by Lyle Brandt
But it was not to be.
Tallgrass might be resilient, but it still bore traces of some forty horses passing over, holding steady on a westbound course. They’d never found the animal left riderless when Bishop shot its owner, but at least it wouldn’t starve while wandering across the prairie. Predators might ultimately take it down, but that was out of Bishop’s hands and he dismissed it from his mind.
After some ninety minutes on the raiders’ trail, Dixon declared, “Looks like they made for Willow Grove, all right.”
“You reckon they’ve got friends there, boss?” asked Sullivan.
“I doubt it,” Dixon said. “The burg is no great shakes, I grant you, but the folks that I had dealings with seemed fairly honest. I can’t see them laying out the welcome mat for straight-up outlaws.”
“How about buying a bunch of rustled horses, boss?” asked Thorne.
“They might do that,” Dixon allowed. “Last time I passed through there, a blacksmith name of Leon Moon was owner of the livery. He traded stock from time to time. A deal like this, I guess he might not ask too many questions.”
Melville cleared his throat. Began to say, “But if they’re sold already—”
“Then we take ’em back,” said Dixon, interrupting him. “Lawman or no, he can’t buy stolen animals and hope to profit from it.”
“What about the ‘good faith’ angle, boss?” asked Sullivan.
“To hell with that,” Dixon replied. “What’s mine is mine unless I sign a bill of sale.”
“With all respect,” said Sullivan, “this Leon Moon might take a different view of it. The other folks in town might side with him.”
“And that would be their last mistake,” said Dixon. “I don’t reckon it’ll come to that, but be prepared for anything.”
Bishop stayed out of it, but he was thinking back to Mason County and the Hoodoo War. He’d wandered into that thinking the sides were cut-and-dried, right versus wrong, but when the gun smoke cleared, he wasn’t all that certain.
If they had to fight a town he’d never heard of till last night, how would it end?
“How many people are we talking in this town?” asked Sullivan.
“Can’t say for sure,” Dixon replied. “My guess would be about a hundred sixty, seventy. Might run as high as two.”
Could be a lot of guns, thought Bishop. And a lot of innocent civilians caught in a potential cross fire.
Still, it was too late now. Dixon was right about the stolen horses. If they couldn’t fetch them back, Bishop saw no way for the drive to forge ahead or turn back, either one. Five drovers—whittled down by two unless they ditched the chuck wagon and starved themselves—would never keep two thousand steers in line with all their other hands on foot.
They only had one course of action open to them: moving straight ahead and taking back what had been stolen from them overnight. If blood was spilled, he reckoned there’d be plenty of it.
* * *
* * *
DAYLIGHT WAS NEARLY an hour old when Amos Finch led his surviving bandits into Willow Grove. The town wasn’t fully awake yet, but some of its folks were getting on about their business, mainly at a restaurant called Slawson’s for the breakfast service, while some early-rising merchant types were sweeping off their wooden sidewalks.
“That’s the livery, off to your left,” Finch said. He nosed his grulla toward the rambling structure, checking out the town’s main street meanwhile, noting the broom-wielders who paused to eyeball new arrivals in their midst, trailing more horses than five men would likely need.
No women on the street so far, and he supposed the doxies at the town’s saloon—the Gem, according to its sign—were doubtless in their cribs and sleeping off last night. None of the men he saw so far were packing guns where Finch could see them, but that didn’t make them harmless by a long shot.
Cautious faces, not quite sullen, but he figured that could change in nothing flat if they felt threatened by a pack of seedy newcomers.
The livery’s large door was standing open, muffled noises emanating from inside. Finch recognized the sound of horses being fed and raised a hand as they approached the building, signaling for his companions to rein up. Around them, fanning off to either side, the stolen mounts were glad to rest but eyed the men who’d snatched them with uneasy eyes.
Finch called out to whoever was awake and laboring inside the livery. “Hello in there! We’ve got some stock to sell.”
A young man—more a boy, late teens at most—came out, wearing a union suit under bib overalls. He had a shock of red hair topping a round, freckled face and blinked once at the sight of strangers on his doorstep, with three dozen horses sweaty from their all-night run. He singled Finch out as their seeming leader, asking, “Help you?”
“You can take this cavvy off our hands at a fair price,” Finch said. “Turns out we’ve got more than we need, and less cash than we’d like.”
“I hear you,” said the kid. “Wish I could help you out.”
“What say?”
“I ain’t the owner here. That’s Mr. Moon, the blacksmith. He’s off on early visits to a couple of the farms this morning. I can’t make an offer on your animals unless I wanna end up roasting in his forge.”
Finch fought an urge to scowl, asking the boy, “When will your boss be back, you think?”
“He didn’t say, but shoeing nags on two spreads that I’m sure of, it could take ’im three, maybe four hours out and back.”
“Dammit!” Earl Mullins muttered, loud enough to wipe the kid’s smile clean away.
Finch cut a sour look at Earl, then turned back to the boy. “Three hours sounds all right, I guess. You got someplace where we can stash these ponies while we’re waiting?”
“Ain’t got room for all of ’em inside, but there’s a fenced corral out back. You wanna leave ’em there awhile, I reckon it’s okay.”
