by Paul Lederer
‘So then.…’ I began, but the judge raised a pudgy hand to silence me. The taller of the two US marshals continued to study me carefully, his eyes cool and probing.
Judge Crandall continued, ‘The bulk of the disputed land which had by then been attached to the Hatchet Ranch was sold less than a month ago to the railroad, the property lying conveniently along the easement and being found suitable for construction of a railhead.’
‘Then my deed is no good!’ Matti said desolately. She looked at me with tearful blue eyes. ‘I never owned the land at all?’
The judge smiled at her. His voice was kind when he answered. ‘That, my dear lady, is a finer legal point which Bill and I can untangle when time permits. I can say this, however – Reg Kent certainly does not own that land or any portion of it and his sale of it to the railroad is null and void. The railroad will be served with an immediate cease and desist order.’
Bill, who had seen the smoke roiling into the sky earlier, muttered, ‘I think that order has already been served.’
‘What’s that, Bill?’ Judge Crandall inquired.
‘Nothing, sir. I believe Mr Lang here was wondering about the railroad’s rights concerning any structures that might have been illegally built on his property … or Miss Ullman’s property.’
‘They have no right to reclaim anything of theirs unless Mr Lang is kind enough to offer it,’ the judge said strongly. ‘In fact he has every right to confiscate or destroy any standing structure as he sees fit.’
‘I stall don’t understand this,’ Matti said plaintively. ‘Why did Kent go to such lengths, drawing me into this mess as he did?’
Bill thought he could answer. I let him go ahead with an explanation.
‘Reg Kent knows Lang. He knew that Lang would never sell out, knew that driving him out would lead to a small war.’ Bill smiled faintly. ‘Kent has tried that tactic before and come to grief by it. But when Kent learned that the railroad wanted to come through Montero and which route they intended to follow, he became desperate. Lang had to go.
‘With the railroad running past, and a railhead virtually adjacent to Kent’s property, his cattle could be shipped by the hundreds. No longer would he have to make long grueling cattle drives across the desert to get his cattle to market. Instead of a decimated herd of cattle, they could be held fat and sleek, their full weight on until they were simply loaded aboard the cattle cars. The town of Montero also saw new prosperity ahead. No more dusty desert stagecoaches for potential visitors and buyers. The railroad itself would spend thousands of dollars—’
The front door burst open and Virgil Sly popped in, his face anxious.
‘They’re coming, Lang! It looks like half the town.’
‘Gentlemen?’ Judge Crandall said, reaching for his hat without urgency. ‘I suggest we adjourn our meeting for the time being.’
We stepped out into the brilliant sunlight, me, the two US marshals, Judge Crandall, Matti and Bill. At first we could see only a boiling cloud of dust moving toward the Rafter L, but in a minute the approaching figures took on form and substance, and we could make them out. Reg Kent rode at the front of the mob, flanked by four of his ranch hands. Just behind them came Alvin Meredith. Mayor Jefferson shared the buggy he was driving. Judge Plank and the banker, Rufus Potter, rode beside them, and then in a surging, angry knot came, as Virgil had indicated, what seemed to be half the town of Montero.
‘Well, well,’ the judge said in an unconcerned voice. ‘What sort of armed insurrection have we here? Bill, identify these ringleaders for me, would you.’
Bill was still doing that, pointing out the various officials and instigators of the mob as Reg Kent drew his gray horse up roughly and was preparing to level a snarling order at me. The sight of the judge cautioned the rancher, the two armed men wearing badges caused him to fall mute. He looked around anxiously for help. There was, I saw, a legal paper of some kind in his hand – the bill of sale for the Panhandle, I assumed.
‘What’s all this!’ Mayor Jefferson managed to roar as he stepped from the buggy he had been driving. Judge Plank whispered something urgently to him. Plank, himself, straightened his vest and extended a hand to Judge Crandall.
‘Sir! This is a privilege. What brings you to our fair town?’
‘Oh, I think you know,’ Crandall said affably. ‘Why don’t we all discuss this matter – after you have turned your band of thugs away? They are trespassing, and I would hate to see the result if they persist in this behavior.’
It was the mayor who returned on foot to halt the mass of approaching men, who, stirred up by anger, or simply having been offered free liquor and a morning’s entertainment, waited in a sullen group.
‘Say the word, Judge Crandall,’ one of the marshals, the tall one, Coyle said, ‘and I’ll disperse this mob.’ I glanced at the man, the calm intent in his eyes, and half-believed that he could do it.
‘No, Marshal Coyle,’ Crandall answered with a chuckle, ‘I don’t believe that will be necessary now. The mayor is explaining their mistake to them.’
‘Look here,’ Alvin Meredith said. The railroad boss was beside himself with rage. ‘I demand to know what is going on here!’
