“No matter the case,” Mac told Coop, “I need to evaluate if the mine is worth keeping or if it’s a liability for my aunt.”
Coop scratched his jaw. “Seems odd to purchase a mine that sits in the middle of someone else’s land.”
“I agree,” Mac said. “Was it a good deal that fell in Joe’s lap? Or did he buy it on purpose, knowing Webber was paranoid and wouldn’t let the law on his land?”
Butch nodded at Mac in the mirror. “Insurance.”
“Exactly.”
“I understand now the what and who behind today’s trip,” Coop said. “But why did you bring me along?”
“Because the last time Claire and Mac were up to the mine, they heard something inside,” Butch answered.
“What sort of something?”
Mac grimaced. “The sort that might require the assistance of someone who knows how to handle a firearm.”
“But I left my Colt .45 back at the camper.”
“Not a problem,” Butch said. “Mac brought his aunt’s shotgun for you.”
Coop snorted. “Well, that was neighborly of you.”
“I’m all about taking precautions these days,” Mac told him. “I’ve come close to dying too many damned times in the mines around here.” He didn’t know how many of his nine lives were left, but he really wanted to make it back to Jackrabbit Junction in one piece this morning, if possible.
He rounded another bend and saw the mesquite grove. Pulling off the side of the road, he killed the engine. “We go on foot from here.” He crawled out of the Jeep.
The sun was high in the cloudless sky, adding a hint of warmth to the crisp air. The temperature had dropped close to freezing last night, but it was supposed to climb back up to a high of sixty-three degrees by this afternoon. It was a good day to hike up to an abandoned mine and figure out what was hiding inside.
The mesquite trees were full of sparrows, chattering and cheeping away. Mac walked to the back of the Jeep, where he’d stowed his aunt’s gun and his backpack full of equipment. Something moved under the creosote bushes nearby, making the branches rattle. Probably a rabbit or more birds.
Butch and Coop joined him as he lifted his pack that bulged with supplies and safety gear. He’d already double-checked the battery life on his flashlights, portable gas detector, and other “toys,” as Claire liked to call his rather expensive equipment.
The rumble of an engine approaching made the three of them turn. A beat-up 1967 Chevy pickup pulled in behind them, parking about twenty feet away. The driver’s side door creaked open.
“Who’s that?” Coop asked.
“Dick Webber.” Mac remembered the old rancher’s truck from the last time.
“So that’s Webber. Did you tell him we were coming?”
“Didn’t have to,” Butch said. “Dick watches over his property like a hawk.” He raised his hand in a wave as Dick eased to the ground. “Hey, Dick!” Butch walked over and shook the older man’s hand.
Dick pulled a cane from his pickup cab, along with his trusty shotgun, which Mac had also met before.
“Is that a Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun?” Coop asked, squinting at the two men as they made their way closer.
“Yep.” Mac slid his arms through his backpack, adjusting the straps. Coop apparently knew his firearms by sight alone. “Howdy, Dick,” he said when they drew near.
Dick nodded hello to Mac, his long white beard blowing in the slight breeze. “Where’s your woman?”
“Sleeping off our New Year’s party.”
His dusty, sweat-stained cowboy hat tipped to the side. “She marry you yet?”
“Nope. Her feet are still too cold.”
“I got a solution for that.”
“Oh, yeah?” What was it? The double-wide, jetted tub he’d talked about last time while trying to lure Claire away from Mac? Or a shotgun wedding compliments of a certain 12-gauge, maybe?
“Offer to keep her feet warm until death do ya part.”
Mac chuckled. If only it were as simple as keeping Claire’s closet full of slippers.
The old rancher eyed Coop, a scowl spreading up his face. He raised his shotgun several inches. “Who’s this? He stands like a law dog.”
“He’s a friend,” Butch said. “He’s visiting from South Dakota with his uncle.”
Dick’s gaze tightened as he sized up Coop. “What do you have to say for yerself?”
“I like the antique cannon in your hand. Hard to find one in good shape. Where’d you get it?”
Dick’s hard expression cracked, a big grin spreading from cheek to cheek. “It was my pa’s. I treat ’er better than I did my last two wives.”
“You’d like my uncle’s double-barreled beauty. He calls her ‘Bessie,’ and sleeps with her most nights.”
“Still using the cane, I see,” Butch said to Dick.
“Yeah. Ever since that damned fall I took, my knee gives out when I step wrong.” Dick leaned over and spit a wad of tobacco in the dirt. “I hear you got a bun in the oven, Butch.”
“Yep. It’s halfway baked.”
The rancher pulled a can of tobacco from his back pocket. “How you gonna run a bar with a baby hangin’ around?”
“That’s a predicament I’ve been struggling with for some time now. You want to buy my bar, Dick?”
“No, thanks. That’s too much people work. Ranching is more my style. Cattle don’t bitch and whine about their feelin’s day and night.”
“What would you do if you sold it?” Coop asked Butch.
Dick snorted. “He’d play with his old cars all day long.”
“The bar was supposed to be a hobby of sorts,” Butch explained to Coop, “after I unloaded my half of the business I owned with my brother.”
“It ain’t no hobby no more,” Dick said, stuffing a wad of chew between his cheek and gum. “Businesses are like women. At first they seem all sparkly and excitin’, but then they start nagging ya day and night, never happy with what you give ’em.”
Mac chuckled under his breath. Claire was sure missing out on a golden opportunity by shooting down Dick’s marriage offer.
Butch nodded, grinning. “You’re spot-on there, Dick. The Shaft has gotten too busy lately. It’s taking everything Kate and I will
