Prologue
C
louds blanketed the Texas landscape southwest of Fort Worth as a stiff wind broomed the countryside, sweeping up anything that wasn’t firmly attached. The air was cold with the bite of December’s breath, courtesy of the “blue norther” that had invaded Texas the night before.
A sign swung drunkenly from its gatepost, held by a single chain that creaked and rattled with the effort. The sign itself was pockmarked with bullet holes, making it difficult to read the painted letters that spelled out the name
CEE BAR RANCH
.
Brake lights flashed red as a fast-traveling patrol car slowed its approach to the ranch entrance. Still the vehicle took the turn a little fast, the rear end fishtailing slightly on the dirt lane. Dust boiled around the patrol car, but not before Officer Ray Hobbs got a look at the dangling sign.
“Looks like somebody’s been using that sign for target practice,” he remarked to his partner behind the wheel.
“So what else is new, city boy?” Joe Ed Krause, a veteran of some seventeen years on the force, threw a jaundiced look at the young rookie. “Half the signs in the county’ve been shot up at one time or another. That’s just what happens when you put boredom, beer, and back roads together. It don’t mean anything.”
“Probably not,” Ray Hobbs agreed and shifted his attention to the empty landscape, partially obscured by the blowing dust. When the patrol car rolled into the ranch yard, he sat up a little straighter, taking note of the pickup parked in front of an old barn before focusing on the single-story house and the front porch that traversed the length of it. “Looks like somebody’s here.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Joe Ed muttered and drove straight to the house. Leaving the warm confines of the patrol car, he stepped into the winter-chilled air and clamped a hand on the crown of his hat to prevent the wind from blowing it off.
His partner joined him. Together they crossed to the shelter of the porch. There was an uneven cadence to the heavy thud of their footsteps on the planked floor, the sound partially muffled by the wind.
Without hesitation or caution, Joe Ed opened the screen door and pounded loudly on the wooden door, then waited. As the seconds stretched out, the rookie peered through the dust-coated panes of a side window.
“Don’t see any movement,” Ray said.
Joe Ed pounded on the door again, rattling the hinges, then reached down and tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand.
“It’s not locked?” The rookie gave his partner a startled look.
“Hell, we’re in the country,” Joe Ed retorted with barely veiled disgust. “Nobody locks their door during the day.” He stepped inside and shouted, “Hello? Anybody home?” He paused and called out again, “Evans, are you here?”
But he was met only with silence.
The rookie followed him inside. “I don’t think anybody’s here.”
“No kidding.” That observation didn’t come as any great surprise to Joe Ed. If he’d been alone, he would have turned around and left right then. But with the green officer at his side, he decided to go through the motions of a search. “We might as well check the other rooms.”
The doorway on his right opened into the kitchen. Joe Ed motioned toward it and led the way into the room, floorboards creaking under the weight of his heavy frame. His foray into the room took him to the automatic coffeemaker on the counter next to the sink.
He pulled out the pot and made a face of disgust. “There must be an inch of mold in this pot.” More grew on the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. The state of the dishes in the sink didn’t bother him, but the coffeepot did. “Every cowhand I ever knew couldn’t start his day without coffee. Nobody’s made any in this pot for days.”
“Do you think we should check out the bedrooms?” the rookie suggested.
Joe Ed shrugged. “Why not?”
A search of the three bedrooms yielded one unmade bed and three empty closets. “This Sam Evans guy that’s supposed to be living here has obviously pulled out.”
“But how come there’s a pickup parked outside?” The rookie, Ray Hobbs, still wasn’t satisfied that the situation was as simple as that.
“Yeah. I guess we’d better check it out,” Joe Ed agreed with reluctance, regarding it as a waste of time.
The wind howled a greeting as they exited the old ranch house. Heads down, the two officers walked into the teeth of it, taking a straight line to the pickup parked in front of the barn. Like the house, the truck was unlocked. A search of the glove compartment produced a certificate of insurance and registration slip.
“The owner of record is the Calder Cattle Company,” Joe Ed announced. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the name of the Montana outfit that owns this place.”