Riders of Judgment

by Frederick Manfred

  Cain took a step forward in the loose straw. Bent forward from the hips, head jutted forward, veins and tendons white through walnut-dark skin, strike in the set of his hands and shoulders, he threw all his force into Hunt. “Draw, you Devil’s own bastard!” His voice roared and echoed all of a piece inside the barn. “Fill your hand!”

  Still Hunt didn’t draw.

  “Do it! Now!” Cain came forward another step, slowly, spurs catching in the straw, moving full of violent silence, eyes blazing white. “Or say something so I can hate you enough to kill you in cold blood.”

  And yet Hunt held off.

  All of a sudden Cain had enough. He’d gone beyond where he cared to go. He let go inside. “Be damned to you then,” he said. “I’ve talked more the last couple hours than I ever did in all my life and still I hain’t been able to cut your wolf loose. So the hell with it. If you won’t fight, I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.” He shook his shaggy head. “Tain’t human. Heaven and hell is my witness I tried everything onreasonable. Everything.”

  “That’s it,” Dad said, mouth snapping shut.

  Released, Hunt turned to his bay and saddled up and rode off into the night.

  Cain hung his gun and leather jacket on a peg at the end of the stall. He sat on his heels again and put a hand on Lonesome. He swabbed out Lonesome’s nostrils with rags dipped in alcohol. He noted the single veins wriggling across the tender insides of the fluttering nostrils. He stroked the noble black head. He combed the curly black mane. He put more fresh straw under Lonesome’s neck and back. He took off blankets when Lonesome broke out in a sweat; piled them back on again when Lonesome began to shiver. He selected a straw from the bedding. He chewed. He waited. Dad hovered over him.

  “Lonesome, boy.”

  At midnight, Cain raised haggard eyes. “Dad, you better go hit the hay. I appreciate it, but there’s no use a you stayin’ around. If anybody comes, I’ll take care of the business for you.”

  Dad nodded. “They’s a cot in back with some blankets you kin use. Sometimes in a pinch I sleep on it.”

  “No, I’ll just set here until the crisis is past.” Cain looked down at Lonesome. It was with an effort that he kept from choking on the words. “I let my best friend down and now I’ve got to make it up to him.”

  “That’s it.”

  Sitting alone, listening to the slow gargling breaths, chewing on a straw, brooding, he thought of the many times he and Lonesome had ridden the range together: up under the Old Man hunting bighorn; across the prairie of an evening to take in a barn dance at Red Jackson’s; up the valley to attend meetings of the little stockmen; and, yes, down the Shaken Grass to visit Rory.

  “Lonesome, boy.”

  There was the time when he got lost in a blizzard. It was Lonesome who’d saved his life. Stiff with cold, he’d fallen off into a snowbank and all night long Lonesome kept nuzzling him to keep him awake, again and again, until finally just at dawn Lone some pawed him with a hoof, gently, moving him and making him get to his feet and stumble on.

  “Come, boy.”

  There was the time when Lonesome saved him from a raging prairie fire north of Casper. Lonesome smelled it first, and ran against the bit and Cain’s curses all the way back to town, brought him inside the plowed fireguard just as the cinders fell thick around them and the air got too stifling hot to breathe.

  “Lonesome, boy.”

  There were the many times they’d drunk from the same stream together, with Lonesome lipping the water’s surface after he was full, in play, letting big drops fall back.

  “Steady, boy.”

  He got a pail of water. Straddling Lonesome’s neck, he lifted his head to help him drink. Lonesome lipped the water, but did not take any of it. After a bit, Lonesome’s lip twisted some, and Cain took it to be a smile, a weak one, as if in thanks.

  “Lonesome, boy.”

  He got out brush and currycomb and groomed Lonesome. He brushed down the short black hairs tufting out in a sort of cowlick above the coupling. Gently he brushed where the veins ran like gorged angleworms under the belly. The size of the veins made Cain wonder if a tight cinch hurt the flow of blood much. Gently he brushed along each stroke of bone and each length of muscle. He brushed until the hair shone in the lantern light. Tenderly he combed over the white sock on the left leg, the one sweet blemish in all of Lonesome’s black glory coat.

