by Gene Shelton
“I didn’t say I’d stop you, Mister Turner,” Jim said. “I said I’d do my best to stop you.”
“You could get pretty damn dead, too.”
“Could be.” Jim sat with his forearms crossed casually over the saddle horn. He kept his hands well away from his weapons.
Turner’s gaze remained locked onto Jim’s eyes. “Ain’t you gonna say something stupid about how I’d be the first man dead?”
Jim inclined his head toward the point rider. “No, Mister Turner, you wouldn’t be. That man over there with the pistol would blow me out of the saddle before I could blink. But if you kill me and move this herd onto Panhandle grass you’ll have a hundred cowboys from a dozen brands on your tail inside of a day. You might give that some thought.”
“You threatenin’ me } East?”
“No. Just telling you where the badger holes are.”
Turner slowly shook his head. Then the old-timer’s scowl softened and finally faded into a grin. “Damn me, Jim East, if you ain’t got bigger balls than a Mexican stud. I admire a man with sand, by God.” The trail boss turned to the point rider. “Put the hardware up, Gus,” he said.
The rider holstered the weapon. Jim breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“You’ll show us where this strip is. East?”
“Be glad to. Runs from the head of Palo Duro Canyon up through the Tule country and north into Tascosa. You catch the Dodge City Trail there. There’s good grass and water along the way.”
Turner nodded. “I reckon I can go along with that.” The pale blue eyes suddenly narrowed. “You the Jim East helped catch Billy the Kid?”
“I was there. Can’t say I was all that much help.”
The trail boss chuckled. “Gus, good thing you didn’t throw down on this man. I hear he’s poison with a Winchester and faster’n a greased snake with a pistol.”
Jim had to grin. “Somebody’s been tamping sand in your flour sack, Mister Turner. I’m just a dollar-a-day cowboy.”
“Yeah. And the Rocky Mountains is pimples on a whore’s butt.” Turner stuck out a hand. Jim took it; the grip was warm and firm. “Ride along with me, East,” Turner said. “Don’t expect to live through this drive, though. Our cook’s sourdough’ll probably kill you.”
The two men rode without speaking for half a mile. The lowing of cattle and calls of cowboys stirred Jim’s memories of earlier trail drives, when he was the man out front of a herd on the move. It was a feeling that couldn’t be described and couldn’t be forgotten.
Wade Turner was the first to break the silence.
“Still live in Tascosa, East?”
“I think so. Haven’t been home in three months. My wife may have traded me for a better horse by now.”
Turner clucked his tongue. “Damn shame a man has to stay away from home that long at a time. I’m already missing that old bat I’m married to, and I ain’t been gone two full months yet.” The trail boss sighed. “What’re we gonna do, East?”
“About what?”
Turner waved back over his shoulder. “Our lives. This ain’t gonna last. Trail drives, open range, the days a man could make something of hisself and be proud.” He spat out the used- up chew, pulled a plug from a shirt pocket, bit off a chunk and settled the tobacco into his jaw. “You know, there’s some big old bones stuck in the rocks up in Montana. Big lizards lived a long time ago. Dyno-sewers, the smart boys calls ‘em.” He worked the chew for a moment, then spat. He was a good spitter, Jim noted. Almost none of the tobacco juice dribbled down the gray-stubbled chin.
“That’s us, East. Dyno-sewers. Last of our breed. Pretty soon they won’t be none of us left, just bones layin’ somewhere.” Turner sighed. “What the damn politicians, railroads and bankers don’t steal and the damn British and rich Yankees don’t buy up’s gonna be covered with that newfangled barb wire ‘til a man can’t ride a mile in a straight line. God, I’m gonna miss these days.”
LX Ranch
October 1882
Jim kicked the last of the sullen steers from the Coldwater Creek thickets toward the main LX herd two hundred yards away and wondered if this was his last roundup.
There were fewer Longhorns this year than last and more of the red cattle with white faces called Herefords that Bates and Beales had shipped in to upgrade the herds. Jim knew it was good business. The shorthorns fleshed out better, were worth more on the market, and nobody could say they weren’t easier to handle.
