“Takin’ a ride out to the Bar C. Want to take a look around. See if I can figure out what’s goin’ on out there.”

  She nodded, red curls spilling over her shoulders. “Grand idea, Slocum.”

  “In the meantime, just wait for me. I’ll be back and we can pick up where we left off last night.” He paused, adding, “And keep Crone in town. That fool chatters more than a magpie and makes even less sense. I don’t want him talking none.”

  Miranda just laughed. “And you think I could stop him?”

  He was glad she found Crone amusing. Slocum found him downright annoying, not to mention pretty damn stupid at times. But he means well, he kept reminding himself. Not that it did much good . . .

  Apache Wells was quiet as he walked from the hotel to the livery. Cougar poked his head over the stall door and whickered when Slocum entered the barn. The Appaloosa seemed eager to get moving.

  Slocum was out of town when the sun broke the horizon, the hot white of day pushing aside the softer, more beautiful colors of dawn. He didn’t meet anyone on the road to the Bar C, which suited him just fine.

  He wanted to get onto Bar C land without being seen and to take a good gander around the ranch without the interference of anyone, especially a particular pair of Miranda’s hired hands.

  What had possessed the woman—and her uncle Abel—to keep those two reprobates on the payroll? And what in the hell was up with the blood spattering their boots?

  He wasn’t a man given to jumping to conclusions, but he’d bet a good saddle they were involved with the slaughter of the horses at the Bar C.

  Slocum rolled himself a quirlie and struck a lucifer on the seam of his denims. Drawing deeply on the smoke, he twisted around what he knew so far.

  Dave Crone thought Marcus and Foley had killed Jefferson, and he was probably right. All else aside, Crone had fairly good instincts.

  Someone was slaughtering horses on Bar C land and that just didn’t seem fair to Slocum, killing a horse. It seemed to him that it was against God, somehow. Whoever was doing it, had to be doing it to hide what they were really up to.

  And that brought him back to where he started and left him with as much as he had started with . . . which was little more than squat.

  A horse racing up the road after him forced Slocum to turn in the saddle.

  “Shit,” he breathed.

  Crone rode that poor short-legged bay of his at a hard gallop. Having few other options, Slocum reined Cougar to a stop. When Dave drew alongside of him, he demanded, “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “Figured you’d be headin’ out to the ranch sometime today. Didn’t figure it to be before the goddamn dawn, though, but I just slept in the livery, anyways, waitin’ for you. What are you goin’ to do when you get to the ranch?”

  “I’m just goin’ to have me a look-see. Go back to town.” He gigged Cougar into a walk. “Ain’t no need for you to ride with me right now.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I’m here, so the way I see it, ain’t no need for me to go back to town.”

  Slocum was more than tempted to kick Cougar into a gallop, leaving Crone’s horse scrambling to keep up, but that would draw a bit too much attention if anyone were watching the road. The dust cloud alone would be the visual equivalent of firing a cannon.

  “Fine, Crone, but you keep your yap shut. I ain’t in the mood to listen to you this mornin’.”

  Crone nodded. “Whatever you say, Slocum.”

  For once, Crone didn’t babble, and after a few minutes, Slocum turned Cougar off the road and across country. Crone followed, still quiet.

  Slocum turned in the saddle, leather creaking as he did. “Tell me again what you heard about Jefferson’s killin’.”

  “Got hisself shot up by Marcus, over some dance-hall girl. Don’t that beat all?”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Well, no,” Crone admitted. “And I done told you that! But it come from a reliable source. Creed Norseman—you remember him. He saw the whole deal, and I never knew Creed to stretch a story in all his life. Heard tell, too, that Marcus was hooked with Foley, and that’s right on the money.”

  Slocum didn’t point out to Crone that Cassidy, the all around good soul and straight dealer whose range they were sneaking across, had seemingly hired Marcus and Foley.

  Something still wasn’t adding up right in Slocum’s head.

  Cougar snorted and shied back. Slocum reined in the Appaloosa, calming him. The breeze shifted, and the scent of blood and carrion carried with the wind.

  They had to be close to the place where the horses were killed.

