The Black Horse Westerns

by Abe Dancer

  ‘Is pasture your way o’ sayin’ school, Pa?’ Jasper asked excitedly.

  ‘It might be one way. We’ll talk on it at supper,’ Kettle said.

  That evening, Judd didn’t eat with the family. He took a bowl of stew up to his room, stayed there sullen and morose. The only feeling he had for his parents was callow resentment, like he’d held for some time. As a consequence, he missed the talk that decided he’d be leaving the safety of the ranch for some learning years in Gallup. Shortly after that, Hoope Kettle also arranged for Jasper to attend school in Albuquerque for his share of an education. One hundred and fifty miles between his constantly squabbling boys was more than adequate, Kettle considered wryly.

  Two months later, the big headquarters was a strangely quiet place after they’d gone, but the stern rancher never let out that he missed them, not even to his wife. Furthermore, the man’s loyalty prevented him from admitting that maybe he missed one more than the other.

  One day he suggested tellingly to Ben McGovren that a straight saplin’ was most likely to make a straight tree.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben replied. ‘It’ll grow the longest too.’

  2

  Hoope Kettle, Hector Chaf and Ben McGovren were coasting a low ridge. Keeping back from the summit, only now and again did they catch a glimpse of the country beyond. Hector stood in the stirrups, but even he could see little more than a great blanket of blue New Mexico sky. He pointed eastward, toward the bottom land where the course of Rio Bonito ran.

  ‘There’s the draw was tellin’ you about, boss.’ he said. ‘It pulls down to the water between a long stretch o’ pear. I don’t figure stock woulda drifted that way, unless they was put in at this end.’

  ‘Stock? You seen our stock down there?’ Kettle asked.

  ‘Not exactly. But late yesterday they was there,’ Hector said, softly.

  ‘How d’you know that?’ the rancher continued a little impatiently. ‘I know you an’ Ben was het up some when you come back from Lemmon last evenin’, but I put it down to the liquor. You goin’ to tell me it was somethin’ else?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of. I know that when somethin’ sounds like an’ looks like, it probably is.’

  Kettle drew his mount to a stop. ‘You got some pigtail in you, Hec?’ he said sharply. ‘What the hell are you tryin’ to say?’

  Hector’s arm took in a great loop of country. ‘It was this section of range that didn’t give us anywhere near our tally on the roundup. Then yesterday, Ben an’ me seen the Wystan crew. They was way yonder, puttin’ together a fair drive herd.’

  ‘Go on,’ Kettle encouraged.

  ‘The way that feller’s built up over the last two or three years, must be somethin’ in his share o’ the water. O’ course, down there, at the other end o’ the narrow draw, there’s a ford where the water don’t go high enough to wet their bellies.’

  Kettle shook his head as if totally bewildered. ‘There you go again. Talk some sense for God’s sake,’ he snapped,

  ‘I seen a white face this side; then he appears that side. That’s what we saw. I reckon he must’ve used the ford. Then again…?’

  Kettle nodded with slow understanding. ‘An’ then again…?’ he echoed.

  ‘Well, I seen one such little un’ rompin’ round hereabouts. He was wearin’ his smart Standin’ K brand, an’ now, stap me if we didn’t see the same critter yesterday far side o’ the Bonito.’

  ‘So what? It wouldn’t be the first young un’ to breach its pasture,’ Kettle said, and looked towards Ben.

  Ben nodded in agreement, ‘Yeah, but to pick up a new brand on the way?’ he queried.

  ‘Do you two mean what I think you mean?’

  ‘You just need to picture it, boss. If someone was to take no more’n three short burns at the K – two closin’ at the front, one closin’ at the back – what you got?’

  ‘A goddamn necktie party, that’s what,’ Kettle returned with mounting irritation.

  ‘Yeah, ’cause that someone’s shaped a Facin’ West mark. To our local way o’ thinkin’ that ain’t too far from Yule Wystan’s brand.’

  ‘You need a bit more goddamn proof than speculation, an’ bein’ able to recognize the face of a goddamn stray,’ Kettle rasped out.

  ‘But it weren’t only recognizin’ the baby beef,’ Hector started to say, ‘we got somethin’ else.’

