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2
Fort Worth, Texas, was the jumping-off point for herds heading north on the Chisholm Trail. It was a boisterous, bawdy cow town, catering to the needs of the cowboy. Merchants sold supplies of flour, sugar, coffee, molasses, prunes, cigars, and other items to the trail outfits. There were saloons, dance halls, and sporting women to make sure the cowboy didn’t get bored before he left.
It was a town with growing pains. Main and Houston streets were paved, although many argued “paved” was not the right term to describe them. The El Paso Hotel was a three-story building of gray limestone, so things were looking up. But there was a definite lack of sidewalks. No one in Fort Worth was too concerned about the rival Western Trail taking the trail herds away from the much-traveled Chisholm.
But the trailing season was over for this year. Fort Worth was quiet on the November afternoon Chase Benteen Calder rode in. His clothes were stiff with trail grime, gathered over the long miles from the Montana Territory. A scratchy beard growth shadowed his rawboned features, making him look tougher. The edges of his hair had a dark copper cast. It was rough hair—heavy hair, curling thickly into the scarf tied aroun
d his neck and knotted loosely at the throat.
With the packhorse in tow, Benteen walked his mount to the livery stable. He wasn’t a man to let his eyes be idle, thus his restless gaze continued its survey of the surrounding streets and buildings and the people in town. He halted the bay in front of the stable’s open doors and dismounted, stepping onto hard-packed ground. The smell of dust and the rank odor from the stable rose strongly around him. A man with a gimpy leg hobbled out of the shadowed interior.
“Hey, Benteen,” he greeted. “I thought you’d quit these parts.”
“In time, Stoney.” He gave him a thin smile, weary like the man.
The rattle of an approaching buggy drew his glance to the street. Benteen recognized Judd Boston at the reins, accompanied by an escort of riders. The owner of the Ten Bar was dressed in a dark suit and vest, the starched white collar of his shirt circling his throat. The bowler hat atop his head further distinguished him from the riders. The power that came with prosperity was evident in the studied arrogance of his posture.
For all the dandified appearance of Judd Boston, Benteen didn’t make the mistake of seeing softness. Beneath those Eastern clothes, the man’s burly frame was put together with hard muscles. Benteen knew the instant Judd recognized him. The line of his mouth became long and thin as he pulled within himself.
After the long journey, Benteen was tired, dirty, and irritable. He wanted nothing more than to take a bath, have a cold beer, and see Lorna—in that order. He wasn’t in the mood for a conversation with Judd Boston, but he had little choice.
He had never liked the man, but he didn’t figure it was necessary to like the person he worked for. Benteen couldn’t pinpoint the reason he didn’t like Judd Boston. Maybe it was because he was a Yankee or because he was a banker—not a true cattleman. Or maybe it was his clean white hands that caused Benteen to distrust him—so clean and white, as if they’d been washed too many times.
The buggy pulled up close to the livery stable, the escort of riders fanning protectively along the street side. Other ranchers rode into town alone, but Judd Boston never went anywhere without a mounted guard. It was another thing that raised questions in Benteen’s mind. Was it a guilty conscience, or did the banker-rancher like the implied importance of possessing a retinue of underlings?
“Calder!” It was a stiff command for him to approach the buggy.
The ordering tone straightened his shoulders slightly, but Benteen allowed no other resentment to show. He walked to the buggy with the loose, unhurried stride of a rider, each step accompanied by the muted jangle of his work spurs. He stopped beside the buggy, saying nothing because he had nothing to say.
His silence didn’t set well with Judd Boston. The man had eyes as black as hell. They burned with what he saw as rage. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I expected you back two months ago.”
“I had some personal business.” It was a flat answer, showing neither respect nor disrespect. Benteen was aware of the man’s dangerous patience. It was the cunning kind, content to wait until the right moment. Benteen was reminded of an alleycat he’d once watched while it played with a mouse.
“I hired you to do a job, Calder.” The statement insinuated that he had failed to do it.
It ran raw over his travel-weary nerves. “Your herd was delivered to the Snyder outfit with only ten head lost on the drive.” His sharp glance picked out Jessie Trumbo among the escort of riders. “I sent the money from the sale back with Jessie. You’ve got no complaint coming.”
“It was your responsibility to bring that cash to me. Not Jessie’s,” Boston insisted coldly.
“It was my responsibility to see that you received it,” Benteen corrected the phrasing. “You did.” There was a rare show of irritation. It didn’t seem to matter anymore whether he offended Judd Boston or not. “I hired out to boss your herd and drive it through to Wyoming. After that I was to pay off the drovers with the proceeds of the sale and return the balance to you. The job’s done. You may have paid my wages, Boston, but you don’t own me. No man owns me.”
A coldness hardened Boston’s broad features. “The job is done and you are done, Calder,” he stated. “I have no use for a man who disappears for two months. You aren’t going back on the payroll.”
“Good.” A half-smile skipped across his face. “It saves me the trouble of quitting.”
Their eyes locked, hardness matching hardness. Then a glint of satisfaction flickered in Judd Boston’s eyes. “Baker,” he called to one of the riders. “Those two horses in front of the stable are carrying the Ten Bar brand. Catch them up and take them back to the ranch.”
The order seared through Benteen like a hot iron. “You damned bastard.” His voice was low and rough. “In this country, you don’t take a man’s horse and leave him on foot. I’ll bring them out to the ranch myself in the morning.”
“I want them now.” Judd smiled. “I could report them as stolen, Calder.” Without taking his eyes off Benteen, he prodded the hesitant rider. “You heard me, Baker.”
Benteen shot a hard glance at the young rider reining his horse back to walk it behind the buggy. Jessie Trumbo swung his horse to follow him. “I’ll give you a hand, Baker,” he murmured. Whether the men agreed or not, they were obliged to obey orders. It was part of riding for the brand. Benteen knew that, and didn’t hold their part in this against them.
His attention swung back to the man in the buggy. “I’ll get my gear off the horses so you can take them,” he said. “Maybe now I’ll have the time to check some of the brands on your cattle. I’ve always thought how easy it would be to change my pa’s brand from a C-to a 10. A running iron or a cinch ring could handle that in nothing flat.”
Judd Boston stiffened. “You’re finished around here, Calder. If I were you, I’d clear out.”
A remote smile slanted his mouth. “I planned on it, Boston.”
