Never Trust a Cowboy

Then he abandoned bare toes for black boot.

“Hee-yah!” Del ordered, and the dog looked up and cocked his head as though he needed a translation. And, of course, he did. Forgetting himself—more like forgetting his cover—Del had spoken in Lakota, his father’s first language. “No. Don’t you dare.”

The dog wagged and whined.

Lila laughed. “He likes you even more.”

“Only because I fed him. Hell, he loves cheese, just like you said.” He jerked his thumb toward the porch steps and told the dog, “Show her you know where to pee.”

Lila folded her arms imperiously. “He’s not Bingo. He’s too young, and he’s not even a terrier.”

“He’s a little black dog. Bingo?” The wagging speed doubled. Del had to reward such obvious name recognition by picking him up again. “Yeah, Bingo. She’s messin’ with me, ain’t she?”

“He’d wag his tail for you if you called him Stupid. He’s not my dog.”

“Damn.” Del lifted the dog’s muzzle and looked him in the eye. “You sure?”

“I’ve never seen him before. I’ll ask my kids’ parents when they drop them off, but my guess is, you’ve found yourself a dog.”

“What do you mean, myself? I’ve been looking all over hell for your dog.”

“He doesn’t have a collar. Either somebody dropped him off or...” Lila scratched the furry head. “Are you lost? Did you run away? Speak.”

“Ruff!”

“Aw.” Del put the pup down and offered a hand. “Shake.” Paw plopped into hand. Del flashed Lila a grin. “And you can just tell he’s housebroken, too.”

“Lucky for you,” she said. “Because I’m not looking for a dog. I’m looking for my dog. Unless somebody comes looking for him, the finders-keepers rule applies.”

“I like dogs, but there’s no way.”

“Yes, there is. I see the will in your eyes.” She glanced at the dog. “And thirst in his.” She retrieved a pan of water from the other end of the porch and set it down. They watched him go for it. “Bingo... When he comes back, Bingo will let him stay with you, but not with me. So you’ll have to take care of him, and you might as well start now.”

“No, I can’t...” Del slid the pup a sympathetic glance. “Somebody’s been teaching this dog tricks. That somebody’s looking for him as we speak.”

“And if that somebody comes to call, you’re in luck. Or out of it, which would be—” Lila levered an eyebrow and growled “—ruff.”

“I’m bettin’ somewhere there’s a kid crying over this dog.” The eyebrow arched again, and he groaned. “You got some food for him?”

“I have all kinds of stuff you’ll need for him. I’ll drop it off in the bunkhouse. And I have kids coming this afternoon. I promise I’ll ask about him.”

“They’ll love him.” And they’d all play with him, give him a name.

“If nobody comes looking for him, you’ll have to get him vaccinated before he can be around my day care kids.” She patted his arm. “I’m holding out for Bingo.”

“I looked all over, Lila. This little guy needs—”

“All over? You’ve only been here a couple of days. This place is a lot of all over.” She watched the pup for a moment, stepped back and shook her head. “It was an honest mistake. I don’t want to keep you from your job.”

“You’re not. I was on my way to find Brad.” The little black dog was right behind Del when he left. He turned, looked down at the wagging tail, the expectancy in a pair of big brown eyes, and he chuckled. “Yeah, you can come along.”

“Wait!” she called after him. “I’m...” He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “I’ll get you some dog food.”

“Leave it in the bunkhouse.”

Del walked away muttering, “The hell with her,” to the dog. If she was interested, the woman heard him. If she wasn’t, a little curse didn’t matter to her anyway. But he was pretty sure he still had her attention, pretty damn sure he was getting under her skin right now.

“And we both know there’s more’n one way to skin a cat,” he whispered to his new companion. “Ain’t that right?” Then he laughed at himself for conjuring an image of peeling Lila’s T-shirt over her head. “Skin the cat” was one of his dad’s crazy sayings.

“The hell with her” was not.

* * *

Del found Frank cleaning a saddle in the new barn. One wall of the tack room was lined with racks stocked with saddles and hooks heaped with bridles, all in beautiful condition. Frank was a true horseman.

“Brad back yet?”

“Haven’t seen him.” Frank tapped the lid on a can of saddle soap. “He took his pickup. I don’t think he was too serious about checking cows. Not from a pickup.”

“The fence was down about a mile off the highway on the cut-across. All three strands cut.”

