With Hoss' permission, rather than go back to the ranch, Candy rode on, following the tracks the calf killers had left behind. He couldn't seem to find the trail which would lead to where they started from, but he could find one to where they'd been going last night once they left the calf.
Candy had no love for wolves. Fact was, he'd hunted them a time or two, both as a hired hand and as a bounty hunter. And he wasn't eager to follow the tracks just to prove Randal wrong either, even though that would be enormously satisfying. No, his reason for what he did now was very simple: he wanted to find the calf killers, and stop them. While he had at first assumed it was wolves, evidence was mounting to suggest it wasn't, and it was clear to him that both Randal and the Cartwrights were too prejudiced against wolves to look for any other suspects.
When he'd heard that Joe had once been mauled by a wolf, it suddenly made more sense. Ranchers always hated wolves, and not without reason. Wolves were death on cattle, horses, sheep and even chickens. But to really close a man's mind to the possibility of a wolf's innocence, all you had to do was show him someone that had been mauled by one. Candy had seen such a victim of mauling before, when he was working for a sheep rancher in Texas. A young shepherd boy had been mauled by a rabid wolf, which had bitten him on the face, arms and chest. Its teeth had cut deep, but the real damage was in the strength of its jaws, which had the power to break bone. The boy had died as a result of his wounds, and Candy had joined the hunting posse going after the animal. When it was eventually brought to bay, it had turned on its hunters, managing to unseat several from their horses, which resulted in them being injured, one man being trampled by his own fleeing mount and a second one having his throat ripped out by the wolf itself before it was finally shot to death.
Any sympathy Candy might have had for wolves had died that day along with those men. Even though the wolf was later pronounced to be rabid, the fact was that it was a terrifyingly effective killer, not only of sheep but also of men. And that was one wolf alone. Most wolves traveled in packs. But the most frightening thing about the wolf was how very dog-like it had appeared. Anyone not looking for it might have mistaken the buff colored animal for a dog. It wasn't as big as wolves were often said to be either. Half-starved due to disease, it was difficult to say how much it would have weighed had it been healthy, but Candy's best guess was only about sixty or seventy pounds. Less than half the weight of a grown man at its peak, weakened and thinned by disease, it had nonetheless managed to kill no less than three people, two of them by its own fangs. And that wasn't counting the untold number of livestock it had mauled and left uneaten during its reign of terror.
No, Candy didn't have any love for wolves.
But he did have a great affection for the Cartwrights, and an obligation as a hired hand to do what he could to safeguard their livestock. And he did not believe the cattle were being killed by any wolf.
Had he believed himself to be tracking rabid wolves, he would have been reluctant to ride alone. However, the presence of a pair told him that rabies was unlikely. Diseased wolves were nearly always alone, though nobody knew if they left the pack or if it was the other way around. Besides which, the dead calves were being eaten, not merely mauled. It appeared that the hunters made their kill and then stopped. A rabid wolf typically continued its attack, seeming intent on savaging as many other living things as it could before it died, almost as though it were actively trying to spread its disease. That there was a pair of animals told him they were probably not rabid. That would make them less dangerous, because they had in their heads whatever reason animals were normally capable of, and that would encourage them to avoid a confrontation. Animals did not like pain or injury, and would go to tremendous lengths to avoid such things, meaning that the wolves would move away from him if they could, and would likely only attack if he cornered them.
Dogs were a different matter entirely. Feral dogs had been known to attack humans without the excuse of disease, injury or apparent hunger. There were several theories as to why they did that. Some suggested they had formerly been abused by humans and were seeking revenge on the entire human race. Others suggested that, because they had once warmed themselves by man's fire, dogs had seen his weakness and knew when not to fear him. They further postulated that dogs knew the guns of men, and knew when a man wasn't carrying a gun or was not prepared to fire. Wolves and coyotes seemed to be able to learn about rifles, and would flee from a man carrying one much sooner than a man unarmed or carrying only a pistol. Many farmers and ranchers attested to the fact that having a gun kept wolves and coyotes at bay where the mere presence of a human did not. There was no verifying that.
Whatever the case, Candy had been on enough wolf hunts to know that wolves were often blamed for attacks perpetrated by other animals. He had once abandoned a hunting posse entirely because they insisted on hunting wolves when the tracks around the site where a calf had been killed were clearly those of a cougar. The animal was later shot by a rancher while attacking his livestock. In the meantime, a half dozen wolves and two coyotes (mistaken as wolves prior to being shot) had been killed as a result of the hunt. All the while, more cattle had been slain by the cougar. Nobody was hunting the cat, and the only reason it had ever been shot at all was because a rancher had been guarding his cattle against wolves.
