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For distant relatives whose common bloodline had thinned over generations, the two men looked remarkably alike. They had the same broad-shouldered build, similar rugged facial features, thick brows, and dark hair. Webb’s hair was more silver than black. Logan, a decade younger, was just beginning to gray. Apart from their eye color—Webb’s blue, Logan’s brown—and the scar that slashed the side of the latter’s face like a lightning bolt, the resemblance was striking.
Young Chase, a miniature version of his father, was dipping chunks of bread in his beef stew, ignoring the conversation that passed between the two men.
Logan knew that the boy had lost his mother shortly after he was born. She’d been shot in one of the senseless range wars that flamed like tinder on the Montana prairie. Now, according to Webb, yet another war appeared to be smoldering.
Logan, who’d seen far too much violence, wanted no part of it. But now it appeared that he might not have a choice.
“So, were you able to find the Andersons and give them the letter?” Webb buttered a second slice of bread.
“I did,” Logan said. “I’ve lost track of how many such letters I’ve delivered in the past few months, some of them on my way here. This was the last one.”
“And you delivered them all in person?”
“As many as I could. For the ones that had to be mailed, I wrote my own accompanying letters. It was the least I could do.”
“But the Andersons—what did you think of them?”
“Good people. Strong. But there were tears when I gave them their son’s letter. Why do you ask?”
“Because most of the drylanders who quit farming, even the few who stayed around Blue Moon, have sold their land for pennies on the dollar. I’ve bought almost every parcel that butted onto my own property. But the Andersons are holding out. I just wondered if they’d shown any signs of wanting to sell—like maybe needing money.”
“We didn’t talk about that. But why would you want their land? You’ve already got the biggest spread in Montana.”
Webb sighed. “Cousin, you’ve got a lot to learn. Land isn’t just a place to plant crops or run cows. It’s water rights, access rights, maybe even mineral rights—you should know about that part. You got a bundle of cash for the mineral rights on that old family ranch of yours when drillers found oil under the property. Hell, you could’ve stayed and become one of those Texas millionaires.”
“Not me,” Logan said. “I’ve seen what oil drilling does to the land. It turns dirty and ugly, with no life on it—reminds me too much of the battlefields I left behind in France. With my family gone, I figured I might as well take the money and clear out. But we were talking about the Anderson parcel and why you want it.”
“Dad, can I be excused?” Chase had waited for a pause in the conversation. “Buck and me are going down to the cattle tank to hunt frogs.”
“All right. Just be back before your bedtime. Don’t make me come out looking for you.”
The boy hurried away, leaving his father to continue where he’d left off. “Yes, the land. As I said, for the past couple of years I’ve been buying up everything that borders the Triple C. It’s not for cattle—those damned wheat farmers plowed up all the good grass. It’s mostly for protection, to put a safe distance between this ranch and anybody who fancies our being neighbors. That means, among other things, protecting our water and our fences.” Webb dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “But I have another reason for wanting the Anderson parcel. I can show you better than tell you. Come on into the study.”
Getting up from the table, Logan followed his host down the hall. The Calder study was the heart of the Triple C Ranch, and it was suitably impressive—from the ornate walnut desk and leather seating to the fireplace, which was crowned by a mounted pair of massive horns from Captain, the longhorn steer that had led herds of Calder cattle along the trail from Texas to Montana.
Above the mantel a giant, framed map displayed the full expanse of the ranch. The acreage was even more vast than Logan had imagined. “Pretty impressive,” he said.
Webb picked up a billiard cue that served as a pointer. “Let me show you why I’m so keen on buying the Anderson property.”
He ran the tip of the cue along a dark line that defined the eastern border of the Triple C. “I’ve bought almost all the properties along here for cents on the dollar—but I haven’t bothered with this ranch in the foothills.” He tapped a section at the top of the map. “It’s owned by a scum of the earth Irishman named Angus O’Rourke. He lives up there in a shack with a wife and two scraggly kids. I don’t trust the bounder, but as long as he doesn’t steal from me, I leave him alone.
“Now here—” Webb tapped the cue point lower on the map. “This is the Lars Anderson property. The original homestead didn’t touch my ranch. But when Anderson’s neighbor to the west moved away, Lars bought it to expand his own acreage. Now that big stubborn Swede is my next-door neighbor. And even if he needed to sell, he’d starve before he’d do business with a Calder.”
“I suppose I should ask why,” Logan said.
“It’s because his daughter’s married to that hell-damned water-stealing Blake Dollarhide.”
The connection clicked in Logan’s mind. He remembered the beautiful, dark-haired woman who’d claimed to have no use for the Calders. Kristin Dollarhide.DoctorKristin Dollarhide.
“I met one of the Dollarhides this morning,” Logan said. “Prickly as a blackberry bush. She pulled a gun and accused me of stealing your horse. When I mentioned that I was related to the Calders, I could feel the chill from ten feet away. She must’ve been Blake Dollarhide’s sister.”
Webb frowned. “That’s all we need around here, one more Dollarhide. I heard that she was back, and that she’s a doctor now. If I get sick, remind me not to go to her. She’d be liable to slice open a vein and let me bleed out.”
“So tell me more about the Anderson property.” Logan steered the subject back on track. “Why are you so interested in it?”
“It comes down to one thing—water,” Webb said. “When the drylanders, including the Andersons, settled here, they dug wells. But the water was too alkaline to be of any use. They ended up having to haul water from town for drinking and washing. The farmer who owned the parcel behind the Andersons’ was a latecomer. He didn’t bother with a well because he’d seen that it would be a waste of time. Now here’s where the story gets interesting.”
Again Webb pointed to the map. “Last year, I needed a well dug near the eastern boundary of my ranch, so I called in a team of experts. They put down a borehole and brought up good, clean water. While they were here, I asked them to do an analysis of the land around the new well. They dug more boreholes and tested rock samples. It turned out there’s an aquifer—that’s a layer of water-bearing rock—that lies under my land and extends partway into that second Anderson parcel. If anybody had bothered to dig a well close to the property line, they’d have found usable water.”