‘You have been swindled,’ Judge Crandall told him simply. ‘I suggest any further discussion concerning this business be taken up with Mr Kent and resolved by your attorneys. That is,’ he added, ‘if I do not decide to arrest Mr Kent here and now.’
Meredith was so angry he was sputtering now. ‘This man,’ he said leveling a finger at me, ‘has destroyed thousands of dollars’ worth of railroad property.’
‘Are you referring to the illegally built structures erected on Mr Lang’s land?’ Judge Crandall asked pleasantly. ‘He had every right to do as he pleased with that property, sir. Count yourself lucky that the railhead was not completed and a train stopped there. No,’ the judge said, holding up a hand as Alvin Meredith started in again. ‘No more discussion of the matter. The rest is between you and Kent and your legal people. Press whatever charges you wish against him, that’s up to you.’
Seeing he was beaten, Meredith spun on his heel and stalked away fuming, sparing one last searing glance at Reg Kent who had crumpled up the useless bill of sale in his hand and dropped it to the earth.
The mob had begun to disperse, making its unruly way back toward Montero by the time Mayor Jefferson returned, puffing and sweating with the exertion. Judge Crandall had a few words for him – and for Judge Plank.
‘You are an elected official, Mayor Jefferson, and since no one has as yet implicated you in any criminal acts, I can do nothing but publicly rebuke you. And wish you luck on being re-elected when your backers to whom you have promised a railroad spur and its concomitant prosperity discover it was all a pipe dream.’ He turned then to Judge Plank.
‘You, however, are an appointee to your position, Plank. I intend to see that you are replaced immediately. I have an honest young attorney in mind to succeed you.’ He looked meaningfully at Bill Forsch.
‘Now I’ll never get out of Montero,’ Bill moaned.
The meeting went on like that for only a few more minutes, with Rufus Potter complaining that I had drained the town marshal’s fund in a matter of a few days, Plank continuing to plead for mercy and the mayor looking sick.
In the meantime Marshal Coyle had eased up beside me, those black eyes of his searching. Matti was near enough to overhear his throttled words, and so was Virgil Sly. ‘Socorro, wasn’t it, Lang? We had a temporary deputy by the same name down that way, looked kind of like you, too. We had a man convicted of murder in custody waiting for the hangman when this Lang let the prisoner escape, claiming he was innocent.’
‘Was he?’ I asked.
‘He was,’ Coyle affirmed. ‘Three days after this man – this drifter named Sly— was to have been executed, the real murderer gave himself up.’
‘Fortunate for Sly,’ I said innocently.
‘Still,’ Coyle said expressionlessly, ‘we d
on’t like rogue marshals who take the law into their own hands. There might still be charges against Lang pending in Socorro.’
I glanced at Virgil Sly, looked away and then commented, ‘Let’s hope that the man has enough sense, then, to stay miles away from Socorro.’
‘You think he will?’ Coyle asked quietly.
‘I’d bet on it.’
Coyle walked away and Matti’s attention returned to the legal problems at hand. She approached Judge Crandall who was slowly lighting a cigar as he listened thoughtfully to Plank’s last plea and shook his head in refusal, leaving Plank to plod away, planning his next career.
‘Sir?’ Matti said and Crandall turned his elfin eyes on her. ‘You still haven’t made it clear. Does this land belong to me or to Lang? Am I a squatter, or does he now own two hundred acres of my property!’ She was frustrated, and rightly so. The judge put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
‘I haven’t had time to review all of the facts, or to consider the conflicting claims in depth, let alone make a decision. This is a matter for the local judiciary, anyway. I am certain that the newly appointed Judge Forsch will be able to sort it all out in a fair and impartial manner.’
Matti turned her big blue eyes on Bill Forsch; Bill glanced at me. He shook his head and said somewhat cryptically:
‘It would have been easier just to marry her.’
NINE
‘Look what I found!’ Virgil Sly sang out, and we looked up to see him carrying a white-faced calf across the withers of his blue roan. The small animal bawled and rolled its big brown eyes at us. Matti got up from her porch chair and went to help lower the calf to the ground. She crouched beside it and stroked its curly reddish coat.
‘Is this the one that was missing all that time?’ Matti asked Virgil.
‘That’s him, Matti. He couldn’t find the herd again, but he wandered up right over there beyond the water tank. He was good and lost, but he knew where home was.’
Matti looked up at me, her smile bright and meaningful. Yes, we knew where home was too, both of us. Right here, on our land. Bill Forsch had made a somewhat confusing decision concerning the property that neither Matti nor I fully understood, couched as it was in legal language. What Bill explained was that we had joint tenancy in perpetuity. None of which mattered at all after Bill, in his new judge’s robes married Matti and me in his chambers fifteen minutes after the case was settled. We were now going to have to share everything in perpetuity. The decision concerning the land meant nothing in the end.
