Running Irons

by J. T. Edson

Which same concluded his speech, although he had not entirely finished it. Suddenly the girl jerked her right hand into sight, it having been hidden under her jacket, a Remington Double Derringer gripped firmly in her fingers. Taken completely by surprise, Gooch looked death in the face. Shocked horror crossed his features and wiped the leering lust from them. Even as he tried to force his brain into positive, cohesive thought, to lurch erect, grab out his Colt, try to knock aside the wicked, deadly .41 caliber hideout gun, do anything at all to save his life, the sands of time ran out for Bat Gooch.

  The Derringer spat once, its bullet taking Gooch just under the breast bone and ranging upward. While the Double Derringer’s three-inch barrels, comparatively weak powder charge and large caliber bullet did not have great carrying or penetrative powers over a range of thirty yards, Gooch was well within its killing area. A tearing, numbing agony ripped through Gooch, stopping his hand even before it could claw out his gun. Again the Derringer roared, its second bullet slicing into Gooch’s body. Rearing to his feet, Gooch stood for a moment and then tumbled over backward.

  Coming to her feet, the woman reloaded the Double Derringer and dropped it into her jacket pocket. Without a glance at the dying man, she buttoned her shirt and closed the jacket over it.

  “I figured you’d fall for that, you lousy murdering skunk,” she remarked, picking up and putting on her hat.

  Her horse had come to a halt a short distance away and she walked to it. Taking the reins, she set a foot into the stirrup iron and swung gracefully into her saddle. Ignoring Gooch as if he did not exist—and he no longer did except as a lump of lifeless flesh—the woman rode back in the direction from which she fled.

  Back at the hollow, the woman showed no more interest in the two dead cowhands than she had for Gooch’s welfare. Swinging from the saddle, she stood for a moment and thought out the situation. First those half-a-dozen calves must be released. It was a pity they had only branded three of the animals. Alone she could not handle the branding of the others. Besides somebody might have heard the shooting and even now be riding to investigate. Shots in the dark on the Caspar County range would attract more attention under the prevailing conditions than normally and she had no wish to be caught. Being a smart woman, she did not regard the ranchers as fools, or figure they could not think things out. Maybe they might not be able to prove anything against her, but they sure would be suspicious to see her of all people riding the range at night and dressed in man’s clothing. She would be watched too carefully in future to carry on with this profitable side-line to her normal business and that was the last thing she wanted.

  Taking up a knife one of the cowhands had tossed into the dirt so as to be handy for hurried freeing of the calves, the woman walked forward and released the unbranded animals. As she expected, they wasted no time in heading off through the bushes, blatting loudly and looking for their mothers. She collected the two dead cowhands’ ropes and with her own secured the three branded calves to her saddlehorn. After cutting the calves’ hobbles, she mounted the horse.

  “Hard luck, boys,” she said, throwing a glance at the two shapes by the dying fire. “That’s life for you.”

  And with no more sentiment than that, the woman rode away, leading the three calves behind her. She left behind two dead cowhands—and two running irons.

  Chapter 2 SHE’S A MIGHTY SMART WOMAN

  STANTON HOWARD, GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF Texas, was a busy man who could quite well have done without the cow thief problem of Caspar County being dumped in his lap. Brought in after the Texans’ forcible ejection of Carpetbag Davis’ corrupt, vicious Reconstruction administration, Howard found enough work to last him a solid twenty-four hours a day—he could have worked twenty-six hours a day if that be possible and still find work to do in plenty the following morning.

  The disbanding of Davis’ State Police had brought problems in its wake. For several years there had been little State law enforcement in Texas, Davis’ men being more concerned with lining their own pockets in the guise of elevating the Negro to the status of a citizen with equal rights. With the departure of the State Police commanders—or such of them who did not meet not undeserved fates on the end of a rope—the colored policemen slipped back to their homes, or wandered northward in search of a land flowing with milk and honey. In the place of the State Police, the Texas Rangers returned from their Davis-inspired removal. Honest men, many of whom could have earned far more than their Ranger’s wages in other, less dangerous walks of life, joined. The Texas Rangers asked little of its recruits other than loyalty, courage, ability to ride anything with four legs and hair and the knowledge of how to handle firearms.

