“We take it on faith they’re up to no good. Asking their business is likely to get us filled full of holes, no matter what their intentions.”

  Mac put what he knew into his head and let it all tumble around to see what finally came out. The determination of the gang, the way they rode fast and hard, heading straight for Don Jaime’s herd, decided him. They were up to no good.

  “Don Jaime got all the men he could from his ranch. These gents aren’t intending to join up and help him get his cattle south of the border. If I was a betting man, I’d lay odds on them being sent by Luther Wardell.”

  “Why’s that, Mac?” Flowers worked on his own ideas, but this one distracted him.

  “If Don Jaime gets the money to save his ranch, Wardell wasted the money he spent buying our beeves and almost giving them to the Army. The Circle Arrow and the Army will be the only winners. And Don Jaime, if he collects enough for his cattle. Wardell loses all around.”

  “That makes sense,” Flowers said. “The question comes to mind, what do we do? If we mix it up with them for no good reason, that’s not going to get Desmond back.”

  “If the gang tries to rustle the herd or just stampede it, Desmond is in serious danger. He’s barely got the experience to wipe his own nose.”

  “He can do more than that. He saved your damned chuckwagon crossing the Pecos. Don’t you forget that.”

  Mac recognized a desperate defense when he heard one. The trail boss knew that Desmond had been caught in the stampede during the thunderstorm and would have died if he hadn’t saved him. After that, Mac had taught him close to everything he knew about being a cowboy. Mac remembered how Desmond had come close to shooting off his own foot until taught how to draw and fire. He needed more practice with his revolver, but the lessons Mac had given him were enough to keep him alive. Unless the hothead did something he thought was heroic to impress Estella.

  “It won’t hurt to watch them,” Mac said, choosing his words carefully. “If it looks like they’re going to try their hand at some rustling, we can always let Don Jaime know. After all, it’s his herd to protect.”

  “That’s sensible enough,” Flowers said. He spat, turned his horse, and slowed to a walk.

  Mac kept pace beside him, letting his horse rest up. They might have to hightail it. He wanted as fresh a horse under him as possible if it came down to shooting.

  They made their way through the desert, finding ways to stay out of sight until Flowers couldn’t stand it any longer. He dropped to the ground, tossed his reins to Mac, and started up a steep hillside for a look.

  “Don’t let them see you,” Mac called. He got a dirty look in return. Flowers was savvy enough not to silhouette himself against the sky, even if the sun had moved around and would be in his eyes.

  He reached the crest, hunkered down, and inched forward. He flopped on his belly so fast that Mac jumped. In less than a minute Flowers worked his way back downhill, stood, and ran the rest of the way. Panting harshly, he grabbed the reins from Mac’s hands and pointed to the rifle in the saddle sheath.

  He gasped out, “Rifle. Get your damned rifle. They’re on the other side of the hill fixing to start a stampede.”

  “You heard them?”

  Flowers’s head bobbed up and down. He mounted, drew his own rifle, and levered a round into the chamber. Not waiting to see if Mac followed, he lit out around the base of the hill.

  “Wait for me,” Mac cried. He felt a little queasy going into a fight and not knowing what he faced. How many rustlers were there? Or had he been right that these men worked for Wardell and intended nothing but mischief to keep Don Jaime from selling the cattle to save his ranch?

  He found out quick. Trailing Flowers by a dozen yards, he pounded around the hill. Nestled between two smaller hillocks, eight men worked to fasten bandanas over their faces and checked their revolvers. They looked up when Flowers and Mac raced toward them, but they didn’t react. Mac saw them call out to one man, their leader.

  “That’s Ransom, Wardell’s foreman,” he shouted to Flowers. He had seen the man in Fort Sumner and learned his name.

  The trail boss never heard. His horse’s hooves pounded too hard against the dry ground. Then he opened fire. His rifle spat foot-long tongues of orange flame and filled the air with white gun smoke.

  Mac raced right behind him. The notion of shooting down the men churned at his gut. This wasn’t self-defense, not strictly. To ease his conscience, he saw that all his rounds missed their intended targets, but the volley they fired spooked the mounts under Wardell’s henchmen. Confusion, rearing horses, animals bolting threw several of the riders to the ground. As Mac charged past one, he heard a sick crunch as his horse’s front hoof collided with the man’s arm. The bone not only broke but poked out through his duster. He fell away, screaming in pain and adding to the commotion.

