The Black Horse Westerns

by Abe Dancer

  It was an hour earlier in the first light of dawn that Hoope Kettle sent his big bay splashing through the ford. A single line of fourteen horsemen followed him through the water, made it up the bank close to the tunnel through the prickly pear. Six miles of flat stretched before them, six miles to Lizard Pass, maybe four, to where the big herd would be milling.

  Hoope Kettle wasn’t a man who’d spent his life out-tolerating everyone. But he’d always wanted to be certain of a man’s guilt before seeing him brought to justice, let alone hanged. By the same token, he’d never doubted Hector Chaf, never questioned the man’s judgement. But now it was personal and the rancher wanted to get involved, sense the wrong. He wanted to mete out the anger he carried, and he didn’t want to wait long.

  Up ahead rode the man who’d worked Kettle’s Standing K brand into the Facing West brand. Such tricks – using a running iron ahead of the roundup – had been done many times before, but the last time Yule Wystan had tried it, it was a hurried botched job, and he’d had to scuttle from south of the Black Mesa in Arizona. But this time he’d worked long and patiently to make this a winning re-brand. And he’d managed to stay low, because he wanted it to be his final move. He’d built a crew of thirty on his payroll, but he considered it a worthy investment. Of the great herd he was now driving, barely a third carried a genuine Facing West brand – a contrived brand, solely for the purpose of rustling.

  Wystan was riding drag with half-a-dozen trigger men strung out to his left and right. With the bulk of the herd moving, the rest needed little prodding, and Wystan had detailed the hired guns to ride with him. The men rode with added early morning frostiness because they had spent the night time hours guarding against what might come at them from across the shallows of the Rio Bonito.

  But one man sided up to Wystan with a relieved smirk on his face. ‘I’m sure glad we’re movin’, Mr Wystan,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, so am I. But it’s only when we’re across the water an’ through the pass, no one can touch us.’

  ‘If you’re still worryin’ about that brace o’ K men we spotted yesterday, there was nothin’ for ’em to get suspicious about. They didn’t see nothin.’

  The light was getting stronger, and Wystan looked behind, and then all around him. ‘That’s a nothin’ you don’t know for certain,’ he said. ‘I got me a belly gnaw, Ringo. It’s the belief that if somethin’ can go wrong it probably will. An’ it’s when that’s got me rattled, I don’t mind admittin’.’

  ‘The only feelin in your belly’s probably from eatin’ cow dust,’ Ringo Chawke countered. ‘You’re back here fillin’ up with alkali. Why not ride out to the flank? From there you’ll see the pass real good.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Wystan demanded sharply and twisted in his saddle. ‘What’s that?’ he repeated. ‘You hear it?’

  ‘Hell, you sure are rattled,’ Ringo answered, without taking the trouble to look or listen.

  Wystan faced backward, one hand gripping the cantle. ‘You can hear that, can’t you?’ he growled.

  ‘Yeah, somethin’ maybe,’ Ringo said quietly. ‘But I can’t see nothin’.’

  ‘Ride to the near flank,’ Wystan told him. ‘Call in the men that side. Send Cruz out to the other flank. It might be nothin’, but I ain’t takin’ any chances. An’ nor’s my scrawny ol’ neck.’

  5

  Wystan was still twisting around in his saddle when Kettle’s bay pounded through the early morning gloom. He’d been nervy, not ready to be taken off his guard, and within a few of the approaching horse’s big strides, he’d set himself to strike back. He wanted away from the Rio Bonito country, had made up his mind to shoot his way out if he had to. But he knew his men were coming from either flank and, knowing their professional abilities, he didn’t feel that insecure.

  ‘You got some sort o’ burr under your blanket?’ Wystan rumbled, used a tight smile to disguise the movement of his gun hand at the sudden confrontation.

  ‘Yeah, somethin’ like that,’ Kettle clipped back, knowing full well he had the advantage of surprise. ‘I’ve rode out here to return somethin’.’

  The pair of running irons sailed through the air towards Wystan and he threw up an arm as a defending response.

  ‘What the hell are those?’ he yelled, realizing he’d been caught. He saw that Kettle’s hand rested on the butt of his Colt.

  ‘Keep very still, Wystan,’ Kettle threatened. ‘Make a move for that ol’ hog leg an’ I’ll just have to do what I got to do, without hearin’ your explanation.’