Frank dropped the can into a rubber tub. “Could be kids.”

“There were tire tracks. I don’t know why kids would go to all that trouble, though. Not the best place for a party. Nothing left behind. No cans, no bottles, no butts.”

“Did you fix it?”

“For now. Should be replaced.”

“You rode the fence line on horseback?” The older man’s face lit up. “There’s wire out in the shop. We’ll load some up, drive over and do it right.”

“I can take care of it now. Just say the word.”

“I did. It’s we. We’ll go out and stretch some wire.” He slid his stool up against the wall, lifted his John Deere cap, raked his fingers through thinning gray hair and then settled the cap back in place as though they were heading for town. “I think I’m gonna like you, Del. Seems like you’re here to work.”

“I’ve worked for guys who want me to wade right in and do what needs doing and guys who want me to wait for orders. I’m good either way.”

Frank clapped a sturdy hand on Del’s shoulder. “Then you’ll be good loading up the wire in case my wife looks out the window. I’ll bring the pickup around.”

“Guess I’m done waiting.”

The chance to spend quality time with Frank fit nicely into Del’s plan, and considering the way things were working around the Flynn place, it had come sooner than expected. It was a good sign, he thought, and then he dismissed the idea. He was looking to connect the dots. From his perspective they were neither good nor bad. They were just dots. The connections were all that counted.

“I didn’t mean to bother you with this,” he told Frank as they approached the stretch of fence he’d patched earlier. He pointed, and Frank pulled over. “Retirement must be nice.”

“Brad says I’m retired?” Frank chuckled. “Don’t worry. You can answer truthfully. It won’t get back to him.”

“I guess what he said was, he’s trying to get you to take it easy.”

“In my old age?”

“Now, he didn’t say that. You’ve got a real nice place here, Frank. Probably been building it up acre by acre for...”

“Most of my life.” Frank pushed his door open, but he wasn’t in any hurry to get out. He was taking in the view. Grass and sky. “Belonged to my wife’s family, my first wife. I own half the land. Lila’s grandmother left her the other half, along with the home place.” He turned to Del, as though he was about to deliver news that deserved special treatment. “My first wife died.”

“When Lila was twelve.”

Frank raised his brow. “Brad told you?”

“Lila did. My mother died young, too.”

Frank gave a tight-lipped nod. Del read the message in his eyes. Tough break all around.

“Lila’s never forgiven me for getting married again. She should’ve outgrown that by now. A man doesn’t stop living just because his wife dies. Especially not if he has a young child. Your dad remarry?”

Del shook his head. “Never did.”

“Is that some kind of tradition?

“You mean for Indians?” Del shook his head. “My mother was white. My dad was Lakota. I’m sure he had his reasons for not getting married again, but being Lakota wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s hard, losing your wife sudden like that. Or your mother. Leaves a big hole right through your chest. The wind—” he gestured with a shivery hand “—whistles right through.”

Del showed Frank the tire tracks, which, interestingly enough, didn’t elicit much reaction. Del had to fish for it.

“Brad said neighbors have been losing cattle.”

“Could be rustlers, I guess. There’s been some rustling now and again lately, but it’s mostly been tribal cattle. I don’t lease any tribal land, so I stay out of their business, but I’ve heard rumors about the tribe being short quite a few cows.” Frank turned his attention to the fence, but he kept talking as he examined Del’s fix. “They say the ranch manager is a suspect. Old fella named Stan Chasing Elk. His daughter and mine were real close.”

“Who’s accusing him?”

“Mostly the tribal police, but I guess the tribal council is getting down on him. Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard. As long as it’s just the tribe’s cattle, it’s none of my business.”

“Could be it’s your business. You callin’ the law on this?”

“If we’re missing cows, you damn betcha. You did a nice job here, but we’ll string up new wire.” His tone shifted, as though he’d been asked to testify. “It ain’t Stan. We go way back. Good man, Stan.” He turned his attention to a passing cloud. “Stan the Man. Remember the baseball player?”

Del glanced at the cloud, half expecting to see a Stan or two up there, acknowledging Frank’s memory with a thumbs-up.

Frank snapped out of his reverie with a chuckle. “Course not. That was a long time ago.”

“Stan the Man Musial. One for the books, and I do read some. Musial said, ‘When the pitcher’s throwing a spitball, just—’”

“‘—hit it on the dry side,’” they quoted in unison, and then they both laughed as Frank clapped a hand on Del’s shoulder.