But he was already starting to miss the Longhorns. There was something about them that was like the land itself. Tough and stringy and mean most of the time, but they came through droughts and blizzards and took care of themselves. Maybe, Jim thought, the Longhorns were some of Wade Turner’s “dyno-sewers.”
There were already a few bones showing up in the Panhandle. Major George W. Littlefield was gone now, the LIT sold to a bunch of Britons calling themselves the Prairie Land & Cattle Company. Luis Bausman had stayed on at the LIT for about ten minutes after he heard the news.
Tom Emory had told Jim of Luis’s emphatic departure from the LIT. “Ain’t workin’ for no damn Brits,” Bausman had growled as he packed his few belongings. “We whipped them bastards in three, four wars and still can’t cut loose from ‘em. But by God, this mother’s child can.”
Several other LIT hands headed out before Luis’s dust had settled. Bausman moved into Tascosa and made his living gambling and doing odd jobs or ranch day work now and then. Some of the others stayed, switched to different outfits, or just packed up and left the Panhandle.
The LS, with W. M. D. Lee at the controls, had nearly doubled in size. Lee had bought up Ellsworth Torrey’s LS Connected. He also acquired the claims to several smaller spreads and nester shacks and now claimed an area as big as the state of Connecticut. What the LS didn’t own outright Lee took simply by declaring the land LS range even though it was technically in the public domain and belonged to no one.
The LX had followed Lee’s lead and now grazed a swath of Panhandle grass that stretched sixty-five miles north to south and thirty-five miles east to west. Now there were rumors that the British were getting ready to make a move to buy the outfit. Jim frowned at the thought. He didn’t agree all the time with Luis Bausman’s ideas, but in this case Bausman was right. Foreign syndicates buying up Panhandle grass rubbed Jim’s fur the wrong way. It would be damned hard to have the same loyalty to the brand when the work was for people who never got their own hands dirty.
The Panhandle Cattleman’s Association hadn’t made life any easier for the cowpunchers. The orders had come down that a cowboy could no longer run a few head of his own cattle or horses on land claimed by the big ranchers. Mavericking, once accepted as fair open range practice, had been outlawed. The association claimed that any unbranded stock grazing a member’s land belonged to the ranch owner. That, Jim knew, just about killed a cowboy’s chances of ever building his own place; he was a peon on horseback, a name on a payroll, and would be for the rest of his natural working life if he stayed on a ranch. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be missed. Young men drifted into the Panhandle every day, looking for work. If a cowboy quit, three men were waiting to take his place.
If the association had made life miserable for the cowboy, they’d made it impossible for the men who owned small spreads. The so-called “little men” were now banned from participating in the spring and fall roundups run by the big ranches. Many of them had already been forced out of business. One of the first to go had been Alton Moseley of the Bar M, a good, honest man whose life’s work was now only a memory. His land wound up in the hands of one of the big spreads. Others followed and Jim wondered how many of their cows now wore the LS, LX, Diamond F or other big ranch brands without the original owner’s having been paid for them. The little man’s cows gathered in the big ranch roundups were mostly unbranded. The big outfits claimed them, slapped their brands on them and kept them. Jim had trouble seeing the difference between that and outright rustling. It just didn�
�t strike him as fair.
The association had put a standing bounty of two hundred fifty dollars on any man caught rustling from the big ranches. That didn’t work in reverse, though. Any thefts from the smaller outfits were just their hard luck, in the association’s eyes.
Cowboys had always bitched about the hard work, long hours, low pay and dangers of their job. The difference now, Jim noted, was that the tone of the bitching had changed. The cowpunchers were serious about it these days, not just making noise.
Also, there was talk of building a drift fence north of the Canadian to keep Kansas and Colorado stock from reaching the shelter of the river breaks to survive the brutal northers that swept down the plains. It didn’t take much of a cowboy to know what that would mean. Cattle would reach the fence and then, unable to move south, would stand and freeze to death while others stacked up behind them and died.
Barbed wire was coming to the Panhandle.
Jim edged the steers into the herd and reined his tiring horse toward the remuda. It was time to change mounts before the sorting and branding started. The young wrangler had Jim’s rope horse caught and waiting by the time Jim got to the horse herd. He stripped the saddle and bridle from the gray he had been riding and watched the horse shake himself, lie down and roll in the dust. Jim saddled the deep-chested sorrel rope horse.
