Showdown at Widow Creek (6 page)

Over the years, mysteries have taken my brother and me to many different places. So I had investigated enough construction sites to guess that a person had dug this trench with some sort of backhoe—a tractor with a bucket on the end of a long mechanical arm. They were used to dig large holes very quickly. Some of them even ran on treads like those of a bulldozer or a tank.

There was no doubt about it. Someone had sabotaged the dam on purpose. Just one more piece of evidence that someone had it in for this cattle drive. The trouble was, we still didn’t know why.

Or what they would try next.

W
ALLY HAD HELD UP THE
cattle drive just long enough for me to change in the back of the chuck wagon. I was thankful. It was hard enough pulling off wet clothes in the cramped space; I could only imagine how hard it would have been if the thing had been bouncing around as it moved down the trail. I tried to be as quick as possible, not wanting to hold everyone up even more than I already had.

When I was done, I climbed back onto Harvey and rode over to meet Sarah. My saddle was still wet, but it would have to dry along the way.

“You ride drag along with the Muellers,” she instructed, “and keep an eye out for Joe. He should catch up with us in a couple of hours.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Sarah explained Joe’s scouting mission. Then she rode off to get the rest of the team. Normally, I would’ve been worried about my brother riding alone. But with the way he had been handling himself this entire time, I wasn’t. If Joe could ever live without the comforts of Bayport’s shops, restaurants, and hangouts, he would make a fine cowboy.

We continued our long trek back to the ranch. As we moved away from the creek, the land became less lush and more scrubby. This helped move the cattle along, since there wasn’t much on which they could stop and graze. Unfortunately, it showed me just how much of a drag riding drag could be. The Muellers and I rode in a cloud of dust kicked up by the shambling herd.

I wrapped the reins around my saddle horn so I could have both hands free. Luckily, I had thought to grab a fresh bandanna after I had changed. “Time for the bandit look,” I told them as I wrapped the cloth over my mouth and nose and tied the ends behind my head.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Mueller. “I forgot.” She pulled up her bandanna to cover her nose.

Mr. Mueller did the same. When he was finished, he pointed his index finger at me, miming a six-shooter. “Stick ’em up!”

I jokingly raised both hands, and they laughed.

Riding drag on a cattle drive was mostly uneventful, which gave me plenty of time to think about our little cowboy mystery. Holding steady at the top of the suspect list were Mike and Tim, the disgruntled employees. After all, Joe and I had caught them in the act of trying to steal Sarah’s horse. But I still didn’t get why they would sabotage the cinch straps as well. Stealing a valuable horse was one thing, but why risk getting caught by taking the time to antagonize the boss one last time? It didn’t really make sense.

Sarah rode by and offered to rotate us to other parts of the cattle drive. The Muellers jumped at the chance to leave the dusty drag position. I opted to stay behind and wait for Joe’s return.

We drove the herd for a couple more hours before Wally called a halt for the day. The sun was low in the sky, and Joe had yet to return. Luckily, there was plenty of work to keep my mind occupied. We unsaddled our horses and tied them to the picket built by Ned and Dusty—two tall cedar stakes driven into the ground, with a rope running between them. After that, Sarah showed us how to wipe the sweat from our horses, check their hooves for loose horseshoes, and brush them down.

Then it was time to gather firewood. At least that was something I knew how to do. Joe and I had gone camping plenty of times.

I was just inside the edge of thick forest, looking for deadwood, when I heard galloping hooves. I stepped out to see Joe ride into the camp. I grabbed a couple more sticks before heading to meet him. He’d dismounted and was walking Norman around the camp.

“You taking your horse for a walk?” I fell into step behind him, and Norman followed us. His chest and sides were lathered with sweat.

“Sarah says Norman has to cool down before I tie him up with the others,” he replied. “We had to run just to catch up with you before sundown.”

“What did you find out?” I asked.

“Someone vandalized the dam,” Joe replied. He explained how he had spotted the signs that a backhoe had cut a big hole in the side of the earthen dam.

“You told Wally and Sarah?” I asked.

“Yeah, and they weren’t happy,” replied Joe.

I tightened my lips. “More sabotage.”

“You got it,” agreed Joe.

