Tascosa Gun

by Gene Shelton

  “Who else is in on it?”

  “Barney Mason, Lon Chambers, Charley Reasor, Ed King, Frank Valley, John Lang, and a couple of others you may not know. Men new to Tascosa.”

  Jim winced inwardly. Except for Lon Chambers, there wasn’t a man in the group he would trust even if they carried two pounds of badges. He shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of it, Pat,” he said. “Deal me out.”

  “Want to tell me why?” There was a hint of a challenge in Garrett’s tone.

  “Ed King for starters,” Jim said, his voice calm and steady. “That man is a killing waiting for a place to happen. Gets downright mean when he’s drunk. Which seems to be most of the time. He’s going to shoot somebody for no reason except an overload of Old Skullbuster one of these days.” Jim let a wry smile touch his lips. “Besides, King’s been my guest here a couple of times. I had to bust him in the ear to break up a fight in the Dunn and Jenkins Saloon just last week. I don’t think he likes me too much.” Jim leaned forward, his gaze locked on Garrett’s eyes. “Pat, I won’t run with that pack, and not just because of King. Several of those men don’t care who they hurt. I won’t have any part of them.”

  Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I can handle them?”

  “That’s not what I said,” Jim replied. “I just said I won’t have any part of it. I’m a sheriff, not a night rider with a gun and a rope. This badge means something to me.”

  “Suppose we brought in warrants based on indictments from district court? Would you help serve them?”

  Jim sighed. “You know I wouldn’t have a choice. As sheriff of the county I’d have to help serve any warrants that were legal and binding. I’ll work with you when the law says I have to, but like I said—deal me out as far as the rest of it’s concerned.”

  Garrett shrugged and stood. “I guess that’s it then, Jim. I was hoping you’d see it my way.”

  “I see it your way. What I see is dead wrong.” Jim let a hard edge creep into his tone. “And remember this, Pat. If you or any of your Home Rangers break the law in my jurisdiction, I’ll come after you like I would any common thief.”

  Garrett tugged his hat into place. “I don’t doubt that for a minute, Jim. I just hope it never gets to that point. I’ll see you around.” The lanky New Mexican ducked through the doorway and strode into the midafternoon light.

  Jim sat for a moment and stared toward the door. He tried to shake away the dread that sat like a lump in his gut. Then he pushed himself out of the chair, strapped on his gun belt and reached for his hat. He had a town to patrol.

  Tascosa

  May 1884

  Jim East folded the tattered copy of the Dodge City newspaper with care, placed it on a corner of his battered desk, and glanced up as Deputy L. C. Pierce strode into the office. Pierce’s thumb and forefinger were clamped securely on the left ear of a tousle-haired lad about ten years old.

  “Caught Widow Thoreson’s chicken thief, Jim,” the deputy said. He released his grip on the boy’s ear. The youngster’s eyes were wide with fear and pain as he rubbed the abused flap of skin. Tears pooled in the lids of the boy’s eyes. “What do we do with this desperado?”

  Jim leaned back in his chair and glared into the boy’s frightened eyes. “Well, Clint,” he said grimly, “you’ve got yourself in a mess of trouble this time. You know what happens to stock thieves around here.”

  Clinton Scarborough tried to stare back defiantly, but the tremble of his lower lip and the trickle of a tear down a dirty cheek wrecked his attempt at arrogance. Clint was from one of the poor families in town. His shoes were worn through at the toe and his britches and homemade shirt had more patches than original material.

  “Well, Clint? Why did you take to rustling the widow’s chickens?”

  “I”—the boy hiccuped a sob—”we didn’t have no money. Daddy don’t make much workin’ at the stable. I stole them chickens ‘cause the cook down at the North Star cafe buys ‘em from me.” Clint dropped his gaze to the floor and shuffled his oversize feet. “I didn’t mean the widder no harm. Heck, it was just some dumb ol’ chickens.”

  Jim winked at L. C. Pierce over the boy’s bowed head. He kept his voice firm with an effort. “Son, it wasn’t just some dumb old chickens. Widow Thoreson’s as poor as you folks are. Those chickens are her only cash income. If you steal all her chickens, Widow Thoreson’s going to starve to death. Rustling chickens is stock theft, just like stealing a man’s cows, as far as the law is concerned.” He paused for a moment to let the concept sink in, then rose and reached for the manacles hanging on a peg near the desk.