  ‘I ain’t got time for nonsense jawbonin’ with you, Kettle,’ Wystan snarled. ‘I got me a trail herd to run.’

  Wystan’s men were now closing in. The man was thinking to hold Kettle up, keep his attention while their guns took him out. That’s what he was paying them fighting wages for. But then Wystan saw a few, well-armed Standing K men riding towards their own boss. Providing cover, more men had carbines with barrels lowered against their horses flanks. Wystan’s men had taken notice too, wondered whether they should have broken cover so soon.

  ‘So you ain’t got time to explain these irons, eh?’ Kettle said. ‘That’s a shame, but not a problem, ’cause the herd ain’t runnin’ anywhere until I’ve had me a closer look at ’em. Meantime, I suggest you an’ your friends draw off a piece.’

  ‘You’re as close to my steers as you’re goin’ to get,’ Wystan yelled. He wondered why his men’s pistols hadn’t started barking on either side of him. ‘Goddamnit,’ he swore; they all knew what they’d been hired for. He glanced to left and right, saw their stillness in the saddle. There was something wrong and he didn’t know what it was. ‘Goddamnit,’ he swore again directly at Kettle. ‘What the hell are you doin’ out here?’

  ‘Takin’ a look at my steers you’re thinkin’ o’ runnin’ off,’ Kettle gritted.

  Wystan was instantly taken aback. Before he could think of a way to counter the outburst, Kettle was off again.

  ‘I know what’s been dotted with those irons. You burned a new brand onto my Standin’ K,’ Kettle charged. ‘But I ain’t a vindictive man, an’ most o’ the time I think the best o’ most everyone. It’s because I don’t normally take stuff that ain’t mine, I’ll be content with cuttin’ out them steers that are. What you do next’s up to you, but I wouldn’t do anythin’ else stupid, ’cause so far into this new day you been real lucky.’

  Wystan had regained a degree of composure after discovering the identity of his challenger. ‘Listen, Kettle,’ he snarled back, ‘I appreciate your sense o’ justice, but shortly there’ll be upwards o’ thirty o’ my riders chargin’ in here, an’ they ain’t in the mood for an “excuse me”. For me, this ain’t personal, but they ain’t goin’ to see it that way.’

  For all his hot-headedness, Hoope Kettle retained a thought for his men. He was waiting for the moment when, using surprise, they could match the speed of Wystan’s gunslingers. Besides, he remembered it was Hector Chaf or Ben McGovren that would start their big carouse. If he kicked off with any rash gunplay, it could wreck their best laid plans. So he grinned weakly, watched Wystan’s hand dropping imperceptibly lower.

  ‘That’s the trouble, I do see this sort o’ thing as personal,’ he returned, shaking his head. ‘An’ it just don’t seem fair,’ he added, continuing the weak grin at Wystan. But he was stalling, holding out for as long as he could, acting the loser.

  ‘Yeah, life’s a bitch, ain’t it?’ Wystan quipped. ‘We got the drop, an’ there ain’t a goddamn thing you can do about it. The point’s well through the pass now, an’ nothin’ could stop the rest from followin’.’

  A moment later, the sharp report of a carbine cracked down from the pass. It was what Kettle ’punchers needed, and most of them responded.

  Wystan jerked at the report, but managed to flash a hand to his gun, But Kettle had already fired, and his bullet smashed into the meat of Wystan’s right shoulder. He rowelled deep and the big bay closed the distance between the two m
en in little more than a single leap. Kettle pushed his Colt back into its holster, and grabbed for Wystan’s coat front. With his other hand he pulled his lariat off the saddle horn and flipped a loop around Wystan’s flagging body.

  A bullet chewed across the flesh of Kettle’s lower arm. The man turned, but he only saw Ringo Chawke catch a bullet high in his chest. Wystan’s man made no sound, just crashed from the saddle, was dead before hitting the hard-packed dirt. Kettle swung back to his wounded prisoner, called for one of his riders to take the nervy horse’s reins.

  ‘Keep an eye on this goddamn cow thief,’ he rasped. ‘He’ll probably try an’ die on you, rather than face what’s comin’ to him. Get him to the Bonito, an’ wait there for me.’