There was no denying the fact that wolves were killers of livestock, nor that they were known to attack and kill humans for various reasons (some of which were known only to themselves). If he had believed the calves were being slain by wolves, Candy would have been the first one ready to hunt them. Well, one of the first anyway. Joe was pretty eager on the wolf hunting front. But the evidence didn't support it, and Candy wanted the real killers caught before they wiped out the Cartwright's herd or -worse- moved on to attacking the ranch hands guarding the cattle.
The tracks were difficult to follow. Candy was more than once forced to stop and dismount, hunting around for the tracks. It was like following the trail of a drunk. The tracks wove this way and that, sometimes cutting into heavy underbrush and other times weaving out into the open. Eventually he lost one set of tracks entirely and was forced to concentrate solely on the other.
Finally, near the edge of a seasonal stream swollen by the spring rains, Candy lost the tracks entirely. Whatever it was, dog or wolf, had entered the water. Whether it had crossed the stream and continued on or had merely waded for awhile then exited the stream on the same side, he couldn't say. He followed the stream up one side and then down the other for awhile, hoping to pick up the track. Instead, on the opposite side from that which he had started, Candy was distracted by the sound of a horse snorting, and he wondered who'd be out in this wooded area, a mile or more from where the cattle were pastured, and at least as far from any of the cut pathways of the ranch.
Candy traced the sound to its origin, more out of curiosity than anything, though he kept a hand on the handle of his pistol just in case the owner of that horse proved to be unfriendly. As he approached the source of the sound, a horse (presumably the one that had snorted earlier) whinnied, evidently having sensed Candy's horse, who pricked his ears in response.
Realizing the trees were thinning and a clearing was not far ahead, Candy stopped his horse and dismounted to make less of a target of himself. It was pure instinct on his part to do so, an old trick he'd learned. When people heard horses, they tended to assume they were being ridden. If somebody took a shot at you without a clear view, they usually aimed high, trying to hit above the horse's back. That made being on the ground the safest place to be, even aside from any other advantage, such as the ability to quickly duck behind a tree or rock, something which could not be done from horseback.
He also started to circle the clearing, intent on approaching no closer until the wind was blowing towards him, carrying the scent of both him and his horse away from the animal or animals in the clearing that would give him away by their noise. Before he got more than a few yards, a dog barked.
"Whose there?" it was the voice of a girl or young woman, and it sounded of fear.
Candy made the quick decision to reveal himself. Now the person or persons in the clearing knew someone or something was in the woods nearby, they would be looking for any movement of the trees or brush, and might take a shot at him out of alarm if he failed to appear. The more frightened people got, the more apt they were to start taking potshots. And Candy had no desire to be shot at.
He stepped out into the clearing with his horse in tow.
What he found was a small covered wagon with a burned out campfire near it. A pair of horses was tied nearby, big-boned and heavy animals clearly meant to pull the wagon. Under the wagon lay a large dog of uncertain ancestry. The shaggy animal barked and rose to a crouch; it was too tall to actually stand under the wagon. It bared its teeth in warning and barked again.
A brown-haired woman, presumably the one who'd spoken, stood near the campfire, her eyes wide at the sight of the stranger. A man came around the side of the wagon, carrying a lowered rifle.
"What's all the ruckus?" he demanded.
"Just me," Candy said in one of his best reassuring voices, holding his hands away from him and showing they were empty, "Didn't mean to startle you. I didn't expect to meet any folks out this way."
"Neither did we," the woman said, tugging at the shawl draped over her shoulders.
"Who are you?" the man asked, his hands tightening on the rifle.
"I should be asking you that," Candy said, then answered the question, "Name's Candy. I work for Ben Cartwright. He owns this land, you know."
"We don't know any Cartwright," the man said, his tone still hostile and his rifle lifting slightly.
"We're just passing through," the woman said hurriedly, "We didn't mean to be trespassing, we just needed a place to camp. One of our horses pulled up lame."
"Hattie," the man spoke the name warningly.
"There's no harm in his knowing," the woman -Hattie- told the man, then she returned her attention to Candy, "We'll be on our way just as soon as we can."
A lame wagon horse was no minor matter. They were more heavily built than riding horses, and expected to pull a lot more weight. On average, it took them longer to recover enough to go back to work than it did riding horses.
It was immediately obvious that these people didn't have much. Their horses were older animals, their clothing looked almost worn out, the rifle the man carried was practically ancient, and even the wagon itself had clearly seen better days. Likely they couldn't afford to replace their lame horse. It was plain from the packed look of the wagon that they were moving themselves and probably everything they owned to a new place. Moving west. Certainly they didn't give the impression that they were gypsies, who tended to always be traveling. They looked very much like they were going somewhere. Where that was exactly was none of Candy's business.