  Choked lungs breathing coarsely, Lonesome suffered it. Once he flipped an ear in appreciation.

  Toward morning, Lonesome coughed, explosive. Phlegm hit the wall in splats. Lonesome raised; got one crooked front hoof up; collapsed.

  “Boy!”

  The horse’s entire carcass worked at getting breath; couldn’t make it.

  “Throat’s plugged.”

  Again Lonesome tried exploding it out. Couldn’t.

  Cain grabbed for his pocketknife, opened the leather-auger blade, and deliberately, grimly, bored a hole into the horse’s windpipe just above where it entered the broad chest. There was first a trickle of blood; then a sudden tiny whistling; and finally, after a rip of the blade to one side, a gush of wind and froth and clot. Lonesome breathed easier.

  “Ahh.”

  At dawn, Lonesome tried to raise once more. This time he managed to get up on both front feet; held up his noble black head a moment—and then, with a falling slide, collapsed in the straw, moving a little as the great chest slowly closed on a sigh.

  Dead.

  “Lonesome!”

  Unthinking, Cain threw his arms around Lonesome and cried in his mane.

  But only for a moment. He remembered someone might catch him at it. Especially in Dad’s public livery barn. He got to his feet. For a long time he stood looking down. Tears twinkled in his eyes. In the soft lantern light, in his eyelashes, the tears hung like low gold clouds, obscuring his vision. “I never did believe in pompering a horse with apple pies. Making a pie-biter out of him,” Cain cried. “But I wish now I had with you, boy. No man ever had a truer friend.”

  Later in the day, Sheriff Ned Sine found Cain shearing off Lonesome’s curling black tail and mane.

  “Dead, huh?”

  “Guess so.”

  “That tail’ll make a nice braid rope.”

  “Guess so.”

  “What do you want for it? My daughter’s beggin’ me to get her one.”

  “The deuce with your daughter. This is going to be mine.”

  Sheriff Sine reared back. His star glinted in the dim light. “Well, you don’t need to bite my ears off. After all, it’s just a horse. And a black one at that.”

  Cain looked up from under the peak of his black hat. His eyes bored up at the sheriff like the muzzles of two guns. “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. Just said it.”

  Cain said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy my grief alone.”

  “Oh.” Again Sheriff Sine reared back, dark face flushing. “Well, anyway, I came to tell you, thanks for the tip, Cain.”

  “What tip?”

  “On Hunt. I’ve finally got a witness.”

  Cain slowly rose to his feet, swelling. “To my brother Dale’s killin’?”

  “To your brother Dale’s murder. Ed Turnbull saw the whole thing. You know, that wolfer Jesse hired last fall? Ed was baiting traps in the draw near the bridge when he saw it. He saw Hunt cache himself under the bridge; saw Dale come; saw Dale shot; saw Hunt run for it. Said he didn’t talk up before because he knew Jesse had hired Hunt just like he hired him. To get rid of pests.”

  “Hah.”

  “But he said his conscience finally bothered him so much he had to come in and tell me. He come to my house in the dark last night right after I saw you at Butcherknife’s. He come secret.”

  “At last.”

  Sheriff Sine coughed, apologetically. “The heck of it is, Hunt got wind of it somehow. Just as I was set to serve him with a warrant this morning. Some weasel in the courthouse must have tipped h
im off. Because he skipped the country.”

  “Didn’t you chase him?”

  “He had a half-night’s start on me. By now he must be halfway to Cheyenne.”

  “Where the law is dealt out by the big augers.”

  “Yeh.”

  Cain stood silent a while. “Well, at least we’ve got him over a barrel in Bighorn County. That’s something. He won’t dare show his nose around this neck of the woods no more. That should please Rory a mighty lot.”

  Rosemary

  Rory saw him come walking across the snow in the pink twilight. She had just finished washing dishes and happened to look out.

  Her heart leaped up. “Ah! Now we can live in peace.”

  She turned. “Joey, go open the door for Uncle Cain.”

  Both Joey and Gram looked up from the hearth, Joey from a hardback chair, Gram from her rocker.

  Joey said, “I knew Unk was the best shot in Bighorn County.” Joey went calmly and manfully to the door. He opened it wide. Pink twilight flowed into the cabin.