  Kettle pulled his Colt, again, confronted the ongoing fight. ‘Jeesus,’ he cursed out loud, ‘I’m a bear’s ass if this ain’t personal. They’re my goddamn steers.’

  Most of the men who’d joined the Wystan payroll were considering the situation, the likely outcome. They were on fighting wages, but guarding the herd and running steers wasn’t quite the same as a chancy, hard-hosed gunfight.

  Kettle sensed the dilemma. He looked around him with rising confidence, but rifles opened up from both flanks. At the crash of gunfire, the approaching cattle recoiled from the conflict. They jammed those ahead, created a roil behind them. Around the flanks, the frightened cattle had broken away from the main bunch, were running bug-eyed back across the flats. More followed on until the main herd was streaming that way. The rustlers were quick to take advantage of the running cover, and their fire became unpredictable and volatile, too dangerous for the Standing K men who were milling in a group.

  Kettle made a quick assessment of the situation and decided to head for the right flank. He yelled at his men to follow and rowelled the bay. They let off a furious barrage of gunfire as they rode, but the rustlers were bulldogging, cutting between the irritated steers. Any lethal aiming was impossible, and it wasn’t long before the rustlers broke and hightailed it towards the ridge. Once there, they would regroup, head to the point of the nearest flank. Kettle yelled again and, as his men pounded into the chase, he waved an arm for them to spread out.

  The day’s early breezes strengthened, and as the sun rose higher, dust clouds started to blow clear across that flank. Now, Kettle and his men could see all the way to the ridge. A group of Wystan’s men was running ahead, back firing as they went. Beyond them, a half-dozen more drew their rifles and prepared to give as good as they were getting. Kettle thought a couple of his men were missing but, quickly evaluating the mood of most others, he decided to continue with the attack. He hadn’t forgotten Wystan’s men out on the far flank, expecting that very soon they would round the herd. If they did, they would sweep around to the rear, where the Standing K men would be trapped, caught between two waves of gunfire.

  Up ahead of the advancing riders, gunfire cracked, echoed along the walls of the Pass. Realizing it was one of Wystan’s men who had set off the fight, Owen Pruitt had quickly placed his men. For his own position, he chose what seemed a likely outcrop, but in the turmoil had misjudged its potential for cover. He watched Wystan’s point riders come through and thought he’d be overrun by their number. He cursed, for a long moment considered riding back to find proper cover. But Hector expected him to stay, so stay he would.

  6

  The first riders came on six abreast. Six more straggled back to the lead steers, where Owen Pruitt could plainly see the violent tossing and brandishing of horns. They advanced to within a hundred yards, then the line separated. Three rode to each side, formed a line for the cattle as those behind pushed up. Pruitt was ready, anxious to open up with his carbine, but he waited for Hector or Ben to give the signal. As he took stock, his head and shoulders silhouetted against the lightening skyline. To his right, he saw a rider throw up his rifle, felt the snatch as the bullet ripped across his shoulder blades, and he cursed loudly.

  The other riders jerked guns from their saddle holsters, but two were shot down almost immediately. From four or five directions, rifles started to bark and blaze. Those men bringing up the rear whirled their mounts, dashed back the way they had come. But they found the pass was jammed with cattle that were being felled by a murderous barrage of gunfire from either bank. Trapped, the nine men realized they had to throw up a fight before making a run for the open country. They kicked spurs, as from behind them more rifles opened up. Horses went down, and the riders fought from behind the stricken mounts. For some time, the battle between the cattlemen continued with unabated fervour.

  Like his partner, Ben McGovren had been looking things over when it got somewhere near the first light. From his side of the pass, he saw the unusually large number of point riders coming on with the cattle following close. Ben also saw a dozen more riders along the flank before him. They were going to station themselves where the ridge dipped back to a false opening, attempt to keep the cattle from jamming into a mill. That would create real trouble for the bulk of the herd. On consideration, Ben thought it best to leave the cattle plugging to his men and Hector’s crew. So, he sniffed a suitable curse, took resolute aim with his carbine and began the alternative work.

  He was surprised when a riderless horse went galloping by, and in attempting to recognize the mount, he caught a bullet on the crown of his shoulder. More gunfire cut down his return of fire, and in his ducking in and out of cover, another bullet sliced across the side of his neck.

