Montana Sky

dog stopped circling the mangled steer and raced back to the horses.
    “Well, shit.” Ben was already dismounting. “Made a mess of it.”
    “Wolves?” It was more than the market price to Willa. It was the waste, the cruelty.
    He started to agree, then stopped short. A wolf didn’t kill, then leave the meat. A wolf didn’t hack and slice. No predator but one did.
    “A man.”
    Willa drew a sharp breath as she stepped closer, saw the damage. The throat had been slit, the belly disemboweled. Charlie pressed against her legs, shivering. “It’s been butchered. Mutilated.”
    She crouched, and thought of the bear. No choice there but to kill, and the field dressing had been done efficiently with the tools at hand. But this—this was wild and vicious and without purpose.
    “Almost within sight of the cabin,” she said. “The blood’s frozen. It was probably done hours ago, before sunup.”
    “It’s one of yours,” Ben told her after checking the brand.
    “Doesn’t matter whose.” But she noted the number on the yellow ear tag. The death would have to be recorded. She rose and stared over at the stream of smoke rising. “It matters why. Have you lost any cattle this way?”
    “No.” He straightened to stand beside her. “Have you?”
    “Not until now. I can’t believe it’s one of my men.” She took a shallow breath. “Or yours. There must be someone else camping up here.”
    “Maybe.” He was frowning down at the ground. They stood shoulder to shoulder now, linked by the waste at their feet. She didn’t jerk away when he ran a hand down her braid, or when he laid that hand companionably on her arm. “We had more snow, a lot of wind. The ground’s pretty trampled up, but it looks like some tracks heading north. I’ll take some men and check it out.”
    “It’s my cow.”
    He shifted his eyes to hers. “It doesn’t matter whose,” he repeated. “We have to get both herds rounded up and down the mountain, and we have to report this. I figure I can count on you for that.”
    She opened her mouth, closed it again. He was right. She was next to useless at tracking, but she could organize a drive. With a nod, she turned back to her horse. “I’ll talk to my men.”
    “Will.” Now he laid a hand over hers, leather against leather, before she could mount. “Watch yourself.”
    She vaulted into the saddle. “They’re my men,” she said simply, and rode toward the rising smoke.
     
    S HE FOUND HER MEN ABOUT TO HAVE THEIR MIDDAY MEAL when she came into the cabin. Pickles was at the little stove, sturdy legs spread, ample belly spilling over the wide buckle of his belt. He was barely forty and balding fast, compensating for it with a ginger-colored moustache that grew longer every year. He’d earned his name from his obsessive love of dill pickles, and his personality was just as sour.
    When he saw Willa, he grunted in greeting, sniffed, and turned back to the ham he was frying.
    Jim Brewster sat with his booted feet on the table, enjoying the last of a Marlboro. He was just into his thirties with a face pretty enough for framing. Two dimples winked in his cheeks, and dark hair waved to his collar. He beamed at Willa and sent her a cocky wink that made his blue eyes twinkle.
    “Got us company for dinner, Pickles.”
    Pickles gave another sour grunt, belched, and flipped hisham. “Barely enough meat for two as it is. Get your lazy ass up and open some beans.”
    “Snow’s coming.” Willa tossed her coat over a hook and headed for the radio.
    “ ’Nother week easy.”
    She turned her head, met Pickles’s sulky brown eyes. “I don’t think so. We’ll start rounding up today.” She waited, holding his gaze. He hated taking his orders from a female, and they both knew it.
    “Your cattle,” he muttered, and turned the ham out onto a platter.
    “Yes, they are. And one of them’s been butchered a quarter mile east of here.”
    “Butchered?” Jim paused in the act of handing Pickles an open can of beans. “Cougar?”
    “Not unless cats are carrying knives these days. Someone opened one up, hacked it to pieces, and left it.”
    “Bullshit.” Eyes narrowed, Pickles took a step forward.
    “That’s just shit, Will. We’ve lost a couple to cougar. Jim and me tracked a cat just yesterday. She musta circled around and got another cow, that’s all.”
    “I know the difference between claws and a knife.” She inclined her head. “Go look for yourself. Dead east, about a