  “It’s just two of them. Don’t let them scare you!” Ransom fought for control of his horse. He waved his gun around, but every time he leveled it, the horse sunfished and threatened to throw him off. “Kill them! Shoot the bastards!”

  Mac tried to do just that to Ransom, but he had raced clean through where they’d gathered. He leaned to the side, avoided a couple bullets sent his way, turned his horse, and came back for a second attack. He changed his tactics when he saw Flowers on the ground, his horse next to him. The horse was dead. Hiram Flowers had drawn his revolver and fired as accurately as he could as he knelt behind the meager shelter of the horse’s body.

  To protect the trail boss, Mac rode between him and three men closing in on him. Two rounds cracked from his rifle, but then it was empty. He whipped out his S&W. The trusty gun fired four rounds with accuracy unlike anything he had experienced before. Or it might have been Lady Luck smiling on him. He winged one of Wardell’s gunmen, shot another’s horse from under him, and caused the third to veer away.

  “Get up behind me,” Mac called. He had to use both hands on the reins to stop the horse close enough to Flowers. Otherwise, it would have kept running until it died under him.

  “Two of us will tire it out.”

  “Get on!” Mac was in no mood to argue. His tone lit a fire under the trail boss. Flowers jumped up, caught at the saddle, and awkwardly pulled himself forward.

  Mac saved his last two rounds for when he might need them. He bent low and rode straight into a tight knot of would-be stampeders. Two scattered. Another was thrown when his horse reared.

  “What are you doing?” He looked behind. Flowers had jumped away. He saw the reason. The riderless horse had stepped on a rein and jerked its head around. As it tried to figure out how to get away, Flowers snatched the rein, pulled it free, and vaulted into the saddle.

  They were both mounted again.

  Mac used his final two rounds to send Wardell’s men running. It took all his willpower not to keep firing on empty chambers. The click-click-click might have drawn them back to fight some more if they knew he had run out of rounds.

  Flowers hooted and hollered and dropped the man who had been tossed from his horse as he tried to scramble over a hill. Flowers grabbed and caught the bridle of the now stray horse.

  “We showed them,” Mac said. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out six cartridges and reloaded his revolver. It took longer to find a box of shells and get his rifle reloaded. “Let them come back. I’m ready for bear.”

  “How many are dead?” Flowers swayed as if a high wind buffeted him. He turned in a full circle, then threw up his hands. “How many?”

  “They’re running, Mister Flowers. They won’t stop until they get back to Fort Sumner.” Mac had to grin. “Chances are good they won’t go back and tell Wardell what happened. They’d prefer him to think they’re dead, rather than cowards who couldn’t tangle with two cowboys and win.”

  “Their leader. Ransom. He’s a mean one. He won’t go back. He’ll get mad.”

  “He’ll be alone. I saw the expressions on those owlhoots’ faces. They won’t come back.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mac. I hope you’re right.” Flowers tipped his head to one side, listened hard, then pointed. “Don Jaime’s herd is over that way. I hear them stirring.”

  “They stayed put and didn’t stampede. His vaqueros can settle them down.”

  “That’s none of our business. Getting Desmond back to the Circle Arrow is.”

  Mac heaved a sigh. The trail boss had a one-track mind. This time that proved to be a good idea. Ransom and the rest of Wardell’s gunmen had run away, but if they took long enough, they’d forget why they ran, build up some courage—maybe with the help of a bottle of whiskey—and decide they feared Ransom and Wardell more than two cowboys.

  He settled in the saddle, hunted for any dropped weapons, and found two revolvers. It took him a few seconds to dismount and grab them. The more firepower he carried, the better their chance of fulfilling Flowers’s pipe dream of prying Desmond loose from the Mexican’s trail drive.

  Desmond had plenty to prove. He’d take every chance he could to show off for Estella Abragon. Mac caught up and cantered beside the trail boss until they sighted the trailing edge of the herd. Two vaqueros turned in their direction. Both uncurled ten-foot-long whips and cracked them behind the steers. This moved the reluctant beeves—and it gave ample warning to the pair of intruders not to cross them.

