The cowboy must have thought that Stovepipe’s mild tone meant he had succeeded in buffaloing the two newcomers. He sneered and said, “Well, trouble’s sure found you this time, mister, because we don’t want you here.”
With that, he reached down to the bunk and shoved Stovepipe’s war bag off onto the floor. The bag was open, and Stovepipe’s spare clean shirt fell out.
Stovepipe looked down at the shirt and with a solemn expression on his face, he shook his head.
“I sure wish you hadn’t done that,” he said.
“Yeah?” said the troublemaker. “Why not?”
“Well, there’s been enough mud and who knows what else tracked in here over the years that I reckon I wouldn’t feel right about wearin’ that shirt until I’d washed it. I never was much of one for doin’ laundry.”
The cowboy let out a harsh laugh and said, “Is that it? I figured you were gonna take a swing at me.”
“Over a shirt?” Stovepipe shook his head. “No, I reckon I’m a lot more peaceable man than that. I don’t care much for fightin’.”
“A peaceable man, eh? Then you won’t mind if I do this.”
The cowboy poked Stovepipe in the chest hard enough to make the lanky drifter move back a step.
“I don’t much cotton to bein’ laid hands on, though,” said Stovepipe.
“What are you gonna do about it? You already said you weren’t gonna fight.”
“When did I say that?” asked Stovepipe with a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. “I said I didn’t like to fight. I never said I wouldn’t do it.”
That was all the warning the troublesome cowboy got, and it was just enough to cause a look of surprise to appear on his face before Stovepipe uncorked a thunderbolt of a punch that landed squarely on his jaw, lifted him off his feet, and spilled him across one of the other bunks, scattering the hand of solitaire that the occupant of said bunk was dealing there.
“Hey!” that individual exclaimed as he leaped to his feet and charged toward Stovepipe.
Wilbur surged off his bunk and got in the second man’s way. He planted himself and hooked a right into the man’s midsection with all the considerable power of his stocky body behind it. Wilbur’s fist sunk almost wrist-deep in the man’s belly. The hombre’s eyes opened wide as his breath whooshed out of his mouth and he doubled over.
Wilbur brought up a left uppercut that clicked the man’s teeth together and made his eyes go glassy. He toppled over backward.
Before the second man even hit the floor, several more members of the HS Bar crew had leaped to their feet and charged toward Stovepipe and Wilbur. The two old friends stood back to back and met the attack. Their rock-hard fists lashed out with blinding speed and landed with the sharp crack of bone against bone as they targeted their opponents’ jaws and chins.
Some of the cowboys reeled back from those potent blows, but others ignored the punishment they received and pressed the attack. Stovepipe weaved aside from a punch, but it still landed on his shoulder with enough force to knock him back a step and disrupt his defense. Another man took advantage of that opportunity to bore in and slug Stovepipe a couple of times in the belly.
Wilbur had his hands full, too. The men crowded around him, raining punches on him. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his head in, sort of like a turtle, and tried to make the blows glance off as he moved back and forth. His fists snapped out and peppered the men around him with short but powerful punches.
Stovepipe, short of breath from the punches to his midsection, was being crowded backward. He knew he would trip over one of the bunks if he kept going in that direction, so he let one of the attackers get close to him, suddenly grabbed the front of the man’s shirt, and heaved as he pivoted. The perfectly timed wrestling throw sent the man flying over Stovepipe’s outthrust hip. The man yelled in alarm, but only for a second before he crashed down on one of the bunks, which broke under his weight and spilled him to the floor amidst the debris that was left. Tangled in the blanket, the man couldn’t get back up.
That put one man out of the fight, at least for a few moments. Another cowboy lunged at Stovepipe and tried to grab him from behind. Stovepipe bent forward, reached back, grabbed the man, and executed another throw. This man landed on the first one. Their heads banged together with an audible clunk! and knocked them even sillier.