  However, with every Ranger working full time, Howard could well have done without receiving the letter from Caspar County. Yet one of the Governor’s most pressing duties was to appease those Texans—and there were many—who had developed a hearty hatred of authority as represented by Washington’s appointed head of the State. Knowing Texans, for he belonged to the Lone Star State himself, Howard could read between the lines of the letter. He smelled trouble in the air, far more trouble than one might expect from the theft of a few cows.

  A jerk on the bell cord hanging behind him brought one of Howard’s hard-working secretaries into the well-furnished room.

  “Get Captain Murat for me,” the Governor said.

  Five minutes later the door opened and a tall, slim, dark man in his early thirties entered. Although Captain Jules Murat, commander of Troop “G,” Texas Rangers, wore town clothes, he carried himself with the swing of a horseman. One might almost imagine him wearing a plumed, cocked hat, a cloak over a Hussar uniform, a saber at his side instead of a brace of holstered 1860 Army Colts, for there was a Gasconading air about him, a hint of controlled, deadly recklessness. Tanned, handsome, very rich, Murat was still one of the best Ranger captains under Howard’s command.

  “Trouble, Jules,” Howard said, waving Murat into a chair and offering his cigar case.

  “No thanks,” replied Murat, taking a cigar. “We’ve plenty of our own.”

  “I hate a humorist at this hour of the day,” grunted the Governor.

  “And me. What kind of trouble have you for me this time, Stan?”

  “Cow thieves.”

  Clipping the end off his cigar, Murat looked down at the weed. Although he showed nothing of his emotions, Murat had been sweating out the thought that the trouble might be yet another blood feud sprung out of the hatreds left behind by Davis’ administration. Man, there you had real Texas-size trouble. With an entire county taking one side or the other, it was surely hell trying to discover the rights and wrongs of the affair, locate and arrest killers from either faction and pacify the rest before more blood spilled.

  “There’s plenty of them around,” he remarked, showing remarkable tolerance for a man who owned a good-sized spread and large herd.

  “Small stuff,” stated the Governor. “It’s gone beyond being small up to Caspar County, Jules.”

  Watching Howard, the Ranger captain felt his usual admiration. Sigmund Freud had not yet got around to presenting his views on human mentality to the world so, not knowing he should subconsciously hate his employer, Murat was willing to respect Howard as a brilliant man doing a difficult task. No matter what happened in Texas, sooner or later—and mostly sooner—Howard heard of it. More than that, the Governor formed his own conclusions from what he heard and mostly those conclusions proved to be correct. Mostly Howard left the Rangers to their own devices. When he called in one of the captains commanding the various companies, it meant Howard felt more than usually concerned about some incident or other.

  “I smell bad trouble brewing up there, Jules,” the Governor went on. “Vic Crither’s passed word for Bat Gooch.”

  “That is asking for trouble,” Murat admitted, almost showing the concern he felt. “What’s Gooch been fetched in to do?”

  “Get the cow thieves—at two hundred dollars a head.”


  Murat did not hold down his low whistle. “That trouble you smell, I can get scent of it now. Gooch’ll not be content just to ride Crither’s range and let his name scare off any festive jasper with a running iron. He’ll go out looking for the cow thieves no matter whose land they’re working on.”

  “You’re right,” Howard agreed. “With a man like Gooch riding the range, trouble’s just over the rim and in peeking out ready to come boiling over. Bringing Gooch in’s like turning loose a rabid dog to hunt down coyotes.”

  “No man likes to see his property stole from under him,” Murat remarked.

  “Which same I’ll give you,” Howard replied. “But there are better ways of stopping it than fetching in professional killers. Like you say, Gooch’s not going to be content with just scaring the cow thieves off, he’s there after a bounty. Only if he goes on to some other range, or downs an innocent man, he’ll blow up all hell. I want action on this, Jules—and I want it fast.”

