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The men from Rancho Bravo have just driven five thousand head of Longhorns north from Texas to Abilene, Kansas. Once the herd has been sold, the men look forward to sampling everything the cattle town has to offer. But foreman Jay Durango has other ideas. The men had better toe the line, or they’ll have Town Marshal ‘Bear River’ Tom Smith to deal with.
But when a fight breaks out following a visit to Abilene´s opera house, the Rancho Bravo boys—including Billy Calhoun, Tom Calhoun’s youngest son—wind up in jail.
It never rains but it pours. And while his men are locked away, Jay encounters an old enemy in the shape of gunman Lee Kedrick, who has some plans of his own plans about getting rich any way possible.
Jay is the only man who stands in his way.
SHOWDOWN IN ABILENE
RIO CONCHO 1
By Alfred Wallon
Copyright © 1981 by Alfred Wallon
English Translation © 2013 by Alfred Wallon
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: May 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover image © 2013 by Westworld Designs
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
A warm wind picked up just as the three riders crested the ridge of a small hill. Before them lay the sprawl of Dickinson County, and at the bottom of the rise the lines of the Kansas & Pacific railroad led east toward Abilene, which nestled on the far distant horizon.
Seeing the silhouette of the town, the three men knew they had finally reached the end of their trail.
“We’ve done it, fellers,” said the rider in the middle of the group, a tall, lean man whose name was Jay Durango. He reached up with his left hand and wiped sweat from his forehead, then smiled. “Ride back to the herd, Gus,” he instructed one of the other two. “Tell ’em we made it.”
“Will do,” nodded Gus Gentry, a freckle-faced redhead.
His rebel yell rose loud and clear as he rode back to the herd, which lay about a quarter-mile back along their trail. The foreman watched him go, shaking his head good-naturedly. He was somewhere in his thirties, with blue eyes just visible between squinted eyelids.
“They’re like kids, when the work’s done,” he said to the remaining cowboy, who continued to sit his horse beside him. He was the youngest of the three, and he had seen no more than seventeen summers.
Billy Calhoun, straw-haired, with pale blue eyes and a round, full face, was the youngest son of Jay’s boss Tom, but there was a naïveté about him, and a sense of simply being lost, that Jay sometimes found almost painful to behold. He had a good nature, did Billy, and he tried always to be everyone’s friend. But though the last couple of months had turned the boy into something approaching a man (for he had shown that he could do a cowboy’s work without complaint) there was still so much about life he had to learn.
Now Billy laughed. “God, I’d like to see the faces on them townsfolk when the RB-herd reaches the city limits, Jay. Five thousand good Texas longhorns! We sure gonna have us a ball tonight!”
Jay’s smile faded rapidly. Billy didn’t know anything of the sometimes-dangerous temptations of towns like Abilene. He was only thinking about the money they would get after the herd was sold, and how he would spend his share.
Tom Calhoun had already seen that coming, of course, as had Jay himself. And Jay’s orders had been clear. He had to keep an eye out for Billy, and this the foreman had willingly promised to do. It was Billy’s first big trail drive from Texas, and the excitement was likely to get the better of him if he wasn’t careful.
“Not so fast,” Jay replied. “There’s still work to be done before you fellers can go see the elephant. After that, and if you’re still of a mind, mayhaps we’ll kick up our heels a little.”
Billy threw him a sullen glance. “You’re just like Pa,” he complained. “You treat me like a kid.”
“That’s ’cause you are a kid, son.”
“I’ve done all right on this drive, haven’t I?”
Jay threw him a sideways look. He’d done well—better than Jay had expected, and probably better than Tom had expected. But in this business you never stopped learning—if you were wise. You never thought you had all the answers; it was that kind of thinking that got a man killed.
As he studied Billy, however, Jay realized that he was actually looking at a younger version of Tom. Billy might still be a greenhorn, but by God, he had his father’s stubborn streak.
“Sure you have,” he allowed at last. “But you’ll travel this trail more times than once before it turns you into a man, Billy.”
Billy crossed his hands over his saddle horn. “Don’t you think that I’m old enough to know my own mind, Jay?”
“You want the truth?” answered the foreman, and continued without missing a beat, “No, I don’t.” And before Billy could argue again, Jay pointed toward the far town. “Look—they’ve spotted us already. They’re sending out a welcoming committee.”
The subject forgotten, at least for the moment, they watched the five-strong group of riders gallop out from town, pick a path across the gleaming rails and then climb the hill to join them, leaving a rooster-tail streamer of dust in their wake.
At length the townsmen drew rein and their spokesman, a slender, suit-wearing man of about forty, whose tanned face was partially hidden beneath a thick black beard, said, “Welcome to Abilene, mister … ?”
“Name’s Durango,” said Jay. “Foreman of the Rancho Bravo, down in Texas.”
“I’ve heard of the spread,” said the bearded man. “Tom Calhoun’s outfit, right?”
“You know Tom?”
