Shotgun Surrender & Stone Cold Texas Ranger
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B.J. Daniels
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Prologue
The moment the pickup rolled to a stop, Clayton T. Brooks knew he should have put this off until morning. The night was darker than the inside of an outhouse, he was half-drunk and he couldn’t see two feet in front of him.
Hell, maybe he was more than half-drunk since he was still seriously considering climbing the nearby fence and getting into a pasture with a bull that had almost killed its rider at a rodeo just a few days ago in Billings, Montana.
To make matters worse, Clayton knew he was too old for this sort of thing, not to mention physically shot from years of trying to ride the meanest, toughest bulls in the rodeo circuit.
But he’d never had the good sense to quit—until a bull messed him up so bad he was forced to. Just like now. He couldn’t quit because he’d come this far and, damn, he needed to find out if he was losing his mind. Quietly he opened his pickup door and stepped out.
He’d coasted down the last hill with his headlights out, stopping far enough from Monte Edgewood’s ranch house that he figured his truck wouldn’t be heard when he left. There was no sign of life at the Edgewood Roughstock Company ranch at this hour of the night, but he wasn’t taking any chances as he shut the pickup door as quietly as possible and headed for the pasture.
If he was right, he didn’t want to get caught out here. The whole thing had been nagging him for days. Finally tonight, he’d left the bar when it closed, climbed into his pickup and headed out of Antelope Flats. It wasn’t far to the ranch but he’d had to make a stop to get a six-pack of beer for the road.
Tonight he was going to prove himself wrong—or right—he thought as he awkwardly climbed the fence and eased down the other side. His eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark. Wisps of clouds drifted low across the black canvas stretched on the horizon. A few stars twinkled millions of miles away, and a slim silver crescent moon peeked in and out.
Clayton started across the small pasture, picking his way. Just over the rise, he froze as he made out the shape of the bull dead ahead.
Devil’s Tornado was a Braford brindle-horned, one-ton bull—a breeder’s Molotov cocktail of Brahma and Hereford. The mix didn’t always turn out good bucking bulls, but it often did. The breed had ended more than a few cowboys’ careers, his included.
He stared at the huge dark shape standing just yards from him, remembering how the bull had damn near killed the rider at the Billings rodeo a few days before.
The problem was, Clayton thought he recognized the bull, not from Billings but from a town in Texas some years before. Thought he not only recognized the bull, but knew it intimately—the way only a bull rider gets to know a bull.
Unless he was losing his mind, he’d ridden this brindle down in Texas four years ago. It had been one of his last rides.
Only back then, the bull had been called Little Joe. And Little Joe had been less than an exciting ride. No tricks. Too nice to place deep on and make any prize money on.
The other bulls in the roughstock contractor’s bag hadn’t had any magic, either—the kiss of death for the roughstock contractor. Last Clayton had heard the roughstock outfit had gone belly-up.
Earlier tonight, he’d finally remembered the roughstock contractor’s name. Rasmussen. The same last name as the young man who’d showed up a few weeks ago with a handful of bulls he was subcontracting out to Monte Edgewood.
If Clayton was right—and that was what he was here to find out—then Little Joe and Devil’s Tornado were one and the same.
Except that the bull at the Billings rodeo had been a hot-tempered son-of-a-bucker who stood on its nose, hopped, skipped and spun like a top, quickly unseating the rider and nearly killing him. Nothing like the bull he’d ridden in Texas.
But Clayton was convinced this bull was Little Joe. Only with a definite personality change.
“Hey, boy,” he called softly as he advanced. “Easy, boy.”
The bull didn’t move, seemed almost mesmerized as Clayton drew closer and closer until he could see the whites of the bull’s enormous eyes.
“Hello, Little Joe.” Clayton chuckled. Damned if he hadn’t been right. Same notched ears, same crook in the tail, same brindle pattern. Little Joe was Devil’s Tornado.
Clayton stared at the docile bull, trying to make sense of it. How could one bull be so different, not only from years ago but also from just days ago?
A sliver of worry burrowed under Clayton’s skull. He definitely didn’t like what he was thinking because if he was right...
He reached back to rub his neck only an instant before he realized he was no longer alone. He hadn’t heard anyone approach from behind him, didn’t even sense the presence until it was too late.
The first blow to the back of his head stunned him, dropping him to his knees next to the bull.
He flopped over onto his back and looked up. All he could make out was a dark shape standing over him and something long and black in a gloved hand.
Clayton didn’t even get a chance to raise an arm to ward off the second blow with the tire iron. The last thing he saw was the bull standing over him, the silver sickle moon reflected in the bull’s dull eyes.
