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minutes.”
    Herrera gave a worried tug at his silky black mustache. “Where you headin’, anyhow?” Herrera asked.
    â€œFigure to borrow some coffee beans.”
    â€œHell, we got plenty,” Rudy Ruiz sang out, who doubled as a cook. But Lassiter was already riding away.

6
----
    At the Diamond Eight camp, the men were in various positions on the ground, some sitting cross-legged, others leaning against tree trunks or a wheel of the chuck wagon. Each man had a tin plate of food in his lap.
    An ominous silence fell over the crew as an angry Lassiter rode into camp. Doug Krinkle nudged Shorty Doane, who still wore a dirty bandage around the head Lassiter had struck with his gun barrel. They looked over at Brad Sanlee, who sat alone, wolfing food from a plate that rested on his uplifted knees.
    Sanlee’s large head came up at sight of Lassiter and his bearded jaws stopped chewing the tough beef.
    Lassiter’s glance at the tent was not lost on Sanlee. The flaps were still down. Lassiter wondered if she’d had anything to eat.
    The old cook, Tim Marshal, had just finished ladling a plateful of beef and beans for himself. He sat down on the ground as Lassiter reined in nearby.“You got an almighty nerve comin’ over here like this,” the old man hissed. “You lose somethin’ over here today?”
    â€œCame to borrow some coffee beans,” Lassiter said roughly, his eyes still on Sanlee some distance away.
    Instantly, Sanlee became the jovial ranch owner. He beamed across the shadowed camp at Lassiter. “How come your cook didn’t come to do the borrowin’? A foreman sure don’t do it, Lassiter. Mine sure wouldn’t, if I had one. But maybe Rep Chandler hired himself a different breed. You think that might be it, Lassiter?” He grinned, his teeth gleaming through the beard. Some of his crew wore tense smiles. Others seemed uneasy. The agreement among the five ranchers for roundup was that there was to be no trouble of a personal nature for the duration. There was time enough to settle grievances afterward. Too much time had been lost in the past, too many men injured, to put up with violence any longer when they were working cattle. The agreement had been drawn up by Marcus Kilhaven and the others had signed it.
    In the uncomfortable silence, Lassiter was sure he saw one of the tent flaps move slightly. Was he under observation by the dark-haired girl?
    Brad Sanlee lounged on the ground some four feet from the front of the tent, his long legs now outstretched, his back resting against the trunk of a sturdy mesquite. Lassiter skirted the semicircle of cowhands. Their knives and forks scraping the tin plates was a dull metallic sound in the twilight. Some of them were slurping the last spoonful of watery beans. But all eyes were on Lassiter as he rode over to where Sanlee was eating. Lassiter dismounted.
    â€œRep Chandler hired himself a foreman,” Lassitersaid quietly. “And I’m it. But I used the coffee beans as an excuse. I wanted to have a talk.”
    He dropped the reins of his horse on the damp ground, his gaze boring into the gray eyes across from him. He could end it now, call Sanlee on the death of Vince Tevis and get it over with. Or should he hold his cards close to the vest and play each hand as it was dealt? He decided on the latter choice.
    With a fierce grin, Sanlee jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the tent. “You wanta know about
her.
That’s why you come.”
    â€œYou read my mind,” Lassiter said.
    â€œEver hear what happened to the cat that was curious?”
    Lassiter’s smile was cold. “This is some different.”
    â€œYou’re a cool one, Lassiter.” Sanlee gave a short laugh. “Guess I’ll believe it next time somebody says you got ice water in your veins instead of hot blood.”
    â€œI’ve got a strong hunch she’s being held here. ‘Against her