Bill told me that Clarence Applewhite had recovered fully under Mama Fine’s care, and that Cal was gentleman enough not to laugh out loud when they had approached him about the possibility of him staying on as permanent town marshal.
The day was clouding up. The air was fresher, cooler. When it rained this time it would not be a dust-rain, but a real out and out cloudburst if we were to judge by the thunderheads massing over Arapaho Peak.
Matti continued to fuss over the calf, leading it to water, currying it as it drank. I tipped my hat back and sauntered toward the lean-to to see to my horse. I glanced again at the unfinished addition to the house, proud of what I had accomplished so far. Lumber was a drug on the market just then. Reg Kent had no use for the stockpile he had accumulated – not where the territory had sent him to do his time, and the railroad had balked at paying to ship all of their material back to Santa Fe. Those who wanted lumber in Montero could afford it just then – even us, and so I was determined to expand the tiny cabin so that Matti would have enough room to keep all of the things she had brought from San Francisco that meant so much to her.
The gusting wind followed me and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, pocking the sandy soil. The sorrel seemed glad to see me. Its eyes brightened and it swiveled its ears as if waiting for me to speak. Perhaps the horse had been trying to warn me, I don’t know, all I know is that I neither heard nor saw him coming until it was too late.
Cheyenne Baker stepped out from the shadowed corner of the lean-to and stood facing me, legs braced, his hand hovering near his holstered Colt revolver. He looked gaunter than I remembered him, trail-dusty and disheveled. His eyes were bright and deadly. His thin lips barely moved when he challenged me.
‘I told you I’d kill you, Lang. Way back when you shot me up and threw me in that cell. That’s why I’m here. I’m a man who lives up to his promises.’
I thought about everything that I had going for me now, about the way the ranch was building up, about Matti! I could not die now, shot down by this wild-eyed gunman. Not now!
‘Calm down, Cheyenne,’ I said quietly. ‘It won’t be worth it. Not really. You’ve gotten away from the law – everyone thinks you died out there on the desert after the jail break. You don’t have to worry about hanging, about being arrested. You can live free. No one needs to know that Cheyenne Baker is still alive.’
‘I do, Lang,’ he said menacingly. ‘Don’t you get it? A man like you, I would think you would understand. Let everyone think I died like a dog out on the desert! No, Lang. Let them know that Cheyenne Baker will claw his way back out of his grave to even the score with a man who has wronged him.’
He went for his gun then and I threw myself to one side as his bullet whipped past my ear. The sorrel, startled by the near explosion of the gun reared up and side-stepped away, trying to toss its tether. Cheyenne tried to bull his way around the horse’s flanks for a second shot, but I had dropped to one knee and drawn my own Colt. As he settled his sights on me again, I fired.
The roar of the revolver was like close thunder. The bullet ripped through Cheyenne Baker’s throat, and I rose to watch him crumple up and fall to the hay-strewn earth to die. Matti’s scream was terrible as she rushed to me, Virgil carrying his rifle close behind her. Matti threw herself into my arms and I held her a long minute, grateful for her soft, close comfort. Virgil toed the dead man and grunted.
‘Cheyenne Baker. I never thought we’d see him again.’
‘We won’t this time,’ I said. ‘We’ll lower him down into a grave so deep he won’t be able to crawl out of it.’
Matti and I sat our horses on the ridge overlooking the Panhandle. Whipsaw Creek was running full and fast and wide following the rain.
‘There really is a creek here,’ she said in a kind of wonder, as the white-water river boiled past.
‘Now and then. This time of year the water collects in the hills, gathers its force in the canyons and roars through the valley. It’s a wonderful sight to see when it happens. All that providence spreading across the land, greening the grass, bringing those dead willows and cottonwoods into bud almost overnight.’
‘A land determined not to die,’ Matti said. The wind twisted her reddish hair, shifting it across her wide blue eyes, but she did not brush it aside, only watched the river run.
‘Lang?’ she said with a playful smile.
‘Yes?’
‘You are speaking of the grass greening, the trees coming back to life, all nurtured by the rainfall. Do you suppose … if we found just the right place along the creek, where it ponds up in the dry season … if we were to plant it carefully and nurture it through the hard times.…
‘Do you think a walnut tree would grow here?’
About the Author
Paul Lederer spent much of his childhood and young adult life in Texas. He worked for years in Asia and the Middle East for a military intelligence arm. Under his own name, he is best known for Tecumseh and the Indian Heritage Series, which focuses on American Indian life. He believes that the finest Westerns reflect ordinary people caught in unusual and dangerous circumstances, trying their best to act with honor.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Logan Winters
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8844-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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