A Fire in the Blood (11 page)

      
The big wolfhound loped toward the branding fire and Jess. When he came within a dozen yards, he let out a resounding "woof" and charged. Jess spun around, gun drawn, sighting on the huge shaggy hound. Recognizing the dog, he slid his Colt back into its holster and braced himself as the beast's front legs came to rest on his shoulders. Yards of dripping pink tongue laved his face, knocking his hat to the ground.

      
"If'n thet don't beat all. Never seed thet hound take to a new man like thet," one of the hands said.

      
Lissa galloped into the camp and jumped from her horse, laughing and calling to her pet. "Get down, Cormac, you great oaf!"

      
Standing on his hind legs, the dog towered over the tall man by nearly a foot. When Lissa walked up and seized his collar, he backed down, tail still furiously wagging, then looked at her with wounded eyes.

      
"You've caused me to spoil his fun, you know," she said, amused at the look of consternation on the man's face.

      
Jess regarded the hundred-and-seventy pounds of hound warily. "So he wasn't something I hallucinated when I was shot. You'd better keep a tighter leash on him. I might have shot him."

      
"You'd better keep a tighter leash on your guns, Mr. Robbins. Cormac is a very valuable hunter."

      
"So am I, Miss Jacobson," he said as he dusted off his hat and replaced it on his head. He inspected her trim figure. A soft green silk blouse clung seductively to the curves of her breasts. Images of the way they had showed through the wet camisole flashed in his mind before he let his eyes travel to the buff twill riding skirt, tailored to fit her tiny waist and rounded derriere perfectly. He could still feel those delectable buttocks pressed against his inner thighs.

      
In such thoughts lurked madness. He looked up and studied her face. She had braided that dark, burnished hair into a single fat plait which hung down her back, leaving her face austerely adorned only by a few wispy curls. She blushed under his bold perusal, obviously pleased at the attention.

      
"You seem to be mending remarkably quickly," she said, returning his inspection. "How's the side?"

      
He shrugged. "It aches like hell."

      
"I need to take out the stitches soon."

      
"I can do that myself. I've done it before—in harder-to-reach places," he added with a grin.

      
Lissa's expression grew smug. "Why, Jesse Robbins, you aren't afraid of one little woman with a scissors and tweezers, are you? I have a real steady hand."

      
He did not respond to her taunt but watched her father rein in his big roan. "Time to say good-bye, Miss Jacobson." He tipped his hat and walked over to Marcus.

      
"Morning, Mr. Jacobson. I'm ready to ride to the place where that last herd was taken."

      
"Can I come along, Papa?" Lissa interjected.

      
Marcus frowned. "Stay here, Princess, and keep out of harm's way, else I'll not let you come to the roundup camp again." His eyes sent a deeper message to her.

      
Stay away from Jesse Robbins.

      
Knowing it would do no good to argue with him, she acquiesced. "I'll help Vinegar with the midday meal."

      
"There's my girl," Jacobson said with a steely smile. "When you're ready to ride home, have Moss send one of the hands with you. I have to ride over to the Evers roundup when I finish with Robbins. I'll see you at home tonight, Lissa."

      
The two men rode away from the noise and dust of the camp. Neither spoke for quite a while. Then Jacobson broke the silence. "My daughter is a very beautiful young woman, used to getting her own way. I'm afraid I've indulged her more than I should have, but she's all the family I have left in the world. I mean to see her marry well." He paused and turned to Jess with his ice-blue eyes glowing. "You take my meaning, Robbins?"

      
"I take your meaning, Mr. Jacobson," Jess replied levelly. He held the older man's imperious stare until Jacobson broke it off, pointing to the shale outcropping directly ahead of them.

      
"We'll circle around those low bluffs until we reach a shallow basin. Used to be filled with J Bar beeves."

      
They rode into the basin, and Jess told Marcus to wait by the ashes of the long-dead campfire. He moved in widening circles, away from the central location, studying the soft, muddy ground. The old man took a drink from his canteen and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he observed Robbins's careful inspection.

