The third group of riders came up and their leader — Charley Mathis, another independent rancher — drew up beside Gerrity. Nobody looked happy.
Whit said, “How about it, Charley? Find anything?”
Mathis was in his fifties, weathered, white-haired with matching handlebar mustache and small, shrewd eyes that crowded a hooked nose.
He said, “Not a damn thing, Whit. The south range looks clean as a whistle.”
Whit said nothing, or at least he spoke no words — his darkening expression was eloquent enough without them.
With a weight-of-the-world sigh, the foreman climbed down off his horse, and when he came around in front, he had his .45 in hand, aimed the stranger’s way.
“Keep away from those guns, mister,” Whit said. “Sidearm and shotgun both. Hands up, shoulder-high.”
“Whit!” Willa said, stunned.
The man under the gun followed instructions. “Well, Whit. You seem to have somethin’ on your mind.”
The menacing figure was sneering up at the stranger. “You could say that. Like thinkin’ how things are startin’ to make sense, about now.”
Her forehead tense, Willa said, “Whit, what in God’s name do you think you’re—”
“All due respect, Miss Cullen,” he said, cutting her off, “this is between one man and another one.”
“You work for me!”
“No. I work for your father.”
The others on horseback were watching, some with interest, others in confusion. Perhaps half the men wore a glowering cast and appeared to share Whit’s sentiment.
“We’re on the same side,” the stranger observed. “Squabbling gets us nowhere.”
Gun thrust up at the man, Whit said, “Really? Well, you never even said which side you was on, stranger! Hell, you never even gave us a name. Could be you’re workin’ for Harry Gauge.”
Willa, head spinning, said, “Why would you say such a thing, Whit?”
With his free hand, the foreman gestured to the vastness of range around them. “Gauge rustled our herd, all right, and moved ’em toward the foothills. No question about that. And what with all these men we put together for this dead-cow hunt, we damn well might’ve located them beeves by now.”
“Possibly,” the stranger allowed.
Now Whit spoke to the other men on horseback who were looking on, while never taking his eyes — much less his .45 — off the stranger. The one thing they all knew about this man in a pearl-buttoned black shirt was that he was dangerous, and deadly with a gun.
Whit continued, “Only, we didn’t go lookin’ for Mr. Cullen’s herd, no. Instead, we spend all our time lookin’ for dead cattle that ain’t here — that ain’t nowhere.”
“Whit,” the stranger said quietly, with the tiniest nod, “you’re going to want to put that gun away.”
The foreman just grinned up at him. “You and Gauge hatched yourselves one hell of a scheme. Put on quite a show. But when we send you back to him, across your saddle? He’s gonna know things ain’t worked out exactly as planned.”
Willa said, “Whit — are you listening to yourself? He killed four of Gauge’s deputies.”
“Small sacrifice for Gauge to make out of his numbers,” Whit said, with a downturned smile, “if him and his helper here could put this over.”
“Whit Murphy,” Willa said, pointedly, “you’re not making sense...”
“Miss Cullen, you need to stay quiet now.”
A faint smile traced the stranger’s lips. “Not very smart, are you, Whit? A good man and loyal. Just not too smart.”
“Keep ’em up!” Whit blinked away the insult. “Now, we can hang you or shoot you. Any preference, stranger? We’re civilized people, around these parts...”
But the stranger seemed not to be paying attention to Whit and the threat he posed. Instead, he was looking up and beyond his Colt-waving accuser.
Quietly he said, “Before you make me kill you, Whit, you might want to look yonder.”
And the stranger, with one already upraised hand, pointed to the sky, above and behind Whit.
The foreman grunted a laugh. “You really do think I’m stupid.”
“I do,” the stranger admitted. “But that’s not why you should look. Over by that draw...”
Willa already had looked and seen, in the distance, ominous dark birds with widespread wings, circling.
She said, and it was a suggestion not an order, “Put that gun away, Whit.”
Everybody else was looking in that direction, too, and finally so did he.
“Buzzards!” Whit said.
“Well,” the stranger said. “Now you’re smart.”
Frowning, Whit holstered his gun and got back on his horse, to join the rest as they rode in the direction of the swooping predators who’d sensed carrion.
Soon the riders on horseback were gathered at the edge of the draw, looking down to see the partially exposed remains of a steer under a landslide that had been created to form a mass grave. A buzzard was perched, pulling an eyeball from a socket, snapping a last stubborn string of flesh like a rubber band. Then, sensing the presence of other creatures — living ones — the buzzard flapped away.
“No wonder we couldn’t see them,” the stranger said.
Whit, now riding alongside his adversary of minutes ago, said, “I want to get a look at those carcasses.”
“You want help?”
“No. No need to put anybody else at risk.”
The foreman dismounted, withdrew a folded-up shovel from a saddlebag, and stepped down into the draw, navigating the steepness of the slope with some difficulty, but managing.
Reaching the new, uneven pile of earth that filled the floor of the draw, Whit used the unfolded shovel to stroke away dirt from several suspicious lumps and expose more dead cows. He bent to each one, making an inspection, using gloved hands to help him see what he needed to. Then he stood, surveyed the grim scene, and made his way back up the steep, treacherous slope.
The foreman lifted his eyebrows and said to Willa, “Infected, all right. And they all wear Gauge’s Circle G brand.”
Rancher Gerrity said to no one in particular, “You know what that means — we gotta destroy every damn head of the sheriff’s herd.”
Whit, refolding and putting his shovel away, glanced back and said, “There’s hardly a cowhand on that spread of his who ain’t also a gunfighter, mind. He’ll be ready to fight.”
“So will we,” Gerrity said.
“If there’s time,” the stranger said.
Everyone looked at him.
“Gauge might be driving them into Las Vegas right now,” the stranger explained. “He can meet with the buyers today and give them his numbers and make a deal.”
Whit, frowning, said, “And once he’s sold ’em and they’re in pens mixed with cows from other herds, Gauge is in the clear.”
Willa wiped sweat from her brow and said, “The first batch of buyers is due into Trinidad on the stage this afternoon.”
The stranger asked, “How soon?”
She shrugged. “Three, four hours.”
He thought about that. “But first they change horses at the Brentwood Junction relay station, right?”
“That’s right.”
Eyes narrowed, he said, “If I can reach those buyers there, before they hit town, I can pass the word about the infected stock. Those businessmen won’t take a chance on paying for infected steers.”
Gerrity spat chaw and said, “You don’t have much time, mister.”
“No. And I better not waste it here.” He nodded to Whit, who nodded respectfully back.