  “Sheriff,” L.C. said, “do we hang this rustler now, or wait until after the trial?”

  Jim studied Clint’s face. It had gone the color of chalk. Sheer terror showed in the boy’s eyes when Clint looked up. “Sheriff, please—”

  Jim clanked the manacles a couple of times, then tossed them onto the desk. “Maybe there is a way we can keep a jury from hanging you, Clint,” he said. “We’ll go talk to the Widow Thoreson. Maybe if you offer to help her out around the place—clean the coops, gather eggs, fix up things when she needs it—she might drop the charges.” He stroked his chin as if in deep thought. “She’s a good woman, the widow. Has a charitable streak in her. Of course, I’ll have to make sure that’s all right with your dad. He’s a poor man, but proud —”

  “Sheriff, my pa’ll skin me alive if he hears about this! You got to help me out!”

  Jim scowled at the boy for a long moment. “Tell you what, Clint. You go talk to the widow on your own. If you can make a deal with her, we’ll keep this just between you, L.C., me and the widow. You come back here and tell me how it works out.” He pointed a stern finger at the boy. “You skip out on me, I’ll be mighty disappointed. I’d have to come after you.”

  The youth swallowed hard. “I won’t, Sheriff. I promise.”

  “All right. Go talk to the widow.”

  The boy turned and scurried out the door.

  Jim settled back into his chair. “Well, that’s another case solved by the fearless law enforcement officers of Tascosa,” he said to L.C.

  “Clint’s not a bad kid. He’s just at the age where he doesn’t stop and think things through. Come to think of it, we’ve got a lot of grown men around like that.” L.C. helped himself to some coffee and toed a chair around to face Jim’s desk. Jim pushed the copy of the Dodge City paper to the deputy. “You might be interested in this, L.C.,” he said. “Henry Brown’s dead.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Pierce muttered. “What happened?”

  “After I fired him, Brown drifted into Kansas. Got himself appointed city marshal at Caldwell, married and seemed ready to settle down.” Jim shrugged. “A few days back Brown and three others tried to rob the bank at Medicine Lodge. They got caught. Brown collected a double load of buckshot trying to outrun a lynch mob. The others took a long drop on a short rope.”

  Pierce scanned the article and tossed the paper back onto the desk. “Can’t say I’m real surprised. I never did like the looks of that man.” The deputy grunted in disgust. “Does give lawmen a bad name, trying to rob a bank and all. The least he could have done was to do the job right. People will start thinking lawmen don’t even know how to pull off a bank holdup.” The deputy dismissed Henry Brown’s demise with a shrug. “You heard the news about the courthouse, I reckon?”

  Jim nodded. “It’s the talk of the town. Folks are mighty grateful to the LS for putting up the money to build us one.”

  “You don’t sound all that pleased, Jim.”

  Jim picked up a stub of pencil and tapped it against the edge of the desk. “I don’t think the LS has all of a sudden developed a streak of civic pride, L.C.,” he said. “Study on it for a minute. Garrett says his LS Rangers won’t try to arrest anybody without an Oldham County indictment. To get an indictment you need a grand jury. To get a grand jury you need a courthouse.”

  Pierce scratched a thumb across a stub
bled jaw. “You’ve got a point there. I was just thinking how we would get us a new office and a decent jail. What you said puts a whole new kink in that rope.” The deputy fell silent, staring into his coffee cup.

  Jim knew what was running through Pierce’s mind. So far, Garrett’s crew hadn’t spilled any blood, just made a nuisance of themselves. The Rangers prowled the line camps, roundups and floating crews, kept an eye out for rustled stock, and enforced association decrees. One of the first rules the association issued was to ban cowboys from carrying pistols. That set off a howl of outrage, but nobody openly bucked Garrett and the Rangers. Instead, there had been a run on harness shops until now almost every cowboy wore his gun under his armpit in a shoulder rig. There were just as many revolvers around as before. The only difference was that the cowboys were developing a new set of calluses from carrying them in a different place.

  Pierce sipped at the cooling coffee in his mug. “When Garrett gets the legal papers he wants, there’s going to be hell to pay on the Canadian,” the deputy said.

