Never Trust A Cowboy. Kathleen Eagle

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СКАЧАТЬ Del just hoped Junior had the power to hire and fire ranch hands.

      It took Del all of thirty seconds to disable a taillight on Junior’s pickup.

      A typical edge-of-town watering hole, Bucky’s was shades of brown inside and out. Customers were lean and green or grizzled and gray, but they were all on the same page at Bucky’s. They were winding down. Two guys sat side by side at one end of the bar, a third sat alone at the other, a man and a woman exchanged stares across the table in a booth and pool balls clicked against each other under the only bright light at the far end of the establishment.

      “I’m looking for the owner of the Chevy short box parked outside.” Del was looking at the bartender, but he was talking to anyone who’d noticed his entrance. Which would be everyone.

      “That’d be me.” The kid who’d wielded the cattle prod waved a finger in the air and then turned, beer bottle in hand. He wore a new straw cowboy hat and sported a pale, skimpy mustache. “What’s up?”

      “The name’s Delano Fox.” Del offered a handshake. “If you’re with the Flynn ranch, I was told you might be hiring.”

      Junior admitted nothing, but he accepted the handshake. “Who told you that?”

      “Ran into a guy who said he’d just quit. Told me to look for a red short box with a taillight out. Your taillight’s out.”

      Junior frowned. “You been following me?”

      “More like following up on a tip. Not too much traffic around here. Hard to miss a single taillight.”

      “When did he say he’d quit?”

      “Maybe he said he was about to quit. I don’t remember exactly how he put it, but if you’re not short one hand, you soon will be. You hire me, you won’t need anybody else. I’d get rid of the other guys.”

      The bartender chuckled.

      “Only got one hand. Had, sounds like. Where did you run into him?”

      “Couldn’t say. Somewhere along the road.” Del tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans and gave an easy smile. The way to play the game was to keep the questions coming and the answers on the spare side. “After a while they all look alike. Faces and places and roads in between.”

      Junior nodded toward the empty stool beside him.

      “Did he mention his name?” Junior asked as Del swung his leg over the stool. “Or mine?”

      “Flynn was all he gave me. Said he was helping move a few steers and that the guy driving the red pickup might be hiring. That last part was all that interested me.”

      “Brad Benson. Tell me why I should hire you.”

      So this wasn’t Junior. One missed guess, but it was a small one. As long as the kid could hire a new hand, he would be hiring Del.

      “I’ll put in a full day every day.” Del sealed the deal with a sly smile. “Or a full night. Whatever you need.”

      Benson took a pull on his beer, took his time setting it down and finally glanced sideways at Del. “How about both?”

      “A guy’s gotta sleep sometime. But yeah, calving time, I’m there. Workin’ on a night move once in a while? I can do that, too.”

      Benson didn’t bite. “Where have you worked before?”

      “Just finished a four-month job on a place west of Denver. The Ten High. Foreman’s name is Harlan Walsh.” Walsh was his standard reference. Harlan knew the drill. Del had actually worked at the Ten High, just not recently.

      “If Thompson don’t show up tomorrow—”

      “Pretty sure he won’t.” Damn sure he won’t. Thompson had been most cooperative once Del had ruled out all other options.

      “If he don’t, then we’ll try you out. The Flynn place is sixteen miles outside of town on County... Well, I guess you already know the road. We pay thirty a day to start, six days a week. You’ll have the bunkhouse to yourself, and you’ll get board with the family.” The grin was boyish. “Bored, too. Get it?”

      “Either way, as long you’ve got a good cook in the family.”

      “You can always get yourself a microwave,” Benson said, tipping the beer bottle in Del’s direction. “Oh, yeah, and you answer to me. It’s my stepdad’s operation, but he’s getting on, and we’re trying to get him to take it easy.”

      “Understood.”

      “And if it turns out you’re more skilled than most, more...specialized...” Benson’s lips drew down in the shape of his mustache. “You could bump up your income, put it that way.”

      “Like all good cowboys, I’m a jack-of-all-trades.” Del tapped his knuckles on the bar as he dismounted from the stool. “With resourcefulness to spare.”

      “Just to show your appreciation, spare some on buying the second round.”

      Del chuckled. There hadn’t been a first round. “My employer always gets the better end of the deal. I’d suggest the other way around if I wasn’t dog tired. I’ve been on the road awhile.”

      “And I’d show you to your room, but I ain’t ready to hit the road.”

      “I’ll be there by eight.”

      “Breakfast’s at six.”

      Del glanced at the shot the bartender set down next to Benson’s beer, and then gave his new boss a slight smile. “I’ll be there by eight.”

      * * *

      The Flynn Ranch sign hung high above the graveled approach five miles south of the scene of the previous night’s crime. Del’s first thought was how easy it would be to alter the Double F brand that adorned the intersection of the gateposts and the crossbar on both sides of the entrance. A seasoned rustler would have it done by now even if he was hungover. Del was betting Benson was fairly new to the game and that last night’s haul still carried the Double F. He doubted Benson had any authority to recruit new thieves. A man new to the game only stole his own cattle for show, to convince family, friends and FBI that he was among the victims. And by peeling off some skin and dropping it into the game, he bought himself some street cred. But he’d have to keep up appearances on both sides. Del looked forward to seeing whether Benson was any more serious about his acting than his rustling.

      The red Chevy pickup was parked kitty-whompus beside an old two-story farmhouse that probably had been a local showplace in its day. The right front tire had crushed a bed of pretty blue-and-white flowers. Some of the once-white paint on the house was peeling, and some had been scraped. The covered porch looked as though it had recently been painted.

      Del mounted the steps to the sprawling porch and rapped on the screen door. He heard movement, peered through the screen and saw a pair of chunky rubber flip-flops—neon green, if he wasn’t mistaken—sitting on a rag rug in the dim alcove.

      The bare feet that belonged to the shoes appeared at the top of the stairs СКАЧАТЬ