“That seems like a lot of trouble for a couple of disgruntled employees,” I said. “Were they trying to ruin the cattle drive?”

“Ruin it?” Joe asked. “With a big water crossing? That was actually kind of cool.”

I raised my hand. “Hello? I wasn’t planning on going for a swim today, you know.”

Joe nodded. “So their big plan was to get Frank Hardy wet!”

I ignored my brother. “Well, they had to have known the herd could still cross the creek, even if it was swollen.”

“Or that there was an alternate route available,” Joe added. “Lucky had suggested that we take the herd onto another road to bypass the creek altogether.”

I stopped walking. “Remember that he also mentioned that he had ridden by the lake on the way down. He said it was perfectly fine then. What if he sabotaged the dam?”

Joe stopped beside me and shook his head. “No way, bro. The damage was done with some heavy machinery, which was nowhere to be found. I don’t think he could fit a backhoe into his saddlebags.”

“But he could’ve had help,” I suggested. “And the detour was his idea. What if his real plan was to get the herd somewhere else?”

“What? Like a trap?” Joe began to lead Norman again. “What good would that do? Try to steal Hondo again?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

I helped Joe unsaddle his horse and brush him down. By the time we joined everyone else, the campfire was roaring and dinner was being served. Wally grilled steaks and served them with a side of beans. There was also bread that had been baked in the ranch’s brick oven. Everything was delicious.

During dinner, Joe and I kept our half-formed theories and suspect list to ourselves. There was no sense in pointing fingers at the moment, and we still had another half day’s ride to the ranch.

Honestly, our suspect list wasn’t very long. I didn’t think Wally and Sarah would do anything to spoil the cattle drive. The three paying guests, the Muellers and Mr. Jackson, all had less riding experience than Joe and me. I doubted they even knew what a cinch strap was before yesterday.

That left the three ranch hands. Dusty and Ned had seemed all right. They worked hard and were great at teaching everyone what to do. But they weren’t the ones who had ridden to the dam on the drive in.

That was Lucky.

Lucky seemed to be the best cowboy of the bunch. He was a good leader and would probably make an excellent top ranch hand when Sarah went off to college. However, being friends with the failed horse thieves did put him at the top of our list—that along with his previous visit to the dam.

After dinner, everyone sat around the campfire, replaying the day’s events and listening to stories. Then Ned surprised us by pulling a guitar from the back of the wagon and singing some cowboy songs. Dusty accompanied him on an old, dented harmonica, and Mrs. Mueller turned out to have a very nice singing voice. They had all of us clapping along.

Later, when I stretched out on my bedroll and propped my head on my saddle, I realized that Ned had been right. I was so beat from the day’s work that the thin blanket on the hard ground felt like heaven. I gazed up at the night sky, marveling at the view. Away from the city, the dark sky was alive with twinkling stars. The thin arm of the Milky Way reminded me of the creek we’d crossed earlier. I was about to whisper as much to Joe, but I heard him lightly snoring beside me. My eyes drifted shut as I felt myself falling into much-needed sleep.

Just as I was slipping into a dream of riding Harvey across the open plains, I was nudged awake.

“Frank,” a voice whispered.

I opened my eyes to see Ned kneeling over me. The coals from the dying campfire illuminated his face in dim, amber light.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. My first thoughts were of another act of sabotage.

The cowhand grinned. “Secret mission.”

I sat up and snatched my boots while Dusty roused Joe.

Keeping quiet, my brother and I followed Ned and Dusty away from the others. I caught Joe’s eye, but he merely shrugged. Once we were far enough away from everyone, the ranch hands switched on dim flashlights. They turned them to illuminate their faces.

“What’s going on, guys?” Joe asked.

Dusty shifted the toothpick between his lips. Did he sleep with that thing? “Greenhorn initiation,” he said solemnly.

Ned nodded. “Yep. All new ranch hands go through it.”

I held up my hands. “Look, guys. We’re just here for the weekend.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Dusty. “You’re cowhand enough.”

I glanced at Joe. His eyes were gleaming—probably from the excitement of being called a cowhand.

Ned must have read my look of unease. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad.”