  Jim sighed. “You don’t have to tell me, L.C.” He rose and reached for his gun belt. “You get some rest. Catching hard cases like that chicken thief can wear a man down. I wish they were all going to be that simple.”

  Trujillo Creek

  August 1884

  Jim East pulled his sorrel to a stop on the ridge above a shallow canyon on the tributary of the Canadian. In the sandy flat of the canyon floor some thirty head of cattle milled and bawled. Three riders held the small herd as a fourth piled wood onto a branding fire.

  Jim glanced at the deputy astride a big roan beside him. “L.C.,” Jim said, “there are times I wish I’d never had the notion to be a lawman. This is one of them.”

  Pierce turned his head and spat. “Me too. Looks like that’s the bunch we’re looking for down there. Don’t see anything but Tabletop brands on the herd.”

  Jim slipped the tiedown thong from the hammer of the Colt at his belt. The Tabletop changed hands more often than a good whore on cowboy paydays. Now it belonged to the blocky man at the branding fire. “Watch the other three close, L.C.,” he said. “I’ll take care of Lochenburg. This is a tough bunch. If anybody even looks like he’s about to go for a gun, shoot him.” Jim touched spurs to the sorrel.

  The man on the ground looked up as the two peace officers rode into the flat. Deke Lochenburg was a short, broad-shouldered, powerfully built former LS rider with a weathered face that seldom showed a grin. He wore a pistol on the shell belt around his hips. Lochenburg stared without speaking as Jim rode up and dismounted.

  “What you doing here, East?” Lochenburg’s voice was like the grating of a shovel over sandstone.

  “Brought some bad news, Deke,” Jim said. “I have to take these cattle.”

  Lochenburg stared at Jim for several heartbeats. “The hell you say. Who give you a bill of sale on ‘em?”

  “Oldham County Commissioners Court,” Jim said. “The Tabletop brand’s been outlawed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sheriff.”

  “The court’s taking over several brands. The Pipe, K Triangle and the Tabletop, among others. All cattle wearing those brands belong to the county now.”

  “What?” Lochenburg’s confused expression gave way to a look of growing anger. “Hell, East, they can’t do that! It ain’t legal!”

  Jim shrugged. “Legal or not, Deke, they did it. I’ve got a paper in my pocket that says you have to turn any Tabletop stock over to me. Garrett’s men are picking up outlaw brand stock at other cow camps up and down the river.”

  Lochenburg’s face flushed. “By God, East, nobody takes my stock! I’ll see you in hell first!” Lochenburg’s right hand slapped at the butt of his pistol. Jim reached out with his left hand, clamped Lochenburg’s wrist against his side, and slammed a doubled fist between the burly man’s eyes. Jim felt the cartilage of Lochenburg’s nose crumple under the blow.

  Lochenburg staggered. Jim hammered him again. His knuckles cracked into Lochenburg’s windpipe. The man’s eyes glazed and his knees buckled. Jim yanked the Colt from Lochenburg’s holster and let him fall.

  “Hold it!” L. C. Pierce’s voice was sharp against the thin morning air. Jim glanced up. One of the three riders froze, his hand on the stock of a Winchester in a saddle boot. “Make one more move, cowboy, and I’ll kill you,” Pierce said. His voice was cold.

  Jim turned his attention back to Lochenburg. The stocky man was on his knees, one hand wrapped around his throat. Blood poured from the broken nose. Lochenburg wheezed as he tried to pull air through his bruised windpipe.

  “Goddamn you—to hell—” Lochenburg’s words came in pained, short gasps. “I’ll kill—you for—this, East.”

  “Any time you get the urge, Deke, I’ll be around.” Jim reached down, grabbed Lochenburg by the collar and dragged him to his feet. He frisked the man, found no hideout gun, and turned to glare at the others. “Drop the hardware, boys. Slow and easy. You’re going to help us trail these cattle back to Tascosa. After that, you’re all free to go. I have no warrants for your arrest, just a paper for the cattle. They’re not worth getting killed over.”

  The riders scowled and cursed, but one by one they let their gunbelts and rifles fall. L. C. Pierce gathered the weapons as Jim levered the still wheezing Lochenburg into the saddle of Deke’s horse.

