“If you hear from Mason,” Doyle said, “you might pass on the word that I’d like to buy out his share of the bank.”
“You might talk to his mother about that. Amelia should be able to help you. But if you’re in a position to buy Mason’s share, it sounds like your businesses must be doing fine.”
Doyle beamed. “Fine? Hell, I’ve made ten times what I’d have earned if I’d kept Dad’s ranch. Just this week I’ve bought parcels from three drylanders who are giving up on Montana life. Bought them out for pennies on the dollar. Next week, there’ll be more. And then I’ll resell the land at a profit.”
“Is that legal?”
“Sure, it is. If you want to buy in, I could even cut you a share of the action.” His gaze narrowed. “Of course, with your wife being from a sodbuster family, you might have a different view of the situation.”
“Well, you never know.” Blake shrugged. “I do have a question. The wheat harvest was good last fall, and wheat prices are still sky-high. The farmers made money. Why do so many of them want to leave?”
“Why don’t you ask your in-laws that question?”
“I’m asking you.”
“All right.” Doyle hesitated, his lower lip jutting, before he spoke. “It’s because they aren’t welcome here, and people are letting them know it. Now, don’t look at me. Their money’s as good as anybody else’s. I welcome their business. But after what happened last summer with that little girl dying in the dynamite blast, they’re worried that their families will be next. And I can’t say I blame them. All I can do is help them out by buying their property.”
“I see.” Blake rose from the chair he’d taken, preparing to leave.
“Let me be straight with you.” Doyle stood and offered his hand. “You can count on me to be your friend. But some folks aren’t happy with you cozying up to those honyockers. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Blake accepted the handshake and left the bank. Could Doyle be talking out of both sides of his mouth? True, the homesteaders had given the banker plenty of business. But he appeared to do even better reselling their property to ranchers, speculators, and more immigrants who wanted land they could farm.
With so many drylanders pulling up stakes after a good season, something had to be going on. Had the raiders returned? And if they had, which seemed likely, who was paying them? Was it Doyle? He had the cash and the motivation. So did the Calders and several other ranchers in the area, including Amelia.
But these people were all prominent citizens, well-known in the community and with a great deal to lose. To communicate with the raiders and transfer the cash payments, a go-between would be needed, a silent partner, trusted and discreet, someone beneath notice.
But he was speculating now. Maybe the raiders were just people who hated the sodbusters. Or maybe the raids weren’t even happening. With a muttered curse, he strode down the boardwalk in the direction of the saloon.
From across the street, he noticed a wagon loaded with cut boards pulling up alongside Doyle’s lumber store. He recognized it as belonging to the sawmill outside Miles City. Only then did Blake recall how he’d refused to give Doyle a discount on his lumber and the use of his wagons. So Doyle had taken his business elsewhere, as was his right. Not that it bothered Blake much. He had plenty of other customers. And with the demand for lumber so high, there was room for competition.
In the saloon, he ordered a beer and drank it alone at the bar. A couple of ranchers he knew were sitting at a corner table with an empty chair. A few months ago they might have asked him to join them. Today they barely glanced in his direction. Clearly, he wasn’t the most popular man in town. After talking to Doyle, he knew why. He could only hope his connection to the homesteaders wouldn’t affect his business—and that Hanna’s family wouldn’t become a target.
His attention veered as he caught snatches of conversation from the table behind him. He’d noticed the four cowboys sitting there when he came in. Blake remembered seeing them around town, but he didn’t know their names or where they worked. He hadn’t given them much thought until his ears caught a well-remembered name.
“Talk to Hobie Evans,” one cowboy was saying. “He says there’s good money in it. Better’n chasin’ those damned cows. And you won’t have to hurt nobody, just scare ’em good. Maybe burn a few barns or pull down a few fences and scatter the stock. Give them honyockers a reason to pack up and leave. Then this country will be like it was before.”
“So where do I find this Hobie?”
“He works for the Snake M. Ed Mace is the boss, but he gives Hobie plenty of leeway. He usually comes in here on a Saturday night. Big feller. You can’t miss him. Him and the boys are plannin’ a little fun over the next couple of weeks, so if you want to make some money, you’ll want to sign up afore then.”
So the harassment was already underway. And people were already leaving. Doyle probably had a hand in it, but who else? And how could the trouble be stopped before people like the Andersons started dying?
The cowboys finished their drinks and left. Blake was about to leave, as well, when the door swung open again and Webb Calder walked in.
Alvar had told Blake about Stefan Reisner shooting Webb. Still Blake was unprepared for Webb’s appearance. He’d lost so much weight that his face was hollow-cheeked, his eyes sunk into shadows. His plaid flannel shirt hung loose on his once-powerful body, and he carried one shoulder slightly higher than the other.
Blake greeted him. “Can I buy you a drink, Webb?”
“Why not? Thanks.” Webb took a seat at the table the cowboys had vacated. “I’ll have a whiskey.”
Blake ordered two whiskeys and carried them to the table. “Glad to see you’re on the mend, Webb,” he said.
Webb raised the glass to his lips, taking time to let the mellow burn linger in his mouth. “I guess you know what happened,” he said.
“It’s not exactly a secret. I’m just glad Reisner didn’t kill you.”
“If he had, I’d have deserved it. But the worst thing is knowing I can’t ever be with Lili again.” He took another sip of whiskey. “Ruth tells me you married that little blond girl my boys were raving about. Yellow Braids, they called her.”
Blake chose to ignore the subtle jab. He wasn’t here to quarrel with the Calder heir. “That’s right. It was a quiet wedding, but it seems that word’s gotten around.”
“Well, at least nobody shot you.” Clearly Webb didn’t know the truth. Maybe the secret reason for the wedding would stay safe.
“Hanna’s a fine girl. I could’ve done worse.” Blake studied the man he’d never called his friend. He remembered their earlier conversation, when Webb had turned his back on the idea of helping stop the violence between ranchers and homesteaders. Now that it seemed about to happen again, he could still use Webb’s help. It was possible that Webb’s involvement with the Reisners had left him even more embittered than before. But Blake would have to take that chance.
“I’m concerned about my wife’s family,” he said. “There’s talk of more raids starting up. Some of the farmers are already leaving.”