At least, he thought as he pulled the cinch tight, Wade Turner wouldn’t have to see the end of a way of life. Word had reached Tascosa that the old man was dead, crushed when a horse fell on him in Kansas ten miles from railhead.
Jim stepped into the saddle and reined the sorrel toward the herd. The gelding’s muscles quivered in anticipation. The horse liked his job and was eager to get on with the work.
Jim shook out his first loop and realized that it might well be his last time, at least for a while. The association might have made life hell for cowboys and small ranchers, but it had also swung a lot of votes in his direction, and the election was little more than a month away. The cowboys would vote in a block for one of their own. The association helped Jim’s cause by openly backing Cape Willingham for another term.
Jim hadn’t campaigned much. Bill Moore and the LX hadn’t given him the time. Jim figured that was part of the association strategy, and it fit all right with Jim’s plans to let the big men do most of the talking. Among Oldham County’s cowboys, its few remaining small ranch owners, and its working poor, resentment ran high toward the rich. Every time the big men opened their mouths they pushed a few more votes Jim’s way. There were a lot more poor folks than rich people in the county.
Jim had found the time for an occasional quick visit to the smaller ranches and the isolated line camps on the bigger spreads. He had made a couple of brief trips into Hogtown and a few stops in Upper Tascosa. He hadn’t set up drinks at the Equity or any other Tascosa saloons. He just dropped by and talked with the cowboys and townsmen, made no promises, and went on about his business. Although he had a feeling the vote would be close, his confidence grew by the day. He had handled himself well in the Pecos War. People knew he could take care of touchy situations. But so could Willingham. Cape had proved his courage and competence several times over. There were two graves in Boot Hill that had been filled by Cape’s shotgun and pistol, and one or two others in the rocky hills overlooking the Canadian.
The election, Jim now knew for certain, wasn’t between two men. It was between two factions whose distrust and hatred for each other grew by the day.
Jim eased the sorrel into the herd, swung the loop overhead once and then dropped it in front of the back feet of a halfbreed yearling. He pulled the slack from the rope as the yearling stepped into the loop, dallied and turned the sorrel. The yearling bawled and fell to its side, and the sorrel leaned into the rope, dragging the calf behind. This heifer would be the first to feel the iron on this day’s work.
Tascosa
November 1882
Jim East felt Hattie’s grip tighten on his upper arm as C. B. Vivian, Oldham County’s one-armed clerk, scribbled the final vote tally on a cracked slateboard tacked to the outside wall of his combination office and home.
Jim let a grin spread over his face as the first wave of cheers broke from the cluster of cowboys crowded on the sidewalk. He had won by just over twenty votes.
Hattie reached up, caught Jim by the ear and pulled his head down far enough to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Her face was flushed with pride and admiration. “Congratulations, Sheriff East,” she whispered.
Before Jim could reply the crowd surged forward, eager to shake his hand. Cape Willingham was one of the first.
“Jim,” Willingham said, “it was a fair contest and a clean campaign. Congratulations.”
Jim returned Willingham’s sincere handshake. “Cape, I’d be a lot more proud if it had been somebody except you put out of a job. What will you do now?”
Willingham chuckled. “Try to stay alive until you take the oath of office January first,” he said. “To the victor, as nobody has said, go the hazards. I’m not all that disappointed. I’m tired of wrestling drunks and getting shot at, to tell you the truth.”
“Gentlemen,” Vivian shouted, “the saloons may now reopen! The election is over!”
The announcement triggered a fresh surge of jubilation from the crowd. “Be pleased to buy you a drink, Jim,” Willingham yelled above the din.
Jim started to shake his head but Hattie tugged at his sleeve. “Go ahead, Jim,” she said. “You deserve a little celebration.” She smiled again, mischief dancing in her brown eyes. “Just don’t overdo it or Sheriff Willingham might toss you in our little jail. I’ll be waiting for you at home.”
Jim smiled back at her. “Thanks, Hattie. I promise I won’t be long.” Jim watched her push her way through the mob, then lost sight of her in the crush of outstretched hands. A cowboy in the back of the crowd pulled his pistol and fired a shot of celebration into the air. The blast triggered a volley of gunshots. The fire of muzzle flashes scored the darkening sky.
