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“I’m supposed to take you over to that bluff where my grandpa is. That’s where the dead cows are.”
“Mind if I swing up behind and ride with you?”
The boy shrugged. “Molly won’t care, but what about your car? Are you just going to leave it there?”
Logan nodded. “Until I know something more about those tire tracks. Just give me a minute to radio in and let them know the situation here.” He went back to the patrol car, made the call and returned.
Grabbing hold of the saddle horn, he swung up behind the cantle and settled into a semi-comfortable position on the leather skirt.
“We’re all set,” he told the boy.
“Let’s go, Molly.” He clicked to the mare.
“Is Molly your horse’s name?” Logan guessed as the mare broke into a shuffling trot.
“Yup.”
“I guess we never got around to introducing ourselves. My name’s Logan. What’s yours?”
“Quint.”
“Pleased to meet you, Quint.”
“Yes, sir.” He clicked to the mare again and slapped his heels against her sides, urging her to a quicker gait.
“No, let’s keep it slow,” Logan told him.
“Can’t you ride?” the boy asked on a note of astonishment, then quickly added, “Molly’s a good horse. If she feels you slippin’, she’ll stop right away.”
“I can ride,” Logan assured him with an amused smile. “But I’d like to do a bit of looking around on the way, if that’s all right with you?”
“Sure.” There were those small, slender shoulders lifting in another shrug. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“To see if a vehicle might have been driven through here in the last day or so.” He surveyed the wild roll of land between the gate and the distant bluff face.
He saw nothing to arouse his suspicion and turned his attention to the pickup and stock trailer parked some distance from the bluff.
Two riders looked on while a pair of cowboys gently steered a wobbly calf toward the trailer’s ramp. Logan centered his gaze on the mounted men. Both looked to have been cut from the same cloth, big-boned and taller than the average rider, dark-haired and dark-eyed with broad, rugged features. Logan had heard the Calders described often enough that he knew he was looking at father and son.
When the mare shuffled to a halt near the trailer, Logan slid off its rump, then stepped forward to nod to the boy. “Obliged for the ride, Quint,” he said and turned to the two riders.
The older one swung out of the saddle with the unhurried deliberation of his age. “I’m Chase Calder.” He stretched out a hand in greeting.
“Logan Echohawk, acting sheriff in Blackmore’s absence.” He took Calder’s hand and returned the firmness of its grip.
Chase frowned, puzzlement flickering in his dark eyes. “Have we met before?” he asked curiously.
Logan shook his head. “I would have remembered.”
“You look familiar,” he said in explanation, then waved a hand toward his son. “This is my son, Ty, and you’ve already met my grandson.”
“Yes, Quint was kind enough to give me a ride,” he replied, then nodded to Ty and came to the point. “You reported some cattle killed. I’m curious if any of your men might have gone through that gate recently?”
“Not in the last week,” Ty answered. “Spring roundup started Monday. We worked the north range first, and shifted operations here late yesterday afternoon, using the South Gate. Why?”
“I noticed a set of tire tracks. Double-check with your men and make sure none of them have used that gate in the last week or ten days.” With a turn of his head, Logan glanced toward the bluff face and the circling buzzards. “Are the dead cattle over there?”
“Yes. Six cows and four calves.” Ty took a closer look at the officer, his interest aroused by his businesslike attitude and obvious competence. Ty couldn’t imagine any of the other deputies—or even Blackmore, for that matter—noticing the tire tracks and wondering about them.
