The Cheyenne Maiden

Copyright © Robin Gideon 2014. All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Totally Bound Publishing. “We’ve got to put an end to this rustling here and now,” Riley Raymond said, sitting easily upon his roan mare, his hands crossed over the saddle horn. He was a big man, several inches over six feet tall. Broad in the shoulders and across the chest, powerful in the thighs, his naturally muscular physique had been honed and hardened by countless hours in the saddle. His black hair, now dusted prematurely at the temples with silver, was parted on the side and combed back, curling just over the collar of his jacket. Square-jawed, with a prominent nose, Riley Raymond had a mouth that could be fierce or friendly, depending upon his mood and the company he was with. “It’s not having my cattle stolen that I can’t afford,” Riley said, continuing his conversation with the sheriff. “In truth, unless someone tells me that another dozen head have been rustled, I’d never know it. What I simply can’t afford is to have the word get out that I’m vulnerable, that I can have my cattle stolen right out from under my nose and I don’t do a damned thing about it.” Riley Raymond was one of the wealthiest men in the territory—at thirty-four, certainly the wealthiest of his age—so a crime against him called for proper action. Ignoring criminal activity always set a bad example for the padfoots, rowdies and rustlers in Whitetail Creek. And whenever the criminal element felt emboldened to steal from the wealthy, the sheriff’s job always became more difficult. In addition, men like Riley Raymond, by nature of their wealth and social standing, had a powerful influence over the sheriff’s life. When their private ponds rippled, Sheriff Perkins always felt a tidal wave. “I want the best tracker money can buy,” Riley stated quietly. There was steely resolve in Riley’s tone. The sheriff’s horse seemed to sense the thinly controlled rage and pranced a few nervous steps. “It’ll be done,” the sheriff replied, speaking for the first time in many minutes. “But why not let someone else ride after the rustlers? It would be a hell of a lot safer. Besides, you’ve got to have fifty good men on your payroll you can send out.” “I want to handle this myself,” Riley said. “It sets a good example for the rest of the men to know that I wouldn’t ask anything of them that I wouldn’t do myself.” “No telling how violent these men might be,” Sheriff Perkins replied. “Apprehending cattle rustlers is gritty, dangerous business. Seems like a job best left to Red-Eye Philo and Billy Friday.” “Philo and Billy are good men,” Riley agreed, “but I’ll need them at the ranch while I’m gone.” Riley turned his horse around to return to his ranch. The sheriff said, “I’ll meet you at my office tonight at six o’clock.” “Get the best talent money can buy.” Riley smiled. “I like riding with the best. That’s why I like riding with you.” Then, without waiting for an acknowledgment of the rare compliment, Riley tapped his heels to the mare and rode off at a canter, secure in the knowledge that when he arrived at the sheriff’s office at six o’clock, the finest tracker would be waiting there for him. After that, the apprehension of the men responsible for stealing his cattle would only be a matter of time. * * * * The sheriff’s office for Whitetail Creek was on the northeast corner of the city, far from being centrally located in the cattle town. The jail had first been constructed to deal with the rising violence and lawlessness that came with the itinerant cowboys who passed through town. None of the city’s leaders had been able to accurately guess how fast, large or in which direction the city would grow. Riley was pleased to see a pinto tied to the hitching post outside the sheriff’s office. It probably meant that Sheriff Perkins had the tracker waiting inside. Never concerned about the sheriff’s ability to find the best man for the job, he was nevertheless reassured t