Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (39 page)

      
So, it was out in the open. Looking levelly at him, she replied, “Some of the men may have hated Hawk, but they all followed his orders. If he were here now—”

      
He cut her off. “But he ain't. You need a man, Carrie, a man to run this place. Someone who'll stand up to Krueger and whip all these bitchers in line so they work for Circle S.”

      
Prickling warnings shot up and down her spine as she looked at Rider's icy-blue eyes and pale, cruel face.
God, just like Noah, even the stringy yellow hair.
“Just what are you proposing, Mr. Rider?” She stressed his title, pointedly ignoring his use of her given name.

      
“You know what I'm proposin', and you know I'm right. I can handle the men for you, bring in any guns we need, but if I do, pretty redhead, I want somethin' in return. Hell, you could do a lot worse than marryin' me. Come to think on it, you already have—twice.” He leered at his own cleverness.

      
It took every ounce of her willpower not to slap the filthy smirk off his face. She must not infuriate him or show him how revolting she found his proposal. For now, he was her only slim link to keeping the remaining men drawing Circle S pay. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Well, that's hardly a conventional proposal of marriage, or a very kind one. You're right, though, I do need someone to run the place. But my husband's only been dead a couple of months and—”

      
“If you're hoping the half-breed'll come back, think again. He took off like a scalded dog. Probably dead drunk in some dive in the Nations, or just plain dead. You'll never see him again,” he finished coldly.

      
She flinched at the certainty of his statement, half afraid he was right. “What you say is probably true, but I was forced to marry once without love. I won't do it again, no matter what the price.”

      
His face darkened as he heard the finality in her voice and saw the stubborn set of her chin. Damn the little whore! “The price will be Circle S, Boss Lady.. You'll lose it. I'm a patient man, to a point. Think it over....” With that he sauntered off, planning his next meeting with Krueger. The number of head he delivered would go up. He would give Carrie a month or so to come around while he continued to make money rustling Circle S cattle.

* * * *

Fall came golden and warm, with fleecy white clouds whipping briskly across the deep azure of the sky. Heavy late-summer rain had made the rolling swells of buffalo grass sweet and green. Cattle fattened and ranchers prepared for winter, rounding up and cutting out prime beef for shipment to market before the winter storms descended in paralyzing finality, freezing the cattle kingdom in limbo until spring.

      
In the midst of the fall roundups, Carrie worked as hard as any of her men, the inadequate handful remaining. She rode from section to section, checking actual tallies against Noah's records. The real count always came up short. Some of the hands were cavalier about it, figuring a woman incapable of even being able to read the ledgers, some were evasive as if hiding something, and a few were afraid.
 

      
Afraid of what or whom? Carrie pondered the frustrating puzzle, wondering if Krueger was now stealing from Circle S as Noah had stolen from K Bar. Was that why Frank had been killed? Had he found out something about the missing cattle?

      
She sat in the study late one evening, poring over the books for the hundredth time, the questions still whirling around in her head. Just then, Feliz came in with a cup of herb tea.

      
“You will never get to sleep if you worry so. Here, drink this. It will soothe you so you can rest.”

      
Carrie smiled and took the tea. “If I don't worry, I'll have plenty of time to rest. We all will. We'll be off Circle S, Feliz. We're losing cattle at a terrible rate and I think Krueger may be behind it, but I can't prove anything. None of this makes sense. Frank may have thought K Bar men were the rustlers, but Krueger wouldn't have bothered to kill him. Noah had already accused Krueger publicly.

      
“I think Noah was a thief, God help him, but he's dead and the rustling goes on, only now our cattle, not K Bar's, are the ones missing. And several of my men are acting afraid of something, but they won't tell me what.” She sipped the tea and rubbed her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her fingertips.

      
“If you ask me, they are afraid of Señor Rider,” Feliz said darkly.

      
Warily Carrie said, “What makes you think that?”

