Tascosa Gun

by Gene Shelton

  The two lawmen entered the Jenkins bar out of breath and out of sorts, weapons at the ready—and found nothing amiss.

  Three card games were in progress with other gamblers waiting for an open chair. Cowpunchers stood two deep at the bar. There wasn’t a single squabble going on.

  “What was the shooting about?” Jim snapped.

  Blank stares were the only response. Luis Bausman glanced up from one of the tables. “Didn’t hear a thing, Jim.” A slight grin touched the corners of Bausman’s mouth.

  “Any of you boys know what’s going on?”

  An LS cowboy who had lost his job in the strike strode into the saloon from a back door in time to hear the question. “Just a few of the boys letting off a little steam, Sheriff East,” he said. “Nobody shootin’ at anybody else.”

  Jim let a steady gaze drift around the saloon crowd and settle on Jess Jenkins’s florid face. The bar owner sat at a corner table, a deck of cards in his hand. “Any trouble here, Jess?” Jim asked.

  Jenkins shrugged. “Like the man said. Just a few boys funning around out back. No trouble.”

  Jim lowered the shotgun. “All right, if you say so.” He raised his voice. “I don’t want to hear one more gun go off in Hogtown tonight, boys,” he said. “The next man who decides to do some funning around can play with me.” Jim glanced at Pierce. The deputy’s eyes reflected Jim’s own disgust and exhaustion. “Let’s go, L.C. Before I lose my temper.”

  The two men strode back to the jail. Twenty yards from the building Jim barked a curse. The front door stood open. He sprinted inside. His boot clanked against a prybar; the cell was empty, the thin iron plate twisted away from the wrecked lock. Ed Norwood was gone.

  “What the hell?”

  Jim glanced at his deputy. “We’ve been suckered like a couple of greenhorns.” he said. “While we were off chasing a gunfight that never happened, somebody slipped in behind us and broke Norwood out.”

  “What do we do now, Jim?”

  “Keep an eye on the town, L.C. I’m going after that fool kid.”

  ***

  Jim pulled the slicker tighter about his neck and listened to the hammer of raindrops on his hat. The storm had turned the narrow trail along the Cimarron into a small river. The rushing water had carried away the last of Ed Norwood’s tracks.

  Jim sat for a moment and stared into the wind-driven deluge. Lightning danced overhead. The boom of thunder shook the muddy ground beneath his horse’s hooves. He touched a finger to his dripping hat brim. “Well, Ed,” he muttered aloud, “you made it this far. Maybe you can make it on into Colorado or Wyoming. At least you won’t be looking at five years in the pen for killing a man who damn well deserved it.”

  Sometimes, Jim thought, the best justice was none at all. This seemed to be one of those times. He reined his horse away from the region called the Cimarron Strip toward home.

  There was enough work at Tascosa to keep a man too busy to scratch.

  Tascosa

  June 1883

  The stage from Dodge City creaked to a stop in front of the Exchange Hotel. Jim East stood by the driver’s seat and watched the passengers climb from the carriage, a habit he had followed since he first pinned on the badge. A sheriff needed to know who was coming into town—and who was leaving.

  Today’s coach held four passengers. The first to dismount carried the brand of the professional gambler. Jim had learned to read the type. The second was a cattle buyer from Chicago, a portly man who had become a seasonal fixture in Tascosa. The buyer offered a hand to the woman who followed. Another dance hall girl, Jim noted. He could spot them as quick as he could professional gamblers.

  The last man off the stage was David T. Beales, the Bostonian who owned the majority share of the LX Ranch. Beales was medium height, beardless, with the pallor of a city man, and wore an air of quiet confidence along with a slightly dusty but expensive silk suit and beaver hat. Beales glanced about, caught Jim’s gaze and extended a hand.

  “Sheriff East,” Beales said, “good to see you again.” His accent was heavily Bostonian, but he still had the firm grip of a craftsman who had turned a small shoe business into a considerable fortune that included several thousand head of Texas cattle. His smile was genuine. “Rather unusual to be greeting you as sheriff, Jim East. The last time we met, you were—how do you Texans say it? Oh, yes—topping off an LX bronc, I believe.”