      
"He cuts sign just like a savage. Blood always tells," he muttered to himself. Marcus considered how highly recommended Jesse Robbins had come. In all likelihood, the breed could finish this rustler business in a few weeks and be on his way back to Texas—or wherever the hell he drifted next.

      
Germaine had been certain Lissa was infatuated with the handsome gunman. But Germaine and Lissa had always been oil and water, ever since Lissa was a child. He knew she was restless and bored at the ranch, but that was just natural high spirits after a long winter of confinement. What she needed was a passel of new dresses and some fancy social events at which to wear them. That would distract her from the gunman quickly enough. Then, too, a man like Robbins had not survived by being a fool. He knew better than to touch a white lady. Having settled things in his own mind, Marcus dismissed Germaine's dire warnings as Jess rode up to where he was sitting.

      
"Find anything?" Marcus asked as he remounted.

      
"There are about twenty of them, I'd guess. Very fast and careful. No distinctive markings on the shoes. This is a big, professional operation, not some bunch of hungry nesters or grub-line riders swinging a wide loop."

      
Marcus cursed. "Any idea which direction they went?"

      
"East, toward the Nebraska line. But an outfit this large has to have a base camp, someplace to hole up between raids. I need to get the lay of the land before I start searching. Also, I have a lead I need to check out in Cheyenne. I may not be back to the ranch for a couple of days."

      
Jacobson studied Robbins intently. "You still think more of my hands are involved?"

      
"Argee sure as hell was, and he's not the only new man hired on last fall. That's one of the things I mean to follow up in town," Jess said, thinking of the dog-eared old photograph in his vest pocket. He said nothing more to Jacobson.

      
"You'll be needing some help with a bunch this size."

      
Jess grinned. "True. I'm good, Jacobson, but I'm sure not figuring to take on twenty armed men alone. While I'm in town, I'll wire for the men I need."

      
"Good enough. I'll see you back at the J Bar in a few days."
      
Marcus turned his horse south and rode off while Jess studied the far horizon to the east before kneeing Blaze in that direction.

      
Lissa helped Vinegar dish up a hearty meal of beef, beans, and biscuits with "spotted pup" —rice pudding with raisins— for dessert. As he scrubbed the mountain of tinware, she stayed to talk with the crotchety old cook, who had carried her around on his shoulders when she was a little girl.

      
"This here's gonna be the biggest roundup yet, gal," Vinegar said as he dipped his arms up to their knobby elbows in a big pan of suds and seized a fistful of clattering plates. " 'N me havin' ta feed all them leather-legged galoots with gullets as empty as a banker's heart. I'll be cookin' twenty-five hours a day till snow flies."

      
"There are a lot of new men," Lissa said, blowing on a cup of Vinegar's "horseshoe floater." "What do you know about the stock detective, Robbins?" she asked casually.

      
Vinegar spat with gusto. "Humph. A cold one. Got him a rep from the Pecos to the Canady border." He paused and looked at her. "Gal, you ain't fixin' any fool notions on thet breed, are yew? I know he's fine lookin', kindy smooth talkin' too, the way the women like, but he's pure poison. Yer pa'd be mad 'nough ta kick a hawg barefoot if'n he caught yew makin' eyes at Robbins."

      
She huffed. "I'm not making eyes at him!"

      
He scratched his scruffy beard. "I seen yew 'n him talkin' real cozy when yew come ridin' in with thet hellhound yew call a dawg."

      
"I was just asking him about his stitches," she replied primly.

      
Snorting, Vinegar asked, "He take up sewin'?"

      
"No, I did—on him. I sewed up a bullet wound in his side."

      
"Wal, cain't say I'm sorry to pass on thet job o' work."

      
Regarding Vinegar's large gnarled hands and the fast, rough way he used them, she imagined Jess had been just as happy to have him pass on the first-aid job, too. "It's a long ride back to the house. I'd better be going. Cormac and I did enjoy lunch," she added, dimpling.

