Sheridan thought about it, nodded, then leaned forward in her seat to hug her mother's neck.
'You look like a fox,' Sheridan said, leaning back and looking at her mother as a peer. 'You're a hottie
Marybeth had dressed in new jeans, a dark French-cut T-shirt, and a denim ranch jacket. Her blonde hair was lit with the glow of the neon beer signs. She was here to meet with a rancher. Or ex-rancher, to be more precise. Only he didn't know it yet.
She recognized him, as her eyes grew used to the bar gloom. He sat at the farthest end of the bar, on a stool by the wall, which he leaned against. Although he was situated in the shadows and the only illumination of his features was from a small-watt neon tube in an aquarium on a shelf of stuffed prairie dogs playing pool, there was something foreboding about him. She felt it right away He was avuncular, short, and solid. He had a large head with a bulbous, alcohol-veined nose. His head was mounted on a wide body and he wore a silver-gray 24X short- brim Stetson Rancher that was sweat stained and battered, but had cost $400 new. He was in his sixties. When he ordered another bourbon he cocked his finger and raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly and the bartender knew what it meant--and scrambled.
There was an empty barstool next to him, and Marybeth picked up her glass of beer and carried it there. She sat the glass on the bar, settled into the stool, and looked at herself and the ex-rancher in the mirror. He looked back, narrowed his eyes, and smiled with puzzled amusement.
'I'm Marybeth Pickett, Mr. McBride. Can I have a few minutes of your time for an important matter?'
'I know who you are.' His grin grew, and he looked her over. 'Babe, you can have as much of my time as you want. Call me Rowdy'
'Okay, Rowdy,' she said. 'Tell me about the Stockman's Trust.'
Something passed over his face and his eyes inadvertently widened. He took a sip. 'It seems kind of ironic that you're asking a man drinking in the Stockman's Bar about something called the Stockman's Trust, don't it?'
'I hadn't thought about that.'
'What about it?' His voice was gruff.
'I received some information today that there are two killers who have been hired by the Stockman's Trust. My husband may be in danger.'
'Killers?'
She withdrew the note written by John Coble from her jacket pocket and slid it over to him. He read it, then folded it and handed it back.
Dear Game Warden:
It is my understanding that you have been investigating the murder of Stewy Woods and that there is a possibility that someone is impersonating Woods and causing trouble. A man named Charlie Tibbs (stock detective) has been hired to rub out environmentalists and has done a good job of it Stewie Woods was the first target on our list. I assisted him in this task, but I have quit.
Charlie Tibbs was last in the vicinity of Yellowstone Park, but I think he's coming here.
The men that hired us is the Stockman's Trust. I don't know the names of the men, but you should investigate.
I'm writing you this to help relieve my conscience.
Signed' John Coble
PS. Don't try and look for me. I have left the country and changed my name and I done you a kindness here.
McBride seemed to be contemplating what he would say next.
'Before you sold your ranch to Jim Finotta, you were a member of the Stockman's Trust, right?'
'Before Finotta stole my ranch out from under me, you mean.' His eyes flared.
'Whatever.'
'Before I turned into a goddamned drunk at the end of the bar instead of a fourth-generation rancher?' he said bitterly. 'If you'll excuse my French.'
'That's not what I mean,' she said softly.
He shook his head. 'I know it isn't.'
She drank from her glass of beer, giving him a moment to collect himself.
'Yup, I was a member. I was never on the board, but I was a member.'
'Who else is a member?'
'What you need to understand is that there's an oath. I took that oath. Don't expect me to spill my guts out to you now, just because you look so fine, Marybeth Pickett.'
She turned her head so he wouldn't see the look of distress on her face.
'Members of the Stockman's Trust are everywhere,' McBride said after a beat. 'Our bartender Jim might be a member. Your state legislator might be a member. Sheriff Barnum may be a member. In fact .. . never mind.'
'But Sheriff Barnum wasn't ever a rancher.'
'It's not just ranchers anymore. You just never know' He looked around them to see if anyone was paying undue attention to the conversation.