  Rory’s heart fell at Joey’s calm. Too late. Poison had got into the boy. And the boy in turn would poison baby Cain when he became old enough to understand. Too late.

  She looked out of the high window again. And then it struck her that something was wrong. Cain was walking. A man afoot was no man at all. He had not shot Hunt.

  She thought: “A dream should stay a dream, whether it’s daydream or nightmare. Even if both of us dream it.”

  She thought: “I wanted all three. And wanting them, I missed the best.”

  She met him at the door. “Come in where it’s warm, Cain.”

  Cain stepped in. He tried to smile. “I could use some warm all right.” He looked down at Joey. He ran a hand through the boy’s throw of gold hair. “Hi, son.”

  “How many shots did it take, Unk?”

  Cain looked at her across the boy’s head.

  She said, “Let’s talk about it later. After we’ve set out some food for your uncle.” She closed the door against the cold and snow.

  Cain said,“Oh, as for that, I can talk about it any time. Because there ain’t much to tell.” Cain gave her steady smoke-blue eyes. “Rory, I’m sorry, but he just wouldn’t draw.” Cain shook his head. “He just would not draw. It turned out to be nothing more than a square backdown. A looking contest.”

  “I know,” she said, “I know. Come by the fire.”

  She helped him into a chair. She took his black leather jacket and black hat. Joey took off his wet black boots. Cain himself took off gun and cartridge belt. She chafed his feet, first one stocking foot, then the other.

  After a while, rolling and lighting a cigarette, Cain told some about it.

  She said, “I was afraid of that too. But like you say, maybe it’s just as well this way. Maybe a warrant hanging over his head will keep him out of the country for a while.”

  Joey got out his toy belt and gun and paraded around with it. “Say, Unk, how come you came home walking? Lonesome come down lame?”

  “Lonesome is dead, son.”

  “Hey! How come?”

  “I pushed him too hard, and he caught a cold and died.” Cain held his hands to the fire. He held his head so she couldn’t see his face.

  She set out a plate for him. “I’ll miss Lonesome. He always liked my perfume.”

  Gram began to rock in her chair. “Caught a cold and died. Caught a cold and died. Oh, God, deliver my darling soul from the power of worms.”

  Part Four

  That winter there were two cattlemen meetings: one in Antelope and the other in Cheyenne.

  The one held in Antelope took place in Butcherknife Bain’s whisky-sweet saloon and was attended by many of the little stockmen of Bighorn County. Most were honest ranchers. But there were also a few rustlers—those who ranched and rustled on the side, those who rustled and ranched on the side.

  Cain was there. So were Shock Lamb who’d bought out Clara Jager, and old neighbor Red Jackson from Red Fork, and Bacon-sides Murdoe who’d taken over Cattle Queen’s spread, and Henry Urine just newly settled in six miles south of Cain’s ranch, and Sagebrush Mason the new hired hand for Rory. So were Harry and his Red Sash gang. Also in the crowd, disguised as cowboys and settlers, were the big stockmen’s detectives.

  It was decided, first, to hold the next spring roundup a month early, May 1 instead of June 1. This was agreed upon partly in revenge for Jesse’s early roundup the previous fall and partly in self-protection—to brand their own calves and such mavericks as they might find before the wagons and men of Lord Peter, Senator Thome, and Governor Barb could get on the ground. “Turnabout is fair play and that goes all around.”

  It was resolved, second, to call themselves the Bighorn Farmers & Stockgrowers Association. “Us outlaws will make us our own laws.”

  It was agreed, third, that Cain should be roundup boss. Both the honest small ranchers and the occasional rustler agreed to the choice.“He’s a good shot and his word is good. That’s the measure of him.” Cain accepted but not without first giving a short speech.

