Chapter 6 - BUFFALO HOLLOW
6
Buffalo Hollow smelled of coal smoke, wet cattle, and old blood.
The abandoned rail spur had not been abandoned at all.
Hale had built a hidden stockyard among limestone ridges.
Fences.
Loading chutes.
Branding pens.
A warehouse.
Temporary bunkhouse.
Everything necessary to transform stolen cattle into legitimate freight.
Katrina approached from ridge with Josiah Kane, Mateo, Jeb, and seven riders.
The rest stayed with wagons.
Kane studied through field glass.
“Thirty men.”
“Too many.”
“Yes.”
“Can Fort Griffin send troops?”
“Message sent.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow if weather slows them.”
Too late.
Hale could destroy records tonight.
Smoke already rose from warehouse chimney.
Burning papers?
Katrina said:
“We need get inside.”
Kane looked at her.
“You plan on cooking again?”
“Maybe.”
Jeb muttered:
“God help them.”
They watched.
Wagons came and went.
One supply wagon entered unchallenged.
Katrina noticed canvas markings.
GENERAL PROVISIONS.
A cook wagon.
She smiled.
“No.”
Jeb recognized smile.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna do something stupid.”
“Useful.”
“Same thing with you.”
They intercepted supply wagon half mile away.
Driver an old man named Willis not part conspiracy.
Hired to deliver flour, salt, bacon.
Kane explained danger.
Willis gladly surrendered wagon.
“They owe me thirty dollars.”
Another motive.
Katrina put on his oversized coat and hat.
Mateo drove.
Jeb hid beneath canvas despite weakness.
Kane and others waited outside.
At gate, guard glanced.
“Late.”
Mateo grunted.
“Storm.”
Guard lifted canvas.
Katrina sat among sacks.
He stared.
“Who’s she?”
“Cook.”
“Why?”
Mateo shrugged.
“Men eat.”
Universal truth.
They entered.
Katrina’s size worked oddly in her favor.
Men saw cook before threat.
They drove to warehouse.
Katrina unloaded slowly, watching.
Inside shelves held cattle papers.
Branding irons.
Crates.
Medicine bottles.
Bell’s missing bag.
There.
Proof.
Then she saw Silas Hale.
He argued with man in suit.
Deputy Marshal Creel, likely.
Hale:
“We move half tonight.”
Creel:
“Army knows.”
“Then burn rest.”
“Ledger?”
“Cook has it.”
Creel laughed.
“A woman?”
Hale did not.
“She’s trouble.”
Katrina almost smiled.
Finally.
Proper respect.
She carried flour sack inside.
Nobody stopped her.
At rear office, desk covered papers.
Need records.
She set sack down.
Pretended adjust rope.
Slipped documents under coat.
Then saw photograph.
Samuel Quinn.
Alive.
Standing with Hale and Coyle beside wagon.
Why photo?
Maybe old crew.
Back had note:
Quinn paid 25 advance. Refused second job.
Quinn initially recruited.
Then refused.
That explained access.
Maybe Hale hired him because expected cooperation.
Quinn discovered poison plan.
Killed.
Katrina pocketed photo.
Then voice:
“You.”
She turned.
Vernon Coyle.
Somehow escaped Adobe Wells.
He stared.
“Should’ve cut your throat when I had chance.”
Katrina grabbed butcher knife.
Coyle lunged.
She dodged, drove elbow into ribs.
He hit shelf.
Bottles crashed.
Men shouted outside.
Disguise over.
Jeb burst from wagon with revolver.
“Back off!”
Coyle laughed.
“You can barely stand.”
Jeb’s hand shook.
True.
But gun steady enough.
Katrina kicked Coyle’s knee.
He dropped.
She pressed knife to his coat.
“No killing,” Kane had said unless necessary.
Coyle reached for hidden pistol.
Jeb fired into floor beside hand.
“Next one ain’t floor.”
Men ran toward warehouse.
Mateo slammed doors.
Katrina saw Bell’s medicine chest.
Grabbed.
Papers.
Grabbed.
Then another crate labeled Double H payroll.
Inside money bags.
Hale stealing wages too.
“Go!”
They escaped rear loading door.
But yard alerted.
Hale shouted.
Horses.
Gunfire.
Kane’s riders fired from ridge, forcing heads down.
Katrina climbed onto loose horse awkwardly, medicine chest tied.
Jeb behind.
They galloped toward canyon.
Coyle pursued after freeing himself.
Hale too.
Katrina’s horse stumbled on icy rock.
She nearly fell.
Jeb caught rein.
“Stay up!”
“Trying!”
At ravine fork, Mateo turned left.
Kane planned ambush? No.
A rope gate dropped behind them, blocking passage with felled logs prepared.
Rustlers slowed.
They escaped.
Back at safe ridge, papers examined.
Evidence enormous.
Insurance policies.
False brands.
Payoffs.
Names of ranches robbed.
Payments to corrupt officials.
Then biggest shock.
Double H owner, Franklin Hart.
Wilmer’s employer.
Received money.
Not innocent.
Katrina stared.
“Hart involved?”
Kane frowned.
“Looks so.”
Wilmer had trusted Double H.
Maybe not Hale but owner itself corrupt.
