6
Neal Bonner was a cattleman through and through. He’d been born on a small ranch in Texas and grown up around cows. From an early age he’d fed them, milked them, shoveled the manure of the milk cows in the barn, herded the cattle out on the range, roped them, branded them.
Anything and everything that had to do with cattle, he’d done, and learned to do it exceptionally well. Which was why, at the unheard-of age of twenty, he’d been offered the job of foreman at a neighboring ranch, the much larger Bar H. He did so superb a job there that two years later an even larger ranch, the Circle T, hired him away. He’d been there three years when Franklyn Wells came calling on behalf of the Portland Whaling Consortium and their newly created Badlands Land and Cattle Company.
Evidently Wells had gone around asking ranchers all over west Texas who they’d pick as the top three foremen, and Neal’s name had been on many of the lists. But Neal liked the Diamond T. He liked the owner, he liked the men who worked under him, and he liked the land.
At first Neal had told them no. He admitted he was flattered and thanked them for their interest, but he would stay where he was.
Franklyn Wells was persistent. He wouldn’t take that no for an answer. He paid repeated visits, six in a span of two months. Each time he offered Neal more money. But when Wells saw that it wasn’t the money Neal loved, but the cattle, Wells shrewdly stressed the things a cowman would care about. How Neal would oversee more cattle than most foremen. How every aspect of their tending was completely in Neal’s care. The ranch manager would run the ranch, but Neal, and only Neal, had oversight of the cattle.
Gradually, Wells wore Neal’s resistance down. Wells’s crowning argument was the challenge of it all, to make a ranch succeed where none had succeeded before, to wrest a cattle empire from the untamed wilds, as the early Texas pioneers had done.
Neal gave in and said yes, with one condition. Jericho must go with him or he wouldn’t go. There was no debating the issue. It was Jericho or it was no.
Wells had been puzzled by the request. He’d assumed it was because Neal and Jericho were friends, and said as much. Neal’s reply had enlightened Wells to the true nature of Westerners.
“Jericho is more than my friend. He’s my pard.”
Only then did Wells see that when a man called another his pard, the bond ran deeper than any except marriage. Men stuck with their pards through thick and thin.
They did everything together. They shared everything together. Their pard came before everything else, and they’d die for him if they had to.
Wells had been curious. He’d pried into how the bond between Neal and Jericho came about. And one night, over brandy in the parlor of the owner of the Circle T, Neal Bonner told a story not even the owner had heard.
Neal was at the Bar H at the time. He’d gone into the nearest town, Benton—or Benton City, as some called it—to pick up the mail. Since he had a few hours to kill before the stage arrived, he’d decided to treat himself to a drink. One and one only. He’d gone into the Longhorn and over to the bar and had no sooner taken his first sip than trouble started.
Some men were playing poker. One of them was half-drunk, and in a loud and obnoxious manner started complaining about how much he had lost, and how he wouldn’t have lost it if he wasn’t being cheated.
The accusation froze everyone in the saloon. It was the worst insult anyone could give, short of calling someone a horse thief.
The bartender hollered over, “That’s enough out of you, Lindsey. You’ve had too much to drink. Go home and sleep it off.”
“Like hell I will,” Lindsey replied, and stood. He was a big man who liked to throw his weight around even when sober, and who had made more than a few peace-loving townsmen dance to the tune of his six-shooter. “One of you is dealin’ from the bottom’,” he snarled at the other cardplayers, “and I have a good idea who.”
That was when Neal set eyes on Jericho for the first time.
Jericho was one of the men at that table. His head was down, but just then he’d raised it and said to Lindsey, “No one is cheatin’. If they were, I’d know.”
“Who the hell are you?” Lindsey demanded.
“Jericho.”
A murmur spread through the saloon. Neal overheard enough to gather that the name wasn’t to be taken lightly.
Lindsey didn’t seem especially impressed. “Jericho, you say? I’ve heard of you.”
Jericho didn’t say anything. In his left hand he held his cards. His right was under the table.
“I’ve heard you’re supposed to be considerable shakes with a six-gun,” Lindsey went on. “Well, I can shoot, too.”
“Don’t go there,” Jericho said.
“I’ll do what I damn well please,” Lindsey said. “And I don’t much appreciate you buttin’ in.”
“You should take the barkeep’s advice.”
“Who’s he to tell me what to do?” Lindsey snapped. “Who are you to tell me the same?”
Neal had been surprised when Jericho set down his cards and stood.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t ought to stick my nose in. It’s a bad habit of mine. I reckon I’m done with this game.” With his left hand Jericho scooped up his money and stuck it in a pocket, then turned to go.