  Jim had to laugh. “The bronc won that battle, Mister Beales. But he turned into a good horse.”

  “Your letter said there was a matter of some importance we should discuss upon my next visit.” It was obvious to Jim that the small talk was over. Beales was a direct man. “Should we get down to it?” He gestured toward the Exchange Hotel. “I have a room booked here. It should be sufficiently private.” Beales led the way. If the crude adobe hotel seemed primitive to the Bostonian, he made no mention of the fact.

  A half hour later, Beales sat across from Jim at a small table, a frown bunching his heavy eyebrows. “Are you telling me, Sheriff East, that my foreman is stealing cattle from my ranch?”

  “No, sir,” Jim said. “I’m telling you only what I’ve seen and what I suspect. If I had solid proof that Bill Moore was rustling your stock, he’d be in irons right now.”

  “And what are the chances of getting that proof?”

  “I’d say slim, Mister Beales. Moore is slick. He’s been around ranches a long time. He knows how brand registries and mavericking work, and he knows how to buy stolen cattle without making a dumb mistake.”

  Beales fell silent for a moment. His sturdy fingers curled into a fist on the table. “Sheriff East, I appreciate your candor in this matter. I will discuss this in considerable detail with Mister Moore.” The expression in the Bostonian’s eyes was hard and cold. “I cannot abide theft by an employee. It is the worst kind of slap in the face one man can deal another.”

  Jim pushed back his chair. “I agree, Mister Beales. That’s why I wrote you in the first place. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to make. Tascosa gets a bit rowdy sometimes.”

  “One moment, Sheriff,” Beales said. He reached into a coat pocket and produced a sheaf of bills. “I would like to reward you for your information.”

  Jim shook his head. “I won’t take your money. You treated me fair when I worked for the LX. Let’s just say I’m paying back a debt for that.”

  A wisp of a smile touched the Bostonian’s lips. “You have an interesting code of honor, Mister East. I don’t believe I’ve met more than a half dozen men in my life who wouldn’t accept a gratuity for services rendered. Back in Boston all I see is upturned palms.” Beales tucked the money back into his pocket, stood and offered a hand. “Thank you again, Sheriff. I assure you the source of the information you’ve given me here will remain confidential, and that I will have a serious talk with Mister Moore.”

  Jim nodded and reached for his hat.

  “Sheriff,” Beales said, “I’ve had reports that conditions are quite touchy in the Panhandle. Now that the so-called cowboy strike has ended, do you think tensions will ease?” Jim stared straight into the Bostonian’s eyes. “No, Mister Beales. It’s going to get worse, not better. We could be heading straight into a range war between the little men and the big outfits like yours. I’m going to do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Jim strode from the hotel into the bright spring sun. Tascosa was reasonably quiet. The cowboy strike had ended with barely a whimper, petered out like a small spring-fed stream disappearing into dry sand. It had ended as the strike funds saved by the cowboys disappeared into the saloons and gaming tables and whorehouses.

  From start to finish the strike had lasted barely a month.

  Many of the cowpunchers Jim had ridden with were gone. They had followed young Cal Polk south, or headed north to Colorado and points beyond, looking for work where the cowboy blacklist meant nothing.

  Quite a few of the old hands had stayed on. Lem Woodruff, Luis Bausman,
and Charley and Tom Emory now made their livings almost exclusively at the gambling tables. It was a good thing Tom Emory was better at poker than he was at forecasting the future, Jim thought.

  The big ranches had not only survived the strike, they had prospered and expanded. The spring trail herds had moved north as scheduled—maybe not as expertly handled as in the past, but they moved. Several more owners of small ranches had been squeezed out, their lands bought up by the LS, LX, LIT, Turkey Track and other spreads.

  Now a new ranching syndicate loomed just over the ridge of hills northwest of Tascosa. The state of Texas had deeded thousands of previously unclaimed acres of land in the northern and western Panhandle to a group of Chicago investors in exchange for construction of a new state capitol building. The ranch would run the XIT brand. Jim couldn’t predict what impact that would have on the town or its people, but another big syndicate outfit on range that was already getting crowded wouldn’t help the situation a lot.