Dusty clapped a hand on my shoulder and led me toward the quiet cattle herd. “Just a little cow tippin’.”

I stopped. “Cow tipping?” I asked. “That’s not real.”

Ned and Dusty exchanged looks of shock. “Sure, it’s real,” said Ned. “Not much to do living out in the country. Cow tippin’ is quite the pastime.”

I had read about cow tipping, of course. The object was to sneak up on a sleeping cow and tip it over. Cows were supposed to sleep standing up, so the animal would just fall over before waking.

I’d also heard that it was nothing but an urban legend.

“I didn’t think cows even slept standing up,” I said. To prove my point, I gestured at a few of the nearest cows. The dark shapes were lying in the grass, their four legs tucked beneath them. Some were motionless; others quietly chewed.

Dusty pulled out his toothpick and pointed it at me. “Shows what you know, city slicker. Not
all
cows sleep standing up. Those that do, you can tip.”

“I’m in,” Joe whispered. “As long as it doesn’t hurt them.”

“Not at all,” replied Ned. He waved for us to follow. “Come on.” Keeping his flashlight beam low, he led us deeper into the herd.

I caught up to Joe. “We’re being punked, you know,” I whispered. “It can’t be real.”

Joe shrugged. “Why not?”

I shook my head and followed my brother and our two guides as they snaked through the herd. Most of the cattle kept to the ground as we passed. Finally Ned and Dusty stopped ten feet away from a dark shape and switched off their flashlights.

“There she is,” Ned whispered. “What did I tell you?”

I could make out the shape of a cow, silent and unmoving in the dim moonlight. I guess some of them did sleep standing up.

“That’s your target,” Dusty whispered.

I turned to Joe and gestured to the dark shape. “You first.”

Ned shook his head. “No, no. It’s gonna take two of you. And you’ll need a good running start from here. Remember, these cows weigh over a thousand pounds.”

Dusty handed me his flashlight. “And hold on to this. You’re going to want to see her expression when she goes down. Just keep it off until you’re done.”

“You don’t want to wake her before you can tip her,” added Ned.

“You sure this doesn’t hurt them?” Joe asked again.

“Oh no,” Ned replied. “Just a rude awakening.”

“You’ll love it,” Dusty added.

Joe looked at me and I shrugged. I still didn’t quite believe it, but I was exhausted. If waking up a cow would let
me
go back to sleep, I wanted to get it over with.

“On three,” Joe whispered. “One . . . two . . . three.”

We charged the sleeping cow, closing the ten feet in no time and slamming into the huge animal. It was like hitting a cowhide-covered brick wall. We hit the ground beside her. The beast didn’t tip, but did stir. I switched on the flashlight just as her head swung around to look at us. That’s when I realized two things. One: cow tipping is not real. And two: this wasn’t a cow, it was a bull. He glared at us with big eyes set beneath even bigger horns.

“Bull!” I shouted, scrambling backward.

“Oh, man!” said Joe as he clambered to his feet.

We both made it to our feet only to slam into each other and fall back to the ground. The flashlight beam flared wildly across the animal looming over us.

At once, Ned and Dusty were between us and the bull. At first I thought they were trying to save us. Instead they were doubled over with laughter.

Still on the ground, I looked at my brother. “What did I tell you?”

Ned helped us to our feet while Dusty patted the bull on his meaty shoulder.

“You were right, Frank. Cow tipping is a myth,” confirmed Ned.

“And another myth is that all bulls are mean,” Dusty added. He scratched the bull’s forehead. The animal snorted and closed his eyes, seeming to enjoy the attention. “Old Buford here wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

E
VERY SPRING, I’D GET MY
ten-speed out of the garage for the first time since winter. I would air up the tires, oil the chains, and all that. Then, if it was a nice day, I would go for a nice long bike ride.

Then there was the
next
day, when I’d wake up sore because I hadn’t sat on that tiny seat all winter long. It would be . . . hard to sit down.

Well, that’s how I felt in the morning when I climbed into the saddle. My butt was sore from riding the previous day. At least I thought it was from riding; it might have been from landing on it when Frank and I had slammed into that bull. And speaking of sore . . . the hip I’d fallen on after being thrown off Norman yesterday? Ouch.