  Mac politely waved. Flowers rode, eyes straight ahead as if he pierced the cloud of dust and saw Desmond. A few minutes’ ride brought them around the side of the herd where Don Jaime rode. His fancy embroidered sombrero had turned dust brown. The gold threads poked through in places but both the quality and craftsmanship were veiled by trail dust already.

  “What do you want?”

  “A good day to you, too, Don Jaime,” Flowers said. “We’re here to take Desmond back where he belongs.”

  Mac rode between the two men. Flowers lacked even a hint of diplomacy in his makeup. He focused on one thing only, and nothing moved him until he finished it. In a trail boss that kept the herd together and the crew safe. For retrieving the boss’s son as he worked another herd, it lacked a great deal of diplomacy.

  “Desmond Sullivan’s needed back in Fort Sumner,” Mac said. “We’d like your permission to talk it over with him.”

  Mac saw the ranch owner thaw a little at that. “He has hired on to work for me until we reach market in Mexico.”

  “We understand that, Don Jaime. We only want to talk.”

  A cloud of dust rose when Don Jaime took off his sombrero and waved it above his head. He loosed a whistle that hurt Mac’s ears before the dust from that broad-brimmed hat choked him. Riding through a New Mexico dust devil had nothing on the tiny storm stirred up by simply whacking the hat a few times.

  “There he is.” Flowers started to ride to Desmond until Mac reached out to hold him back. Flowers angrily jerked free. “Don’t you ever try to stop me, boy. Never.”

  “He’s coming to us, Mister Flowers. Rock the boat now, and we return empty handed.”

  Mac was aware that Don Jaime took in every word they said. What his role was in letting Desmond ride with the herd remained to be seen. Having the young man on the same drive as his daughter had to be a burr under his fancy saddle.

  “What are you two doing here?” Desmond drew rein and glared at them. “I’m not being kidnapped.”

  “Not again,” Flowers said, his tone surly. “You’ve already done that so you keep making new mistakes. Go fetch your gear. We’re going back to the Circle Arrow herd right away.”

  “I gave Don Jaime my word. I promised I’d work as a cowboy—a vaquero—until he reaches a market below the border.”

  “Your ma won’t like you running off like this.” Flowers turned even more belligerent. Mac saw this was the wrong thing to say, the wrong tack to take.

  “Why don’t we get a cup of coffee and talk this over?” Mac suggested.

  “The chuckwagon’s a mile that way,” Desmond said, pointing due south, the direction of the herd. “You mind, Don Jaime?”

  The rancher dismissed them with a wave, shouted in Spanish, and rode to chew out one of his vaqueros for some minor offense. Mac felt sorry for the man because he hadn’t done anything but provide Don Jaime a convenient reason to leave his unwanted visitors to work out their problems alone.

  Mac, Flowers, and Desmond rode in silence. The herd moved like a sluggish river beside them. The cattle were well fed from the lush grasslands around Fort Sumner, but Mac saw how fragile they looked in comparison to the sturdy longhorns. Without cutting into one of the cows, he figured their meat lacked the tenderness and flavor of the Texas cattle. Life in New Mexico Territory was hard enough that it toughened the animals.

  “Here,” Desmond said. “Here’s the chuckwagon. Dinner will be ready in another hour.”

  “We won’t be around that long.” Flowers dismounted and lashed his reins to the wagon’s rear wheel. He took a deep breath. The odor of cooking food obviously pleased him.

  It certainly did Mac. He had learned to cook as much by smell as by taste. If food smelled bad, no amount of salt and pepper turned it palatable. The man with an apron wrapped fully around his waist and then half again worked on a mess of pinto beans. He stirred them, then worked to fry tortillas.

  “That’s Felipe. He’s been with Don Jaime going on twenty years.” Desmond reached out to pluck a morsel from a Dutch oven. He jerked back when Felipe rapped his knuckles with a wooden spoon and loosed a string of Spanish that none of the three men understood. But the meaning was clear.

  “You eat with the rest of the vaqueros.”