“I played baseball in high school. First base. Pretty good hitter.” Del read approval in Frank’s face, and he figured the old man had faced more spitballs over the years than he had. “Your sport, too?”

“Was. Never had time to play much, but...” He looked down at the tire tracks and shook his head. “Yeah, I think we might’ve lost some cows. We’ll see what Brad comes up with. I keep my books on paper. He’s got this computer thing going, and we don’t always match up.”

“I’m not much of a computer guy myself.”

“Glad I’m not the only one. Guess we need to get with the program, buddy.” Chuckling, he laid his hand on Del’s shoulder. “They say everybody’s replaceable these days. Even cowboys.”

“Yeah, that horse is out of the barn.”

“Come to think of it, they haven’t made the computer yet that can chase that horse down and run him back in.”

“Or string wire,” Del said. “So I guess I’m not completely replaceable.”

“Brad either chose well or lucked out this time.” Frank smiled. “I admire a man who knows the value of a good horse. Still the best way to herd cows.”

* * *

Del tried two hills before he found a piece of high ground where his phone quit cutting out. Truth be told, he was one hell of a space-age cowboy. While truth telling wasn’t part of his job description, he made an effort to keep mental tabs on it, and taking his smartphone in hand and tapping out a couple of texts allowed him to get in touch with reality even as he was keeping his head in the game. The message that came back was unsatisfying, but at least it was a contact.

Follow Benson. Get a line on Chasing Elk. Move up the line ASAP.

ASAP wasn’t Del’s preferred approach to a job. Space-age aside, a dyed-in-the-hide cowboy didn’t do ASAP. If the question was “Fast or good?” his answer was always “The best you’ve ever had.”

Which made him think of Lila.

“I like her,” he told the dog in the passenger seat. He gave the animal’s head a vigorous scratching, the velvety drop ears a floppy workout. The pup lifted his head, eyes closed in pure bliss. “Okay, so she rejected you for now, but it’s not personal. She can’t give up too soon. It would be like saying out with the old, in with the new. That’s hard for a woman like her. She’s got no ASAP button. Give her time.”

The dog whined.

“No? Sorry, buddy, we got no choice. We gotta let her come to us. Okay?” He patted the dog’s back. “Meanwhile, I’m here for you.”

Chapter Three

“I think we’re missing six head of steers,” Brad reported. He glanced at Del as though he might have something to with it. Then he turned his attention to Frank, but he didn’t look him in the eye. He dug his boot heel into the pulverized corral dirt like a kid who was having trouble making stuff up as he told his father how he’d done exactly what he was supposed to do. “Unless they got in with the cows. I mean, I drove across the south pasture and didn’t see any steers in with the cows there. That’s the only place...” He jerked up his chin suddenly. “You say there’s tire tracks?” he asked Del. “What kind?”

“Sixteen and a half inch, probably a GM, maybe a Ford—big one-ton sucker—towing a gooseneck trailer.”

“What color?” Frank asked, straight-faced as hell.

“The pickup or the gooseneck?”

“Either one,” Frank allowed. “Hell, both.”

Del’s expression matched the old man’s. “Black. Had to be a matched set.”

Brad was speechless, waiting for something to drop—a shoe, a net, something. Del purely enjoyed the seconds that passed before Frank tapped his shoulder with the back of his hand, signaling it was time for a good laugh.

“I can read tracks, but not quite that good,” Del said.

“Ground’s too dry,” Frank said. “You were doing real good finding any tracks at all.” He turned to Brad. “You sure we’re missing six? You got ear-tag numbers?”

“Dad, they’re missing.”

“You get the numbers that are there,” Frank explained with exaggerated patience. “The ones that aren’t there are the ones we’re looking for.”

Brad glared briefly at Frank and then at the fence wire in the back of Frank’s pickup. “You know, I told Del to get that fence fixed.” He turned to Del. “You didn’t need to go to my dad for help.”

“He didn’t,” Frank said. “He was looking for you. I went out there with him because I needed to get out of the damn house.”

“Well, good. That’s good.” Nodding, Brad slid Del a cold glance. “I’ll give the sheriff a call, tell him where to meet up so he can see what’s going on out there.” He turned back to Del. “You go get the tag numbers off those steers out where I showed you yesterday. You remember how to get there?”