"I'll let Mr. Cartwright know you're out here," Candy said, "I don't expect he'll mind your being here. Though he or one of his sons may come out to speak with you," he nodded towards the man with the gun, "I recommend you keep that rifle lowered. They're nice, friendly people, and fair too, but they don't take kindly to having guns aimed at them," he started to go, then another thought struck him, "And keep your dog close. There's been an animal killing cattle around here, and I wouldn't want someone to mistake your dog for it and shoot him."
The two people said nothing, merely stared. Candy took that as his cue to go. He swung up on his horse, turned around and rode back the way he'd come. He'd lost the trail he'd been following for sure now. Besides, Mr. Cartwright would want to know about the people staying on his land.
Like as not, Mr. Cartwright or one of his boys would ride out here to check out these people, but Candy had seen enough to feel confident reporting that, while they were a little unfriendly, they seemed like they were just passing through on their way to somewhere else.
The size of the dog and hungry look of both animals and humans had not escaped his notice, and he knew it was possible they might have a second dog. He also realized that the tracks of the single animal had been heading in that general direction. But something bothered him. It was the campsite. It looked like they'd only been there for a day, maybe two. Nowhere near long enough to have been killing calves all along. Granted, they could have moved from one campsite to another and the dogs could have run well ahead of them, perhaps smelling potential food from miles away.
Rather than go back at once, Candy decided to scout out the area. It couldn't do any harm to look for tracks that would indicate those people were telling the truth. And anyway, he was already out here. He was inclined to believe them not only because they struck him as honest, but also because he doubted they would be hungry if they'd been the ones killing the calves all this time, not as frequent as the killings had been. If the dog had been acting alone or in tandem with another dog, at the very least the dog itself should not appear as thin as it did. If the dog acted on behalf of the humans, they should be well-fed. If the dog acted on its own, it should be all but fat. It wasn't a lot in the way of evidence, but it was enough that Candy's suspicions were mostly allayed.
But he knew it was a good idea to find out as much as he could. Not only for his own peace of mind, but also to report back to the Cartwrights. If anybody started believing in his theory that it was dogs and not wolves, it would be all too easy for them to blame the strangers in the woods. He knew that the Cartwrights tended not to jump to conclusions when it came to people, but some of the hands on the ranch were not so slow to judge. Regardless of the instruction or will of the employer, things could happen out on the range, especially when a paycheck was at stake.
The Ponderosa could weather a bad year. The loss of calves was painful, but Mr. Cartwright and his boys would survive. But very possibly at the cost of employees. The loss of cattle would reduce the numbers of hands needed, and also increase the pinch of the cost of paying, feeding and housing them. The hands were eager to get rid of the problem, before their jobs were endangered by it.
Candy was just as worried about his job as anybody. But he knew that the way to solve the problem was to find the killers, not somebody to blame and punish. He knew also that patience was not among the virtues common to cattlemen or ranch hands. They prided themselves on quick resolutions to issues. Unfortunately, there were times when this was done at the cost of truth and justice.
Having come uncomfortably close to a hangman's noose, Candy knew this better than anyone.
"No luck finding those dogs?" Randal's tone was a mocking one as he added, "Let me guess: you lost their tracks somehow? You, the great tracker."
Candy was irritated, not only because Randal was a constant source of annoyance, but also because he happened to be right. With Randal, it didn't matter that there was a stream, rocky ground and an unpredictable travel pattern to follow. For him, all that mattered was that Candy had lost the tracks, the fact that it was impossible to keep following them didn't enter into it.
But instead of telling Randal that, or telling him what he could do with his opinion, Candy merely responded, "And... did you catch any wolves while we were gone?"
Candy had returned to the ranch to tell Mr. Cartwright about the people with their wagon. Joe had ridden out to check on them. Hoss and Candy had killed some time working in the barn and checking some fences, then they'd ridden back to where they'd found the slain calf that morning. Randal had been left on watch there some distance from the calf, just in case the wolves returned in daylight.
"Don't be stupid," Randal spat, "Wolves don't come out in daylight unless there's something wrong with them. And we both know that, whether it's a pair or a pack, there being more than one wolf proves something. Diseased wolves don't travel in packs. Or pairs. Not for long anyway."
"I know that," Candy said mildly, controlling the impulse to respond to the name calling with considerable self-restraint, "I'm surprised you do."
Before Randal could say anything, Hoss took it upon himself to intervene.
"Candy, why don't you go down and join the men watchin' the herd. I'll stick with Randal here," though phrased as a question, it was clearly a command, and Candy obeyed.
"Sure," he said, glancing from Hoss to Randal, then back, "See you in the morning."
What troubled him as he rode away wasn't that Hoss had clearly favored Randal over him, and had been doing so for awhile now, but that Hoss would be spending the night effectively alone with the man. The herd was down in the valley tonight, and that was where the ranch hands would be. If there was any trouble up here, it would be over almost as soon as the men in the valley would hear a shot fired.
