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Webb stared at him and snorted. “What the hell do you want to raise? Kangaroos?”
“I plan to raise horses, bred and trained to work cattle. I’ve seen some good animals here—like the ones we’re riding. But most cow ponies are descended from the wild mustangs that were caught and broken back in the day. I want to breed and train the kind of horses that this wild country has never seen before—fast and strong and smart, like some of the horses I’ve seen in Texas. They’re called quarter horses—fastest thing on four legs for a quarter of a mile. They’re bred for working cattle.”
Logan could tell from Webb’s response that he needn’t waste breath explaining why he wanted to raise horses. In the war, he’d seen horses—so noble and innocent—suffer and die horribly on the battlefield. There’d been nothing he could do for them. But the desire had been born in him to raise horses that would be loved and valued, not worked to death, slaughtered for meat, or thrown into the hell of a war that was none of their making. When he’d seen his first quarter horses race in Texas, his heart had stirred with new life, and he’d known what he wanted.
He’d never imagined having the resources to carry out his dream. But the loss of his family had given him the money. He needed to make that money count for something meaningful.
“You’re crazy!” Webb exploded. “You’ll go broke before your horses are ready for sale. And who the hell’s going to buy them? Not me.”
“You’ll see. Show me the land.”
“Come on.” Webb kicked his horse to a trot, his mouth set in a grim line. Logan knew he’d annoyed his host and would probably make him even angrier when he refused to take advantage of the Andersons. But sooner or later Webb would have to learn that Logan hadn’t come here to follow his agenda.
They rode in silence for a time until Webb reined his horse to a stop. “It’s just ahead. Everything from that old stump to the foothills.”
Logan liked what he saw. The land was vast and rolling, covered with grass. In the hills beyond, he saw a meandering strip of willows and alders—a sign of water.
Webb made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “This land used to be the Tee Pee Ranch. It belonged to a friend of my father’s, Tom Petit. Tom was a good man but after he passed away, his son, Doyle, mismanaged the place and ended up selling it to the drylanders for wheat farming. When the drylanders pulled out a few years later, Doyle bought most of the land back—for next to nothing, of course.”
“So where is Doyle now? Is he the one selling the ranch?”
Webb took a long, rough breath. When he spoke again, his voice was raw with emotion. “Doyle’s dead. He was responsible for killing my wife.”
Logan remembered the painting of a stunning, auburn-haired woman that hung on the wall above the stairs—Chase’s mother, he assumed. She’d never posed for the portrait, Webb had told him. He’d had it painted from the single photograph he kept by his bed to remember her. The glamorous gown and the jewelry had been added by the artist.
“I’m truly sorry about your wife,” Logan said.
“I didn’t kill the bastard if that’s what you’re wondering. He shot himself and saved me the trouble. The bank in Miles City owns the ranch now. If you want to buy it, you’ll be dealing with them.”
“I’d like to see more.” Logan could make out what appeared to be a house in the near distance. Not much of a house. But if it was fit to move into, that would make getting settled easier. It would also get him out from under Webb’s thumb.
They moved forward, the grass swishing around the legs of the horses. Here and there, Logan could see the remnants of barbed wire fences. They would have to be cleared away and replaced with stout logs. He was going to need corrals, a barn, and sheds as well. Getting the ranch ready for horses was going to take a prodigious amount of work. The thought was both daunting and exciting.
Logan scanned the grassland, thinking of access to the ranch house. “Are there any roads out here?” he asked.
“Most of the old wagon trails are grown over,” Webb said. “But there’s one. It’s over there.” He pointed to a break in the grassy landscape. Riding closer, Logan could see that it was a well-worn wagon road.
“That’s the road Blake Dollarhide cleared to get his logs from the railroad in Miles City to the lumber mill on his ranch,” Webb explained. “The big lumber wagons carried them most of the way on the main road. But a quarter mile short of Blue Moon, this road cut off across the prairie, straight to the mill. It saved distance and kept the dust and noise out of the town.”
Logan studied the deep ruts, with grass and weeds growing knee high in the center. “It looks to me like the road hasn’t been used much lately.”
“The mill’s been shut down for the past two years because of the war. But with the lumberjacks home and getting back to work in timber country, you can bet those wagons will soon be rolling again.”
“That’s good to know,” Logan said. “If I buy this land, I’m going to need plenty of lumber for outbuildings and fences. I may turn out to be their best customer.”
With an abruptness that caught Logan off guard, Webb turned on him like a striking bear. “There’s lumber for sale in Miles City,” he snapped. “You can get it delivered from there. But if you buy so much as a fence post from those damn Dollarhides, you’re no kin of mine!”
Logan studied the wagon road, taking a moment to recover. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, measuring each word. “But first I need to know about the Dollarhides and why you dislike them so much.”
Webb snorted. “Because they’re low-down, murdering skunks who’ll do anything to make money—even betray a fellow rancher.”
“Tell me more,” Logan said. “I’m listening.”
“All right. But it goes back a long way, starting when a kid named Joe Dollarhide signed up as a wrangler on Benteen Calder’s first cattle drive. Halfway to Montana, the kid took off on his own and hooked up with a bunch of cattle thieves. Somewhere along the line, he learned to break horses. Then he showed up in Blue Moon and married the daughter of the second richest rancher in the county. He used her money, and what he made from catching and selling horses, to build that house on the bluff and start the sawmill.
“Here. Look for yourself.” Webb handed Logan the binoculars he’d hung on the saddle. “Look in the direction of the road. You can see that big log house on top of the bluff and the sawmill at the bottom. When the mill’s running you can hear those damned saws halfway to Miles City. The noise scares the cows and wakes the babies. Nobody will be happy to have that racket start up again.”
Logan raised the binoculars to his eyes. To the south, on a high bluff, he could make out a rambling log structure, partly raised to a second story on top. He found himself admiring the broad porch, the graceful slope of the roof, and the way the design appeared to blend with the landscape. Lower, where the road ended, he could see the sawmill. Today it was little more than a cluster of sheds surrounded by a high chain-link fence.
