The Wildcatter

He’d tried again, spinning that yarn about an old mud pit on the home ranch—greasy thick mud, black as tar, that would suck down deer, stock ay, Dios!, even unwary children.

His listeners came back with stories of quicksand, of bad river crossings on trail drives. He laughed softly. That hilarious story the old-timer had spun about a pig wallow and helping the boss’s pretty daughter feed the sows, and his punch line that even after that fiasco she’d forgiven him, married him—and forty years later they were still happily married…

Miguel rubbed the smile off his face. Wonderful stories, but not the story he wanted to hear. Not one of those cow-hands would admit to bad water on Kristopherson land.

By midnight he’d been ready to give up in frustration. Badwater. The name could have come from most anything—a dog fell down somebody’s well. Or some early traveler had tapped a new keg on his wagon while passing through here and found his drinking water had gone scummy, so he named the flats to mark the occasion. Maybe it was a corruption of an Indian word and had nothing to do with water at all.

Then another geezer had wandered over to the table where Miguel had sat drinking and swapping yarns. Willy, a Suntop man. Smiling insults had been traded—the Kristopherson crew had apparently bested the Suntop cowboys in a local rodeo a few weeks back.

Fighting hard for his outfit’s honor, Willy had dredged up an ancient triumph. Let the Kristophersons sneer, but Ben Tankersly’s father had beaten old Will Kristopherson decisively in the thirties, and they were still laughing about it. Sam Tankersly had won the Badwater Flats in a game of stud poker. He’d bluffed Kristopherson out of ten square miles with a pair of threes and a pair of jacks, and what do you think of that?

Miguel thought he’d better not kiss the old man, but he was tempted. Instead he’d bought him a round, then teased him, apparently defending his Kristopherson pals. Yes, Sam Tankersly had won the Badwater Flats, old man, but so what? Of what earthly use was a patch of range with bad water?

It was worth plenty, Willy had insisted. Since the creek made the cattle sick, Suntop had drilled wells. Put in windmills to pump up tanks of good, clear water. Nowadays that section was a treasure, with some of the best graze anywhere around Trueheart. It had been rechristened Sweetwater Flats, as the Kristopherson hands well knew. And weren’t they sorry their boss’s granddaddy had been such a blind fool at the card table back in ’34?

Miguel was a lot sorrier than any of the Kristopherson crew, who shrugged amiably and ambled off into the star-filled night shortly thereafter. A bunch of hired hands, what did they care? It was Miguel who’d played his cards wrong, turning down the job at Suntop.

Because one look at the map told him the flats—Badwater, Sweetwater, by whatever name—were remote. Not to be inspected on foot from any public road. He’d need to ride in five miles through Suntop land to reach them. And from what he’d heard around the Lone Star, Suntop’s owner didn’t take kindly to trespassers.

He needed a job on the ranch as his cover.

But haying?

Only as a last—his very last—resort.

HE’D BEEN DRIVING as he replayed last night’s happenings. Following what seemed to be the main private road, though smaller dirt roads branched off to left and right. He’d come more than three miles west across the wide, rolling valley. There was no sign of a house or barn yet; only the neat barbed-wire fences marching along either side of the road. A herd of twenty or so horses grazing on a distant hilltop, miles north. Two tiny cowboys riding a fence line, as far south. Hard to get a grasp on a place this big, and the mountains threw everything out of perspective. That big humped one up ahead might have been two miles distant—or twenty. The jagged peaks to the north, maybe fifty?

It wasn’t just the scale of the place that was making him edgy. This land was too rich, too lush. Green as money. He was used to the red dusty plains of West Texas. Hardscrabble land, where a man had to scratch for his luck—scratch hard and deep. Here luck seemed to be served up on a wide, green plate with a golden rim.

A plate set on some other man’s table, not one where a poor boy from Dos Duraznos, Mexico, would be welcome.

But then, Miguel needed no invitation. No scraps from another’s table. He’d been making his own luck for years.