  “Jesus, what’s that smell?” Crone asked. His face screwed up. “It’d knock a buzzard off a goddamn shit wagon!”

  “Shut up, Dave. That was the deal. You keep your pie hole closed and I let you tag along.” Slocum put his heels lightly into Cougar’s sides and the gelding unwillingly started forward again.

  At the overlook of a deep ravine, the origin of the smell became apparent. Miranda’s slaughtered horses littered the canyon floor. Slocum shook his head and felt anger twist at his stomach, felt his gorge rising. What a damned waste . . . and it still didn’t make a blasted bit of sense.

  He started Cougar down the slope of the ravine’s wall, giving the animal his head. Crone followed, strangely and blessedly silent.

  At the bottom of the ravine, Slocum swung down. Cougar snorted and danced, not wanting to go near the slaughtered animals. Slocum tied the gelding to a scrub pine and walked the remaining distance to the dead horses.

  Crone didn’t dismount. He kept peering up at the opposite rim of the ravine.

  Buzzards and coyotes had just about finished what the butchers had started. Slocum turned on his heel. “Crone, if you were going to kill horses, why would you do it?”

  Crone lifted his shoulders in a shrug and shook his head. “Ain’t nobody got no need to be doin’ that.”

  “Ain’t nobody got a need to be doin’ this,” Slocum echoed. He walked back to Cougar, taking another long look around the ravine floor. “Somethin’ tells me, this is a way to cover what’s really happenin’ here.”

  Slocum pulled Cougar’s rein free, threw it across the horn, and then swung up. He turned the red dun from the carnage and started up the sloping ravine wall. Crone fell in behind.

  Halfway up the slope, a shot rang out in the still-cool morning air. The red sandstone beside the Appaloosa exploded with a puff of dust. Slocum spurred Cougar and dropped low over the gelding’s neck, urging him up the wall faster.

  Crone’s bay exploded past him, nimble as a mountain goat on the slippery sandstone. More shots peppered the ground.

  As Crone’s bay broke over the lip of the ravine wall, another shot caught Crone in the shoulder. He fell to one side, pulling the bay over. All Slocum could do was rein Cougar hard to the side and get out of the way of the falling horse.

  Crone and his bay fell backward, tumbling over and over, ass over teakettle, all the way to the bottom of the ravine.

  Cougar broke over the top of the wall, and Slocum spurred him to a protective outcropping. Vaulting from the saddle, he pulled his gun. He swept his hat off his head and peered around the rock to the opposite side of the ravine.

  Nothing moved.

  The Appaloosa breathed hard behind him, but didn’t leave the protection of the rock outcrop. He was well trained to a ground tie.

  Slocum was beyond angry. Whoever had taken shots at him and Crone knew he had been coming. Or at the very least, expected him to take a ride out to the Bar C.

  When it became apparent that whoever had been on the opposite rim wasn’t going to make the next move, Slocum debated his. He picked up his hat and cautiously extended it out enough to appear as if he was looking around the rock.

  Nothing.

  Well, whoever had been there was long gone by this time.

  And they were taking their goddamn time about it, too. He couldn’t even see the dust of their passing.

  That, at least, would have given him something to follow.

  He slammed his hat back on his head and stood up. He walked to the ravine rim. A look down at the floor told him there was nothing he could do for either Crone or Tommy, his bay.

  Neither moved, and God surely never intended a man’s head to be twisted so far around to the side as Crone’s was.

  “Dammit.”

  Slocum turned to Cougar and mounted. It had just become personal.

  Passing the barkeep on his way to his room, Slocum demanded a bottle of whiskey. He marched up the stairs to his room.

  Miranda was curled on the bed, naked as a jaybird, idly turning the pages of a book.

  She looked up, her quirky smile crossing her face and just as quickly vanishing. “What happened, honey?”

  Slocum didn’t answer her. He pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle, spat it halfway across the room, and took a long pull. Lowering the bottle, he wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “Who’d you tell you wired me?”

  “No one. Except Carmelita, of course. And Berto, but he didn’t believe me.”

