by Hank Madison
LAW OF THE RANGE
Hank Madison
© Hank Madison 1983
Hank Madison has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1983 by Robert Hale Ltd.,
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Frontier, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
ONE
Steve Harlan was tall and raw-boned, with a muscular body that looked blocky under his dripping slicker. His face was wet, as it had been for the past five days, and still it was raining. The grey, heavy sky was potbellied with water; a pitiless drizzle that didn’t let up, and the whole world seemed dank and full of discomfort. He sat on his horse and stared down from the crest, watching the plodding herd moving slowly into the camping-site. He shivered under his glistening oilskin. What a hell of away to spend his life, he thought bitterly, and urged his horse forward.
He told himself that he was a fool. He had come into this business, and had insisted to his father that he learn everything from the bottom up. He smiled grimly when he recalled the grin his father had given, and, for a long time afterwards, had been puzzled by it. But not any more. His father had always been a tough cattleman, and he knew that four months on the trail with a herd would trim the tallow off an eager youngster willing to learn the hard way.
They had come up from Texas, heading for Dodge City, mecca of all cowboys, and the herd had seemed to be dogged by ill-luck. It had been Harlan’s first trip, working under Sim Horn, his father’s oldest friend and the trail boss. To Harlan the whole business had come as a shock. He had figured that an open-air life for four months would be nothing more than a glorious camping expedition, and the truth had hit him hard when he found out exactly what a trail drover’s life was like. Sim Horn had always been on at him, telling him once only about this and that, and he had struggled to pick up the details. But it had come hard to him. He had led a sheltered life. His father had come up the hard way and made a fortune from cattle, and, with money to spare, had decided that his only son should not know the rigours and trials of such a life.
That had proved his undoing, Harlan thought, as he swung in behind the herd. His father had packed him off to the East. He had passed through college, then come back home to Texas almost as an Easterner. But Horn had stood by him, teaching him things that a real Western youngster would have learnt naturally and casually as he grew up.
From the start Harlan was determined to learn the business. He had begun working as an ordinary hand on his father’s ranch, and although the rest of the large crew had suffered him because he was the son of the boss, he soon proved that his father’s position would have no influence upon his attitude. He recalled some of the tricks the crew had played on him, and his face burned for a moment when he recalled some of the more serious, but he had proved that he could take it, and now there wasn’t a cowboy working for the Cross H who wouldn’t lay down his life for Steve Harlan.
A rider emerged from the grey murk and rode in beside him, and Harlan glanced at the man and grinned. His blue eyes glinted. He thought the world of Sim Horn, the old-timer who had been with his father in the early days, before the Cross H had been more than a shoestring outfit run by the two men.
Horn was tall and thin, with a red, rugged face that was drenched with water every time he bent forward. The trail boss grinned at Harlan, and commented:
“Be glad to get under the wagon tonight, huh, Steve?”
“It won’t be any drier than in the open,” Harlan replied. “How much longer do you reckon this will keep up?”
“I saw a break or two in the sky earlier,” Horn replied. He shrugged his narrow shoulders, a man wise in the ways of the range. “Give it another couple of days and maybe we’ll see some sun.”
“Do you figure we’ll be able to push across the Cimarron?”
“Let’s cross that when we come to it,” the older man replied curtly. “Right now we’ve got to get these critturs bedded down. You sure picked a tough trip for your first, Steve. Any drive after this one will seem like a picnic. You’ve had the lot; Indians and a stampede, hijackers, a flash-flood, and trouble in that last town we passed.”
Harlan clenched his teeth at the mention of the gun trouble back in Black Creek. He had ridden in with Horn and some young drunk had taken a dislike to him. The youngster pulled his gun, and Harlan had bored him through the chest to save himself.
“Yeah,” he retorted. “I guess Pa will trust me to bring a herd through the next time. It’s about time he gave you a break, Sim.”
“Me, I reckon I’m gonna die in the saddle somewhere between Texas and Kansas,” the oldster replied tightly. “I don’t think I’d want it any other way, either. I often think that somewhere along this trail which I’ve covered in the last twenty years is the spot where they’ll finally put me under. Maybe I’ve ridden over it a score of times and didn’t know it. But I’ll get to it some day.”
“That’s a hell of a state of mind,” Harlan told him. “It must be the weather making you feel blue. It sure can rain in these parts, though, huh? We could do with some of this down in Cottonwood Creek.”
“Maybe we can take some of it back with us,” Horn replied, grinning. “We’ll be riding light.”
They bedded down the herd and the night-hawks took over, although the cattle didn’t need much watching in this weather. The beasts had settled rump first into the driving rain, and were huddled against the ground. The rest of the outfit settled down under their slickers. The cook had pulled into the site long before, and had managed to get a fire going. The coffee-pot was on the fire, and it was the first time in four days that they had had anything hot.
The stew the cook dished up was good, and they ate ravenously. Harlan sat beside Horn, and the old man gazed around the silent camp, taking in the misery on the damp faces of the crew. He shook his head slowly. They’d had it hard during the past week, and no mistake.