“They could use feed and water,” Finch advised.
“The water’s not a problem, mister. Oats or hay, now, I’d be forced to ask the going rate.”
“Which is?”
“Four bits a day,” the boy replied.
Finch worked out the arithmetic, which came to eighteen dollars. Frowning, he asked, “How about we write that off against the selling price?”
“You’d have to work that out with Mr. Moon. I can’t say what he’d offer you, supposing that he wants to buy at all.”
“Well, let’s just water them for now, then. If he wants to deal, your boss can feed ’em on his own dime.”
“Fair enough,” the kid replied. “No promises about that sale, remember.”
“I heard you the first time,” Amos said.
The kid walked them around to the empty corral and held the gate open until the animals were all inside, then closed and tied it up. The rustlers left their own mounts with the rest, still saddled, hauling long guns from their scabbards as they left the pen.
“You want to, I can let you put your rifles in the livery.”
“No, thanks,” Finch said. “I find it’s best to keep ’em close at hand.”
“Okay, then.”
“Is the grub at Slawson’s any good?” Shel Gretzler asked the boy.
“It’s fair, I’d say, in quality and price. Unless you’re hauling cookery and want to build a fire back here, it’s pretty much the only place in town.”
“Guess it’ll have to do,” Finch said, and tucked his Henry underneath his left arm, leading his companions back onto the dusty street.
* * *
* * *
GAVIN DIXON MISSED his brindle mare but didn’t mind the rose gray from the chuck wagon too much. At least he had his old familiar saddle under him, with his Winchester ’73 in its boot to his right, muzzle angled down and toward the front.
He figured that mig
ht come in handy yet, before the day was out.
The rifle was chambered in .38-40—a .401-caliber cartridge in fact, with a bottlenecked case, hurling an eighty-grain slug downrange at just a smidge over eleven hundred feet per second. It weighed nine and one half pounds, had a twenty-four-inch barrel, and a striking range of right around one hundred yards.
For close-up fighting, though, his weapon was a Remington Model 1875 revolver, essentially a takeoff on the ’58 percussion model with its cylinder bored out to fit metallic cartridges. It took proprietary .44 Remington Centerfire ammo and Dixon could hit what he aimed at within decent range, be his target a rattler, coyote, or man.
As to the prospect of gunplay over the stolen horses, he had a divided mind. Dixon was furious at being robbed, wasting more precious time, and would have liked to see the rustlers swing for it, no question. On the other hand, the prospect of a shooting match with outlaws, risking drovers in the process, put him off.
His mind was mulling over that, when Whitney Melville, scouting up ahead, called back, “We’ve got another dead one here.”
They rode up on the corpse, sprawled in the tallgrass flecked with dried blood-colored rusty red.
“Another Mexican,” said Sullivan. “You reckon that means something, boss?”
“Who knows?” Dixon replied. “Maybe losing the first one put him out of sorts and they got tired of it. Maybe he didn’t like their leader’s plan and bit off more than he could chew. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Except we’re after five, not six,” said Melville. “Closer to dead even.”
With the emphasis on “dead,” thought Dixon, but he kept it to himself. Instead, he noted, “And again, no horse.”
“The first one likely ran off when his rider dropped,” Thorne said. “This one, I’d suspect the others took it with ’em. One more to unload for cash, after they divvy up his gear.”
“Whatever,” Dixon answered. “Killing this one slowed them down a mite. Not much, maybe, but every minute helps us. Willow Grove it is.”
“And if they ain’t there, boss?” asked Sullivan.
“We might be up the creek,” Dixon allowed. “Reckon we’ll have to wait and see.
So they rode on westward, with the sun climbing behind them in a washed-out sky.
* * *
* * *
FINCH LED HIS men into Slawson’s, following the smell of frying bacon that had reached them from a half block out. He counted eight diners ahead of them, most paired at tables, two men at the counter with their backs turned toward the street.
But not for long.
Strangers appearing in their midst surprised the locals, all eyes turning toward the unfamiliar faces, some blanching as curiosity contended with alarm. Five customers in gun belts might not raise eyebrows, but five men toting rifles, with revolvers tied down to facilitate fast draws, was something else again.
A waitress with her dark hair tied back from a round face, set atop a decent body, did her best to smile as she approached them, saying, “Gentlemen, good morning! Welcome to Slawson’s.” She couldn’t help but glance down at their long guns dangling, but she held the smile.
“Don’t fret about the rifles,” Finch advised her. “We’ve got business at the livery and didn’t want to leave them sitting unattended.”
“Probably a good idea,” she said. “My name’s Corinne, and you-all must be new in town.”
“Just passing through after we have a word with Mr. Moon.”
“His day for visiting the farms,” she said. “Well, just a second while I get a couple tables pushed together for you, and—”
“We’ll help with that,” Finch said, passing the job to Mullins with a nod. It took less than a minute, by which time the other diners seemed to reckon there was no cause for alarm and turned back to the breakfast plates in front of them.
