Papa was shaking his head, dumbfounded. “Murdered, why? He’s long since sold out to Gauge.”
“That old man dying like that,” she said, squinting at their guest as if that might bring things into focus, “that’s sad... awful... but if it’s murder? Well, I guess we all know who likely did it, or at least had it done. But like Papa says... why?”
“To cover something up,” the stranger said, and let them mull that while he drank more coffee.
“There’s more,” her father said, “isn’t there?”
He nodded reluctantly. “Here’s where it gets hard for you. Before he was killed, Old Swenson contracted cowpox.”
Willa’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
Papa took it more stoically, his milky eyes narrowing, tightening. “We should be fine. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ll have Whit check the main herd.”
“Critical you do that, sir,” the stranger said.
The old man reached over and found his daughter’s hand and patted it. “We keep our cows nicely separate from the others, daughter. It’s an awful thing, the pox, and I hate to say it... but maybe this is God raining down his judgment on Harry Gauge.”
If so, she thought, at least the Almighty hadn’t charged them ten thousand dollars.
Hoofbeats sounded again, moving fast, then abruptly ceasing. They all looked in that direction as, within seconds, Whit Murphy, not bothering to knock, stormed in, dusty and bedraggled.
The foreman whipped off his hat and rushed into the dining area, where he nodded to Willa, ignoring the stranger and going over to stand near her father.
“Sir... excuse me, but...” He gulped for air, panting; he had obviously been riding hard and fast.
“Whit,” Papa said, sitting up straight, not waiting for his man to catch his breath, “there’s an outbreak of cowpox at the Swenson spread, and it’s probably contaminating all the cattle on Gauge land. You need to check our main herd. Get the men out and look for strays. Might find some near the fence line.”
Still grabbing his breath, Whit managed, “There ain’t no main herd, Mr. Cullen.”
“What?” Her father gaped blindly at his foreman. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”
Hat in hands, with a shamed look as if what he were about to report were his fault, the foreman said, “They hit our line camp last night, Mr. Cullen, sir, and run ’em off. Every damn head.”
Papa sat stunned for a moment, his mouth hanging open. Then he said, “ ‘They,’ you say...? Who... who did this?”
The stranger got up, vacating the chair next to her father, motioning for Whit to sit there. Whit nodded thanks, came over, and took the chair as the stranger moved down one.
Then the foreman leaned in closer to the rancher.
“Mr. Cullen, I can’t say who done it. I wasn’t there. But my ramrod, Carl, filled me in. Said these marauders wore masks. Nobody got a good look at ’em. Came in heavy and took the guns off everybody and tossed ’em, then ran our boys off. Most of the line hands, but for Carl and two others, ain’t been seen since. My guess is they ain’t comin’ back.”
Willa said, “But what about the cattle...?”
The hardened foreman looked across at her as if on the verge of tears. “Miss Cullen, Carl says this bunch was movin’ ’em out toward the foothills. It’ll take a week to round ’em up. Maybe more, without the boys of ours who scurried off, like frightened rabbits.”
Papa slammed a fist into the table. “Damn that Harry Gauge!”
Then all the air seemed to go out of George Cullen, and he slumped back in the ornately carved chair. When his voice came back, it was soft and weak, a tone she’d never heard from him before.
“We’ll never make market in time.” He shook his head, squeezed shut his eyes. “This finishes us.”
The stranger said, “You can try.”
Willa let out a bitter laugh. “What do you suggest? You heard Whit — we don’t have enough hands to fill a poker game. What, you think anybody in Trinidad is going to help us? They won’t lift a finger as long as Harry Gauge and his scum can gun anybody down at will, and get away with it.”
“That’s a bad choice on their part.”
She drew in a breath, let it out; her voice was trembling with frustration and rage. “Harry Gauge set out to own this territory, and now he’s going to get away with it.”
The stranger, betraying no shred of emotion, said, “There’s a way to get the townspeople in this with you.”
She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? And what would that be?”
He shrugged. “Well, if they knew how close they were to dying? I believe they’d take an interest.”
Whit frowned and said, “What are you on about, mister?”
The stranger’s expression was impassive, but his eyes were hard. “Doc Miller says this is as virulent a strain of pox as is out there.”
“What about it?” Whit snapped, clearly irritated.
“This old boy Swenson had the sores all over him. Belly, legs, arms.” He gestured with an open hand. “By now, Swenson’s herd has probably infected the rest of Gauge’s cattle.”
“Likely,” Whit admitted.
“And,” the stranger continued, “if our good sheriff wants to keep this quiet, he may well bury his dead cows and try to take to market what he has left.”
Willa frowned. “That... that could spread an epidemic all across the country. Would he do such a thing?”
The stranger grunted a laugh. “What do you think?”
“But... could he get away with it?”
Again the stranger shrugged, giving her a disconcerting smile.
“Why not?” he asked. “Who could prove it? Once the buyers mix those cattle in the pens, they’ll never be able to pin down where it started. Gauge will come away clean. Of course, you can bet he won’t be eating beef for a while.”
“We can’t let this happen!” she said, distress pushing out all other emotions. “This is more than just our ranch, it’s... it’s...”
“This whole part of the country,” the stranger said. “And maybe beyond.”
They sat in silence for several endless seconds.
Then the stranger turned to the foreman. “Mr. Murphy... Whit... how many men do you have left?”
The foreman thought briefly, then said, “Eight, countin’ myself.”
The stranger nodded, his eyes slitted. “Then get those men out on the Swenson range looking for fresh-dug graves. And if you can get inside the herd itself, try to spot any sick steers. So we can show the buyers what Guage has pulled.”
Whit’s eyebrows went up. “Boys may spook at doin’ work like this.”
“Tell them they’re fighting for their lives on this one.”
Whit nodded.
Papa, whose spirit seemed back, said confidently, “Any man still with us will stay with us.”
Willa asked, “What about our cattle?”
The stranger said, “If they’re not infected, they’ll keep. Better send somebody around to the other independent ranches, still fenced off, and quietly spread the word. We don’t want a panic. But I wager you’ll get some willing hands in a hurry.”
Her father said, “You’re sure this is the way to go about this?”
“You care to bet against it?”
“That’s a lot of talk, mister,” Whit said. “And it sounds good, I admit. So you probably deserve our thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I said ‘probably.’ But besides tellin’ everybody else what to do... just what are you going to do in all this?”