“Is there anyone here who would like to get himself a drink and maybe an hour’s rest under cover?” he demanded suddenly, and they all looked at him as if he had gone loco.
“What the hell are you talking about?” one of them demanded. “Has the water got into your brain, Sim?”
“I’ve been along this trail in both directions for the last twenty years,” the old trail boss said, chuckling. “I know exactly where we are, and I’m telling you that there’s a trading post about three miles from here. Doberman’s Post, it’s called. It’s a rough place, and maybe it’s too tough for the likes of you. But I’ve got to ride in there shortly, and I reckon you’d better come with me, Steve. I’ve got some business to attend to, and, if you’re gonna take your turn trailing herds this way, you’d better meet up with Jem Grove.”
“I’ve heard about him,” Harlan said. “My pa told me. Grove is a rustler, ain’t he?”
“And then some.” Horn shook his head. “In the years I’ve been coming this way I’ve seen rustlers come and go. I can remember the first time Grove braced us for passage money. He was only a shaver then, but he was tough and fast. Now he’s learned all the wrinkles, and there ain’t a sharper thief in the whole wild world.”
“You mean to tell me we still have to pay Grove to pass through this part of the country?” Harlan demanded, stiffening.
“We sure do,” Horn replied. “It’s a kind of insurance that nothing will happen to us the rest of our way through. Dodge City is only a week’s trailing away. It would be stupid to act up this clo
se to trail end and lose the whole doggone herd. It’s worth five hundred bucks to get through without shooting. Every herd that comes this way to Dodge has to camp on this spot, and if you tried to get out of here without paying the passage money the herd would be gone before you covered three miles. We pay Grove, and no one, none of the other crooked outfits who make their living stealing from the herds, will lay a finger on our beef. That’s how well Jem Grove has organised his business.”
“I’ll certainly come with you,” Harlan said. “When do we start?”
“Soon as I’m ready. I ain’t a young man any more, Steve. I have to take it easy now and again, and then some. You just don’t go getting impatient. There’s a lot to be done around here before we ride out. Don’t forget the law of the range.”
“I’ve heard nothing but that since we started this drive,” Harlan retorted. “Okay, so it did slip my mind. We got to check the herd first. Then we take care of the men, as if they need nursing. After that we can look out for ourselves.”
“Those are the rules,” Horn said with a sigh. “It’s a hard life, as you’re finding out, and you’ve got to stick with the rules. Even the ordinary cowboy has his rules. His first loyalty is to the brand. When he’s handling stock that comes first.”
“A puncher sells his soul to his rancher for forty and all found,” one of the cowboys called. “Ain’t that a hell of a note?”
“It sure is,” Horn said soberly. “Now this what’s gonna happen tonight. We can’t all go into the trader’s place together. The herd has got to be tended. So me and Steve will ride in first. We’ve got business to attend to. When we get back the rest of you can ride in three at a time. You can stay an hour, and don’t forget your pards back here. It’ll be a temptation to stretch it, but you’ve got to take turns.”
Harlan grew impatient as he sat his horse, waiting for Horn to join him. This first trip had proved to him more than anything that a cowboy’s life was the toughest in the world. He gazed around at the darkening range that was almost blotted out by the hissing rain. He hoped the sun would show on the morrow. The ground underfoot was squelchy and sodden, and the herd’s progress had been slowed accordingly. The beeves made heavy work in this morass.
Horn appeared and swung into his saddle, settling himself in the wet leather, and he swung his tired horse up alongside Harlan.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s go. We shan’t stay any longer than it takes us to complete the business.” He peered ahead. Once he had paid Grove they would ride straight back to the herd. The men needed all the free time they could get. The trail boss had to deprive himself of the privileges given to the herders.
Doberman’s Post was a rambling, one-storeyed building standing to one side of the trail, and they splashed fetlock deep in mud. There were several horses standing tied to a hitch-rail, dejected looking creatures standing hip-shot in the driving wet.
“Let’s put our horses in the barn,” Horn said. He sniffed contemptuously as he stared at the tethered animals. “Some men just don’t know how to take care of horses,” he remarked. “In this kind of country a horse is a man’s best friend. Get set afoot and you could die of thirst and starvation before you met another living soul. They’ll never be able to replace the horse. Railroads are okay, but the horse is the only safe way to travel through this country.”
They dismounted and walked through the mud, and Horn led the way into a large bam set at the back of the post. They attended to their horses and, before leaving the barn, Harlan straightened and gazed around. This was the first time he had been out of the rain for nearly a week, and the trail boss grinned at him as their eyes met. The yellow glare of a lantern hanging from a beam reflected the brightness in Harlan’s blue eyes.
“It feels strange to get a roof over your head, huh?” Horn demanded. “It’s always like that on your first trail drive.” He grinned. “I reckon your pa won’t know you when you get back to Cottonwood Creek. You didn’t know what you were letting yourself in for when you decided to come along, did you?”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Harlan replied. “It’s been uncomfortable most of the time, and a bit hectic in places, but it’s been an education. I wouldn’t have missed it even if I had known beforehand what it was gonna be like.”