  When Murat nodded his agreement he was not merely giving lip-service. After nine months in office together, Murat had learned to respect Howard’s judgment and knew the Governor’s insistence on immediate action did not spring from either panic or vote catching. Howard knew Texans, knew their high temper, their loyalty to kin or ranch. Already two bloody feuds and range wars ripped at Texas counties and none knew the cost in lives and misery they brought to the suffering citizens of the areas involved. Another such affair could start those fools in Washington thinking about trying to reinstitute Reconstruction and, by cracky, that might be enough to restart the Civil War. Texas, least affected Southern State in the war, a nation of born fighting men who learned to handle weapons almost before they could walk, had never taken kindly to Reconstruction or having the “if he’s black he’s right” policies of the Radical-Republicans up North forced on them. Another non-Texan governor, such as Davis might see the entire State torn apart by further civil conflict. Other than the most bigoted, Southern-hating, liberal-intellectual Yankees, no man in his right mind wanted that.

  “It needs action,” the Ranger captain drawled.

  “But?” asked Howard. “There’s a ‘but’ in your voice.”

  “I’ve only three men in camp out of my entire company. One with a broken arm, one with a bullet-busted thigh and the third’s flat on his back with lead in his chest cavity.”

  “Three—out of twenty?”

  “The rest are all out handling chores,” Murat explained and went on hopefully, “Shall I go?”

  “I can’t spare you, Jules. You’re needed here, organizing and attending to enlisting more recruits.”

  “Danged if I don’t resign and re-enlist as a private. I’ll send off the first of my men to come in. Although the Lord knows when that’ll be.”

  “Let’s hope it will be soon,” the Governor answered.

  Clearly the interview had ended and Howard never wasted time in idle chatter. Coming to his feet, Murat turned and walked from the office. Before the Ranger reached the door, Howard had taken up a report from an Army commander and started to study the problem of controlling the Comanche Indians.

  On leaving the Governor’s office, Murat collected his horse and rode down town toward the Ranger barracks which housed Company “G.” Once clear of the State Capital’s area, Austin looked pretty much like any other cattle town. Rising along the wheel-rutted, dirt-surfaced street, Murat gave thought to his problem. No matter how much he wished to take action and, if possible, prevent another range war blowing up, he could do nothing until one of his men returned from the various tasks which held their attention.

  A small, two-horse wagon came slowly along the street toward Murat. In passing, its driver—a tall, thin, dirty-looking bearded man in a frock coat, top hat, dirty collarless white shirt and old pants—caught Murat’s eye and gave a slight jerk of his head. So slight had been the motion that a less observant man than Murat would have missed it. Even seeing the nod, Murat gave no sign but rode slowly on. After passing Murat, the man turned his wagon and drove it along an alley between two buildings. Murat rode on a short way before swinging his horse into the space between a saloon and its neighboring barber’s shop. Beyond the buildings lay a small, deserted street and the wagon had halted along it. Riding up to the halted wagon, Murat looked down to where its driver stood examining a wheel.

  “In trouble, Jake?” he asked.

  “Danged wheel’s near on coming off,” the man replied.

  “Let me take a look.”

  Swinging from his horse, Murat walked to the wagon and bent down to inspect its wheel. Doing so put his face near to the man and the stench of unwashed flesh wafted to his nostrils. Murat wondered if Jacob Jacobs ever took soap and water to his hide, but did not ask. Jacobs was a pedlar, but who augmented his takings by acting as a gatherer and seller of information garnered in his travels around the range.

  “You interested in running irons, Cap’n?” Jacobs asked in a low voice, bringing up the matter in the middle of a louder tirade about the poor quality of workmanship in the fitting of the wheel.

  “Depends where they are,” Murat answered.

  “Up to Caspar County.”

  “I’m interested. What do you know?”

  “I’m a poor man, Cap’n. There’s no money to be made by a poor old Jewish pedlar these days.”

  “Or a Ranger captain,” Murat countered.

  “Heard about all the trouble and went up there special, me being a public-spirited citizen and all,” Jacobs put in. “It’s allus been poor trading country up there and I lost business.”

