Rustlers
A Balum Series Western no.2
A novel by
Orrin Russell
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Orrin Russell
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover design and illustration by
Mike Pritchett
1
Balum pulled up under a Juniper tree and sat his horse. He tucked a plug of tobacco in his cheek. He waited a minute for the juice to flow, his mind blank. He spat.
Beneath that Juniper would be a pretty place to sit if it were the middle of the day . The sun simply baked the southwestern states at midday, and only a fool or a man on the run rode his horse hard through those temperatures.
But it was well past sunset. The desert floor had given up its heat and the cold was creeping in. Balum pulled his thin jacket around his shoulders and spat again.
A mile to the south a campfire was burning. Balum didn’t know what the men sitting around it might be up to, but he knew how many there were, and he had a reasonably good impression of what kind of men they were.
He had come upon their tracks a few hours before sundown. Four men, each with a spare horse. Decent horses. They weren’t outlaws or men up to trouble; they weren’t concerned with their backtrail. They rode at a no-nonsense pace, and someone with them knew the desert, for they had chosen to camp at the sole watering hole within fifty miles.
The only shade that Juniper gave now was shade from the light of the moon. Balum sat atop the roan, concealed in the darkness beneath the tree. He would have preferred to have arrived at that watering hole before sundown, and without company.
It wasn’t the custom for men to ask other folks their business. Where they were coming from, what they were up to, where they were headed. But sometimes men would pry, and Balum was in no mood to speak of his personal life.
He wasn’t especially pleased with where he stood, or the recent decisions he had made. He wasn’t a young buck anymore. He was still in his prime, but had not much other than a decent horse and a well-kept Colt Dragoon revolver to show for it.
It wasn’t but a couple weeks ago that he had carried in his saddlebags a sum of money greater than any he had possessed in all his life. Enough to get a start on a place of his own. He had ridden out of Bette’s Creek with over a year’s worth of cowpuncher’s wages, and all in gold. And now, two weeks later, he sat on his tired horse, shivering in the desert night. His throat was dry, his clothes were dusty, his money gone.
The way his luck ran, those four men down at the watering hole would turn out to be gamblers. Maybe they’d do him the favor of finishing the job of fleecing him out of the last of his money.
Balum spat again. No use beating himself up over it he thought. He needed water and there was only one place to get it.
He gave the roan a tap with his heels and rode out from under the canopy of the Juniper tree.
He called out before entering their camp. They invited him in. Their demeanor was friendly, but Balum took notice of how they had spaced themselves out and made sure their gun hands were free if necessary.
They had beans and bacon cooking in a pan over the coals. After he had unsaddled and watered his horse they offered him a plate. He sat with them around the red coals of the fire and they made talk.
The man leading the foursome went by the name of Charles. He was a large, tall man with a friendly smile.
‘Certainly helps dispositions to have the tank full of water,’ he said. ‘Nothing like a full watering hole to help folks stay friendly.’
‘Indeed,’ said Balum. ‘This spot is fairly trustworthy but farther south it gets tricky. Fewer spots and less predictable.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Charles. ‘Joe knows this country better than anyone though, and if there’s water to be found he’ll find it.’
Joe sat with his plate in his lap, listening. He had long jet black hair and his facial features showed he had as much native blood as white. When he spoke he gave no hint of accent other than American.
‘Several rains fell last month,’ he said. ‘We should have an easy time of it.’
Balum nodded. He savored the food he had been given.
‘You’re probably wondering just where we plan on going,’ said Charles. ‘Four men and eight horses headed south in this sort of country.’
Balum finished chewing. ‘It crossed my mind.’
Charles didn’t need any more of an aperture. He was excited, and his emotion showed as he recounted to Balum the details. They planned on riding further south and crossing into Mexico. A few week’s ride from the border were several valleys filled with unbranded, unclaimed cattle.
One of the unexpected outcomes from the Mexican-American war was cattle. Ranchers had either joined up in the fight, been driven out, killed, or their cattle had simply stampeded off or been stolen. In the confusion of wartime and the instability that followed, some of those unclaimed cattle wound up in the solitary swathes of Mexico where they continued to breed and multiply.
Charles and company aimed to round up several hundred head, brand them, and drive them north to the cattleyards in Cheyenne where they could be sold at forty dollars a head.
Charles grinned as he explained his plan to Balum. ‘There’s a fortune to be made. If everything goes to plan.’
‘There is,’ Balum agreed. ‘If, like you say, everything goes to plan. I reckon you boys know what you’re getting yourselves into though. You’re talking several months back-breaking work, and plenty of opportunity for it to all be wiped out.’
‘Six months. Two on the round-up, four on the drive.’
‘You won’t be able to take those cattle through this sort of country. There’s barely enough water for a man and his horse.’
‘We’ll swing them east through the Texas long grass.’
‘Lot of that country you’re talking about down Mexico way is Apache territory.’
‘It is.’