“It’s making a man of you,” Horn replied, turning to the open door. “C’mon, let’s see if we can remember what whisky tastes like.”
Harlan turned to follow the older man, and walked into Horn’s back as the trail boss halted dead in his tracks. Harlan started to move around his companion when he saw movement in the doorway, and a clammy hand seemed to squeeze his heart when he saw two men standing before them, guns glinting in their steady hands.
“What’s all this?” Horn demanded, remaining very still. He and Harlan were still wearing their slickers, and their guns were holstered beneath them.
“What does it look like?” snarled one of the two, and Harlan narrowed his eyes. He gazed at both lean, harsh faces, hoping to be able to recognise them again if he ever met up with them.
“You’re from that herd out there, ain’t you?” the other demanded. “So you’ve come in to pay Jem Grove. Well we’ve got news for you. Grove ain’t the big wheel around here any more. We took over. Hand over your dough and your cows can go through.” “Where is Grove?” Horn demanded. “I’d better have a talk with him.”
“You’d better do like you’re told,” came the harsh reply, and Harlan drew a quick breath. He could see that these two were not joking.
“You’d better give them the dough, Sim,” he said tensely. “It ain’t worth dying for.”
“Okay.” The older man shrugged his shoulders. “But I only got a hundred bucks on me. You guys will have to make do with that.”
“Don’t try any of your Reb tricks on us.” The speaker was tall and wide shouldered, and there was a sharp look on his thick, rain-glistening features. “We know you have to pay Grove five hundred. Pay up or take a slug through the guts. It’s up to you.”
“We don’t want to get caught up in any local fight,” Harlan said. “We’ve got the herd to think of, Sim. Hell, you’ve told me enough times about that. The law of the range!”
The old man reached under his slicker, and received a quick warning from one of the two gunmen. He shook his head slightly and relaxed. One of the crooked pair started sidling around them, careful to keep out of the line of fire.
“Hoist your hands,” the other commanded, “and make it quick. If anything goes wrong, you both stop lead. Get their guns and their dough, Clant.”
“Shut your foot mouth,” snorted the other. “You want for me to tell them your name, too?”
Harlan remained motionless while his gun was taken from him. A rough hand searched him quickly and expertly. Horn was treated in the same manner, and the old cowman swore bitterly as his thick leather money-belt was snatched away.
“Now get down on your faces,” the man covering them snapped. “If you show your mugs outside that door within five minutes you’ll get a Winchester slug between your eyes. Come on, Buster, let’s go.”
Harlan and Horn dropped to the damp ground. They heard the two men leave, and Harlan started up instantly, but the older man put out a gnarled hand and seized his wrist in a powerful grip.
“What the hell are you gonna do, get yourself killed?”
“We can’t let them get away with the dough,” Harlan said angrily. “We shan’t be able to pay our way if they take every red cent.”
“All I had in that belt was the five hundred I was going to give to Grove,” Horn said with a grin. “You didn’t figure that I’d be fool enough to put all my eggs in the one basket, did you? Hell, Steve, I’ve been riding these trails for twenty years.”
He got up slowly and Harlan thrust himself up from the ground and wiped his hands on his wet slicker. They gazed at each other for a moment, and then the older man grinned.
“I know those two gents,” he said. “I’ll
have their hides when I set eyes on them again. But it looked like the border-jumpers are coming to the end of their reign. They’ve had this part of the country sewn up for a mighty long time. But if there’s a split between these crooks then they’ll gobble each other up before it finishes. And it’s about time. We cattlemen have been preyed on too many times. It’s about time there was a change.”
“You seem damn light-hearted for someone who’s just lost five hundred bucks,” Harlan told him.
“Sure I’m pleased. I just remembered something. I didn’t put that five hundred in the money-belt. I remember thinking back at the camp that this was a mighty dangerous business and a bad country to be taking chances in, so I put the dough in your saddlebag while you was getting your third cup of coffee.”
“Well, I’ll be a three-legged crow!” Harlan ejaculated. He shook his head slowly as he followed the oldster out into the rain. That was something else he had learned and it was a lesson which would stick. A man couldn’t afford to take any kind of a chance in this country. He couldn’t just hope that things might go right for him and leave it at that. Fate, man and nature always conspired against the optimist.
The trading post was low and squat, and when Horn pushed inside with Harlan following closely, they found the big single room almost deserted.
There was a long bar on the right, and two or three small tables occupying space this side of it. There was a long counter on the left, piled high with merchandise and dry goods, and Harlan sniffed appreciately as he stepped in out of the rain. There was a conglomeration of aromas in here which tantalised his nose and defied definition. But while he had eyes for the place, Horn was approaching the bar and the four men standing at it. Harlan moved quickly to keep beside the trail boss, just in case there was more trouble. The four men at the bar looked real hard cases, and so, for that matter, did the man standing behind it.
“Howdy, Ike,” Horn called to the man behind the bar. “It’s been a long time. How’s business?”