  It may be quiet around here now, Jim thought , but one thing’s for sure — if some fool on either side makes a dumb move, Boot Hill may not be big enough.

  ELEVEN

  Tascosa

  March 1884

  Jim East settled into the wooden chair behind his desk, fresh from his first bath and home-cooked meal in more than a week.

  By his guess he had ridden better than three hundred miles in the last nine days. The stiffness in his knees, the leaden feel of his shoulders, and his sore butt reminded him of every mile.

  For his efforts he now had two small-time rustlers in the Tascosa lockup awaiting the next term of district court to open in a couple of weeks. Two out of God only knows how many , he grumbled inwardly. These two hadn’t resisted. A man tended not to put up too much of a fuss when you caught him red-handed with a hot running iron on an LIT cow and stuck a Winchester muzzle under his nose.

  The Texas Panhandle rode the narrow edge of violence, but it still hadn’t exploded. It smoldered and fizzled just beneath the surface of the deepening split between the big and little ranch factions. Jim knew the fuse was burning hotter and faster by the day. He could feel the heat.

  The cowboys left behind after the strike fizzled took their revenge on the big ranches not with lead but with iron—running irons. The amount of mavericking and rustling that plagued the big outfits now made the work of Billy the Kid and his Pecos River gang look like a gaggle of boys stealing candy from the local store.

  The Panhandle cowboys were expert horsemen. They knew cattle and markets and brands and every creek and thicket along the Canadian and the Cimarron as well as they knew the path to the outhouse. They also loved the grasslands and knew it was some of the best cow country in the world. They were as determined to have their share of it as the big men were to have it all. That made the Tascosa cowboy the best stock thief in the business.

  There were other factors at work too. The big ranches had kept expanding, claiming still more free range as their own personal property. When a nester family or small rancher tried to settle on a piece of land they could expect trouble by sundown of the same day. But some of the tougher and more savvy cowboys could handle trouble in pretty big doses.

  There were more nester outfits and one-section cow ranches in the Panhandle now than there ever had been.

  Tom Harris, leader of the cowboy strike, established a base of operations across the state line at Liberty, New Mexico, and registered the Bar WA brand. The Bar WA was now universally known among the Panhandle cowboys as the “Get Even Cattle Company.”

  Bill Moore, fired from the LX less than a week after Jim’s talk with Beales, didn’t exactly suffer the pangs of starvation. His Double H Connected brand, also just across the state line, was growing fast. So fast, in fact, that the standing joke was that Moore must be one hell of a cowman, because every mama cow he owned had two sets of triplets each year.

  A complex network of so-called “outlaw” brands cropped up as the stock thefts increased. Most notorious of all was the Tabletop, a spidery brand with “legs” extending outward from a rectangular “table.” It could be burned over almost any brand in the Panhandle. Other suspected rustler marks included the Hondo, which changed ownership as often as a wind-broke horse; the Pipe, owned by Joe Dyke, formerly of the LIT; and Bill Gatlin’s K Triangle.

  Most obvious of the lot was the T-48 brand registered to Tom Harris. All it took to change an LS brand to a T-48 was two quick strokes of the iron. There were others of lesser importance, six-cow ranch brands designed primarily to cover the trail of stolen stock.

  The politics and geography of the area simplified the process of rustling. Eastern New Mexico was far from any site of government. New Mexico authorities were less than concerned about the activities around Liberty and other points north. While Tascosa was now a county seat, it had no active courts except for twice-yearly sessions when the district judge brought his bench from Mobeetie a hundred and thirty miles downriver. Indictments had to be obtained in Mobeetie because Tascosa had no grand jury, and indictments handed down in Mobeetie on offenses in Oldham County had little chance of standing up in court. The question of jurisdiction muddied the waters of judicial procedure.

  Conditions favored the rustlers, and they weren’t shy. Cattle rustled in New Mexico went into the Texas herds. Stock rustled in Texas soon found a new home in New Mexico. It had gotten to the point, Jim mused, that a Texas cow would look up, see a man on horseback, and just start on the trail to New Mexico, and vice versa. Some of the cattle had changed hands so many times there wasn’t space left on their hides for a fresh brand, even if a man had clear title to the critter.