  “Next time—you come at me—you better have a gun in your hand, East.” Lochenburg’s voice sounded like the croak of a tromped frog.

  “I’ll remember that, Deke. I truly will,” Jim said. “Now, let’s head these cattle to Tascosa.”

  Tascosa

  Sheriff Jim East lounged in the saddle on the flat south of Tascosa and watched as the last of the “outlaw brand” cattle disappeared around a bend of the Canadian, bound for sale in Springer, New Mexico, as decreed by Oldham County.

  Jim spat. The cowboys had elected their sheriff, but the Lee and Scott LS brand owned the county commissioners court. The governing body of Oldham County was, in effect, an extension of the LS. The court’s declarations that the suspect brands were outlawed and confiscating the stock were illegal as hell, Jim grumbled to himself, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. And despite his own feelings he had to admit there was no question that at least some of those three hundred cows now headed to market at Springer had been stolen.

  Almost a third of the herd wore the Tabletop brand. Only the good Lord knows what brands are on the inside of those hides, Jim thought .

  As promised, he had turned Deke Lochenburg and his friends loose. He had no legal reason to hold them. The brands had been outlawed, not the owners. But Jim knew that more trouble was ahead with the stocky rustler. Lochenburg wasn’t the sort of man who made idle threats.

  “Well, Sheriff,” said one of the county commissioners standing beside him, “there goes the county’s first profit from the sale of stolen beef. That herd will certainly add a nice sum to the county coffers.”

  Jim shot a quick glance at the county official. “Don’t count the coins yet. I know those men driving the stock. I doubt you’ll ever see them again. Or the county’s money.” He abruptly reined his horse about and headed back for Tascosa at an easy trot.

  Outlawing the so-called rustler brands was more than just illegal, Jim thought as he rode; it also was going to drive an even bigger wedge between the association and the little men. Garrett’s group, now commonly known as the “LS Rangers,” had opened a few more wounds.

  Garrett had kept his word, as far as Jim knew. The rangers hadn’t killed anybody. But a lot of Garrett’s former friends had gone over to the other side. When Garrett came to town now, the New Mexico lawman had to buy his own drinks.

  Jim rode past the building taking shape at the corner of McMasters and Court streets. Workmen, mostly Mexican laborers, swarmed over the pile of rock that soon would be Oldham County’s courthouse.

  Jim admitted he had to give the Cattleman’s Association some
credit. They had bought a rundown one-room building for Tascosa’s first school, which now had more than thirty students during the winter. And even if the LS’s motive in supplying funds for the courthouse was self-serving, at least the county would have a decent lockup and sheriff’s office. He idly wondered how much the trade-off would cost in trouble and blood before it was over.

  The southwest wind kicked up again, a blacksmith’s furnace from the Mexico deserts. It whipped sand from the riverbed and peppered the buildings of Tascosa. Hot days , cheap whiskey and bad tempers , he thought. A dangerous combination.

  Jim still had several stops to make on his rounds before he headed to the new home he and Hattie had purchased. The thought of Hattie brought a slight smile to Jim’s face. They had owned the house for only a week, but already she had turned it into home. It was as if they had lived there for years. Tonight she had promised him a deep-dish dried-apple pie dusted with cinnamon. She would smell like baking apples and the rose water she used in her daily bath. Hattie knew how to take a man’s mind off his worries.

  Jim’s last stop was Jess Jenkins’s Emporium in Hogtown. The place was crowded, but not uncomfortably so. Luis Bausman looked up from the poker game at a corner table and waved a greeting to Jim. Lem Woodruff stood at the bar laughing and joking and still reasonably sober, his arm around the auburn haired dance hall girl named Sally. The sight bothered Jim a bit. Lem seemed to be getting serious about Sally. That, in itself, was no problem. Many of the dance hall girls and prostitutes in Tascosa married former clients and settled down to become wives and mothers.

  What worried Jim was that he had seen Sally appear to make a play for Ed King on evenings when Lem was not around. It wasn’t unusual for woman trouble to set off a fight or even a shootout in Tascosa. Sally was playing a dangerous game, flirting with one man from the so-called “little man” or “nester” faction and another from the ranks of the big landowners.