  ‘Goddamn all you brand burners,’ he cursed loudly. ‘I’ll run out o’ lives before bullets,’ he added, knowing that he’d received a good fighting ration from Hoope Kettle.

  Ben pumped out another salvo, but there was no luxury of knowing the effect he was having. Minutes later, he was reloading when the lead exchange stuttered, then stopped. He waited a moment before risking a look, but when he did, he saw the Wystan gunmen streaking towards the tail of the distant herd. From there, he could still hear firing, and he could see the herd was starting to turn, But then his interest returned to the Pass, where he knew Hector should be. In between breaks in the dust clouds, he saw his friend and his jaw dropped. He blinked and shook his head clear, for Hector’s behaviour at that moment wasn’t what he expected. The tall ’puncher was on his feet, standing with no apparent fear of presenting himself as a target.

  ‘He’s read too many o’ them dime-store novels,’ Ben rasped. ‘He thinks he’s at the Little Big Horn.’

  But Hector wasn’t shooting at the cattle or the rustlers. He had the barrel of his carbine lowered, was shooting around his own feet.

  Ben was utterly amazed. ‘What the hell you shootin’ at?’ he yelled out, as Hector continued to pump bullets into the dirt.

  Now the firing around the pass had almost stopped, but the bawling of cattle and a ripple of gunfire on Hector’s side of the big herd was still making some noise.

  ‘You lumberin’ fool,’ he yelled, a grasp of the situation spreading across his face. ‘Get yourself out o’ there.’

  Hector give a quick glance around him and spat a few garbled words. He hopped a step backwards, then broke into a run towards the flats.

  Ben watched for a moment, then saw that nearer to him, the cattle had started to mill, were headed into a certain stampede. Before disappearing into another swell of dust, he saw the chuck-wagon driver wheel his mule team, lash them into an anxious run. Where Hector was heading, a steady hail of gunfire was closing on the ridge.

  Ben waited no longer, He ran from his cover; within moments resumed a stream of agitated curses as he leapt over fallen steers. He gained the other side to see that Hector was now down on one knee shoving cartridges into his magazine. Hector saw him coming, waved an arm out towards the flats where a bunch of riders were backing up. Beyond them, and closing fast, Hoope Kettle was leading a string of his men straight at the Wystan guns.

  Hector nodded and Ben understood the meaning. He heard the click of Hector’s breech block, another as he levered. He grim
aced at the soreness that spread across his shoulders and neck, but he put up his own carbine. Both men pulled their triggers almost simultaneously and one rider went down, another crumpled forward in the saddle. They jerked up fresh cartridges, paused in determined aim, and another man fell from his horse. The remaining Wystan riders saw the devastating collapse of their companions. Most of them would prefer the odds of being hit by lead, to the summary justice of a neck-tie party. But now they were surrounded and defeated, and they opted for the chancer’s employ of uncertainty. To a man, they dropped their weapons and raised their arms.

  Within moments, Kettle and his men were winding lariats around them, jerking them secure in their saddles. Their horses were strung out in a line and Kettle was considering a detail of two riders to lead them to the Rio Bonito, where he’d earlier dispatched Yule Wystan.

  ‘I’ll wager they ain’t got much of a future,’ Hector predicted dourly.

  From where the Standing K men sat their mounts, a great dust cloud was billowing slowly into the north-west. They could still see heaving rumps and high raised tails, but the whole herd had turned, was now in full run. It had taken a whole day to cover that six-mile stretch, but now it looked as if they would be back at where they started in a matter of minutes. The men knew that if the animals hit the creek at that speed, the pile up would cost many more deaths.

  ‘How are things up front, Hec?’ Hoope Kettle asked, being mindful of something else.

  ‘They’ll be quietenin’ down,’ Hector answered, as if he knew it.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ The rancher took a closer look at his ’puncher.

  ‘No, just bruised up a bit. I was lucky, but for a pinch o’ flesh.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, how about the riders on the left flank? Do you know how many rustlers they took out?’

  ‘I ain’t been much involved with takin’ out rustlers,’ Hector responded. He was still frustrated at not being able to get himself involved. ‘I just had a nest o’ rattlers gettin’ irate at the thought o’ me sharin’ their nest. ain’t got me a horse yet, neither,’ he added testily.