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“They could. But it’s time you started learning to be a man around here. Let’s go, while your horse is still saddled.”
Joseph was hot and tired from the hike up the canyon, but he knew better than to argue. On the ranch, at the sawmill, and with his family, Blake Dollarhide’s word was law.
They mounted their horses and rode single file down the winding trail to the fenced pastureland. The afternoon was hot. Joseph was sweating beneath the band of his straw hat. From the trail, he could see the red and white cattle scattered in the pasture. Most of them were pregnant cows and spring calves. The steers had been sold off early, at a lower weight and price, because of the drought. Maybe that was why Blake had been so gruff and unsmiling lately. And of course, Joseph’s mother was still mourning the loss of her father and sister. And there was Grandma Inga, too, who seemed to have aged ten years overnight. All in all, the Dollarhide household wasn’t a happy place these days.
Lower down, where the trail widened out, Blake slowed his horse, allowing Joseph to catch up. “You know,” he said, “when I was your age, your grandpa taught me every kind of work on the ranch, from mucking the stable to breaking horses and keeping accounts. I mean to do the same with you, so that when you take my place, you’ll know everything about running a ranch. You’re the future of this place, son. You and your children, and their children. And if I seem hard on you, that’s why. My dad was the same with me.”
Joseph nodded. Hearing this kind of talk made him squirm with guilt. He wasn’t really Blake’s son, and sometimes he wasn’t even sure he wanted to run a ranch. It might be more fun to travel and have adventures—maybe even write books.
“I miss Grandpa Joe,” he said, changing the subject.
“I miss him, too, son. And I miss my mother. They went before their time. But sometimes life takes a hard turn. Think about the two people we buried a few days ago. Neither of them deserved to die. And neither of them was ready.”
Joseph was falling behind. Blake gave him a moment to catch up. “I want to share something about your grandfather—something I’ve never told anyone, not even your mother.”
Interest pricking, Joseph reined his horse closer to listen.
“You’ve heard the story about how he joined up with Benteen Calder’s first cattle drive and got lost in a stampede. He got rescued by some outlaws, then ended up living with an old man who taught him how to break horses.”
“I know all that,” Joseph said.
“Here’s something you don’t know. Joe Dollarhide loved wild horses all his life. He told me once about a band of horses that he saw a few times from a distance—a band led by a powerful blue roan stallion. He could never get close before they disappeared. In fact, he was never sure whether they were even real. But every time he saw them, especially that blue roan stallion, he came to understand that something in his life was about to change.”
“That’s spooky,” Joseph said.
“It gets spookier. I asked him when he’d last seen the horses, and he said not for years, not since he was young. But the night he died, I was sitting up, keeping watch. Everyone else had gone to bed. He was resting so I walked out onto the porch for a breath of fresh air.
“It was around midnight, with a full moon. The wind was blowing clouds across the sky, casting shadows on the ground. I stood at the rail, looking down, watching those shadows drift across the hillside when suddenly—so help me—the shadows seemed to become horses, shifting and milling in the dark. And in the middle of them was a big blue roan stallion. I glanced away, and when I looked back, they were gone. I could see nothing but shadows. I ran back to my father’s room to find that he’d passed away, with a peaceful smile on his face. It was as if the horses had come for him and taken him away. Or maybe I’d just imagined it all. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Joseph frowned. “I never set much store by that kind of stuff. But why did you tell me this story today?”
“Maybe because I want you to understand what this land means to our family. My father said that the horses led him here, to this place, and to Sarah. Whether you believe the story or not, you are part of it. As Joe Dollarhide’s grandson, this is your heritage. Think of that when you’re tempted to be unworthy of what you’ve been given.”
Blake halted his horse and reached for the tool bag that hung on the saddle. “Here’s the broken fence. Now let’s get to work.”
Joseph said little while he helped right the fencepost and held the wire for splicing. But Blake’s words played over and over in his mind. How much did his dad know?
As Joe Dollarhide’s grandson. . . Blake had said. Was he aware that Joseph had discovered the secret of his birth? He might not be Blake’s son, but there was no disputing that he was Joe’s grandson. And then there was the part about unworthiness. Had Blake guessed, or even sensed, that Joseph was involved with Mason in a scheme that could get him arrested?
But never mind all that. He was already looking forward to tonight, when he would steal out of the house for another adventure with the man to whom he was bonded by blood.
* * *
Chase had almost finished his late dinner of roast prime rib, baked potatoes, hot rolls, and garden vegetables, with chocolate cake for dessert. At any other time, he might’ve asked to be excused. But tonight, he lingered at the table, dawdling with his food as he listened to the conversation between his father and Sheriff Calhoun, who’d been invited as a guest. As Webb always said, it never hurt to have the law on your side.
“Clearly you’ve had a lot of experience,” Webb was saying. “The thing that puzzles me is what you’re doing in a nowhere town like Blue Moon. I know we needed a sheriff, but why would a man who’s practically a legend take a job here?”
Webb was flattering the sheriff. Chase had seen his father butter up dinner guests before. Most of the time it worked. He’d have them eating out of his hand by the end of the meal. But how well would it work with Jake Calhoun?
“Coming here wasn’t my idea,” the sheriff said. “It was the governor’s. He sent a team of officers—two to Miles City and me here. This part of Montana’s been pinpointed as a funnel for smuggling illegal liquor from Canada. Trucks, moving on back roads, bring it to distribution sites where the customers can pick it up. We have reason to believe that one of those sites is somewhere around Blue Moon, maybe on one of the ranches.”
“Not the Triple C!” Webb sprang to defend his honor. “I have eyes on every inch of my land. If anything was going on, I’d hear about it. But you might want to check out some of the other ranches—the Dollarhides’, for instance. Or the Hunter place south of here. The fellow who owns it claims to have been a major in the army. But hell, he just built a big barn. Maybe that’s where the liquor’s going.”
Chase had questions, but he kept his mouth shut. To speak up might get him dismissed from the table. He sipped from his water glass and waited.
“We’ve already got a good lead,” the sheriff said. “This morning, I put up a notice in the post office, offering a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of the smugglers. An hour later, someone walked into my office.”
“Who was it?” Webb asked.