      
“Why be afraid of rustlers who work on the outside? As you say, why would K Bar men kill Frank? No. I think someone works from here, telling those who steal where and when it is easiest to do. I have watched the men, how they act around Caleb Rider. I think Señor Rider is a traitor who has stolen from both sides.”

      
“If Frank found out that Rider was stealing from K Bar—Oh, my God, do you think Noah...?” Carrie couldn't finish the sentence. Then her eyes hardened, like polished green glass. “If Rider killed Frank, it was to cover up for Noah's involvement. Or maybe Noah did it himself. I've honestly come to believe he was capable of anything,” she said with a shiver, recalling his coldblooded threat to kill her and Perry.

      
“If Señor Rider stole K Bar cattle then, he steals ours now. I would bet my best iron skillet on that,” Feliz said emphatically.

      
Carrie nodded. “Yes, he's switched sides. His kind always finds that easy, and it would explain why our men act so nervous around him. Oh, damn, Feliz! What can I do? If I fire him, I drive him to Krueger openly. It could start a range war. And without a foreman, the men who are left will quit in a minute, I'm sure of that.”

      
Feliz stood up and walked around the cluttered desk. Gently she massaged the younger woman's thin, tense shoulders. “Is it not better to face a snake from the front than have him lunge and bite your unprepared back?”

      
Carrie knew it was her only course of action. Having him live at Circle S and post the men's work schedules was tantamount to quartering the wolf in the sheep pens. “I'll go into town and see that worthless Sheriff Woods. I can show him my records and tell him I think Rider's involved. I doubt it will spur him to action, but at least I'll go on record accusing Rider. Maybe he'll leave Circle S without more trouble. I can try posting a notice for a new foreman again at Cummins's store, too.” Her voice was tired but steady.

* * * *

      
The sheriff's office was a rickety frame structure with a dilapidated front porch and grimy windows. As she entered the door, Carrie could smell stale cigar smoke and musty bedding. The place was layered in dust and clutter. Wrinkling her nose, she looked around for Sheriff Woods. A noise in the rear of the building drew her eyes to the back door. Behind its rather flimsy-looking wooden construction lay a couple of cramped, filthy cells, usually inhabited by local drunks. The door to the privy was also in the back room. Hearing the outside door latch click, she called out, “Is anyone here?”

      
Woods, a short, squat man of middle years and rumpled appearance, shoved open the door to the front office. Looking surprised, he said, ”Miz Sinclair, whut're yew doin' here so early?” It was nearly noon.

      
“Good morning, Sheriff. I have a matter of importance to discuss with you.” She plunked her ledgers down on his desk, wincing as a cloud of dust floated up and enveloped them. “In these are the tallies for Circle S cattle, going back several years. Over this summer and fall, I've had a marked decrease in herd numbers.” She flipped open a page, waiting for him to offer her the courtesy of a chair.

      
He stood still, putting his hands truculently into his belt instead. Rolling onto the balls of his feet, he seemed to thrust his overample belly out even farther. Affixing her with a now baleful glare, he said, “Whaddya want me ta look at yer bookkeepin' fer? Ain't nothin' ta me. Outside my jurisdiction anyways.”

      
Carrie took a calming breath and smiled her most blinding smile at him. “Well, Sheriff, I had hoped you would at least make note of the fact that I've lost cattle and that I think Caleb Rider is responsible. Yesterday I followed him to the east range, where I watched from a distance while he talked to several strangers. They rode off and he came home. This morning I checked cattle on the east range and I'm down fifty head!”

      
His eyes shifted nervously. Rider was a mean gunman, and the sheriff wasn't about to get himself shot over the likes of this Indian-loving tramp, nosiree. “Why not git yer Injun kid's daddy ta run Rider off? ‘Pears ta me he's th' one's got th' stake out there, not me.”

      
Carrie did not even flinch at the unexpected insult. She was growing accustomed to such. “I'm not surprised you won't take action, Sheriff. I imagined you'd be terrified of Caleb Rider. The only thing that does surprise me is that you have the courage to insult a lone woman to her face!”