“Only by reputation,” said the other. “And a mighty fine one it is, too.” He heeled his horse closer and offered his right hand. “I am Theodore C. Henry, the mayor of Abilene. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Jay, shaking with him.
“How many head you fetching in, Durango?”
“Five thousand.”
The mayor whistled. “Well, that sure will be a dandy sight! You can see where the cattle pens are, right back yonder, just behind the railroad depot. I’ll leave it to you and your boys to get the herd settled in. And once you’re done, I invite you in the name of all our citizens to make yourselves feel right at home here. I think I can promise that you and your boys will find everything you been dreaming about these last few weeks.”
“Obliged,” said Jay.
He knew he should feel relieved that they had reached trail’s-end; that the responsibility of the cattle would now transfer to the buyer, when he was found; that he and the boys could let off a little steam before returning to Rancho Bravo to do it all over again. But somehow he couldn’t shake a feeling of … what was it? Apprehension? Yeah, he thought. That was it. A feeling … a certainty … that something bad was just around that next bend in the trail … something that would get a whole lot worse before it got any better.
He tried to shrug the feeling off. He was getting old, that was all. And turning into a mother hen, clucking fretfully around her brood.
He wanted to smi
le at the thought, but somehow a smile just wouldn’t come.
Behind him, five thousand weary longhorns continued to shuffle along the trail toward town.
Chapter Two
Abilene was founded along the eastern shore of Mud Creek on June 7th 1860 by Charles H. Thompson. Shortly thereafter it became the capital town of the district.
For many years it remained little more than a sleepy backwater consisting of about a dozen log cabins. But after the coming of the Kansas & Pacific Railroad in the spring of 1867, all that changed. That was when the cattle auctioneer Joseph G. McCoy embarked upon a plan to build Abilene into the biggest cattle depot in the whole West. And his plans included not only a railway depot and a vast area given over to cattle pens, but also an impressive conglomeration of general and hardware stores as well as a red-light district for the pleasure of the visiting Texas cowboys.
Consequently Abilene was now one of the most important of all cattle sales locations. In years to come historians would call this place ‘The sinful town, the Gomorrah of the desert.’ And they would do so with some justification.
For three years now the big herds had been crossing the Comanche-infested Texas plains to reach this section of Kansas. And in that time McCoy’s organization had constructed everything to make the holding, selling and then shipping of cattle a smooth, one-stop process.
The Drovers Cottage Hotel was the meeting point of most ranchers and cattle buyers, and it was here that most contracts were signed and money changed hands. But Abilene, Kansas also catered for every other need. Texas Street alone was home to at least another half-dozen hotels. There were barbershops and stores, saddle shops and saloons, dance halls and that celebrated red-light district where more than a hundred soiled doves waited to help the Texas cowboys part with their just-earned money.
Billy Calhoun had already heard a few stories about the red-light district. Some of his comrades had told him all about their conquests there. But now that he was finally able to see the town with his own eyes, he realized that no one could adequately describe it with words alone.
The drive was at an end, the herd safely settled in their pens. They’d been watched by a crowd of curious townsfolk, not because of the novelty—witnessing the arrival of yet another herd was no longer a novelty for these people—but because they represented trade, maybe a whole lot of it.
“Lookit them there city folks, Jay,” called a cowboy named Dave Harmon. “They’ just like vultures waiting for their prey.”
“What was that?” asked Billy, who’d missed part of Dave’s words because of the bawling of cattle and the clicking of their horns.
Jay smiled and made a gesture toward the clapboard building on the left side of the corrals. “See them fellers in the dark suits, Billy? They’re buyers, and they’re circling our herd like wolves, ’cause each of them wants to be the first to buy the cattle.”
“I think we should let them wait a little bit longer,” Billy opined. “Maybe we’ll get a better price that way.”
“That’s a risk I don’t care for this late in the year,” replied Jay. “The best business has already been done, boy. My guess is that ol’ Shanghai Pierce has already sold his cattle. He came up the trail ahead of us last year, and I ’spect this year he did the same. Look, Billy, the first buyers are coming over. Now the game starts, son.”
While the rest of the men saw to the corralling of the last of the cattle, Jay and Billy watched the cattle buyers come. They looked like hard, shrewd men who’d do their damnedest to buy cheap so they could sell high and make the best possible profit.
“Who owns this herd?” called a fat, gray-haired man who was wearing a dark tweed suit.
“Tom Calhoun from Rancho Bravo, Texas,” answered Jay. “I’m Jay Durango, foreman and trail boss of the herd.”
“I’m Charlie Swenson,” said the other. “I’ve heard of your boss, Durango. Ben Hickory, a business friend of mine, bought RB cattle last year, and he was satisfied with the deal. Seems I might feel the same way, happen I buy the herd you’ve just brought it.”
“I reckon you will, Mr. Swenson,” said Billy, before Jay could respond. “We got five thousand solid Texas longhorns, and they’re ready to go to the highest bidder. What’s your price?”
The cattle buyer smiled indulgently. “Not so fast, boy. I gots to make a closer inspection of your herd before we start talking dollars and cents. I mean, that’s only right, isn’t it?”