  “This is one time,” Cain said, “when we’ve got to play it straight poker. No wild cards. No aces off the bottom of the deck. No betting on the side. You come in with your openers and no questions asked. We don’t care what you did last year, or the year before that. We don’t care what your handle was back in the States, or down in Texas. We work from where we are and who we are—starting today. We have our own sheriff now, our own judge, our own courthouse. We don’t need to beg, borrow, or steal. If we keep her honest from here on in, and stick together, them big cattle barons down in the southern part of the state, and them foreign suckers from the Atlantic States and from England, let alone the three big spreads around here, they’ll never lick us, either by law or by bullets. And, if we keep her this way long enough, them big alligators, the state legislators, will finally have to take us for what we are: a county mostly full of small stockmen who believe in free grass, free water, free range, and the right to rope our own calves when, where, and how we find ’em.”

  The other meeting, held in Cheyenne, took place in the pomade-scented Cactus Club and was attended by the elite of the cow country, the very flower of the state. Some of the men present were pioneer western ranchers who by hard work and brilliant enterprise had conquered a wilderness and had established a magnificent, even historic, way of life—generous, courtly, heroic. They were the true kings of the American earth. Also present were certain speculators from the Eastern Seaboard and from England, men who had got into the cattle business not because they believed in it as a good way of life but as a good way to make a lot of money.

  Jesse Jacklin was there. So were Senator John Thorne and Governor Dexter Barb, representing the old-time big out fits still active in the Big Stonies country. So were Wallace Tascott, Irving Hornsby, Enoch West, Bat Wildy—all of them kingly ranchers from the southern half of the state. So were Peter Caudle, the Earl of Humberwick; Oliver Twetmouth, a member of the Mayfair elegants; and Allen Stone, field manager for a combine of bankers in Scotland. Also in the crowd were Hunt Lawton, stock detective and peace officer now wanted in Bighorn County; Clayborne Rodney, a tall Dakota-born marshal hired especially to deal with rustlers; and Texas Ike, a smiling young daredevil hired to scare out the nesters.

  The Cactus Club as a meeting place was quite different from Butcherknife Bain’s hangout. It was swank, built of brick, was of rambling design, had a mansard roof with a skylight above the main hallway, had wide verandas fronting the streets. Here the monocled Englishmen and the mannered blue-bloods from the Eastern Seaboard hobnobbed with the plain-speaking ranchers from the plains. Imported servants hovered in the background, whist and billiards were played in the gaming room, some reading was done in the library. Scotch and bourbon and fine wines were served all hours of the day in the bar, while caviar and champagne were served in private dining rooms. Paintings and other art objects from decaying Old Europe hung on many of the
walls—in the main hallway, in the dining room, behind the bar, in the private clubrooms. During hot weather spring-driven fly-chasers flapped air on every floor. Members had their own engraved shaving mugs and drinking cups. The only touch of the true West permitted in the whole establishment stood in the main hallway—a hall rack made of cattle and buffalo horns. As one elegant, a member, once put it: “On an Eastern basis, the Cactus is a good club.” Just one mile away from it spread the raw West of green cactus and silver sagebrush and fenceless, endless prairies.

  The meeting in question took place after the regular meeting of the State Cattleman’s Association. The regular meeting, held in the afternoon, had been short and sweet. Only the most perfunctory business was handled. The Association was a legal organization and as such had to keep accurate minutes of all proceedings. It was agreed beforehand that the real business would be taken care of in a secret gathering attended by certain select members and thus kept from the eyes of nosy reporters from the one newspaper friendly to the small stockmen and farmers, the Cheyenne Tribune.

  It was evening. The private dining room in the Club was jammed. Mellow lamplight glowed on the dark walnut walls. Dinner was over. Brandy had been served and cigars lighted. Private hates and frustrations were being gradually aired for all to hear.

  Wallace Tascott, or Walrus as he was nicknamed in honor of his mustache, presided informally. Every now and then Walrus tried to cross his legs; couldn’t quite make it. He was a short pompous man with short fat legs and quick fat hands. He had a wry neck as a result of a bullet wound. In his mind crossing his legs had something to do with unlocking his neck. He had a round head and swift shrewd brown eyes. He was a strutter with the barking manners of an army officer—picked up while a major in the Union Army in the Civil War. He owned a big ranch along the Platte and had almost been cleaned out by the deadly blizzard of ’88. By hard work he had got back on his feet financially, only to see, as he said, “the railroad come poking in, bringing pauper grangers, folks you can’t shoot down like you can redskins. To get even, I guess I’ll have to go into the banking business.”