“Nae, ’tis a complete mystery. As you said, Ollie was a good lad, ’n liked by all.”
“He was at Percy Gaines’s place? Maybe Percy was the target.”
“It shoulda been Gaines,” someone said from the other end of the bar. He didn’t look up from his glass.
“I beg your pardon? ’N why is it that ye say it should have been Mr. Gaines?” Duff asked.
“Everyone knows that he built up his herd by stealin’ cattle,” the man replied.
“’N who might ye’ be?”
The man turned to face Duff. “The name is Crenshaw. I ride for the Twin Peaks brand.”
“What makes you say such a thing, Mr. Crenshaw?” Duff asked.
“It’s like I said, ever’ body knows it. It’s why the cattlemen has all hired a bunch of deputies, so as to get the rustlin’ stopped.”
“And you know these deputies, do you?” Duff asked.
“Yeah, they’re stayin’ out at Twin Peaks.”
“How many riders do you have out there?” Elmer asked.
“Well, countin’ them that’s guardin’ Mr. Houser all the time, ’n the deputies, ’n all, there’s eighteen.”
“No, don’t count them. I mean how many riders do you have for the brand, men that actually gets their hands dirty ’n the like?”
“That would be nine of us, countin’ Turley,” Crenshaw said.
“So there are nine of you who actually work, and nine of you who do nothin’ at all,” Duff said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Well, I wouldn’t say they don’t do nothin’ at all, it’s just that whatever it is that they do, do, don’t have nothin’ to do with ranchin’.”
“Mr. Crenshaw, you said that you believed Mr. Gaines has built up his herd at the expense of the other ranchers, I believe,” Duff said.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he has done.”
“Have you ever seen Percy Gaines’s herd?”
“No, I ain’t never seen it.”
“It’s too bad that you have nae seen it, because if you had, you would be for knowing that his herd is all Angus. And since every other herd in the valley is Hereford, it would be hard for the lad to be augmenting his Angus herd with Hereford cows, now, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Crenshaw admitted reluctantly. “Yeah, it would.”
* * *
Like many young men of the West, Ollie Keegan had never shared any of his past. Nobody knew where he was from or if he had family anywhere. In truth, nobody knew for sure if Keegan was his real name. Because of that, Keegan was buried in the Chugwater cemetery, and the entire company of Sky Meadow became his family.
It wasn’t just the hands from Sky Meadow who showed up, though. Keegan was well liked, and scores of ranch hands from the other ranches in the valley, large and small, turned out for the funeral, and for the burial.
When Duff arrived for the funeral, he was wearing the kilt of the Black Watch, complete with the sgian dubh and the Victoria Cross. He was also carrying with him a set of pipes.
The ranch owners, ranch hands, and townspeople who, in one way or another knew Keegan, gathered around the open grave as the Reverend E. D. Sweeny of the Chugwater Church of God’s Glory, gave the final prayer.
“Our Lord and Savior who knows all, knows the history and the family of our brother, whom we bury today. Indeed, our Lord even knows Brother Keegan’s real name, if it not be that by which we have known him. We humbly pray that you take this noble soul into your bosom. Amen.”
Reverend Sweeny nodded at Duff, and he inflated the bag. The first sound was from the drones, then, fingering the chanter, Duff began playing “Amazing Grace,” the steady hum of the drones providing a mournful sound to underscore the high skirling of the melody itself.
After the funeral Duff and several of those who had come to the burial gathered at Fiddler’s Green.
“Me or Wang shoulda stayed there at Percy’s ranch with ’im,” Elmer said. “If I had been there, Keegan would still be alive.”
“Maybe,” Biff said. “But it could also be that you’d be dead along with him.”
“Nobody has any idea why he was killed?” Charley Blanton asked.
Duff shook his head. “’Tis still a mystery.”
Chapter Twenty-five
When the large ranchers returned home after the funeral, they were greeted with an unpleasant surprise. Every one of them, from Clyde Barnes of the Cross Fire Ranch to Webb Dakota of Kensington Place, had lost cattle, and not just a few. Dale Allen had lost the most, with 160 of his cattle gone. Burt Rowe had lost the least number of cows, and even he had lost 78.
Webb Dakota, whose losses were only slightly below that of Dale Allen, circulated a petition, then presented it to Brad Houser, calling for an emergency meeting of the Cattlemen’s Association.
Like the previous meeting, this one was held in the meeting room of the Bank of Chugwater. Sid Shamrock, who the cattlemen knew as Captain Paul Harris, was there, and he was sporting one of the badges that had been fashioned for him and the other deputies.
“Mr. Dakota,” Houser said as soon as the meeting was called to order. “I believe you are the one who circulated the petition. Therefore, you are responsible for this emergency meeting.”
“I asked that the meeting be called. That is correct, sir.”
“Then the floor is yours,” Houser said with a welcoming sweep of his hand.
“I appreciate the invitation, Mr. Houser, but when you formed the constabulary, you also assumed, by your action, leadership of our organization. And because that is so, I shall defer to you, as I have no wish to conduct the meeting.”
“Oh, you need not worry about conducting the meeting, Mr. Dakota. As the chairman I will be conducting this, as well as all the other meetings. I am merely inviting you to address the assembly so that you may apprise us of your perception of the magnitude of
