Page 20 of Unleashed
"When'd you find this?" I ask.
"First light. Rode out to check the line like I always do. Found the gap, saw the tracks, and called it in."
"Tracks?"
He points. I follow his finger to the dirt on the far side of the fence, the side that doesn't belong to us. Boot prints. Two sets, maybe three. And tire tracks, deeper and wider, the kind made by a flatbed or a stock trailer backing up close to the gap.
My jaw tightens.
"This isn't drift, Paulie. Someone opened this fence on purpose."
He nods. "That's what I reckoned."
I stand and look out across the fence line. From here, it runs straight south for about two miles before it hits the propertyboundary. And on the other side of that boundary, separated by a strip of land that the Bureau of Land Management doesn’t really enforce, sits Ranch 42.
The same ranch whose boys I put on the floor twelve hours ago.
A cold feeling settles in my gut.
"Where does this line go?" I ask, even though I already know. I want to hear him say it. Make sure my hangover isn’t disrupting my brain.
"Runs straight down to the 42 boundary," Paulie confirms. "This is the closest point between our herds and Carson's land. Always has been."
I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial Colten. He picks up on the second ring.
"If you're calling to tell me you're dying, I don't care. I feel worse than you do," Colten groans.
"Colt. I need you at Pasture Fifteen. Now."
Something in my voice cuts through his hangover. I hear the shift, the creak of a chair, the jingle of keys, Colten going from brother to soldier in half a breath.
"What's going on?"
"Fence line's been cut. Done last night or early this morning. Three sections down on the south line."
"The south line." A pause. "That's?—"
"Ranch 42's boundary. Yeah."
Silence.
"I'm on my way. Twenty minutes."
"Bring your rifle."
I hang up and turn back to Paulie. The old man's watching me with pride.
"Paulie. I need a full count. Every head. Every single one. And I want the calves counted separately, check the tags, checkthe ear marks, match them against the registry. If we're missing so much as one calf, I want to know about it before lunch."
He tips his hat. "You think they're rustling?"
"I think someone opened our fence on the same night their boys picked a fight with us at Rosie's." I swing back up onto Seven and gather the reins. "And I think that's a hell of a coincidence."
Paulie doesn't argue. He's worked for Sterlings long enough to know that when one of us says something isn't a coincidence, it isn't a question. He mounts up and rides east toward the scattered herd, already counting, doing the quiet, meticulous work that keeps a ranch this size from bleeding out at the edges.
I sit on Seven at the top of the rise and look south. Toward Ranch 42. Toward the tire tracks and the boot prints and the cut wire that tells me last night wasn't just a bar fight between drunk cowboys.
It was a play.