Willingham made no attempt to stop the celebration. He knew when to let men blow off steam, as long as it didn’t last past regular folks’ bedtime. “Meet you at the Equity in a few minutes,” Cape all but yelled in Jim’s ear.
It took Jim almost a half hour to work his way from Vivian’s place to the Equity Saloon. His right hand felt swollen and sore from all the handshakes. He found Cape Willingham leaning against the bar. Constable Henry Brown was there too, frowning into a glass. He glared at Jim for a moment, then turned back to his drink.
Willingham raised his glass in salute, then pushed a bottle and an extra glass to Jim.
Jim dribbled a single shot of whiskey into the glass and lifted it, returning the sheriffs toast. He sipped at the amber liquid and winced. It was pretty raw stuff. “Seriously, Cape,” Jim said, “what will you do after the end of the year?”
Willingham shrugged. “Got a few dollars squirreled back. Reckon I’ll buy me a bunch of the meanest horses I can find and drift ‘em into New Mexico. Always wanted a horse ranch.” He lowered his voice so that Jim had to strain to hear. “Watch yourself, Jim,” Willingham said. “A man can get killed in this town. I got a feeling it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
Jim nodded. “I expect you’re right, Cape. I’ll watch it.”
A hand on his shoulder interrupted the conversation. He turned to a trio of grinning faces still dusty from the day’s work—Lem Woodruff, Tom Emory, and young Cal Polk. “By God, Jim,” Lem said, “we did it! I’ll buy the next round for the new sheriff of Oldham County!”
Jim shook his head and smiled. “Thanks, boys, for all the work you did for me. And for the offer of the drink, but I best get on home now. Hattie will be waiting on me. We’ve got a lot of plans to make —”
A yelp of outrage and the clatter of a falling table at the far end of the saloon interrupted the conversation. Jim craned his neck and got a glimpse of the action through a break in the crowd. Two men g
rappled on the floor, cursing and slugging at each other. Jim knew them by sight, two saloon bums who drifted into Tascosa when Arrington chased them out of Mobeetie.
At Jim’s side Cape Willingham groaned aloud. “Damn fools can’t hold their liquor.” He thumped his glass onto the bar and turned toward the fight, Brown alongside him.
“Need a hand, Cape?” Jim asked.
“Nah. I’m still sheriff for now. I’ll handle it.”
Jim watched as Willingham pushed his way through the crowd. He grabbed one of the men by the belt, lifted him bodily from the floor and tossed him against the wall. The man’s head hit the wall hard enough to crumble a few flakes from the adobe. At the same time, Brown whipped out his pistol and cracked it against the second man’s skull. The man flopped unconscious and bleeding to the floor. Brown raised the pistol again, prepared to slam it into the man’s head a second time. Cape Willingham’s fist closed around the barrel of the Colt.
“That’s enough, Henry,” Willingham, said. “No need to beat a half-drunk man to death.” Brown frowned and grumbled, but he holstered his pistol. Moments later the sheriff and constable half carried, half dragged the moaning and dazed combatants toward the door. “Night in my little hotel will take the starch out of ‘em,” Willingham said to Jim as the men passed by.
Jim saw the hard set of Henry Brown’s jaw and the gleam of violence in his eyes. Brown’s free hand rested on the butt of his holstered Colt. No doubt about what I’ll do first as sheriff, Jim thought. Brown’s got to go.
Jim turned back to the bar. He placed a five-dollar gold piece on the counter and told the barkeep to fill the glasses of his three cowboy friends until the money ran out. “After that, Lem,” he said, “you boys are on your own. I’ll see you later.”
He pushed his way through the crowd, shook a few more hands and stepped onto the street outside. The chill had sharpened with the coming of sunset. Jim’s breath left puffs of steam to drift on the north breeze as he made his way to the small adobe house at Main and McMasters. An oil lamp glowed beyond the flour-sack curtains at the lone front window, a golden rectangle against the deep blue of the early night. Well, girl , he thought, we can get you that house soon. And some real lace curtains for it. We 3 ll start looking just as soon as I tie up a few loose ends.