Free The Legend of Deadman's Mine by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

Carter said, “before they all get stolen.”
    â€œStolen?” Brian asked. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m talking about horse thieves,” Carter said.
    Brian was so startled that he stumbled over a rock in the path. “Are you saying that someone’s stealing Mr. Austin’s horses?” he asked.
    â€œThe horse thieves haven’t got to Hank’s horses yet,” Carter said, “but they probably will. Over on the nearest working ranch—where Wade Morrison breeds and sells horses—a valuable breeding stallion named Nightstar was stolen just last week and disappeared without a clue. The sheriff was here, asking questions, and so were a couple of newspaper reporters. You probably never heard of Nightstar, but he was a winning racehorse.”
    â€œWas?” asked Brian.
    â€œHe was retired five years ago,” Carter said.
    â€œWhat makes you think the thief who stole Nightstar would be after Mr. Austin’s horses?” Brian asked. “A dude ranch isn’t a place for valuable racehorses.”
    Sean grinned. “I don’t think Chandler here knows as much about horses as he thinks.”
    Carter turned to Sean. “That’s Carter,” he grumbled, “and I know a lot more about horses than you do…Vaughn.”
    When Carter began lecturing Brian about horses, Sean decided he’d had enough of Carter Burton III and ran on ahead. He was the first to reach the steps leading off the lodge porch, where a ranch hand was sitting in a battered oak rocking chair, rubbing strips of leather with a stained rag. His heavily wrinkled face was as deeply tanned as the leather.
    Sean introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Sean Quinn.”
    â€œI’m called Woody.” He smiled at Sean.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” asked Sean as he leaned closer to watch.
    â€œCleaning a harness.”
    â€œCool,” Sean said. He imagined putting the harness on one of the horses, then climbing up into the saddle. He couldn’t wait for his first ride.
    Brian was asking Carter a question when they clumped up the wooden stairs to the porch.
    â€œThat horse you said was stolen,” he suggested. “If it was taken out of the barn in a truck or a horse trailer, wouldn’t somebody have heard something?”
    â€œHow should I know?” Carter said, shrugging.
    â€œWoody,” Sean said, “this is my brother, Brian.”
    Brian and Woody exchanged hellos.
    â€œHey, Brian, maybe Woody can answer your question,” Sean said.
    â€œRight!” Brian said, brightening. “Carter and I were talking about the horse theft,” he explained, “and there are lots of things I want to know.” From force of habit, Brian pulled out a pen and a notebook from his jeans pocket. “Did the sheriff check to see if anyone had spotted a horse trailer on the highway at night?” Brian began. “And did he look around for hoofprints, in case the horse was led away on foot?”
    Woody shrugged. “Don’t ask me,” he said, directing his attention to the harness. “That’s Wade Morrison’s business.” He looked up at Brian and squinted. “I don’t mind anybody’s business but my own.”
    â€œBut do you happen to know if they found anything unusual around the stables or the grounds?”
    â€œA criminal not only takes away something from the scene of a crime,” Sean said. “He also leaves something—maybe just a clump of dirt from his shoe or a blade of grass.”
    It was one of the first rules of investigating, something he’d heard his father mention a million times.
    â€œWhat’s with you two dorks?” Carter snapped. “You ask so many questions someone might think you’re private investigators or something.”
    â€œOur dad is a private investigator,” Brian said. “And someday I plan to be one, too. This case of a