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wanted whoever was out there to damn well know he was coming.
Again he started his horse forward, traveling at a walk as before. He was on a straight course to the entrance of the middle coulee. Brush hugged the sides of its floor, their withered leaves showing the effects of the drought.
The last hundred yards to its mouth were long ones, made longer by his reluctance to see what might be waiting for him. At the same time he was pushed by an inner feeling of urgency. Picking up on it, his horse shifted into a jog-trot.
As Chase approached the coulee’s wide mouth, the other two riders swung in behind him. Brittle, sun-yellowed grass grew in a thick mat along the mouth floor, leaving not an inch of soil uncovered. Chase pulled up to study it, searching for the telltale gouge of a hoof.
“Yo!” The shout came from Stumpy.
Instantly Chase wheeled his horse in Stumpy’s direction. “What have you got?”
“Hoofprints coming out!” Stumpy shouted back. “And they’re dug in deep!”
Chase knew with certainty there was no reason to look in the middle coulee. The search would end in the first. With dread in his heart, he rode over to join up with Stumpy and Jobe.
Ten yards inside the mouth of the first wide ravine was a large patch of bare ground where a heavy runoff had at one time scoured away all the grass. Right through the center of it, hooves had gouged out a set of deep tracks. They were the kind of prints a horse left when it was digging for speed.
Chase studied them for no more than a few seconds then swept a hard glance over his men. “All right, we’ll go in.” All feeling was flattened from his voice. “But we’ll keep to the left. If there are any other tracks, we don’t want to mess them up.”
Taking the lead, he walked his horse into the coulee. The branches of a tall scrub brush raked across his leg. The dry rattle of it sounded unnaturally loud. Ears swiveling, his horse snorted. Chase could feel its muscles bunching under him. There was something up ahead it didn’t like. Steeling himself, Chase continued on.
Twenty yards in, the going got rough. Brush and small boulders crowded in from the walls of the coulee, forcing Chase to steer his horse into the center.
Ahead the coulee widened out to make a sweeping turn northward. When Chase rounded its bend, he saw Ty lying near some brush on the right. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, coloring it a dark scarlet. Braced as Chase had been for the sight, it was still a blow that ripped a deep, guttural moan from his chest.
“Sweet Jesus, no,” Stumpy murmured behind him as Chase piled out of the saddle.
Pain and rage welled up together, but Chase knew this was not the time to release either of them. He was a Calder, and there were orders to be given.
He barked them out even as he moved to Ty’s side. “Jobe, ride to camp. Tell them we found him. The rest of you, stay where you are.”
Already he had noticed the dead calf lying only a couple feet from Ty, half hidden by a bush. He guessed it had been the lure to get Ty on the ground.
Chase had no memory of crossing the space to Ty. One minute he was swinging out of the saddle and the next he was sinking to the ground beside his son, on legs that felt like rubber. Flies swarmed and buzzed all around as he bent over the ashen-faced Ty.
Instinctively he gathered Ty into his arms, never once noticing the limp heaviness of him. The back of Ty’s shirt was as wet with blood as the front. Chase’s searching hands quickly discovered the broken edge of a knife blade embedded in Ty’s chest. His skin was warm to the touch. Whether from the life or the sun, Chase couldn’t tell.
“Is he—is he alive?” Jobe had yet to leave. Despite Chase’s order, he lingered to learn what word he should carry.
Chase never heard the question. At that moment his only world was the man in his arms. “Ty.” Emotion choked his voice as his eyes swam with unshed tears. “Can you hear me, son?”
There was a traitorous quiver to his chin. Squeezing his eyes shut, Chase fought to get control of himself. When he opened them, his eyes were clear—clear enough to see a fluttering lift of Ty’s lashes.
“Ty.” Desperation made his voice rough with demand as Chase experienced the first spark of hope.
“Knew . . . you’d . . . come.” Ty’s voice was soft as a breath, so faint Chase wasn’t sure if he heard it or imagined it.
Unconsciously he dug his fingers into the sodden shirtfront, wadding the wet material into a ball in his fist.
“Who did this to you, son? It was Buck, wasn’t it?” Chase guessed as rage crowded to the front of his thoughts.
“Jes—” Ty never quite got the word out, but he said enough of it for Chase to know he meant Jessy.
Then he was gone. Chase knew the exact instant he died. It was something he felt in his heart. There was no need to check for breath or pulse. His son was dead.
Slowly, almost woodenly, he laid his son’s body back on the ground and remained there, too numbed with grief to move.
“Chase?” Stumpy’s questioning voice was slow to penetrate his consciousness.