  ‘What you mean, got?’

  Hector twisted round, drew two dotting irons from his saddle boot. Both rods had a short bar on one end. ‘We found ’em, boss. Maybe a quarter-mile down the draw. They’d been thrown into the pear.’

  With a thoughtful gaze that flicked between Hector and Ben, Kettle took hold of one of the irons. He thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Between ’em they switch my lone K mark to Wystan’s, west-facin’ arrows, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, boss,’ Hector answered. ‘An’ you don’t need to be no smart brand burner to work it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you show me this before now, Hec?’ Kettle asked grimly.

  ‘We wanted to think it out, boss. Then when we did, we wanted you here. Get us a better perspective,’ Ben said. ‘Give the story some lard, so to speak.’

  The three men looked back over the ridge and far beyond. What was evident in their eyes and thoughts didn’t bode well for some men along the Rio Bonito.

  ‘How’d you come across them irons an’ the route through?’ Kettle asked Hector, a few minutes later.

  ‘Mounts rode straight at the pear. We tried to hold ’em back but they went on in,’ Hector replied. ‘They found a break. We came out east o’ the corral. Must’ve saved us nigh on three miles if we’d taken the draw an’ come round.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ that someone’s workin’ an iron this side o’ the Bonito?’ Kettle eyed his man keenly.

  ‘Yeah. It was kind o’ dark, but yeah, that’s what we reckon.’

  ‘You told me everythin’ now, Hec?’

  Hector shook his head. ‘Not everythin’, boss. You got to leave me some stuff,’ he said and smiled fleetingly. ‘But I was talkin to Quedo Lunes last night when we got back. He said somethin’ that made me think I ought to get back to him. So maybe later, after chow.’

  For a moment, Kettle considered what Hector had said. ‘Well, I can’t think what that could be. Quedo’s a man who don’t mix. Sometimes he talks to his friends … his amigos,’ he said.

  ‘Well, he has got somethin’ to say, I’ll find out.’

  Again, Kettle looked thoughtfully at the big ’puncher. ‘When do you reckon they’ll be drivin’ this herd? Soon?’

  ‘They’d have been bedded down near the home pasture last night. If they start with five or six miles today, sundown’ll bring ’em close to the water at Lizard Pass. That means they go through at first light.’

  ‘An’ how many riders you reckon Wystan’s payin’?’ Kettle’s voice was now turning cool and thoughtful.

  ‘I never reckoned on him goin’ over a dozen payroll, but there’s maybe twenty or so now. What do you reckon, Ben?’

  ‘More. I saw ’em spread out on the flat. Most of ’em were packin’ irons … rifles too.’

  Kettle swore. ‘I’ll get Broome to set up a bunch o’ riders,’ he said decisively. ‘He can pick them that can handle ’emselves. I’ll shell out fightin’ wages if I have to.’

  ‘Let’s hope he picks those who know what side their corn’s buttered,’ Hector agreed.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Hec?’ Kettle asked of his man. ‘Broome is straight enough, ain’t he? Are you suggestin’ somethin’ else I should know about?’ he asked.

  Hector shrugged. ‘I’m just sayin’ we ought to be careful who we let in on the reasonin’.’

  ‘Huh, seems all of a sudden I’m learnin’ a passel o’ new stuff about those in my employ, Hec. But if you reckon you’re on to somethin’, I’ll let you pick the men.’

  ‘No, boss. We’ll give you their names, but you tell ’em. Make sur
e Owen Pruitt’s with ’em. Say we’re hazin’ out o’ the brush. Tell ’em the pear an’ chaparral’s spread. There’s a biggish number lost in the tangle. I’ll work up a plan on how best to handle all o’ this.’

  ‘Yeah, you do that.’ Kettle stopped just short of a smile. ‘You never let me down, Hec. Don’t go startin’ now.’

  3

  ‘Goddamn it, Hec,’ Hoope Kettle roared towards the beamed ceiling of his ranch-house den. Then he turned to face his top hand. ‘While you’re swallowin’ dust, I’ll be settin’ out a line o’ ropes between the willows either side o’ that crossin’,’ he threatened. ‘An’ if folk want to see them cow-thieves dancin’ a jig, they know where to come.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Hec responded smartly. ‘Meantime, you stay away from Wystan. Remember he’s probably hired ’imself a gunny or two if he’s stickin’ it to our cattle.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done, Hec,’ Kettle responded thoughtfully. ‘But now I’ve picked your boys, you can pound leather. Go get ’em.’