‘You’ll have to deal with stampedes, wolves, river crossings, Indians. Folks’ll want to cut your heard, there could be drought, dry grass…’
As Balum listed the obstacles ahead of them Charles only grinned more broadly.
They laughed then, both of them, and the other men sitting around the fire laughed with them. It was foolish what they were about to attempt. The deck was stacked against them, but these men had grit, and they had ambition, and Balum respected them for that.
They put out their fire and spread their bedrolls. The desert night was silent save for the occasional solitary call of a coyote.
Balum lay on his back, his eyes taking in the galaxy of stars above him. He thought about the project the men were undertaking, their poor odds, and the payout at the end of it if all went to plan. He thought of his own life and his own odds, until sleep took him and eased his mind from those preoccupations.
2
He was the first to wake. He built a fire and set a kettle of water to boil. The party of four didn’t sleep past sunrise. They broke camp efficiently, each taking responsibility of the tasks that needed doing.
It did not go unnoticed. Balum admired the lack of wasted movement and the silent rhythm with which the men worked.
When they were packed and ready they gathered round the fire and Balum poured coffee. It wasn’t until the black liquid had hit their bellies that their tongues loosened up and they began to make talk.
They discussed their route for the day, the water holes ahead. Indians were brie
fly mentioned, as was the desert heat and the condition of their horses.
When the coffee was finished Charles turned to Balum. ‘I don’t know if you have somewheres pressing calling you, Balum. But as you know, we have our work cut out and could sorely use an extra hand. I take quick stock of a man and I’m seldom wrong. I cotton to you and so do the boys here. You know the plan. You know it might be harebrained, and we may all lose our shirts and maybe more. But if you eat the dust with us I’ll cut you in for an even percentage on the net sale in Cheyenne. There won’t be a penny before that. I’ll aim to find you a spare cutting horse and if I do it’ll be on my tab. Otherwise we’ll be eating off the land and stitching our own cuts. What do you say, Balum?’
Balum stood with his empty coffee mug hanging from his finger. He had briefly entertained the idea of joining up with them before he fell asleep last night, but had not considered that he might receive a serious offer. He set the mug on the ground and stretched his hand out to Charles.
‘I’d be honored to ride with you.’
‘Thataboy,’ grinned Charles. ‘All right boys, saddle up. Sun’s rising.’
The days were hot enough to make the leather of their hat brims curl, and the sparsity of water ensured their throats remain hoarse and chaffed. At night the temperature dropped close to freezing and the men would shiver silently in their bedrolls on the desert floor.
Over the days the mens’ stories emerged. Charles had come west over a decade ago. What he had left behind he never said.
Joe had grown up half his life amongst whites and the other half with Apaches. He felt as comfortable with each culture as he did uncomfortable. His life had taken him throughout the Southwest; he knew it better than anyone in the surrounding country. It was he who knew where the cattle were, and he acted as guide for the party.
The other two who rode with them were brothers. William and Dan. They were young; twenty and twenty-two respectively, but they had lived their lives in the West, breaking horses and working as cowhands.
All of these men searched for something greater, not just financial gain but some sense of purpose or accomplishment. In a way they were much like Balum.
After a week of riding they put the driest section of desert behind them. More sagebrush and chaparral cropped up, and eventually, as they pushed into Mexico, mesquite and creosote. There was scant grass for the horses, and as the days drifted by their walk slowed and they turned sluggish.
Another week and they found themselves deeper into the state of Chihuahua, headed east towards Coahuila. They rode past Mexican peasant farmers from time to time, but these would quickly avert their eyes away from the Americans. The scene they created, five dust-covered men emerging from the shimmer of the desert heat like some otherworldly creatures, unshaven and beards growing, ensured that no one they encountered wished to engage them.
The terrain they rode through was spotted with plant life and occasional streams or ponds, but nothing to suggest great numbers of cattle roamed nearby. Balum kept silent. He knew Mexico better than he cared to, but not the Chihuahuan desert, nor Nuevo León or Coahuila.
They were camped in a valley eating rabbit and nopales when Joe mused aloud that they would reach their destination the following day.
‘What the hell are the cows all eating?’ said Charles. ‘There’s nothing here but brush and cactus.’
Joe pointed to the far end of the valley. ‘Over that ridge where the brushland ends the climate changes. It turns grassy. Streams come off the ridge,’ he said, signaling the length of the giant hills running to the south.
‘Are there any towns around?’ asked Dan. ‘It’d be nice to have a dinner one of us didn’t cook ourselves.’
‘Dinner,’ said Charles. ‘You’re shittin’ us Dan. You want a look at those Mexican gals, you ain’t fooling anyone.’
The men laughed. ‘Well hell, I wouldn’t mind seeing a girl or two either,’ said Dan, and they laughed harder.
They crossed the remaining stretch of brushlands the next day and trekked up the small mountain range separating the two climates. It was just as Joe had told them. One side of the slope was rocky and dry. They crossed the plateau at the top, and when they reached the opposite side they pulled their horses up and stared out at the vastness before them.