  “Who’s behind the stealing?” Murat asked, cutting off any further descriptions of Jacobs’s self-sacrifice.

  “A woman.”

  It said much for Murat’s self-control that he showed no emotion at the words even though disbelief welled in him. His eyes studied Jacobs’s face, but he read nothing in the pedlar’s expression.

  “Does she have a name?” Murat asked.

  “Like I said, Cap’n, I’m a poor man.”

  Taking out his wallet, Murat peeled off a ten-dollar bill and slipped it into a grimy palm that engulfed it like a large-mouth bass sucking in a shiner minnow.

  “Who is it?”

  “Name of Ella Watson. She runs the Cattle Queen.”

  “Can you prove it?” asked Murat.

  “Proof the man wants!” yelped Jacobs in what, if possible, was a sotto voce wail of protest. “I tell him who is—I tell you, Cap’n, you Rangers should ought to arrest the feller who sold me this wagon.”

  The last words came out in a much louder, complaining tone as a man walked from an alley behind them and passed by. Like all informers, Jacobs knew full well the delicate nature of his position and the danger it involved. He had no wish to become known as one who passed on confidential information to law enforcement officers and took all precautions possible to avoid raising suspicions. Not until the man had passed out of hearing distance did either the pedlar or the Ranger captain resume their conversation.

  “I sure as hell haven’t had ten bucks worth yet,” Murat warned as the other seemed inclined to edge around the question of proof.

  Which same proved to be a powerful argument and one which Jacobs could understand right well. He knew Murat paid high for information, but expected service and accuracy in return for the money spent.

  “I don’t know much about it,” Jacobs admitted. “Wasn’t there for more than two days, pulled out as soon as I learned who was behind it. I figgered you’d want to know as soon as I could make it.”

  “Likely. Who-all’s in it with her?”

  “She gets some of the fool young cowhands to do the stealing. The young ’uns who haven’t got too much good sense but like to feel a gal’s leg now and then. Pays them for what they steal and gets the money back in her place when she’s paid them. She’s a might smart woman, Cap’n.”

  “Sounds that way,” Murat grunted. “Nothing more you can tell me?”

  “Not abou
t her. Don’t know where she gets shut of the stuff once it’s been stolen or even where she keeps it while she’s waiting to sell.”

  That figured to anybody who knew Jacobs. While the man willingly sold his information, he never took any extra chances in gathering it. However, Murat decided he had a start, a point where whichever man he sent up to Caspar County could make a beginning in breaking the spate of cow stealing. There was another point, a matter of some importance which Jacobs failed to mention.

  “How about Bat Gooch?”

  “He’s been there for just over a week and—how’d you know about him?”

  “My mother had a voodoo-mama nurse,” Murat answered, cursing the slowness of the mails. When Governor Howard’s letter was dispatched Gooch still had not arrived in Caspar. Not that Murat intended to enlighten Jacobs; it did the Ranger captain’s prestige no harm to have Jacobs think he knew more than his actual knowledge. “Has he done anything?”

  “Not much. Hasn’t made him a bounty yet that anybody knows about. Crither’s saying his losses’ve been cut already though.”

  Strange as it may seem, the news did not relieve Murat’s anxiety as much as one might expect it to. If the fear inspired by Gooch’s name and evil reputation had scared the cow thieves off the Forked C range, the bounty hunter ought to be spreading the sphere of his activities real soon. From what he knew of Gooch, Murat reckoned the man would not be content with just wages and was likely to seek out victims on the neighboring ranges. Sure, Murat wanted to drive the cow thieves off the range and stop their activities, which Gooch’s presence might do—but there was such a thing as the price being too high. The sooner the Ranger captain could send one of his men to Caspar, the better he would feel. Even one Ranger on the ground might act as a steadying influence and prevent Gooch from going too far in his bounty-hunting search for wealth.

  “There’s a couple more gunhands hanging around town,” Jacobs remarked. “Are on Ella Watson’s payroll, I think. They don’t say much, or do much. ’Course, they only came in the day afore I left.”