  She sat up, flinging her hair off her shoulders. “Why? What happened?” she repeated.

  “There’s more to this than just horses gettin’ killed. I took a ride out to the ranch, and got shot at. Dave Crone’s dead.”

  “Dead?” She paled and pulled the sheet up around herself. “Someone shot him?”

  Slocum nodded. “Winged him on a steep incline, which is about the same damned thing. He and his horse fell clear down the cliff. Did you know about Vance Jefferson gettin’ killed?”

  “I heard rumors.” Miranda pulled her hair to a side, twisting it around her fingers, and her face fell. “Someone said he got called out over a dance-hall girl, but I can’t believe that. He was like another uncle to me. And what’s that have to do with us here?”

  “Don’t quite know, yet.” Slocum took another long pull from the bottle. “Except your uncle hired the two boys what did it. At least, by all accounts. What could be on the Bar C worth killin’ for?”

  Miranda rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around herself as she did. “Who?” she demanded. Slocum could practically see the wheels in her mind whirling. “Foley and Marcus?” she exclaimed at last. “Why, Vance was a good friend to Uncle Abel! And Vance Jefferson wasn’t the kind to get himself killed over a saloon dancer. Besides, handcuffed and blindfolded, he could outdraw either Foley or Marcus!”

  She sat back, huffing. “Now, I know he did some bad things when he was younger,” she went on, “but ain’t none of it somethin’ that would make anybody want to murder him.”

  Miranda stood up and walked closer to Slocum, splaying her hand over his chest. “I was gettin’ worried about you. And, I’m sorry about Crone. I guess you stopped at the sheriff’s office on your way into town.”

  Slocum nodded. “Wasn’t in. But the undertaker—and a deputy—are on the way out there now to get him. There’s no way I could get him out of there with only my horse. Never would have made it back up the rise.”

  Miranda took the bottle from him and took a drink herself. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  She handed the bottle to him and Slocum raised it to his lips. He paused. “Where were Marcus and Foley when Vance got killed?”

  “They were over in New Mexico, on business. Uncle Abel sent them.” She trailed off and her eyes narrowed. “Those snakes!”

  “Not sure what I’m thinkin’ just yet.” He set the bottle on the small table near the window. “I’m thinkin’ though, much as I hate to admit it, that you need to get some clothes on and we need to get out to your ranch.”

  Miranda sighed, flipped her hair off her shoulder, and flounced over to the bed. “And I’m thinkin’ you’re right. We’re not goin’ to find out anything here in town. Whatever it is that’s worth killin’ for is on the ranch. Maybe by way of going through Uncle Abel.”

  “Wish I knew what it is,” Slocum admitted.

  “You and me both. But if I find out that Marcus had anything to do with Vance’s death, Uncle Abel will just kill him, himself.”

  Slocum laughed. “I don’t doubt that for a second, honey.”

  5

  “It’ll just take me a minute to dress,” Miranda said. While she pulled her saddlebags out from under the bed and laid them on the coverlet, Slocum took another long swig from his whiskey bottle.

  Miranda opened the flaps and peered inside. From one of the pouches, she removed a checkered shirt and pair of britches. Quickly she drew on her shirt and worked the buttons closed.

  Running her hands down her breasts and over her waist, she smoothed the wrinkles from the material.

  Slocum glued his eyes to the long, muscular legs protruding from the bottom of that shirt. He swore, for such a little bit of a gal, Miranda was half legs. It wasn’t the fashionable figure, but it did a whole heap for Slocum.

  If not for the fact that they had to get moving, Miranda would have been in a heap of trouble.

  Miranda bent over to pick up a pair of boots.

  “Better hurry and cover up that pretty behind of yours, darlin’,” he said, his voice tinged with regret.

  Miranda responded with a deep-throated laugh and twisted her hips provocatively. Then she twirled, stuck out her lower lip, and raised her eyes to him. “You sure you can’t spare one little minute, cowboy?”

  Slocum gritted his teeth. Miranda could do things to a man in one of her minutes that took others a whole month of Sundays just to figure out.

  Time for that later.

