“Wait a minute!” Rosemary said, gasping. “You’re the one that robbed the bank.”
“No, I ain’t robbed no bank. I was in Elam when the bank was robbed, ’n the sheriff there can prove it. But I need a lawyer ’n that’s why I come to see Houser.”
“Brad isn’t here any longer,” Rosemary said.
“He ain’t? Where is he? Do you know?”
“Yes, I know,” she said with a smile. “When he left, he said he would send for me as soon as he was settled in.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in Chugwater.”
“Chugwater? I’ve never heard of it.”
“I hadn’t heard of it, either, but it’s up in Wyoming.”
“Damn, that’s a long way off,” Shamrock said.
“Are you going to see him?” Rosemary asked.
Shamrock shook his head. “I’d like to, I truly would. But I don’t have enough money to go up there. Fact is, I don’t have no money at all. Which ought to prove that I didn’t rob the bank, on account of ’cause if I did, I wouldn’t be broke now, would I?”
“I’ll give you some money if you’ll go up there and remind him that he said he was going to send for me.”
“How much money will you give me?”
“I can give you a hundred dollars,” Rosemary said. “That’s all I can spare.”
Shamrock smiled, then held out his hand. “All right, you give me that money, ’n I’ll go up there ’n tell him to send for you.”
Trail Back Ranch
Half a pitted steer was being slowly turned over a fire, and a band had been hired to come up from Cheyenne. David Lewis, owner of Trail Back, was hosting a welcome party for Brad Houser, the new owner of Twin Peaks Ranch, and in addition to Duff MacCallister, Clyde Barnes, Dale Allen, Merlin Goodman, Webb Dakota, and Burt Rowe were also present.
“I think Martha’s son was right to sell Twin Peaks after Clifford died,” Mary Beth Lewis said. “There is no way she would be able to operate that ranch by herself. Why, it’s bigger than Trail Back, and I certainly wouldn’t try to run Trail Back by myself.”
“I know what the boy was asking for the ranch, and believe me, you got a very good deal,” Burt Rowe said.
“Yes, except for the cattle,” Houser replied.
“The cattle? My good man, are you saying that there is illness among the cattle?” Webb Dakota asked in a precise, British accent. Dakota didn’t own Kensington Place outright. He was but one of a consortium of English investors in the cattle industry of the American West. “If there is, we must take care of it straight away, rather than take the danger of it spreading.”
“No, no, there is no disease,” Houser said. “It’s the number of cattle I’m talking about. Why, a ranch the size of Twin Peaks should accommodate from eight to ten thousand head. I’ve got less than twenty-five hundred head.”
“Yes, well, I know for a fact that Clifford sold off most of his cattle there toward the end. He was too ill to look after the ranch himself. He knew the end was coming, and I think he was just turning cattle into cash.”
“And, more ’n likely, there was a lot of maverickin’ done,” Clyde Barnes said.
“Mavericking?”
“Yeah, you know, every spring before roundup, quite a few of the new calves wander off before they can be branded. Truth is, for the last two or three years, Clifford wasn’t none too worried about roundup. He let all his hands go except for Ben Turley and Ty Cooper, so there warn’t no brandin’ goin’ on at his place,” Clyde said.
“What happens to the maverick cattle?” Houser asked.
“Well, sir, they belong to whoever happens to round ’em up,” Merlin Goodman said.
“And most of the time, that’s the small ranchers,” Dale Allen added.
“So, what you are saying is, the small ranchers are stealing from the larger ranchers,” Houser said.
“Well, no, sir, I wouldn’t say that. It ain’t stealin’, exactly. It’s legal, ’n ever’ one does it, it’s just that the small ranchers do it a lot more ’n anyone else does,” Dale said.
David Lewis, who was listening in on the conversation, chuckled. “Hell, half the small ranchers in the entire country owe their whole herds to mavericks they’ve rounded up.”
“Yes, well, they’ll get no more cattle from me,” Houser declared resolutely.
Chapter Six
Twin Peaks Ranch
When Houser first set foot on the ranch he had just bought, he was met by a tall, lean man with dark tendrils of hair hanging over his forehead from beneath his hat, dark eyes, and prominent cheekbones. He was about six feet one and was thin, though there was more of a rawboned edginess to his physique than actual attenuation.
“The name is Turley, Mr. Houser. Ben Turley. I heard that you bought Twin Peaks. Me ’n Ty Cooper have been lookin’ out for the place for Miz Prescott till she could sell it.”
“Do I owe you any money?” Houser asked.
“No, sir, Miz Prescott’s done paid both of us for what I was doin’.”
“How many hands are there now?”
“Besides me they’s just three more here now: Ty Cooper, like I said, ’n a couple of weeks ago, we took on Slim Hastings, Dooley Carson. We ain’t paid them nothin’ but found ’cause I don’t have no money, but I told ’em you’d more ’n likely hire ’em on, as you’ll need hands.”
“Would you like to stay on as foreman?”
A broad smile spread across Turley’s face. “Yes, sir, I would. I was hopin’ you might ask me to. What about Slim, Dooley, ’n Cooper? Can we keep them, too?”
“Yes. How many more men do you think would be necessary for optimum efficiency?”
Turley got a confused expression on his face.
“How many more men for what?”
“How many more men do you think we would need to operate the ranch?”
“Oh,
