Confirmation came in the form of a well-worn trail that wound off across the prairie to the northeast. Churned by countless hooves, the ground had been worn bare. The rider followed it for over an hour, until he came on a crudely painted sign. Drawing rein, he read it twice, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
O. T. QUARREL RANCH
NO TRESPASSING. NO DRUMMERS. NO PREACHERS. NO INJUNS EXCEPT SIOUX. RUSTLERS WILL BE HUNG AT OUR CONVENIENCE. ALL OTHERS WELCOME.
“That’s comforting to know,” the rider said to the claybank, and gigged it on along the trail.
At any moment the rider expected to see the ranch house. But he had forgotten where he was. Distance meant little to men accustomed to vast open spaces. A Westerner thought nothing of traveling hundreds of miles to visit the nearest town. A rancher could ride for a week and still be on his own spread.
O. T. Quarrel had one of the largest spreads in Nebraska. His brand was famous from Montana to New Mexico for quality stock, whether cattle or horses. The men who rode for him were notoriously loyal to the brand, a fact the rider reminded himself not to forget once he arrived.
The sun was balanced on the western rim of the world when the rider finally spied the ranch house. It was modest but sturdily built and surrounded by a long bunkhouse, a stable, and sundry outbuildings. As the rider drew near, the clear peal of a triangle signaled the call to supper.
The rider slid his right hand under his slicker to a Smith and Wesson snug in its shoulder holster. He worked it up and down a few times. As he passed the stable, the corral caught his interest. All fifteen horses in it were pintos, or paints as they were known.
Next to the mess was a hitch rail. Beside it was a bench on which sat a battered washbasin, a used bar of lye soap, and a towel in dire need of a washing itself. Dismounting, the rider looped the reins around the rail, removed his hat, and dipped his comb in the brown water. He was running it through his hair when spurs jangled; someone was approaching from the ranch house.
“Howdy, stranger. Nice duds you’ve got there.”
The speaker looked as if he could tote an anvil under each arm and not feel the strain. His face was as rugged as the land and seamed by years of toil. Tufts of grey hair stuck from under his hat.
“I bought them in Cheyenne.”
“Do tell. Then I take it you’re not ridin’ the grub-line, not if you’ve got money to spare.” The ranch-man studied the rider. “We don’t get many visitors to these parts. Are you bound somewhere special?”
Replacing his Stetson, the rider turned. “I thought it’s against range etiquette to pry into another’s affairs.”
“I’m entitled. I own this spread. O. T. Quarrel is my handle, but most hereabouts call me Quarry.” Quarrel thrust out a callused hand with fingers like railroad spikes. “You could say I have a vested interest in pryin’ where others shouldn’t.”
“William Shores.” The rider shook. “You can call me Bill.”
Quarrel washed his hands in the dirty water and wiped them on the dirty towel. “Let’s go in. I don’t want to keep the boys waitin’ any longer than I have to.”
Seated at the long table were over twenty punchers ranging in age from barely old enough to shave to alkalied old-timers. They were waiting, some with forks and knives in hand, for the big augur to arrive. As soon as Quarrel stepped through the doorway, many cheerfully called out greetings.
Shores entered, and the good-natured yells died. He smiled, but no one repaid the courtesy.
“This way.” Quarrel moved to the head of the table. A puncher in the chair to the right got up and moved down to an empty one. Quarrel tapped the vacated chair. “Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll get acquainted after we eat?”
The meal was typical ranch fare: fried steak and gravy, sourdough biscuits, beans, vinegar pie, and dried peaches. Shores followed the example of the punchers and heaped his plate high. A long day in the saddle had him famished, and he wolfed down his portions as hungrily as everyone else.
O. T. Quarrel had two helpings of everything. At length he pushed back his chair, lit an old corncob pipe, and squinted at Shores through the smoke. “Now then, suppose you tell me what brought you to my spread?”
Fishing in a pocket for his identification, Shores handed it over.
“William E. Shores,” Quarrel read loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. “United States Department of Justice.”
A gangly cowpuncher spooning sugar into a cup of coffee looked up. “What in tarnation is that, Quarry?”
Shores answered for himself. “The Justice Department was created about a year ago to help the attorney general enforce federal laws. The department also provides legal counsel in federal cases.”
The puncher’s grin was several teeth shy of a full set. “Just what we need. More government.”
His comment was greeted with general mirth and scorn. Shores let it subside before saying, “I’m a federal agent with authority to arrest anyone guilty of breaking federal law.”
Another puncher made a show of gazing around the room. “Anyone here see a federal law runnin’ loose? I wouldn’t want to step on it and break it.”
Shores failed to see the humor, but the cow crowd cackled.
Quarrel lowered his pipe and grinned. “Don’t take them serious, Mr. Shores. They’re good hands. They’d do to ride the river with, every last one. They’re just havin’ a little fun at your expense.”
“I’ve been around cowboys before.”
“You don’t say? I noticed you sit a horse right smart. So even though your clothes brand you a dude, I reckoned there was more to you than met the eye.”
“I was born in Texas,” Shores revealed. “Brazos, to be exact. Spent a lot of my childhood on horseback. But when I was eleven, my parents dragged me off to Chicago. I became a Pinkerton. Four months ago, I was contacted about becoming a federal agent.” Shores shrugged. “Here I am.”
“A Pinkertonian, huh? They’re not held in high regard in these parts. A pair showed up here a while back huntin’ a bank robber. They put on airs like you wouldn’t believe, but both combined weren’t worth their weight in spit.” Quarrel paused. “Who are you huntin’, Mr. Justice Department Agent?”
“I’m after the Hoodoos,” Shores announced.
Total silence ensued. No one looked at him except O. T. Quarrel. “What makes you reckon you’ll find them here?”
“I never said I would,” Shores responded, “but I hope to learn something equally as valuable. The information I need to track them to their hideout and put an end to their reign of bloodshed and terror.”
A puncher across the table snickered. “Hellfire, mister. You make them sound like they’re the worst hombres who ever rode the high lines.”
“Not all that long ago they murdered several troopers from the Second Cavalry. One of the troopers made the mistake of recognizing Kid Falon and decided to go for the marshal. Unfortunately, Curly Means overheard them and told the Kid.” Shores took a sheet of paper from a pocket and unfolded it.
“Three weeks prior to that, the Hoodoos murdered an old Shoshone by the name of Mat-ta-vish. Four months earlier, they shot two Arapahos who tried to stop them from stealing horses from an Arapaho village. Before that, it’s believed they stole a herd from the Pawnees. You name a tribe, odds are they’ve lost horses to the Hoodoos.”
“Any Sioux on that list?” Quarrel asked.
Shores ran a finger down the sheet. “No. Flatheads, Nez Perce, even the Blackfeet once.”
“Notice anything?” Quarrel asked. “Except for the troopers, who brought it on themselves, all those on your list are redskins.”
“What are you saying?”
“You won’t find any Injun lovers in this room, Mr. Shores. We’ve all had run-ins with hostiles at one time or another. We all know someone who has lost kin to a red arrow or tomahawk.” Quarrel blew a puff of smoke into the air. “Did you happen to notice my sign on your way in? I shoot any Injuns I find on my spread, except Sioux.”