  Felipe went about his work with quick moves and efficiently produced enough food for a small army. Mac approved of the man’s skill and, if the taste matched the smell, his cooking was even better.

  “We should hit the trail right now,” Flowers said. “Trouble’s brewing that isn’t your concern.”

  “What do you mean?” Desmond perked up. His hand pushed back his duster so his revolver rested where a quick draw was possible.

  Mac wondered if Flowers intended to force Desmond to stay with Don Jaime. Everything he said backed Desmond into a corner where he either fought or ran. No matter which he chose, he wasn’t heading back to Fort Sumner and the Circle Arrow herd.

  “We shot it out with some owlhoots. They had the look of working for Luther Wardell.”

  “That snake,” blurted Desmond. “He’s out to get Don Jaime’s ranch. If this herd’s not sold for a decent price, the bank forecloses and Wardell buys it for a song and dance.”

  “That’s his worry, not yours.”

  “Mister Flowers, let me talk to him.” Mac had to repeat his request before it soaked into Flowers’s thick skull. He waved him off to one side.

  Mac took Desmond by the arm and kept him from jerking free. When they were out of earshot of both Flowers and Felipe, Mac spun on him and shoved his face within inches.

  “You want to get yourself killed? There’s a range war brewing. You’re going to be smack in the middle of it.”

  “I’ll side with Don Jaime. Estella says—”

  “There’s the problem,” Mac said. “Estella. She’s got your brain all scrambled up. This isn’t your fight. It’s hers. Hers and Don Jaime’s. They’d as soon shoot you as any of Wardell’s men. And Ransom—Wardell’s foreman—has the look of a gunslick. He’s a hired killer. He won’t think of you twice except to decide how few rounds it’ll take to kill you so he can save the bullets for Don Jaime.”

  “For Don Jaime and Estella. I’m not leaving her to a man like that.”

  Mac backed off. Desmond hadn’t budged. In his way he was as mule-headed as Hiram Flowers.

  “We’re not friends, not exactly, but we’ve saved each other’s life. We’ve come to a truce, if you can call it that. I’m telling you, not so much as a friend but as an outsider with no stake in this game, go with Flowers. Get back to your ma’s herd and drive them up to Denver. Sell them, go back to Fort Worth, and put in the hard work raising next year’s longhorns.”

  “You just want me to go so you can cut in on Estella,” Desmond accused. “I know how you look at her. If she’s going to end up with anyone, it’ll be me.”

  Desmond looked past Mac, who turned and saw the woman helping Felipe prepare the food.

  “She’s almost as good a cook as Felipe.” Desmond sounded proud of that.

  “As good as your ma? Is that what you see in her?” Mac ducked as Desmond swung. Even so, the fist grazed his cheek and caused him to reel back, off balance. His heel caught on something and he sat down hard.

  Desmond stood over him, hand on his revolver, fire in his eyes.

  “I taught you how to use that,” Mac said. “I hope I also taught you when not to use it.”

  “Go to hell.” Desmond stepped back and took his hand off his pistol. He stormed off to go talk with Estella. She looked at Mac wide-eyed and with some fear, as if she knew about Desmond’s unchecked anger. They walked away from camp, arguing.

  Flowers came over and crouched down beside Mac.

  “I’m glad I let you handle him. I’d’ve made him so mad he couldn’t be pried from this herd using a crowbar.”

  “What are we going to do?” Mac let Flowers help him to his feet. He brushed off the dirt from his jeans.

  “You can go on back to Fort Sumner and save the men from Kleingeld’s cooking. Me, I’ve got no choice. I go along into Mexico to be sure he stays out of trouble. If anything happened to him, his ma would skin me alive.”

  Mac watched Desmond and Estella standing inches apart. He wasn’t sure but the tension between them turned the distance into miles.

  “I’ll go along to keep you company. Might be I can help Felipe whip up chow for the crew.”

  “I’ll lend a hand herding the cattle. We won’t get paid, but I’ll see that Mercedes puts a little extra into your pay when we get back.”

  Mac considered the bonus, then thought about staying in Mexico. The bounty hunters had gotten too close, and Ransom was the sort to carry a grudge all the way to the grave. Money was good. Freedom from being hunted like an animal was better. He’d have to see.

 

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