  After a short search, Slocum retrieved the cork from underneath the bed, pressed it into the bottle, and set it on the night table. On second thought, he stuck the bottle inside one of his saddlebags.

  In one fluid motion, Miranda stepped into the pants, yanked them over her hips, and buttoned them up. Then, twisting her hair into a loose knot, she secured it with her tortoiseshell pins.

  “Ready?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Yeah, ready.” Slocum slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, grabbed his pack roll, and followed Miranda down the stairs.

  “Looks a sight better than last night,” Miranda said.

  Someone had cleaned up the blood and straightened the tables and chairs. Saloon girls were notorious for sleeping late. They wouldn’t stir for hours.

  Miranda and Slocum crossed the barroom, but when they got to the doors, Slocum said, “Better let me go first. No sense in getting ourselves bushwhacked before we even leave town.”

  He swung open the doors and stepped onto the board-walk. The street appeared normal, citizens going about their everyday business, except for the undertaker’s wagon kicking up dust clouds just past the livery.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Miranda said. “Maybe we ought to take the other trail back to the Bar C.”

  “The one by the Indian ruins?”

  Miranda flashed a smile. “You remember?”

  “Sun ain’t fried my brain yet.” Yes, he remembered the ruins well. He’d be dead and halfway to hell—or Jesus—before he forgot the natural depression in the stream bed where he and Miranda had spent many lazy afternoons on his last visit to Apache Wells.

  The trail was steeper and longer, but offered more cover if trouble found them.

  At the livery, Toby, on Slocum’s earlier orders, was just cinching the saddle on Miranda’s gelding, one of the famous Cassidy quarter-milers. He was a tall palomino—called Sundancer, Toby had informed him—and a right good-looking piece of horseflesh, if Slocum was any judge. Which he was.

  “Gotta knee him, Toby,” Miranda said. “He’s been sucking air when he feels the saddle.”

  Toby jabbed his knee into the horse’s gut, and sure enough, they heard him snort out a stream of air. “Watered your horse, like you asked, Mr. Slocum. Sorry ’bout your friend.”

  Slocum nodded curtly and threw the saddlebags over Cougar’s rump. Then he laced his fingers. “Leg up?” he asked.

  Miranda placed her left knee in his hands. Then grabbing the reins and horn, she sprang upward, throwing her leg over the saddle. Slocum adjusted the stirrups, tossed a coin to Toby, and mounted Cougar.

  “Looks like a hot one, Mr. Slocum.”

  Whether he meant the day or Miranda, Toby was dead on, Slocum thought.

  He and Miranda followed the main road out of town for nearly a mile. But instead on the normal route to the Bar C, they turned onto a less used trail. Few of the locals even knew about it.

  They’d still end up at the house, but from the north side of the ranch instead of the east.

  “You haven’t said much,” Miranda remarked, sounding a touch worried.

  “Just been thinkin’,” he admitted. “Nothin’ seems to add up yet. Now Dave Crone’s dead, besides. Who’d want to shoot that old coot? He was annoying as a mosquito, but not enough so’s you’d want to kill him.” Slocum shook his head. “Hope your Uncle Abel don’t mind—I told the undertaker to bring his body out to the Bar C for burial. You still got that cowboy’s graveyard out there, don’t you?”

  Miranda reined in close and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure he won’t mind at all.”

  “Think it was the same person who killed Vance, Miranda?”

  “That seems likely, but why?”

  “What was Vance Jefferson doing in Apache Wells, anyhow?” Slocum opened his canteen, poured a little water on his bandanna, and wiped the back of his neck.

  “Uncle Abel hired Vance about a year ago,” she replied. “Vance claimed he was down on his luck. The way he looked, I doubted he’d had any kind of luck but bad for a long spell. But the last few weeks before Vance took off, they were quarrely as a couple of spinster sisters.”

  She shrugged her shoulders with a little shudder, as if it still bothered her a great deal.

  In a moment, she continued, “Well, one morning, Uncle Abel had a mouse under his eye, and Vance was gone. I asked what happened, but he only grumbled something about letting the past stay buried. Most didn’t know it, but those two went back a lot of years.”