As Stovepipe wheeled around, he saw that he still faced two opponents. They were closing in on him, arms cocked to throw punches. Stovepipe glanced past them to the spot where Wilbur was fighting with three men and apparently getting the worst of it. The redhead was still landing some blows, but the cowboys around him battered him back and forth like a punching bag.
The cowboys facing Stovepipe charged at him. He ducked and went between them, sweeping his long arms up and out. His fists caught them on the ears and knocked them off their feet.
Stovepipe had a clear path to the men tangling with Wilbur. He never liked to hit a man from behind, but in this case he was going to make an exception. He clubbed his fists together and swung them against the back of the closest man’s neck. The hombre went down, and the limp way he fell told Stovepipe he was out cold.
At that instant, Wilbur got a punch past another man’s upraised arms and landed it on the fella’s nose. Cartilage popped and blood spurted. The man reeled back, howling in pain.
Just like that, the odds were two to one in Stovepipe and Wilbur’s favor. The lone remaining HS Bar puncher tried to back off, but the two range detectives had their dander up by now. Wilbur hooked a left to the man’s jaw that knocked him halfway around, setting him up perfectly for the right cross Stovepipe threw. That punch landed with a sound like an ax biting into a block of wood, and the man’s knees unhinged as his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He hit the floor, too.
Three men, all of them older cowboys who had probably participated in their own share of fracases when they were younger, had sat this one out, remaining on their bunks and grinning as they enjoyed the show. A little breathless now, Stovepipe looked at these three men and said, “You boys ain’t takin’ cards in this game?”
“Shoot, no,” replied one of the punchers. “Miz Stafford is the boss now, and if she wants to hire you fellers, that’s her business.”
The bunkhouse door opened, and Bob Ridgewell stepped in, stopping abruptly to stare in surprise at the bodies littering the floor in the far corner.
“What in blue blazes happened here?” the foreman exploded.
“I reckon you’ve got a pretty good idea, Bob,” said Stovepipe. “Those fellas decided they wanted to see what sorta stuff Wilbur and me are made of.”
Ridgewell grunted and said, “It looks like they found out. You didn’t kill any of them, did you?”
“Appears they’re all still breathin’.”
“Break any bones so they can’t work?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, then, I guess it’s all over. This doesn’t make me trust the two of you any more than I did, though.”
“What were we supposed to do?” demanded Wilbur. “Just sit there and let them whale the tar out of us?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ridgewell admitted with a shrug. “A man’s got to defend himself.” He looked over at the three older cowboys. “Is that the way it happened?”
“Stewart told you the truth, Bob,” one of them said. “Bradley’s the one who started the ruckus.”
“Fine.” Ridgewell started to turn away, then paused and added to Stovepipe and Wilbur, “Just don’t make a habit of brawling.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Stovepipe assured him. “We’re plumb peace lovin’.”
The foreman just gave him a dubious look and went out.
Wilbur said, “You do realize that was your bunk that got busted to pieces, don’t you, Stovepipe?”
Stovepipe looked and sounded disgusted as he exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be danged if you ain’t right, Wilbur!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
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p; Stovepipe and Wilbur were both sore and bruised the next morning, but the battering the other men in the fight had taken meant that they were moving around even more stiffly. Some of them glared at Stovepipe and Wilbur and muttered under their breath, but none of them tried to stir up any trouble.
The three older hands seemed to have accepted the newcomers. At breakfast in the mess hall that morning, as dawn lightened the sky outside, they sat down at the same end of the long table where Stovepipe and Wilbur had been sitting alone.
“You fellas ain’t worried you’ll catch the leprosy from us?” asked Stovepipe.
“I reckon not,” said one of the cowboys. He had gray hair and a mustache, and the hand he extended across the table bore the scars and calluses of many years working with horses and cattle. “Name’s Gene Hawkins. These other fellas are Bill Cunningham and Jonas Powell.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Stovepipe. He and Wilbur shook and howdied with all three men, then they all devoted their attention to the plates of food and cups of coffee. On a ranch, it was a long haul between breakfast and lunch, with plenty of hard work in between, so a fella had to stoke the fires when he had the chance.