      
The grizzled little man cast a baleful eye to where the big dog lay sleeping beneath the wagon. "He oughta have! Et two pans of biscuits all by his lonesome."

      
"Well, since he's enjoying your cooking so much, I know you won't mind my leaving him here for a few days. Moss wants to get rid of some coyotes who've been killing calves."

      
"Now, jist a minnit, Miz Lissa. Thet lummox is purely more trouble than a box a skunks at a prayer meetin'. I ain't foolin' with him. Next time he gits in the biscuits, I'm takin' my ten-gauge to the damn-blasted critter!"

      
"I don't know who dislikes you more, Germaine or Vinegar," she said as the dog rose and walked over to nuzzle her neck with an affectionate lick.

      
"You ready to ride, Miss Lissa?" Rob Ostler asked. He walked up leading her favorite horse, Little Bit, a small, fleet pinto.

      
"Take good care of Vinegar, Cormac," she called out as they rode away.

      
After they had cleared the basin and crossed Lodgepole Creek, Lissa reined in and pointed to the west. "If we cut through the scrub pines here we can be home an hour earlier."

      
"I don't rightly know, Miz Lissa. Thet's pretty rough country," the young Texan objected.

      
"Oh, stuff. It isn't that rough. I've crossed it several times on Little Bit. I promise, no race," she said, raising her hand in a pledge.

      
"I reckon it couldn't hurt," Ostler said dubiously, already won over by Lissa's cajoling.

      
They set out to cross a narrow band of scrubby pines and juniper that ran like a divider between the open cattle ranges to the north and the ranch to the south. The terrain was rough and they rode slowly, sparing their horses until they had reached a second fork of the Lodgepole. As they dismounted to allow the horses to drink, a piteous bawling cry came from across the stream.

      
"Thet's a calf in big trouble," Rob said, swinging up on his piebald and splashing across the shallow water.

      
Lissa did likewise, but before she could reach the thicket where Rob was freeing a thrashing calf, he called out, "Don't come nearer, Miz Lissa. This here ain't nothin' fer a lady to see."

      
But she had already seen. The calf's mother lay on the ground behind some serviceberry bushes along with half a dozen other beeves, all with their throats cut. Flies droned noisily around the gory carcasses, feasting on congealed blood. She put her handkerchief to her mouth. "Who would do this?"

      
"Squatters most likely. By the look of it, they drove off a bunch o' calves. This here lil’ feller got hisself tangled up and went lame, so they up 'n left 'em. Butchered the best cuts from the steers and cows. Somewhere they's gonna be a real fancy feast tonight or I miss my guess," Rob said grimly.

      
"Is it too late for Moss to send some hands after them?"

      
Rob scratched his head. "I cud ride hell-bent fer the camp and bring back some men, but I can't do it carryin' this here little feller."

      
"Give him to me. I'll ride behind you, carrying him, while you fetch help," she said, reaching down to take the catch rope Ostler had looped around the calf's neck.

      
"Now, Miz Lissa, I can't leave yew all alone. Mister Jacobson'd peel the hide clean off me."

      
"You're wasting time, Rob. The thieves are getting away while we argue." She seized the rope and began to walk the injured calf toward her horse. Rob followed, protesting, even though it would do no good.

      
She swung up on Little Bit and waited. "Lift him up onto my saddle, Rob," she commanded.

      
Sighing raggedly, he did as she asked, then jumped on his big gelding and took off as she yelled, "I'll be right behind you."

      
But she could not ride with any speed weighed down with the calf, who proved to be a very restive passenger. After twenty minutes or so, she reined in near a small swale, where a hawthorn offered some welcome shade.

      
"We'll just take a little rest and wait until Rob comes back with the men," she said, dismounting carefully. The problem of getting her unhappy passenger down was solved when he squirmed over the opposite side of the saddle. He nearly choked himself before she was able to loosen the rope, but was otherwise none the worse for wear.