      
By the time she arrived at Cummins's store, Carrie had her temper back under control. She had also reached a decision. If no one else would help her, she would act by herself. As she wended her way past crates and barrels in the clutter of the overstocked store, she withdrew her supply list, mentally making several additions to it.

      
Cy Cummins saw her crossing the crowded emporium and scowled. There had been no love lost between him and Noah Sinclair, but he had outright hated Noah's dangerous son. His Kitty had been much too fond of that killer. Now to have the half-breed's mistress come in as owner of Circle S, lording it over her betters, well, it galled him to do business with her.

      
“Good day, Mr. Cummins. I have a list of supplies here, and I need some technical advice.” Carrie kept her voice brisk and impersonal. The old storekeeper had already made his feelings toward her quite plain.

      
His lips pursed and his eyelids drooped, giving his rotund face a strange buddhalike appearance. “You figgering to pay your bill while you're at it, Mrs. Sinclair? You owe me for last month yet.”

      
Why, the punctilious bastard! “You certainly know when you have a monopoly, don't you, Mr. Cummins? I hadn't planned to go to the bank today, but I can, if you think between now and the first of the month I'll sell Circle S and abscond owing you.” Her scorn was withering.

      
His mouth whitened and he nodded.’ “I'll wait till the first, no later.” He took the list from her hand and gave it to his gaping clerk to fill.

      
When he turned away, her voice interrupted him. “I need another thing, not ,on the list. A small-caliber handgun and some ammunition.”

* * * *

      
The next morning Carrie went down to the corral to find Rider. As she approached the melee, she could smell leather and horseflesh, hear swearing and singing, see a kaleidoscope of black, brown, and red horses. Men pulled on bridles, strapped cinches, and calmed skittering animals with rough endearments. Suddenly, as she looked up at the brilliant orange fingers of sunrise climbing over the stable roof, she realized how much a part of her all this had become. She loved the ranch, the land, the life. For better or worse, there would be no going back to St. Louis. Her future was in Montana now.

      
“I'm looking for Caleb Rider, Joe. Have you seen him?” She called out over the noise to one young hand, who doffed his hat and smiled. A few of them were loyal, despite her fall from grace, she thought ruefully.

      
Joe Plimpton replied, “Yes'm. He went back to Frank's—I mean, his cabin. Goin' over some papers, he said.”

      
Thanking Joe, Carrie turned and strode determinedly toward the small log structure down behind the bunkhouse. It was a plain, clean little building set next to a stand of scrub pines. Frank had built it himself, Carrie thought with a pang. How she had hated giving it over to Caleb Rider. Well, now Caleb would be leaving.

      
Before she could knock, the door swung open and a smiling Rider lounged against the sash, making a grand gesture of ushering her into the front room. Careful to avoid touching him, she stepped inside and turned to face his Cheshire-cat countenance. Sneakthief and bushwhacker!

      
Rider walked over to the kitchen table and motioned for her to have a chair. When she refused with a shake of her head, he picked up a big granite pot from the stove and poured himself a mug of thick, black coffee.

      
“What can I do for you, Carrie?” His very tone of voice was an intimate insinuation.

      
“Pack,” she said in a crisp, clear voice. “You're fired. I want you off Circle S by sundown.”

      
Choking, he sprayed coffee all across the table, then put the scalding cup down and wiped his chin. “Where the hell do you get off firin' me?”

      
“Where the hell do you get off stealing my cattle?” She stood with her back to the door, giving him as wide a berth as possible in the small room.

      
His face went from surprised anger to ugly menace. “Mighty dangerous words if you can't back them up, darlin'.” He made no attempt to draw his gun, but began to walk toward her, like a puma ready to pounce.

      
Quickly she brought her right arm up from where it had been hidden in the folds of her riding skirt. In her hand was a Sharps thirty-six caliber pistol, cocked and pointed squarely at Rider's midsection. “From this range, I don't need to be a good shot, Caleb, just a determined one.”