Corinne directed their attention to a chalkboard on the wall, with menu items listed in block capitals with reasonable prices written after them, then came back with five coffee mugs and filled them from a pot, not offering a choice of milk or sugar. Three of the rustlers leaned their rifles up against a nearby wall, the other two depositing their long guns on the floor beside their chairs,
The menu offered fried or scrambled eggs, sausage or ham, with johnnycakes and fried potatoes on the side. The weary riders mixed and matched their favorites while Corinne wrote them on a little pad of paper and retreated toward the kitchen once again. Each man was using pocket money for his meal and the supply of cash was running low.
Eyeing the small change in his hand, Gretzler said, “This looks like my last meal, lest we turn to stealing chickens.”
“All we have to do is wait for this Moon fella,” Finch replied.
“However long that takes,” Fitzer grumbled.
“If we get outta here too early,” Finch said, “we can always stop at the saloon.”
“Sounds better,” Mullins told them. “But I only got enough scratch left for one, maybe a couple beers.”
“Until we sell the horses,” Finch reminded all of them.
“And if this Moon don’t want ’em? Then what?” Dyer asked.
Finch shrugged. “Then we persuade him. Did you ever know a businessman who didn’t keep some cash on hand?”
That got them laughing, Corinne smiling with them as she brought their plates, although she’d missed the joke.
* * *
* * *
YOU GOT A fix on how much longer, boss?”
The question came from Whit Melville, a couple of the drovers murmuring to show that time was on their minds as well. Not sounding angry yet, but all aware that they should have been on the trail by now, another mile or so behind them and the herd.
Without checking his timepiece, Gavin Dixon said, “I make it right around another hour, more or less.”
“I hope it’s less,” Deke Sullivan averred. “Them boys we left are gonna have a rough time managing the steers on foot.”
“And once we get to Willow Grove,” Thorne added, “we still gotta hope we find the horses and whoever took ’em.”
“Horses first,” Dixon reminded all of them. “I want to settle up those responsible for this as much as you-all, but our first priority is taking back what’s ours.”
He put it that way, rather than saying “what’s mine,” in hope that they all shared some sense of investment in their mission, even though most of the stolen animals belonged to him alone.
“Still wouldn’t mind some payback, boss,” said Sullivan.
“Let’s play the cards we’re dealt and see what happens,” Dixon answered.
“Sure,” Deke said. “Just like you say.”
“But just in case,” Dixon allowed, “before we get to town, all of you need to check your hardware. Wouldn’t do to come up short of rounds if we start making smoke.”
Dixon knew he shouldn’t have to tell them something elementary like that, but didn’t reckon they would take offense at him stating the obvious.
And if they did, to hell with ’em. A boss gave orders and expected them to be obeyed.
He glanced across at Toby Bishop, sitting easy on his snowflake Appaloosa, nothing on his face or in his attitude to show he was the least bit edgy. Dixon was impressed with Bishop, how he’d dropped one of the thieves last night and waited with him while the other hands on watch pursued the dead man’s cronies. Killing was a part of cattle-driving sometimes, and he had no further doubts concerning Bishop’s personal efficiency in that regard. Conversely, Toby didn’t act like he’d enjoyed it either, telling Dixon that he wasn’t hiding loco underneath a bland façade.
More like a soldier, Dixon thought, able to turn it on and off—although he’d known some veterans of the last war who’d come back home . . . “infected” was the best word he could think of for it, so inured to kill
ing that they missed it when they came back to civilian life.
Some learned to bury that inside. Others went out looking for any lame, half-baked excuse to draw more blood.
To live through that—and live with it, managing not to lose yourself—decided if a man could face the future without breaking down.
And when they got to Willow Grove, Dixon supposed they’d put that standard to the test.
* * *
* * *
WITH BREAKFAST CLEARED away and paid for, Amos Finch led his surviving riders out of Slawson’s and surveyed the sunlit thoroughfare of Willow Grove.
The burg’s half-dozen stores were open now and doing business, a sodbuster’s wagon passing by, the bed heaped up with surplus squash and ears of corn. A woman moving down the sidewalk with a basket on one arm, her long calico dress buttoned up to her neck, shifted her eyes away from them and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen,” as she edged past them, carefully avoiding any accidental contact.
They all watched her go. When she was safely out of earshot, Mullins said, “You know, I reckon we could take this whole damn town.”
“And I already told you once why that’s a bad idea,” Finch said. “We’re here to sell them bangtails, not to get ourselves all shot to hell and gone.”
“I heard you,” Mullins answered back. “But still . . .”
“Still nothing. Who else wants a drink?”
They all agreed to that and started ambling toward the Gem. It was the town’s only two-story building meant for human occupancy, since the livery’s top floor was nothing but a hayloft.
The saloon was open when they reached it, causing Finch to wonder if it ever closed. There was no telling when a townsman or a traveler might crave a drink or something else to get him through the night, the latter need accommodated in the cribs upstairs.
The downstairs bar was quiet as Finch pushed in through its batwing doors, letting the men behind him guard against a rude slap in the face. Off to their right, an old upright piano waited silently for someone to sit down and tap its keys. Two wagon wheels suspended from the barroom’s ceiling had been rigged up with three lanterns each to light an area complete with card tables and chairs, no players presently in evidence.