Bob Ridgewell came in while the men were still eating. Evidently he didn’t take his meals with the crew, because all he claimed from the cook was a cup of coffee. He stood at the head of the table sipping from the cup for a few moments before he started doling out the day’s assignments.
Ridgewell worked his way down the table, finally getting to Stovepipe, Wilbur, and their newfound friends. The foreman said, “I want all five of you to ride over to the rim and comb those canyons along the base of it. You know how cows like to wander up in there and get themselves caught in the brush.”
Hawkins said, “It ain’t been that long since we been through there, Bob. I doubt if many head have strayed up yonder in that time.”
“I’m the one who makes those decisions,” snapped Ridgewell. “That’s the job I’ve given you.”
“And we’ll do it,” said Hawkins. “Just makin’ sure.”
“I don’t give any orders unless I’m sure about them.”
Ridgewell gulped down some more of the coffee, set down the cup, and stalked out.
“That hombre’s sure got a burr under his saddle,” said Stovepipe.
“And we’re the ones who put it there,” added Wilbur.
“Don’t worry about it,” the mournful-faced Bill Cunningham told them. “Bob’s just got his nose a mite out of joint because he’s been the foreman here for a long time and worked pretty close with Mr. Stafford. Havin’ Missus Stafford in charge is a big change for him. But he’s a fair man. Give him a good day’s work, day in and day out, and he’ll come around.”
“That’s what we intend to do,” Stovepipe said, nodding.
When breakfast was finished, they went out to the barn and the corrals with the others to saddle their horses. The sun still wasn’t up yet, but the eastern sky was a spectacular mix of blue and rose and gold above the dark line of the Mogollon Rim. That was where Stovepipe, Wilbur, and the three older punchers would be headed shortly.
As they rode out, Stovepipe said, “I’m guessin’ this chore Bob gave us ain’t one of the most coveted jobs around here.”
The three men chuckled. Hawkins said, “You’re right about that. That’s rough country over there around the rim. Lots of canyons and draws, and every one of ’em is full of prickly pear, briar vines, and sticker bushes. Throw in the rattlers and scorpions, and everywhere you look there’s liable to be something that wants to bite you, sting you, or stick you.”
Wilbur said, “As long as the rattlesnakes and scorpions don’t start shooting at us, I reckon we can deal with the rest of it.”
Jonas Powell, who evidently didn’t talk much, said, “Some of those scorpions are damn near big enough to handle a gun.” That brought chuckles from the other men.
The sun peeked above the rim a few minutes later and sent golden light washing across the landscape, making even the rugged terrain beautiful. Stovepipe and Wilbur had been just about everywhere west of the Mississippi, because they were always moving around in their job. Stovepipe was the sort of hombre who found something to like about the places everywhere they went. Every part of the country had its own special beauty, he had reflected more than once. Sometimes that beauty was on the stark side, but he still appreciated it.
Like many Western ranches, the HS Bar sprawled out over a lot of square miles of acreage. It took half the morning just to get close to the Mogollon Rim. As they rode, the men saw quite a few head of stock grazing peacefully. Those cattle weren’t their concern. They were after the animals that had wandered into the rough country along the rim’s base and for one reason or another couldn’t make their way back.
As they approached the rugged escarpment and entered a broad pasture, Gene Hawkins waved an arm to indicate the long, irregular sweep of the rim and said, “We’ll have to split up to cover the ground. Any cows you find, drive ’em out here to this pasture. Jonas, you stay here to keep them from wandering right back to where we found them.”
Powell nodded and said, “All right, Gene.”
“Stewart, you and Coleman head north. One of you can go about a mile and then start working your way back in this direction. The other needs to ride on for another mile and do the same, until you get back to where the first fella started. Bill and I will do the same thing to the south. There’ll be a lot of riding back and forth, but it can’t be helped. Hope you boys don’t mind me giving the orders.”