  Compounding the problem was the increasing ownership of Texas lands by British or Eastern money interests. Bates and Beales had sold the LX to a British outfit called the American Pastoral Company Limited. The LIT belonged to Britain’s Prairie Land & Cattle Company. Now the XIT was starting up operations on the Chicago syndicate’s grants in the northern and western Panhandle. The XIT planned to put barbed wire around its holdings—hundreds of miles of what the cowboys called the devil’s string. Jim snorted in disgust at the thought.

  The wire brought to mind the comments of Wade Turner, the old trail boss. “You’re right, Wade,” Jim muttered under his breath. “Dyno-sewers. That’s what we’ll be soon, you and me and the other cowboys of this world.”

  Absentee ranch ownership brought a new problem to the Panhandle. When the old-time cowmen left, any sense of loyalty to the brand went with them. As one grizzled old cowboy had remarked to Jim, “Hell, Sheriff, it ain’t no crime to brand no syndicate calf.”

  Rustlers had hit every one of the big ranches, the LS especially hard. Members of the Panhandle Cattleman’s Association were pitching a bigger fit than a bronc under saddle for the first time. It would be funny, Jim thought, this idea of the big ranches caught in a coyote trap they had set and baited themselves—except that one Tascosa lawman was caught in the middle of the whole mess.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” a gruff voice called from the cell in back, “how about gettin’ some grub in here?”

  “Hold your water, Bailey,” Jim yelled back. “You’ll get fed when the North Star cook sends it over.”

  “Damn poor way to treat a man, starvin’ him half to death. Sorriest jail I ever been in, and I been in ‘em from Montana to San ‘Tone.”

  “Maybe it’ll be better at Huntsville, Bailey,” Jim replied. “I expect you’ll have plenty of time to get used to it down there.”

  A mumbled curse from the cell was the only reply.

  Jim pulled out his pocket watch, flipped open the lid and checked the time. He had four hours left before L.C. came on duty and he could go home to Hattie. He thought for a moment about asking L.C. to take over the rest of his shift, but discarded the thought. The deputy was just as exhausted as the sheriff. Pierce kept a handle on Tascosa while Jim was off chasing rustlers, and that was a job that wore a man down. Still, Jim would be happy to see L.C. walk through that doo
r.

  The only good thing about being gone so long and so often, Jim thought, was the homecoming. Hattie made a fuss over him, and Jim groused about all the attention, and he loved every minute of it. Hattie could always find a way to make him laugh. These days he needed a good chuckle every chance he got.

  He tucked the watch back into his pocket and glanced up as the office door swung open. A familiar figure ducked under the low frame.

  “Hello, Jim,” Pat Garrett said, a slight smile on his lips. The smile wasn’t reflected in the eyes.

  “Come in, Pat.” Jim rose and extended a hand. “What brings you back to Tascosa? If you’re hunting somebody, I’ve got a couple in back you’re welcome to.”

  Garrett shook his head. “Afraid it’s a little bigger than that this time. The star looks good on you.”

  “Thing gets mighty heavy at times.” Jim waved toward a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll put on some fresh coffee.”

  “Don’t bother. This is a business call.”

  Jim cocked an eyebrow in question.

  Garrett sat and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his bony knees. “I’ve come to ask your help again. The Cattleman’s Association has hired me to put a stop to the rustling hereabouts. They want me to put together a company of rangers. I’ve got some men lined up. I could use another good hand.”

  “I didn’t think the Texas Rangers were adding more men,” Jim said. “I asked for a couple not long ago. They turned me down.”

  Garrett shrugged. “We won’t be an official company. The governor tossed that idea into the outhouse quick. My group will be called the Home Rangers. Financed and backed by the association, mostly by the LS.”

  Jim settled into his chair and stroked his chin. “Sounds like a vigilante group to me.”

  “On the surface, maybe it does sound that way. But I’ve stressed to the association that the Home Rangers will work only within the framework of the law. There won’t be any lynchings as long as I’m in charge.”