“A nice-sized herd.”
“Turkey Creek runs through our place, so water isn’t a problem, and we adjoin a lot of open and unclaimed range. The Comanches are surrendering and heading to Fort Sill, so Indian troubles should be ending.”
“But?”
“A week ago, Comancheros hit the Turkey Track Ranch—that’s what Papa called the place because of all the turkeys in the woods along Turkey Creek that leave tracks all over the ranch. And it makes a simple brand: a vertical line with two more lines branching off near the top. Anyhow, there must have been fifteen riders. They swept through like a whirlwind, and all we could do was watch. Thankfully, they didn’t come near the buildings. My strawberry roan filly and a few other horses were in the stable. My wrangler, Angel, followed them for three days before he gave up and returned home. In the meantime, I made a day’s ride to talk to the Army at Fort Concho. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, help. A captain there said they were short of troops because they were escorting surrendering Comanche bands to the reservation. He thought it was a civilian matter anyway. Said I should contact the Texas Rangers. That would take weeks.”
“That’s true enough. A lot of money on those hooves.”
“At $500 or more for a good stallion, $250 for the bred mares and another $300 for mares with foals at side, $200 for a filly, then add on some premium for top notch quarter horses, and we’re looking at $15,000 to $17,000, enough to clear the debt and then some. The ranchland gets foreclosed without the horses, and I will still owe the bank.”
Jack rubbed his chin. “Horse rustling makes more sense than cattle. Cows are bringing between twenty-five and thirty dollars these days. With the Comanches going into the reservation, I guess the Comancheros are expanding their business enterprises. You’re sure they were Comancheros?”
“That’s what Angel said. I wouldn’t know a Comanchero from anybody else.”
“Stands to reason, I guess—that many men. What direction were they headed?”
Sierra said, “Angel told me they were driving the herd southwest into the Chihuahuan Desert country.”
“Likely Lookout Canyon. It’s a Comanchero hideout. Sort of a headquarters, although the Comancheros don’t have a central command as such. They are just a collection of no-goods in different bands who took on the Comanchero name because of their dealings with Comanches. They started out as respectable traders, but that changed over the years when the tribes became a market for guns and liquor. The canyon is a place they rendezvous and resupply. There are some buildings there, several trading posts, stables, that sort of thing.”
“Is it a place they would take horses?”
“Absolutely. There are all kinds of dead-end offshoot canyons where horses could be penned off.”
“Where do they sell the horses?”
“Army. Ranches. Some go to Mexico. Are the horses branded?”
“Yes. A small turkey track on the neck.”
“It would take some time to alter brands, and they couldn’t market the entire herd at once. They would worry that word is out about a theft that large. The good news is that they will likely hold the herd until things cool some.”
Sierra said, “You sound like you’ve seen this canyon.”
“I’ve been there once with an outfit of Rangers. We were trying to recover farm and ranch children taken by Comanches and traded to the Comancheros.”
“What would the Comancheros do with them?”
“Take them to Mexico to sell them as slaves or, more often, to bordellos.”
“Did you rescue the children?”
“No. And I lost six men. Not my proudest day.”
She sighed. “I see.” She was starting to resign herself to losing the horses and the ranch. She did not even know why she had come to this man in the first place.
“If I am right about the location of the horses, we will do better this time. We will need tomorrow to prepare. I plan to pull out the next morning.”
“You are going to help me?”
“I hope so.”
“I am going with you.”
“I figured as much.”
“Thank you . . . What should I call you?”
“Jack will do.”
“Would you care if I call you Grandpa Jack?”
“That’s okay if it suits you.”
“Thank you, Grandpa Jack.”
Chapter Eight
Rudy was always telling him he was plumb weak north of the ears when the two men fussed. His old partner would say that chasing down horses in the Chihuahuan Desert was conclusive proof.
When he walked into the sitting room, he was not surprised to find that Rudy and Jordy were sitting in stuffed chairs nursing half-full glasses of whiskey, Thor sleeping at Jordy’s feet. The three-quarters full Jack Daniels bottle on the table between them told him the drinking had been purely social. They looked up expectantly when he entered the room. Jack claimed his rocker across the coffee table from the two.
“Would you like a drink, Jack? I’ll get a glass,” Jordy said, starting to rise from his chair.
Jack waved him off. “No, thanks, Jordy. My stomach would pay for it this late.” Spirits were rare for him these days, especially evenings. Alcohol seemed to burn a hole in his gut anymore. Of course, a lot of years had passed since he had been a serious drinker. Maybe he had not hardened his innards to the stuff. Look at Rudy. He was unfazed by booze of any variety, and God knew Rudy had drunk enough for two men over a lifetime.
“Well?” Rudy said. “I been staying sober to hear your story.”
“What story?”
“The girl. Sierra.”
“Consuelo’s helping her get a bath ready in the tub room upstairs.”
“Damn it, Jack. Is she your granddaughter or ain’t she?”
“She is.” Jack said, his voice a near whisper.
Rudy leaned forward from his chair, resting on his cane. “What did you say?”
Jordy turned toward Rudy and, speaking loudly, said, “Jack said