Still, when he reached the river at last, it was a welcome change. The trees along it rose like a shaggy wall, cutting off the eastern valley from what lay beyond. His truck rumbled out onto a low concrete bridge that spanned dark pools, a yellow leaf drifting fast. With no car in sight, Miguel braked in the middle, to sit staring at the steep bank ahead.

He swung to study the one behind him. As he’d hoped, the valley floor was limestone and shale, not granite. Sedimentary rock. The blood tingled in his fingertips, his palms…the same way all his hunches started—as if he’d scooped up a double handful of luck. He nodded to himself and drove on.

On the west side of the river, the land rose abruptly in a series of wide benches, with the road winding to find the shallowest grade between them. His truck heaved over a rise and Miguel saw the ranch house on a hill ahead, with a clutter of barns and corrals intervening. Nearly there.

But again the road switched back on itself, entering a narrow pass cut in a ledge of rock. Miguel turned to glare at the cut as he drove by—granite, at this elevation—not so promising.

A horn blared out and he jumped violently. He whirled back toward his road, and stood on the brakes. Tires rumbled and skidded on the gravel. The pickup lurched to a halt. Its massive front bumper, with its greasy hydraulic winch, loomed only inches above the hood of the low, sleek convertible that faced it. A red Mercedes-Benz two-seater, top down. The dust his wheels had raised drifted over its glossy wax job, over its windshield, obscuring Miguel’s view of the person or persons within. He blew out a soundless whistle. Now, that would have made a fine first impression—squashing this pretty toy.

His shoulders twitched as the Mercedes’ horn blared again—too soon, too long, much too loud. On a particularly insolent note. Out of my way, peón! it yelled.

Miguel’s back teeth came together with a click. Yes, he should have had his eyes on the road, but then the rich boy that he could now make out behind the Mercedes’ wheel had been coming too fast. They both shared in the blame, but so what? No harm had been done.

Yet, he told himself as the horn blared for the third time. He drummed his fingertips on the wheel and schooled his frown to an expressionless mask. This cut was too narrow for the vehicles to pass each other. Somebody would have to back down.

Since Miguel was the one who needed a job—this scowling princeling with the golden hair clearly needed no job; that car had cost fifty thousand easily—it made sense that Miguel should humble himself and give way. This was somebody of importance. Possibly the ranch owner himself, or the rancher’s son. To offend him…

The horn blared yet again. The driver leaned out his window. “Hey! Get that heap out of my way!” His voice matched his horn—an arrogant tenor, bursting with pride.

Una lástima—a pity—to start out like this. But some things a man could not do. Miguel sighed and reached for the pack that sat on the seat beside him. After unzipping the top compartment, he pulled out an apple. He fished his knife from his jeans pocket, unclasped it and commenced to leisurely peel the fragrant red globe. Turning to prop his back against his door, he focused on his task. With care, it could be done in one continuous spiral—much more satisfying that way.

The horn blared again—a series of impotent, outraged squawks. Miguel pursed his lips and whistled “The Wichita Lineman.” Something his old friend Harry used to sing when he was feeling soulful.

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and turned to look. The convertible’s passenger door was opening. Someone—a girl—with windblown hair the color of raw copper, of forest fires and wild honey, was getting out. She touched one foot to the ground—but the driver lunged her way, gesturing. He caught her arm, shook his head emphatically.

She hesitated, shrugged…closed her door again.

Her companion put his hand down on the horn and held it there in an ear-splitting, nerve-grating protest. Miguel sighed and cut a wedge of apple, ate it thoughtfully. Looked as if he’d have to go over there and offer to flatten Mr. Mercedes’ nose for him. Not something he wanted to do with a lady present.

On the other hand, maybe it was time she learned her man was not only rude but gutless.

None of your business to teach her, he reminded himself. A rich gringa like that could buy all the lessons in life she needed—or buy her way out of them.

