"I'm convinced of it. That woman who's runnin' the place claimed they hadn't seen any sign of anything suspicious."
"What about the steaks?"
"Said they bought 'em in Timber City."
"Well, I reckon that's possible," said Longarm.
"Sure, but it's just as likely they stole those cows from us," Traywick said stubbornly. "Matt practically said as much, and that woman got her dander up and told us to get out. Matt told her that bein' a gentleman, he wouldn't call her a liar to her face--but it was plain that was what he thought of her."
That agreed with what Aurora Mcentire had said... almost. She had left out any mention of steaks cooking and rustled beeves. Longarm said, "I've heard tell that some of those logging outfits cut down so much timber that the runoff from the rains does a lot of damage to the range down below. That true in this case?"
"Well, not so much." The admission on the foreman's part was grudging. "I reckon it's just a matter of time, though. Sooner or later, so many of the trees'll be gone that none of the soil will hold. That'll cause flooding down here, and erosion will foul the streams too." Traywick shook his head. "No, sir, ranching and logging just don't go together."
"Those loggers pulled any other tricks?"
"Less'n a week after Matt and me rode up there, one of our wells in a dry pasture went bad. Couple of dozen head died from drinking at the stock tank we filled from it. If you ask me, those lumberjacks poured poison down it."
"But you can't prove that."
Traywick looked at Longarm with slitted eyes. "Say, what're you actin' so doubtful about? You intend to ride for the brand or not?"
"Sure, I do," Longarm said quickly. "I just like to know who's on the other side if I'm getting into a fight."
"Well, now you know." Traywick jerked his head toward the barn. "Let's get these nags unsaddled and rubbed down. I'm tired of flappin' my jaw." What he had said so far was interesting enough, thought Longarm. Matt Kinsman was hotheaded and held a grudge, and it was possible the friction between the Diamond K and the Mcentire Timber Company had started over a few rustled cows that the loggers hadn't really had anything to do with. Was Kinsman the sort to strike back at the timber operation and get some men killed just to satisfy a grudge? Longarm couldn't answer that question for certain, but his instincts said no. However, he didn't know all the men who rode for the Diamond K, and for that matter, he had already met one who flew off the handle and resorted to violence mighty quick. Seth Thomas. As Longarm unsaddled the roan, rubbed it down, and settled it in a stall with grain and water, he reflected on what he had learned so far. The loggers and the cowboys hated each other; whether for good reason or not didn't matter. He could easily imagine Seth and some of his cronies trying to strike back at the lumberjacks for imagined injustices, which would in turn lead the timbermen to try to get even by poisoning wells and such. It was a cycle of violence that could escalate into a bloody, full-scale war unless somebody tamped out the flames mighty soon. That somebody, of course, was him.
And his theory, if it was correct, still left unanswered the question of who had rustled Kinsman's stock in the first place.
Longarm was going to have to ponder on that later. As he and Traywick left the barn, the sound of the dinner bell being rung came from the ranch house. The sun had already slipped behind the peaks of the Cascades to the west.
Traywick led Longarm to the house. As they walked toward it, several other men appeared from various places around the headquarters, all converging on the big house in response to the clangorous summons of the cook ringing the bell. He was a wizened little Chinaman, Longarm noted, who had probably come to this country during the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad a little more than a decade earlier. A lot of those former coolies had a way with grub, Longarm knew, so he expected dinner would be good.
The inside of the house showed the same care as the outside. Molly had been away at school in the East for several years, so it wasn't a particularly feminine place, but Longarm could see a woman's hand at work here and there. The windows all had curtains on them, and the rugs were clean. Chairs and sofas made of heavy wood and thickly cushioned were scattered around the big main room. Through a wide doorway with a thick beam above it was the dining room, complete with a long table that had been polished to a high shine. A glass-fronted cabinet on one side of the room contained the late Mrs. Kinsman's china and crystal, and all of it sparkled in the light of the oil-burning chandelier that hung over the table. The place settings tonight weren't anything fancy, but the plates and cups and silverware were functional enough to suit the cowboys who were gathering around the table.
The table itself was loaded with platters of food. Longarm saw steaks and fried chicken, bowls full of mashed potatoes and green beans, corn on the cob, steamed carrots, biscuits, gravy, and sliced tomatoes. Longarm felt hunger pangs clutch at his belly. The lunch he had grabbed quickly in Timber City before riding out had been both meager and a long time ago. He was ready to eat.
Matt Kinsman was already seated at the head of the table, with Molly at his right hand. Joe Traywick took the chair at the other end of the table. There was a vacant seat to his left, and he gestured for Longarm to take it. As Longarm did so, he looked across the table and found himself staring into the angry face of the young cowboy, Seth Thomas. Seth's jaw was already starting to turn purple where Longarm had clouted him.
There weren't any other empty chairs, and to move at this point wouldn't have looked very good anyway, so there was nothing left to do except brazen it out. Longarm smiled and nodded at Seth, who just glowered that much more. A glance at the other end of the table told Longarm that Molly was watching what was going on, but he couldn't read the expression on her face.
"Say grace for us, Joe," rumbled Kinsman, and all the cowboys bowed their heads. Traywick muttered a blessing. Then, almost as one, eager hands shot out toward the platters of food, and the next few minutes were filled with the clatter of silverware as the cowboys served themselves and passed along the platters.
Longarm heaped his plate and dug in with enthusiasm. The Chinese cook carried around a coffeepot and filled everyone's cup. There was glasses of buttermilk too, cool enough so that little beads of moisture formed on the outside. The meal was every bit as good as Longarm expected it to be.
Like most of the other ranch crews he had been around, these men weren't talkative when there was serious business like eating to be taken care of. Conversation would come later in the bunkhouse, while they were playing cards or mending tack or whittling or just shooting the breeze. Though he would never go back to it, cowboying wasn't a bad way to live, Longarm thought. The work was hard and sometimes dangerous, the pay was poor at best, but it was a life that had its own special rewards.
Sort of like being a deputy United States marshal.
When the meal was over, most of the hands headed for the bunkhouse. Seth gave Longarm an especially baleful stare before he went. Longarm returned the look blandly, not letting the youngster see that he was getting a little annoyed. As Matt Kinsman scraped back his chair and stood up, he said, "Joe, you and Custis stay here a minute, if you don't mind."
"Sure, Matt," said Traywick, and Longarm nodded.
Kinsman turned to his daughter. "Molly, you can go on upstairs."
"What if I don't want to?" she asked. She had changed into a simple dress with little blue and yellow flowers all over it, and Longarm thought she looked mighty pretty.
"Blast it, girl, I'm goin' to be talkin' business," Kinsman said with a scowl.
"And who's going to be running this ranch someday?" said Molly.
"Your husband, damn it!"
Molly made a delicate sound of utter disdain that Longarm imagined must have been part of the curriculum back there in Massachusetts at Miss Hallowell's Academy for Young Ladies. Every woman he had ever encountered had known how to make it, from soiled doves to countesses, so he figured somebody had to be teaching it somewhere.