Billy colored a little, but knew that was indeed only right. “Sure,” he said. “You go over ’em. You won’t find finer.”
Charlie Swenson glanced up at Jay, one eyebrow raised. Jay nodded and Swenson sent a couple of his men over to the corrals to inspect the cattle. Although the drive had left the cattle gaunted, Swenson was shrewd enough to know they would soon recover the weight they’d lost on the drive. A few days of rest, good water and grass and they’d be in the same prime condition they’d enjoyed before leaving Rancho Bravo.
The longhorn had its origin in seven Andalusian cows and steers, which were brought to America by the Spaniard Gregorio de Villalobos. Centuries before, when the Spanish had come in search of the seven golden cities of Cibola, they’d fetched a herd with them. During a hailstorm, however, the herd had been scattered … and thus had started the breed known as the longhorn.
The breed had distinguished itself from other types through strength and a natural diffidence. This made them superior to buffalo, elk and wapitis. Their huge horns could be dangerous, and they weren’t shy about using them. They had a streak as wild as the Brasada lands of West Texas from whence they’d come. But their original inhospitable surroundings had helped the longhorn to endure even harder times than just a cattle trail.
Tom Calhoun had a wide knowledge about cattle raising and had read a lot about it. But a Texas rancher had to have detailed experience and understanding of a life out there, too, otherwise it would never work. Calhoun expected the same knowledge, experience and understanding from his foreman, and Jay’s thoughts briefly turned back to the time when he had first arrived at Rancho Bravo, shortly after the Civil War. He had been looking for a new beginning, and Tom Calhoun and his sons had provided it.
His thoughts came back to the present when he heard Charlie Swenson’s voice.
“Okay, fellers,” he said. “I’ll offer you eighteen dollars a head.”
And now the bargaining started. The other cattle buyers, equally satisfied with the quality of the herd, named their prices, until at last Swenson offered twenty-five dollars a head. No one else could match the offer and still expect to turn a decent profit, and so the deal was done.
With negotiations out of the way, the town lay wide open for the Rancho Bravo men. Days of pleasure lay ahead.
“I’m gonna get drunk for a whole week, boys,” promised Rio Shayne, grinning as he looked at Gus Gentry. “And spend my days and nights with the finest whore money can buy! Where are they all, anyways? I heard they got a separate red-light district over here now.”
“Sure,” answered Gus. “That shanty town on the northern side of town—that’s where the girls live, Rio.”
“Let’s hurry then,” answered Shayne. “Way my pecker’s feelin’ right now, we got to say howdy sooner rather’n later.”
“Not so fast,” said Gus. “The shanty town’s where them girls live, not where they work. That’s on the south side of town.”
“They live and work in two different places?”
“Of course,” nodded Gus. “This is a big town, amigo, and it’s got a stack o’ laws, not all of ’em on the statute books. Best learn ’em and follow ’em real quick.”
“Such as?” asked Rio. He had joined the Rancho Bravo outfit just seven months earlier and had never left Texas until now.
“Well, them girls can only appear in public at certain times.”
“What?”
“Sure. That’s so the law can keep an eye on them, see. They can only take a walk between 4.00 and 5.00 pm. And
during that time the rest of these bible-loving, honest-to-God citizens stays at home.”
“Then roll on four o’clock!”
“Whoa, there! Before you go buildin’ your hopes too high, you’d best understand what’s expected of you, too. There was a time when you could have had just about anythin’ took your fancy. This town was wide-open back then. But these days … ”
He realized suddenly that a change had come over the cattle buyers, and glancing around, he saw why. A broad-shouldered man was approaching the group from the direction of the railway depot.
“That there’s Bear River Tom Smith,” murmured another RB cowboy. “I’ve seen him in Ellis last year. He’s a hard one, guys. Better be quiet now.”
Durango saw that man too, as he passed some wooden houses near the rail depot. He’d never met Smith before, but had heard some rumors about him. He was an Irishman by birth and had started his career as a police constable in New York. Later on he’d earned his money as a heavyweight champion. When Smith came nearer, the cowboys saw his cold blue eyes, which seemed to mirror his strong will.
“This guy is the reason everybody around here tries to live in peace, Rio,” explained Gus. “Smith’s only been in Abilene a couple months, but the folks say he’s already worked miracles.”
The Abilene marshal stopped in front of the cowboys and studied them closely. Some of them couldn’t meet his gaze and looked instead at their boots.
“Name’s Tom Smith, fellers,” he said, his voice a loud boom. “Some folks call me Bear River Tom. You-all can call me marshal. Where you from, boys?”
It was Billy who replied, telling him about Rancho Bravo and the fact that they’d only arrived a short time before. Smith nodded and gazed at the milling longhorns.
“This is good stock,” he said eventually. “And now you men’re waitin’ on your wages, right? And figuring how best to spend it?”
He suddenly looked in Durango’s direction. “You the foreman of this outfit?”
Durango nodded.
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