  Late that same afternoon, a dozen men rode with Hector Chaf and Ben McGovren. They swept northward in the general direction of the land that Hoope Kettle’s father had gifted Ben’s father after helping him battle with the Apache. As far as all but three men knew, the land with its broad ring of scrub was their objective. Each man had a Navaho blanket and slicker on his cantle, corn dodgers and a carbine in his saddle pockets. They were mostly young men and a touch reckless. They were picked because they would follow their two top hands through hell and high water, or more realistically, hog-wallow mesquite. Ironically, the same couldn’t be said about those who’d side with Hoope Kettle’s foreman, Wilshaw Broome.

  When Hector had asked for only twelve men, Kettle had objected, said that twenty-five rifles would lay waste to twelve. But that was before he’d fully heard through Hector’s plan.

  The McGovrens’ stump farm homestead was ten miles north of the Standing K land, but a couple of miles short of that, Hector and his men circled to the east, cut the trail that crossed the Rio Bonito before going on to Lemmon. Then they turned north-east, headed into a wide sweep around the path of the drive herd. If the fourteen men were going to reach the far side of Lizard Pass before dawn, they would be riding hard through the night.

  It didn’t take long for Hector to figure out the Lizard Pass route. Beyond the line of ridges where Lizard Pass cut its course was a broad stretch of open country. At the far end ran one of the main drive trails. To go south-east by way of Lemmon would not only be a longer way, but the herd would be within the scope of a Standing K line rider. Except for pay-day visits to Lemmon, Kettle waddies had little incentive in travelling the country east of Rio Bonito. Long stay ’punchers who’d been with the outfit more than a couple of years had on more than one occasion pursued freelance maverickers across the flats to the Lizard Rim. But Hoope Kettle didn’t care much for what went on east of the Rio Bonito, so the river had usually become the limit of their chase. What was happening now though was rustling, and as Ben asided to Hector Chaf, ‘Boss is gettin’ up more steam than the Santa Fe Flyer.’

  So, the south-east trail past Lemmon was out of it according to Hector’s reckoning, and the north-east was impassable for anything close to herd size. But that was the course the two ’punchers and their string of doughty riders had to follow. If they took to the flats which extended far in that direction, the drumming of hoofs would carry through the still night air, so they used the short ridges, twisting and turning through arroyos and dry gulches.

  In the deep twilight they pegged their mounts and eased the cinches. Around a smokeless fire they boiled coffee, drank it with their dodgers, beef biscuits and hard-boiled eggs. They rolled and smoked a cigarette, then again forked leather along the winding trail. It was open, rough country, but the night light was fair, and before dark, Hector and Ben had set their course with a star to guide them by.

  Now and again a stumble thumped the rider into his saddle horn, but the ensuing low curse, created a swell of sniggering and it eased the tension. The Standing K riders now knew the exact nature of the mission, and that daylight would probably bring the confrontation. They also knew that men who play the rustling game prefer the chances of flying lead to the mortal gather of a hangman’s rope.

  The bright guide star had swung far in its orbit before Hector topped the hogback he’d been aiming for. He rode down the far side to level ground, drew rein while the crew gathered around him. For a moment he looked east, made a thin smile at the first breaking signs of the new day.

  ‘Remember, boys, we don’t want no tack jinglin’,’ he told them. ‘We’ve still got more’n a mile to go, but lookin’ at that sky, we’ll make it fast. Lizard Pass opens up in a big maw, close to a quarter-mile across before it clears the ridge. When them beeves come through, they’ll spread like gravy on a plate.’ Hector glanced at Ben, before going on, ‘I’ll take three o’ you to the far side an’ work the narrows. Ben’ll do the same this side. Between us, we’ll see if we can bring down enough critters to stop the run.’ He paused again for a moment. ‘Where’s Owen?’ he asked.

  Without fuss, a lanky ’puncher worked his mount to Hector’s side.

