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here, are you?” While not clear what should be done next, Tobe was sure that wasn’t it.
    â€œWhy not?” Luke countered with a mocking smile and stepped a foot in the stirrup to swing into the saddle. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
    â€œThat’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Tobe declared in frustration. “There’s a dead body here.”
    â€œYour powers of observation are astonishing, Tobe,” he mocked dryly.
    â€œBut . . . we have to do something. Call somebody,” Tobe insisted earnestly.
    Taking pity on him, Luke nodded. “As soon as we get back to the ranch, I’ll call John Beauchamp and let him know about our very dead friend here. After that, it’s his business, not mine. Are you coming?” He stopped his horse next to Tobe. “Or are you going to stay here and hold services?”
    â€œI’m coming.” Tobe climbed back on his horse and followed Luke up the slope after the cattle.
    At the top, he threw one last glance over his shoulder. He saw a glimpse of pale bone against the darker soil; then his eye was caught by a furtive movement in the draw. It was Saddlebags Smith, hurrying to cross the open ground, a big sack bouncing on his back.
    â€œSaddlebags is lightin’ out,” he said to Luke.
    â€œHe probably figures it’s going to get too crowded around here when the sheriff shows up.” But Luke didn’t bother to look back. Right now, he was more interested in a good long swig of one-hundred proof.

Chapter Two
    A stock trailer loaded with saddled horses clattered behind the pickup as it bounced along the muddy track through the winter pasture. Luke sat hunched against the cab’s passenger door, carefully balancing the last cup of coffee from the thermos, his hat pitched forward, shadowing his eyes.
    Tobe was behind the wheel. For once his mind wasn’t wandering all over the place, the way it usually did, daydreaming about all the things he was going to do and have someday.
    Working on the Ten Bar was only part of his dream, though it was a big part of it. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a better outfit in the whole state of Wyoming. Sure there were bigger ones, even richer ones, but none that were better.
    On the Ten Bar, work was still done, more or less, the same way it had been done a hundred years ago. Come roundup time, no noisy helicopters swooped into canyons, beating the brush to chase out cattle; men on horseback did that. There were no calving sheds; the cows gave birth on the open range. On the Ten Bar, calves were still roped and dragged to branding fires, instead of being herded into squeeze chutes.
    Even the hay for winter feed was cut, windrowed, and stacked using horse-drawn machinery. It took longer with horses, but, like Luke said, he didn’t have a bunch of money tied up in tractors, mowers, and mechanical balers—machinery that was both expensive to purchase and maintain, and tended to break down at inopportune moments.
    At today’s prices, cattle ranching offered a marginal profit at best. It behooved a man, Luke said, to cut operational costs where he could. On the Ten Bar, just about everything was done the tried-and-true cowboy way.
    And Tobe ate up every minute of it, determined he would have a ranch of his own someday and run it the same way. He was convinced beyond a doubt that he couldn’t have a better teacher than Luke McCallister.
    Admittedly, the wages were skimpy even with room and board factored into them. And the vagaries of Wyoming weather made working conditions far from ideal most of the time—winter’s blizzards and freezing temperatures, spring’s rain and mud, summer’s heat and sudden thunderstorms, and autumn’s mix of all three.
    In some ways, the life hadn’t turned out to be as romantic as he had pictured it. At times it was downright monotonous and never ending.
    Tobe had said as much to