“From the sound of it, you’ve been handlin’ this chore for a while,” said Stovepipe. “Only makes sense that you’d be the straw boss.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” Hawkins lifted a hand in farewell. “See you fellas later.”
He and Cunningham headed south while Stovepipe and Wilbur turned north. Powell continued on toward the rim to look for a good place to hold the gather.
After they had ridden for a while, Wilbur commented, “Those three seem like pretty friendly hombres. Not like the bunch we tangled with last night.”
“Aw, those other fellas’ll come around, once they see we ain’t as bad as they think we are,” said Stovepipe.
“What do you think the chances are some of them are mixed up with that gang of rustlers?”
“Well, you can’t ever rule out the possibility of a bad bunch havin’ an inside man. But from all the talk I’ve heard, we’re the first new hands on the HS Bar in a while, so I don’t think it’s very likely any of ’em have thrown in with the gang. Now, if there were a bunch of new men workin’ on the ranch, that might be a different story.”
“Are we really going to work those draws and canyons for strays?”
“Sure. Got to do our jobs, or the fellas really won’t accept us. But there’s nothin’ stoppin’ us from keepin’ our eyes open for other things, is there?”
“Like what?” asked Wilbur.
“Our theory is that the gang has moved on to the HS Bar and is hidin’ out someplace either on the spread or close by. From what I’ve seen of the ranch so far, most of it is open range. Good graze for the cattle, but not many places where a gang of outlaws could hide. Except . . .”
Stovepipe inclined his head toward the rim.
“And we’re bound for that rough country anyway,” said Wilbur. “I get your point. We need to watch for tracks of a big group of riders, or any other sign that bunch has been around here.”
“That’s my thinkin’,” agreed Stovepipe. “Be mighty careful, though. If they’re really up here, there’s a chance we might stumble right into ’em. If that happened while we’re split up, that wouldn’t be good.”
“Yeah, because two guns against thirty or forty is much better odds than one gun against that many,” said Wilbur.
“Twice as good, if I’m doin’ the cipherin’ right,” Stovepipe said cheerfully.
A short time later, they estimated that they had ridden a mile. Wilbur said t
hat he would start his gather here and drift back toward Powell’s position. Stovepipe waved to his friend and rode on.
The sun was high enough overhead by now that a mantle of heat lay over the landscape. In the draws and canyons it was even worse, Stovepipe discovered when he had covered another mile and begun his task.
The brush was as bad as Gene Hawkins had warned them, too. Stovepipe dismounted and took a pair of chaps from his saddlebags. He’d had them ever since his brush-popping days in the South Texas chaparral, learning the cowboy trade from a bunch of leathery brown vaqueros. Buckaroos, some folks had started calling them, adapting the Spanish word into something that was pure Texan.
The chaps helped, but Stovepipe still got stuck and scraped and scratched quite a bit by the inhospitable vegetation. Sweat soaked his shirt as he pushed cattle out of those canyons and back onto open range. It was hot, dusty, miserable work, but having been raised a cowboy, a certain part of him still exulted in it.
Being a detective was better, though, even if it meant he got shot at on a fairly regular basis.
He didn’t immediately drive the stock he found back down to the pasture where Jonas Powell was waiting. Instead he continued gathering them until he had a dozen or more. Even so, he made a couple of trips there as the day wore on. He didn’t see Wilbur but knew his friend was around.
Lunch was biscuits and jerky brought from the ranch headquarters, washed down by water from his canteen. He had just finished the last of the food when the sound of a distant shot floated through the air.
Stovepipe tensed in the saddle. The shot had come from somewhere south of him, but he couldn’t tell if it had originated in the area where Wilbur was searching or somewhere beyond that. He listened intently to see if there were going to be any more shots but heard only silence once the echoes had died away.
Worry gnawed at Stovepipe’s gut. He had a small jag of five cattle that he had combed out of a draw, so he headed them south. He wanted to find out if his old friend was all right before he did anything else.
The Range Detectives Page 21