Montana Sky

He’d chosen a prime steer out of the pasture, one that was fat and sleek and would have brought top money at market.
    He’d chosen his spot carefully. Once he was finished, he could ride fast and soon be back at the ranch yard, or on a far point of Mercy land. One edge of the road butted the rising hills that went rocky under a cloak of trees.
    No one would come upon him from that direction.
    The first time he’d done it, his stomach had revolted at the first spurt of blood. He’d never cut into anything so alive, so big before. But then—well, then it had been so . . . interesting. Cutting into such a weighty living thing, feeling the pulse beat, then slow, then fade like a clock run down.
    Watching the life drain.
    Blood was warm, and it pulsed. At least it pulsed at first, then it just pooled, red and wet, like a lake.
    The steer didn’t fight him. He lured it with grain, then led it with a rope. He wanted to do it dead center of the ranch road. Sooner or later someone would come along, and my, oh, my, what a surprise. The birds would circle overhead, drawn by the smell of death.
    The wolves might come down, lured by it.
    He’d had no idea how seductive death could smell. Until he’d caused it.
    He smiled at the steer munching from the bucket of grain, ran a hand over the coarse black hide. Then tugging at the plastic raincoat to be sure it covered him well, he raked the knife over the throat in one smooth move—he really thought he was getting better at it—and laughed delightedly as blood flew.
    “Get along, little dogie,” he sang as the steer crumpled to the ground.
    Then he got to the interesting work.
     
    P ICKLES WAS HAVING A FINE TIME SULKING . AS HE DROVE along the fence line, he played several conversations in his head. He and Jim. He and Willa. Then he tried out the words he’d use when he complained to Ham about how Willa had gotten in his face and threatened to fire him.
    As if she could.
    Jack Mercy had hired him, and as far as Pickles was concerned nobody but Jack Mercy could fire him. As Jack was dead—God rest his soul—that was that.
    Could be he’d just up and quit. He had a stake laid by, growing interest in the bank down at Bozeman. He could buy his own ranch, start out slow and easy and build it into something fine.
    He’d like to see what that bossy female would do if she lost him. Never make it through the winter, he thought sourly, much less through a whole damn year.
    And maybe he’d just take Jim Brewster along with him, Pickles thought, conveniently forgetting he was mighty putout at Jim. The boy was a good hand, a hard worker, even if he was an a-hole most of the time.
    He might just do it, buy him some land up north, raise some Herefords. He could take Billy along, too, just for the hell of it. And he’d keep the ranch pure, he thought, adding to his fantasy. No damn chickens or small grains, no pigs, no horses but what a man needed as a tool. This diversifying shit was just that. Shit. As far as he was concerned, it was the only wrong turn Jack Mercy had ever made.
    Letting that Indian boy breed horses on cattle land.
    Not that he had anything against Adam Wolfchild. The man minded his business, kept to himself, and he trained some fine saddle horses. But it was the principle. The girl had her way, she and the Indian would be running Mercy shoulder to shoulder.
    And in Pickles’s opinion, they’d run it straight into the ground.
    Women, he told himself, belonged in the goddamn kitchen, not out on the land ordering men around. Fire him, his ass, he thought with a sniff, and turned onto the left fork to see if Ham and Wood had finished up.
    Storm brewing, he thought absently, then spotted the rig stopped in the road. It made him smile.
    If a rig had broken down, he had his toolbox in the back. He’d show anybody in southwest Montana with sense enough to scratch their butt that he knew more about engines than anybody within a hundred miles.
    He stopped his rig and, tucking his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, sauntered over. “Got yourself some trouble here?” he began, then stopped short.
    The steer was laid wide open, and there was enough blood to bathe in. The stink of it had his nostrils flaring as he stepped closer, barely glancing at the man crouched beside the body.
    “We got us another one? Jesus fucking Christ, what’s going on around here?” He bent closer. “It’s fresh,” he began, then he saw—the knife, the blood running off the