Then ledger:
F. Hart — partnership share 18%.
G. Harrow — 32%.
S. Hale — 20%.
F. Doyle? no unrelated.
Rest distributed.
So both outfits’ owners may be criminals.
The drive combined not legitimate/stolen halves.
Entire enterprise structured fraud.
Wilmer unknowingly worked for thieves on both sides.
That meant Fort Griffin law might face wealthy men with political influence.
Kane said:
“This won’t end with Hale.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“I didn’t ride through blizzard for one man.”
Then medicine chest.
Doctor Vance would need.
They returned toward camp.
On route, rider came fast.
One of Wilmer’s men.
He was frantic.
“Morales is gone.”
“What?”
“Men from Double H came.”
“Who?”
“Owner Franklin Hart.”
Katrina’s blood chilled.
Hart arrived with fifteen hired guns.
Claimed Wilmer stole cattle.
Arrested him under private authority.
Taking him north.
To Buffalo Hollow?
Probably.
“Where are cattle?”
“Held.”
“Sick men?”
“Safe for now.”
Kane swore.
Hart moving to silence Wilmer before law.
They turned again.
Endless.
At crossroads, they saw tracks.
Hart’s group.
Katrina said:
“We catch them.”
Kane shook.
“We’re tired.”
“So are they.”
“Miss Foster—”
“Wilmer defended me when nobody else did.”
“That ain’t reason to die.”
“No.”
She looked at evidence.
“But he’s also witness.”
Practical.
Kane smiled.
“Better.”
They rode.
Found Hart camp at abandoned church.
Wilmer tied to post.
Franklin Hart stood before him.
Katrina recognized wealthy rancher from distant memory.
Fine coat.
Silver beard.
He spoke calmly:
“You sign confession, I leave you horse.”
Wilmer spat blood.
“No.”
“You sold herd to Hale.”
“Forged.”
“Your signature.”
“Blank paper you ordered me sign.”
Hart smiled.
“Court sees ink, not excuses.”
There it was.
Scapegoat.
Katrina stepped from darkness.
“Court sees ledgers too.”
All heads turned.
Hart stared.
“Who the hell are you?”
Jeb whispered:
“Oh, this’ll be good.”
Katrina held up stolen ledger.
“The cook.”
Hart’s face changed.
Recognition.
Not of her.
Of danger.
He drew revolver.
Kane’s rifle clicked behind him.
“Wouldn’t.”
Hart’s men hesitated.
Katrina continued.
“Your name’s in here.”
“Forgery.”
“Maybe.”
She tossed photograph of Hale stockyard.
“Army can decide.”
Hart smiled again.
“You think army cares about cattlemen stealing from cattlemen?”
“No.”
“But federal pension—” wrong era. Keep cattle theft. “Mail contracts, rail fraud, livestock theft across territories, insurance fraud.”
Rail companies cared.
Military supply fraud too.
Ledger showed cattle destined under false army contracts.
Federal jurisdiction.
Hart realized.
Then distant bugle sounded.
Army patrol.
Eli Turner had not just sent Reverend Kane.
He had reached Fort Griffin.
Troops coming.
Hart’s men dropped guns one by one.
Not loyalty worth hanging for.
Wilmer freed.
He looked at Katrina.
“You disobey every order I give.”
“You give bad orders.”
“I told you stay with Bell.”
“And look how that worked.”
He laughed despite swollen face.
Then his expression softened.
“Thank you.”
Katrina cut his rope with butcher knife.
“Don’t make a habit.”
Army arrived before dawn.
Hart arrested.
Ledger seized.
Buffalo Hollow surrounded next day.
Silas Hale escaped again.
He left stockyard burning.
But not everything burned.
Enough survived.
Cattle theft evidence.
Branding irons.
Insurance papers.
Medicine.
Samuel Quinn’s belongings.
Then soldiers found shallow grave behind warehouse.
Three bodies.
Trail workers.
One identified as previous Cross Tie drover who supposedly deserted.
Another cook from drive two years earlier.
Not Quinn.
Quinn had been buried on trail.
Pattern older.
Men who discovered theft died.
Katrina stared at graves.
This conspiracy had consumed lives for years.
And Hale remained free.
Then Wilmer approached with telegram.
From Kansas.
Cross Tie owner Gideon Harrow had vanished.
Likely fleeing.
Franklin Hart arrested.
Hale loose.
The drive could not simply continue.
Ownership of three thousand cattle disputed.
Hundreds stolen.
What now?
Katrina looked toward herd.
Find rightful owners.
Impossible quickly.
But there was one thing she knew.
These cattle could not be sold north until brands investigated.
The trail drive was over.
Cowboys groaned.
Months of wages uncertain.
Wilmer looked defeated.
Katrina said:
“Feed the men.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow we sort cattle.”
“Katrina—”
“Tonight they eat.”
Simple.
First things first.
She returned to chuck wagon.
Lit fire.
Bacon.
Beans.
Biscuits.
Jeb sat nearby.
No insults.
He asked:
“Need help?”
Katrina handed him potatoes.
“Peel.”
He stared.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
He began.
May you like
For first time, Jeb Rollins worked in kitchen.
And nobody laughed.