“You don’t want him to show you where he found the tire tracks?” Frank asked.

“You said the cut-across, right? How far off the highway?”

“Little less than a mile. I marked the fence with a red flag. You can tell where it was cut. Anyway, Sheriff Hartley can tell.” Frank turned to Del. “I’ll get us the list of tag numbers. We’ll go out and check them off, see what’s missing.”

“You’re not thinking about getting on a horse,” Brad challenged.

“I think about it all the time.”

“Don’t tell Mom that. She’s thinking all the time, too. About that trip you promised her after you get your other new knee.” Brad sidled up to Frank. “Let me take care of this, Dad. We’ll check the ear tags and figure out what’s what. You get hold of Hartley. Better you than me.” He looked over at Del and went back to being boss. “Mount up. Dad knows best.”

* * *

Del let his horse drop back to a trot when he heard the roar of the pickup at his back. He didn’t need help with taking ear-tag inventory—he could easily handle Frank’s metal clipboard himself—and he doubted he would get much. But making waves didn’t suit his purpose. Neither did ignoring Brad, as much as he wanted to. They both knew how many steers were missing. Brad didn’t know or care which ones they were. But Frank cared, and that was another good sign.

Sign. Just a piece of information. Connections, Fox. That’s all you’re looking for.

“This works out better,” Brad called out from the pickup.

Del slowed to a walk. “What does?”

“Letting Frank be the one to deal with the sheriff. I had a few run-ins with Hartley back when I was a kid, young and dumb. But I’ve stayed away from him since then. I need to keep it that way.”

“I hear you.” And hearing was enough. He kept his eyes on the view. Clear blue sky and rolling hills. The grand scheme. “Cops have tunnel vision. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“You know it. I didn’t count, but I figure there was probably a hundred head of steers in that pasture. Frank won’t be satisfied until he has ear-tag numbers. There’s no way around it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Brad came to a stop and toyed with the accelerator. Power. Play. Del spun his horse and let him prance a little in response.

“But you can’t fake it,” Brad warned. “He still keeps records.”

“He seems pretty sharp.”

“He’s slipping. A year or two ago he wouldn’t trust me to count the eggs in the fridge. So you got this?”

Del spun again, enjoying the buckskin’s responsiveness, but a hint of something black lying in the shade of a chokecherry bush caught his eye. He urged his mount to trot ahead.

Brad shouted out to him and then followed, but he had to slow down for rutted terrain. By the time he reached the copse of bushes, Del had dismounted, dropped a knee to the ground and greeted the little corpse by name. Only the soft black hair moved, ruffled by the breeze.

“You got something I can wrap him up in?” Del asked when the sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. This wasn’t the way you wanted to find the friend of a friend.

“Just leave him. I’ll tell her there wasn’t much left.”

Del got up and craned his neck for a look in the pickup bed. “A plastic bag or something? When we get back to the barn I’ll find something better to put him in.”

“It’s a dead dog, for God’s sake. Coyotes should’ve made short work of the thing by now.”

“They didn’t.” Del pulled his hat brim down to block out the sun. Or, far more irritating, the sight of Brad Benson. “She said she wants him back no matter what. It’s a small thing to ask.”

“Throw it in the back of the pickup. What’s the use of having coyotes around if they don’t do their part?” Brad gave him a look, half suspicious, half mocking. “Fox, huh? Maybe you’re the coyote.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

* * *

It bothered him all afternoon. He worked around the steers as quickly as he could, taking care not to disturb them too much while he took inventory, but he thought about that dog the whole time. Thought about Lila. Thought about the fact that her damn stepbrother had no respect for anything that mattered, and that her affection for her dog mattered in a way that not much else in Del’s own world did.

Except the job. His real job. Starting out, the job had meant freedom. It had meant reporting only to one person instead of a dozen. It had meant eating what he wanted, going to bed when he felt like it. It had meant out with the old and in with the new. He wasn’t going to miss any of the old, and the new was yet to be discovered. But affection hadn’t figured in anywhere. His father was gone, and Del couldn’t help but think he’d died of a broken heart, that his affection for his son had become such a heavy burden that his big heart had cracked. And with his father’s death a chunk of Del’s own life had been removed, like some kind of surgical amputation. What he had—what there was for him to build on—was a strange and unexpected job.

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