Miles of thick green grass waved in the breeze and stretched endlessly down the adjoining valley. Clusters of trees rose up and streams cut through the landscape.
And cattle. Just as Joe had promised, small groups of cows grazed together throughout the valley. They were fat and healthy, and the men couldn’t help but try to count those in sight. Visions of the cattleyards in Cheyenne drifted before their eyes.
‘Alright boys, work is just getting started,’ said Charles.
They pointed their horses down the slope and emerged shortly later surrounded by grass stretching nearly as far as their eyes could see.
3
With the time it would take to round up the number of cattle they desired, the men were somewhat hamstrung. Plenty of spots along the mountain range offered natural corrals. With a small amount of work one of these could be amended to hold the cows in one place. However, that could only serve as a temporary holding place; the cows needed to graze, and that meant they would have to keep moving.
The first week wouldn’t matter much, but once they began to gather a respectable number of cattle, two of them would need to stay with the herd. The men agreed easily. They would switch between rounding up cattle and minding the herd.
That first day the men split up. They were already near the westernmost end of the valley. Balum decided to ride along the western perimeter where the valley naturally butted up against the mountains.
He rode with a watchful eye. This was not the middle of Apache country but it wasn’t far either. The cattle were pliable. They didn’t seem to mind being nudged eastwards. The roan knew its job too. He was a natural cutting horse, and although it had been a couple years since Balum had worked as a cowhand, the horse took it back up like he had sorely missed the work.
While Balum eased the cows out of the crannies and crevices of the mountain range he kept his eyes peeled for tracks, horse or human. He saw nothing. Not an unshod horse, a moccasin print, or the outline of a boot heel.
His mind more at ease, he put his energy into driving the cows out of the brush and down to the valley. It was hot, hard work.
Making his way along the foothills, he eventually ran into Charles. They sat their horses side by side. Charles rolled a smoke and Balum stuck a fresh plug of tobacco in his cheek.
Charles took a long draw off the cigarette. ‘If I ever find land this pretty north of the border I’d buy a plot, build a ranch and never think twice about it.’
Balum nodded in agreement. It was spectacular country.
‘Say Balum,’ said Charles. ‘Word travels mighty fast. I’d heard your name mentioned in relation to the gunfighter Lance Cain. That true you outdrew him?’
Balum hesitated before responding. ‘It’s true. He came asking for it. I’d rather folks not talk about it. I don’t need some tinhorn itching for a reputation out hunting me.’
‘I can understand that. Man makes a name for himself as a gunslinger and next thing you know there’s a line of young bucks want to out-draw him.’ He took another draw on the cigarette. ‘But damn. They said Cain was fast .’
‘He was. Put a bullet in me. Right here,’ Balum touched his shoulder.
‘I’ll be damned. Well, it was on my mind and I wanted to clear it up. I heard it was a fair shooting and I believe it. I’ll keep mum about it if you’d like.’
‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Balum, and spat into the grass.
They rode together, driving cows out from the crevices of the mountainside and down into the valley. The men worked well together, and by the end of the day the five of them had rounded up over thirty head of cattle.
Joe had chosen an old bull who would never stand the drive north and but
chered him away from the growing herd. He had steaks grilling and had begun to smoke what was left. He also had sliced paper thin sheets of beef from the top sirloin and had them strung up on a line in the setting sun.
‘What’s all that about?’ asked Dan, motioning to the hanging beef.
‘Drying it out. I’ll grind it into powder and mix it with the suet off the kidneys,’ said Joe.
‘And then what do you do with it?’
‘That’s it. Call it pemmican. You may not believe it but it’ll last twenty years without going bad.’
‘Twenty years? You’re pulling my leg.’
‘It’s true,’ cut in Balum. ‘Hudson Bay Trading Company used pemmican as a unit of trade years ago. Indians used to make it in bulk and trade it by the hide-full. You might not think much of the taste, but you keep yourself a slab of pemmican on you and one day when you’re caught short of food it just might save your life.’
‘I think I’ll stick with those rib-eyes for now,’ said Dan, savoring the steaks grilling over the open fire.
The men tore into them along with some wild onions Joe had roasted, and they slept that night with their bellies full and the baying of cattle all around them.
The next several days were productive. The men had rounded up a good sixty head and had begun to slowly push the cattle eastwards across the valley.
The only hangup was Balum’s horse. They worked long days, and there was no way a man could ask that much out of a single animal. It didn’t go unnoticed by Charles, and by the fourth day he mentioned it to Balum.
‘You’ll run him into the ground at this pace. We need to get you a spare.’
‘I agree. He’s been over the mountain and through the valley as they say, and he’ll work as long as I push him. But he needs some rest.’
‘Joe says there’s a village maybe a day’s ride south of here. My Spanish ain’t none too good, but maybe the American dollar can do the talking.’
Rustlers Page 1