Not that Candy expected wolves. He didn't even expect dogs. Not where the calf was anyway. But up here, in the dark, shadows could look like anything. And it didn't take much to set Randal off. A hot head eager to prove he was right was not who you wanted to spend a night in the dark with. He could too easily get trigger happy, and somebody (namely Hoss) could get hurt in the process.
Candy knew that he himself had a temper, and that sometimes he was too clever for his own good. But he also knew better than to go shooting at shadows. He'd survived enough nights surrounded by enemies he couldn't see crawling through the dark to know when to keep his bullets to himself. In the dark, it was too easy to get turned around, too easy to let your imagination run wild. Too easy to shoot one of your own instead of the enemy because everybody looked the same in the dark if you were scared or angry enough. Randal, Candy was certain, lacked that experience.
He also knew that the smell of blood would be drawing other animals. Nothing brought coyotes in from miles around like the smell of death. And there was no telling how many coyotes had been mistaken for wolves even in broad daylight. If a coyote, or a pair of them, showed up tonight... well, Candy just hoped Hoss knew enough to keep Randal close.
Candy needn't have worried about that. One thing he didn't know about the time Joe was mauled by a wolf was that exactly what he was worried about now had happened then. Joe hadn't merely been bitten, he'd also been shot. It was something Hoss would never forget, and Hoss was definitely smart enough to take steps to ensure it never happened to him. The being shot, or the shooting.
Unlike Hoss and Randal, the riders in the valley would be taking it in shifts to ride around the area where the cattle were bedding down. The objective was to encourage the cattle to stay together, to spot any wandering cattle, and also to increase the human presence in the area through sight, sound and scent, which would hopefully discourage any wolves lurking in the dark. There was a camp set up some distance from the cattle for riders not on shift. It had to be distant so they could have a fire without scaring the cattle, who were naturally afraid of open flame and the smell of smoke.
Knowing where each man was expected to be reduced the chances of riders shooting each other, as did the fact that they were riding horses. Not only was the sound of hooves and a horse's body moving through grass and other vegetation a dead giveaway, anyone up on a horse created a shape much too large (and especially tall) to be mistaken for a wolf. If anybody dismounted, they would stay near their horse. The presence of the horse would make any rider hesitated to take a shot, not only because they expected a man to be with the animal, but also because it wouldn't shy from its own rider as it would attempt to flee from a wolf. Ideally, everyone would be staying on their horses unless they were in camp.
Of course, ideally, there wouldn't be some animal -wolf or otherwise- out there killing cattle.
The major disadvantage they had was that this had been going on for awhile now. The men were beginning to get into the routine of riding around and seeing nothing, which meant they were starting to expect to see nothing, which made it less likely that they would see anything because they weren't looking for it. It also meant they were getting frustrated, which increased the likelihood of fights amongst themselves, and also a tendency to shoot at shadows just from the tension. And nights out on the hard ground when they had a bunkhouse in spitting distance was beginning to wear on them. Sparking tempers and fraying nerves were always bad, but especially when paired up with boredom and an increasing sense of futility. The plain and simple fact was that their presence did not seem to be stopping the killing, or even slowing it down.
Even aside from the increased danger during the night, not only from what might be out in it but from the men themselves, Candy had seen men quit for lesser reasons. But the men in the employ of the Cartwrights were surprisingly loyal. Or perhaps not so surprising. They were fairly paid, treated with respect and -above all- the Cartwrights didn't ask their men to do something they wouldn't. Hoss wasn't the only Cartwright out here. Mr. Cartwright and Joe were out at other camps, trying to keep the cattle in those areas together and out of danger. There were too many cattle to successfully keep all together. The grazing alone saw to that, but there was also the mere matter of simply trying to keep that many cattle in a herd. Mr. Cartwright also didn't like keeping all his eggs in one basket. With multiple herds, if there was a predator around, hopefully only one herd would stampede. And disease spread could be slowed down or stopped before all the cattle on the ranch were wiped out. There were other reasons, but those were the primary ones that Candy knew of.
Of course, being rather stupid beasts, the cattle were often trying to spread out still more, and individuals often strayed. Riders routinely had to drive a wayward cow or calf back to the herd, pull them from mud or cut them free of barbed fencing they'd blundered into.
As best Candy could tell, the difference between livestock and wildlife was the ability to survive on its own. Candy very seldom found deer caught in fences, and he'd never found one stuck in the mud except for a yearling fawn once. Deer never trampled their own young when in flight, anyway Candy had never seen it. And deer almost never drank stagnant or poisoned water either. If you ever did find a cow clever enough to survive, she was usually nothing but trouble because she was too intelligent to be satisfied with her lot as an animal that did nothing but eat, drink and sleep. Intelligent cattle only made a rider's job harder, because they tended to be stubborn and mischievous, and also quite active.