lanky cowboy warned. “There’s too dang many of ’em.”
Sam was already keeping his hands in plain sight, well away from his weapons, so Stovepipe didn’t have to say anything to him.
As the crew from the Devil’s Pitchfork approached, they spread out so that they formed a half-circle around Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur. That was menacing enough, and the expressions on the hard-bitten faces of the men were even more so.
To a man, they looked like they wanted to whip out their six-guns and start blazing away at these interlopers on Devil’s Pitchfork range.
Sam recognized the ugly, jut-jawed face of Pete Lowry. Lowry rode near the center of the group, and beside him was a man who carried himself in the saddle with such an air of command that he had to be John Henry Boyd.
The two of them kept coming after their companions halted, not stopping until they were within twenty feet of Sam and the two range detectives. Then they reined to a stop as well.
“Look at that, boss,” Lowry said, confirming Sam’s hunch that the other man was John Henry Boyd. “We don’t have go lookin’ for those damned rustlers after all. They’ve come to us.”
“You’ve got that wrong, mister,” Stovepipe said. “We ain’t rustlers.”
“Then who are you?” Boyd demanded. He was an old man, with white hair under his black Stetson and a face like worn, cracked saddle leather. “And what in blazes are you doing on my land?”
Sam felt a flush of anger. This wasn’t Boyd’s land, and in the technical sense it wasn’t even open range, the sort of graze that hundreds of cattlemen across the frontier claimed.
No, this was Navajo land, and the only reason Boyd was able to stake such a claim on it was that the authorities looked the other way ... and probably had been paid off to do so.
However, Sam wasn’t here today to right that particular wrong. Instead he said, “We’re looking for the rustlers, too, Mr. Boyd. We want to find out what happened to your cattle and where they were taken.”
“Don’t believe him, boss,” Lowry snapped. “These are the fellas we had that run-in with in town yesterday. The redskin claims to be a Cheyenne ’breed, but I think he’s a Navajo spy.”