  ‘Here’s your play, Owen,’ Hector told him. ‘We’ll leave you five o’ the boys. Set two of ’em for a picket rope. We won’t be wastin’ time … just hop an’ run. Three o’ you make a line where the maw narrows … ’bout a hundred yards across. We’ll let two or three o’ the point riders through, you keep ’em off our necks. If it works an’ we start a back run, just get our horses to us.’

  The riders heeled their mounts, chased and beat the purple shades of first light. Without an exchanged word, Ben and three of the men swung down from their saddles, grabbed their carbines and ran for the steep rocky slope of the pass. Another rider gathered the reins of the four horses and raced them back, staked them behind the outcrop of a boulder ridge. Moments later, Hector and his men were doing the same on the other side of the gaping cut, racing Ben and his men to their comparative positions.

  Hector posted his three, called quietly for them to wait. ‘Do nothin’ until me or Ben start the big carouse,’ he told them. ‘I’m goin’ to drop down the other side o’ the ridge, just low enough for ’em not to sight me against that brightenin’ sky,’ he explained,

  Five minutes later, Hector cleared the ridge, and tucked himself in below the skyline. Five more minutes and he sniffed the air, picked up the rising spread of sound that all cowmen recognized.

  4

  The deep purple sky was changing rapidly. Fingers of blue, pink and grey were streaking from the east. But to the west, Hector picked out a flickering light, and he knew that the Facing West range cook was setting up breakfast. A little later from somewhere on the flat, a long bellow addressed the brightening sky. It was answered from another point, taken up by another then another. It gave Hector a chance to figure the main gather and breadth of the herd, the direction it was likely to head after moving out.

  But a moment later he stopped his measurement and froze. He held his breath, tried desperately not to shake as two rattlesnakes slithered sinuously side-by-side across his outstretched left leg. He cursed, wondered whether he’d disturbed them. I’ve gone an’ bedded down with a couple o’ goddamn courtin’ side-winders, he cursed again, inwardly. He lay very still, waited a long minute for any warning rattle. Then he shuddered, shifted his position and cursed again, as he realized he’d made coldharbour camp where the ridge rock gained its warmth from the approaching day.

  He turned his head towards the far side of the pass and grinned. ‘I was tellin’ someone the other day that buzzworms only strike if you disturb or provoke ’em. An’ you’ll probably be back this way later in the day,’ he said, and wondered if Ben MeGovren was having any better luck.

  The light grew and Hector examined his surroundings, looked for better cover. He decided that his refuge was as good as anywhere else. ‘We can’t all be wrong,’ he muttered, l
ooking suspiciously around him. He swung his attention back to the flats, to the waking cattle. The night riders would be in and the point would be shaping up. Soon, less than a half mile distant, the herd began to move.

  Hector knew that swing riders would take their positions in front of the flankers. They’d shape a bottleneck for the pass, to squeeze the herd through. They’d also be the riders who’d make it scratchy for Ben and himself, once the fight kicked off. He had another look at the short sloping ridge before him, estimated the angles from which it would give him protection from rustlers’ bullets.

  The broad dark shadow rolled towards Hector’s cover. The ground picked up the low rumbling tremor as thousands of hoofs took up their day’s march. Far back, a dust curtain rose, hung suspended in the air. Later it would swirl and billow into choking clouds when the breeze picked up.

  Hector spat dryness, loosened his pistol in its holster and pulled the Sharps carbine towards him. The lead steers were coming into sight now, and the air was filled with yips and yells, the crack of whips, the dull click of horns. The sound of approaching hoofs grew into a heavy grumble, and Hector made out the riders on point. He expected three, maybe four riders, but when they were a hundred yards distant, he counted up to a dozen. He began cursing again, hoped that Owen Pruitt and his men weren’t in new, increased danger. In their favour was the fact that Yule Wystan’s riders had no inkling of who and what was lying in wait for them at the pass, but there was enough of them to kick out fast and resolute once they’d cleared the narrows.

  Hector was in no position or frame of mind to change his strategy for the engagement. They must all of them take their chances. But he reflected that once the cattle were into the pass, Hoope Kettle would at least have fewer guns throwing lead at him.