J.D. shook his head as if disgusted. “I ain’t having no part of either.”
“We better lope a ways,” Chet said, suppressing his smile and setting his spurs to Roan.
At sundown, they found a tank and set up camp. Horses hobbled, they made coffee and gnawed on May’s jerky. Too late to cook much, and they were tired. Chet fell asleep to a coyote’s yapping while wondering how far ahead the rustlers were that night.
Before dawn, he shook the boys awake in the morning’s cool air. Leftover coffee was reheated and some more peppery jerky was gnawed on. They saddled, packed, and rode off when the gray light touched the eastern horizon.
“Sure is cold,” J.D. complained, rubbing his arms. “I must have missed fall this year.”
“I guess,” Chet said, wishing for some rain on his winter oats. They were up, but wouldn’t grow much without more moisture. He’d planted close to eighty acres in the creek bottoms. Large acreage and an expensive outlay. But he’d needed the feed for horses and the milk stock. They’d farmed that much corn the past summer and made a good crop. Some of the crop made forty bushels of ear corn to the acre. His heart wasn’t into dirt farming, but he needed the output for the rest of his operation. Still, he recalled plowing with a fifteen-inch Oliver hand plow and hitting root snags that jerked the wooden handles out of a thirteen-year-old’s hands.
These days, they used hired help, five mules, and a riding sulky plow that could really lay the ground over. Did more work than four hands with walking plows could in a day and lots easier. Still, farming was not his favorite game. But he and Pa planted many crops, broke many teams, and until his Comanche episode, no one could stack hay faster than the old man. Real sad how both of his parents had become so done in by the twins’ abduction. But even death was better than that—with death you knew they were planted and nothing else you could do. But them red devils stealing those babies and never to know what became of them was a thing that had ruined his parents’ minds and lives.
“Them horse apples we’re seeing look fresher today.” Reg broke into Chet’s thoughts as the boy rode along and leaned over in the saddle to study the manure.
“I don’t think they stopped last night—kept going.” Chet stood in the stirrups, looking for signs of their dust on the northern horizon.
“You thinking that they ain’t got a batching outfit?” J.D. asked.
Chet nodded. “It may have been a lark they went on.”
“A lark?” Reg screwed up his face.
“I’ve done some dumb things being a little liquored up.”
“You never stole no horses.”
“No. but dumbest thing I ever did, I sang a song to a girl one time.”
“You did what?” J.D. was about to bust into laughing.
“Aw, I had a crush on Kathren Combs before she married Luther Hines.” Chet shook his head while looking hard at the long mesa ahead of them in the north—no sign of dust. “Well, one night, I got liquored up and took this Mexican fiddler along with me to play. Boy, was he drunk, and in the dark we went down to her folks’ place, and I sang some ballad in Spanish outside the house.”
“Were you any good?” Reg asked.
“Her father thought we were alley cats and shot at us with a shotgun. My, my, that damn Mexican sure outrun me.”
“He hit you with the shot?”
“No, he was laughing too hard.”
“I sure hope I have some adventures when I grow up,” J.D. said.
“How old are you, fifteen?”
“Be that this next spring.”
“You will. Just don’t get pie-eyed and go sing to some gal. Her pa won’t like it.”
“How serious were you about her?” Reg asked.
“I asked her to marry me a couple of years later.”
“She turned you down?”
“Sure did.” Chet rubbed his calloused fingers over his whisker-bristled mouth. “I guess I was drinking a lot in them days and she was kinda upset about that, I reckon.”
“Then you decided to serenade her and win her back?” J.D. snickered out his nose.
“No that was a few years before that. Damn sure didn’t work anyway and that Messican he said, ‘Oh, mi amigo, it works every time.’”
“What did he say after you two got shot at?” Reg asked.
“Madre de Dios! That never happened before to me, hombre!”
At noontime, they reached a crossroads store, dropped out of the saddle, and tied the horses at the rack. Chet hitched up his canvas pants and led the way inside.
“Howdy, gents,” a man in his forties with a bushy mustache said from behind the counter. “What’s on your minds?”
“Food sure smells good in here,” Chet said, sniffing the rich aroma.
“My wife Alisha has some great stewed chicken and dumplings. Lunch is ten cents today.”
“We’ll take thirty cents worth.”
“I’ll tell her that she has customers.” He picked up the coins that Chet laid down and said, “My dear, three chicken dinners.”
“Coming, Russel, dear,” she said, as musically as he had. From the side room, she came with two dishes full of steaming chicken and homemade noodles. With her silver hair braided and piled on her head, she stood less than five feet tall. She handed them out and went back for more and a pan of fresh-made biscuits.
“Sure beats jerky,” J.D. said as if in disbelief. He dug into the food on his tin plate as he stood at the counter.
Reg grinned at the big biscuit in his hand. “My, my, this is living.”
“What brings you gents here?” the storekeeper asked.
“You seen anyone driving horses through here?” Chet asked.
“They went through here last night. Acted strange, bought some food and left—said they had to deliver their horses up in the Nation.”
J.D. pointed a fork at him. “One of them redheaded and lots of freckles?”
“Yes, what did they do?”
“Stole those horses from our ranch,” Chet said, and felt a knot in his throat. They finally knew for certain. He turned to his cousin. “I know, J.D. That sounds like Roy Reynolds. Sorry.”
J.D. shook his head. “He’s the one that’s gonna be sorry.”
“You know one of the rustlers?” the store man asked, looking shocked at them.
“All our lives,” Reg said with a wary look, and bit down on another biscuit.
The rich tasty food had drawn the saliva into Chet’s mouth, but somehow the realization that one of the rustlers was someone they knew made his tongue turn dry and the food become hard to swallow. This wasn’t going to be a nice trip—no way. Nothing he could do about it either.
After they finished the meal, they left the store and rode on. At dark, they made camp at a windmill. Tracks showed the cavy had been driven past there, too.
Chapter 3
“They was here last night,” the white-bearded man said to Chet and the boys, who were sitting on horseback. “Tried to sell me some of them horses. But I was wise to their game. Them horses in the herd had a bar-C brand on them. The horses they rode had 6Y and a lazy R on them. I knowed they wasn’t working for the man owned