He was saved from choosing. The Mercedes jerked into reverse and roared backward at a reckless speed, its driver taking out his temper on his machine—and his startled passenger, who’d braced herself against the dashboard. What some women put up with. Smiling wryly to himself, Miguel put his truck in gear and followed.

After mounting a final rise, he turned into a wide, dusty barnyard. Several men on horse and afoot gazed off to where the red convertible had reversed all the way to a lone horseman, sitting a big buckskin horse at the far side of the yard. The rider leaned down from his saddle, listened as the driver of the Mercedes gestured wildly—then jabbed his finger at Miguel’s truck.

So that was the man in charge. Not a good beginning, Miguel told himself as he parked alongside a corral and stepped out. But play it as it lays.

“NOPE,” Ben Tankersly drawled, gazing across at the man who’d climbed out of the dusty old pickup. “He’s not one of mine. ’Fraid I can’t fire him for you.” He swallowed his smile and glanced at his daughter. You see what you’ve got here, princess? You want a man who can’t settle his own fights?

Risa’s eyes touched his, then skated away. She stared off into the distance, arms tightly crossed, teeth buried in her lower lip, her cheeks the color of roses. Embarrassed, Tankersly hoped. She damn sure ought to be.

“Fine! Okay! Forget it, then!” Foster stomped on the gas and roared off the way he’d come, raising a cloud of dust.

Moving much too fast for the crowded yard. Ben’s eyes narrowed—the damn fool—then widened as he realized. The car was aimed straight for the stranger, who’d paused halfway across the open space. “You idiot!”

No doubt Foster meant to shame his target, forcing him to scramble for cover. Instead the young man stood, apparently paralyzed. Tankersly sucked in a harsh breath, bracing himself for the impact.

But the stranger took one long graceful stride to the side, whirled—and landed a thumping mule-kick on the driver’s door as the Mercedes shot past.

One of the hands let out a blissful whoop. Tankersly’s pent breath burst out in a guffaw. Stove in his slats for him! Dented his door a good one! The vanquished Mercedes roared out of the yard and off down the hill.

Tankersly’s grin faded. That cowardly fool had his daughter aboard and there he was, trying to sprout wings, running away from his own humiliation. The rancher put the heel of his hand to his heart, rubbed it, then shrugged. Not a thing in the world he could do about it. If Foster didn’t kill her in the next mile or so, maybe Risa would finally see. “That’s not breeding stock,” he muttered, then switched his attention to the oncoming stranger.

He blinked—and felt the dice teeter, then tip over, the way they sometimes did. One final roll and your life turned from empty pockets to can’t lose. Foster was not breeding stock, but this one… Maybe…just maybe… Ben sat and let him come on, sizing him up as he would have any yearling colt, deciding whether to keep or sell him.

And this one looked like a keeper. On his mettle after he’d faced down that attack, his color was high, his eyes direct, fastened on Tankersly. He had that top-stallion strut—good spirits, good body and well-proven pride, combining to give a soft bounce to each stride, though you couldn’t hear his feet hit the ground. With guts, good bone and reflexes. The young man halted beside Ben’s stirrup. “They call me Heydt,” he said, holding out a big brown hand. “Miguel Heydt.”

Something south of the border in his deep voice—just a hint. And in his black Spanish eyes, though his hair was the same bronzy shade as the dark buckskin Ben rode. “Tankersly,” Ben declared himself, squinting down as they shook. Maybe five years older than Risa’s nineteen, he estimated, though Heydt’s eyes made him seem twice her age. Eyes that had seen trouble and sorrow and come through it with just a trace of cool amusement at their corners. Eyes that said, Come what may, I can handle it.

Not like Risa’s pretty boy, whose eyes said, Come what may, I can buy my way free—or talk my way out of it.

Heydt endured another minute of Ben’s appraisal, then he spoke again. “I told him—” he tipped his head toward Joe Wiggly, who was riding up on them “—that I wasn’t interested in haying. I’m looking to cowboy.”