Lindsey stood there, staring. No one could say what made him do what he did next. Neal’s best guess was that Lindsey was looking to add to his reputation as a bad man to trifle with. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that explained why when Jericho had taken a couple of steps, Lindsey clawed for his six-shooter.
Nor could anyone say what prompted Neal to do what he did next. He couldn’t explain it himself. All his life he’d minded his own business. He never got involved when a fracas broke out. He never raised a finger to stop a shooting. But as Lindsey started to draw, Neal shouted, “Look out!”
Jericho was already in motion. He must have sensed something or seen Lindsey out of the corner of his eye because he whirled even as Neal yelled, his pearl-handled Colt seeming to leap into his hand. He fanned two shots from the hip so swiftly they sounded like one.
Lindsey was jolted onto his bootheels. “No!” he bleated, and keeled onto his back with his arms outflung. He lay gasping for air and staring at the ceiling.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Jericho came around the table. He watched Lindsey gasp, and said quietly, “You made me rush it.”
“Damn, you’re quick,” Lindsey got out, and stopped gasping.
Jericho frowned. He’d slowly replaced the spent cartridges, and slowly slid his Colt into its holster. “I had it to do.”
“We all saw it,” a cardplayer said. “We’ll vouch for that with the marshal.”
Jericho nodded, then did the last thing Neal expected; he walked over to the bar. “I’m obliged for the warnin’.”
“Didn’t seem as if you needed one,” Neal said, smiling.
Jericho held out a hand. His right hand. “Jericho.”
“So I heard.” Neal held out his. “Neal Bonner.”
“Cowhand?”
“Foreman.”
“I can work cows.”
“You’re lookin’ for work?”
“No. But if that’s what you do, I can, too.”
Only afterward did Neal realize this was a pivotal moment in his life. On some unconscious level he’d recognized what Jericho was offering, and on that same unconscious level he’d unhesitatingly accepted. “Come work cows for me, then.”
From then on, they were inseparable.
• • •
And now, striding down Whiskey Flats’s dusty main street, Neal remarked, “They’ve seen us.”
“The gambler has sharp eyes’,” Jericho said.
“I don’t know what it’s about, but we have to avoid chuckin’ lead with the wome
nfolk so close.”
“That won’t be up to me.”
Neal was upset with himself. Franklyn Wells had written him that the new manager and his daughters were expected to arrive this very day, but Wells had intimated it wouldn’t be until later. Neal set out from the ranch early that morning with Jericho and another hand on a buckboard, plus an extra horse, but the stage was already there when they arrived.
“Those three folks I brought in?” the driver had said when asked. “They moseyed off not two minutes ago.” He’d scanned Main Street and pointed. “There they are. And say, it looks as if some hard cases have latched onto ’em.”
Walking faster, Neal asked Jericho, “Do you know those three?”
“I don’t recollect seein’ them before, no.”
“Must be new in town.”
“New or not, they’re trouble.”
Neal girded himself. The three toughs had faced them and spread out. The one in the middle, with a scar on his face, was a rarity, a two-gun man. Usually only green kids wore two six-shooters—or the very few who were the genuine articles and could use both hands as adeptly as most used one. The man with the scar wasn’t a green kid.
“Watch the one in the middle.”
“The other two ain’t parsons,” Jericho said.
Neal hadn’t paid much attention to the Jessups, but as he neared them he did. Alexander Jessup was much as Wells had described him. “Aristocratic, like one of those Roman emperors.” Neal didn’t know an emperor from a billy goat, but Alexander Jessup did have the air of someone who carried himself as if he were important.
The two daughters weren’t at all what Neal had expected. Wells had written their names and mentioned they were “older girls,” leading Neal to assume they might be fifteen or sixteen or thereabouts. But they were full-grown women, and both of them were easy on the eyes, to boot. At first glimpse, he thought the one with hair like corn silk was a shade prettier. With a shake of his head, Neal put that from his mind.
Beaumont Adams was leaning against a post, and smirking. The gambler smirked a lot, Neal had noticed, the few times he’d been in the Three Aces.
“Gentlemen,” Beaumont said. “How nice to see you again. Welcome to our street social. Permit me to make the introductions. Mr. Neal Bonner, and Jericho, I’d like you to meet three upstandin’ new members of our community. Mr. Scar Wratner and his friends Bird Beak and Toad.”
Isolda Jessup laughed.
The pair on either side of Scar Wratner glanced angrily at the gambler.
“What did you just call me?” said the one who did indeed resemble a frog or a toad. “My name is Tuck. And this here is Grat, not Bird Beak.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Beaumont said. “They seemed to be the logical handles.”
Isolda laughed once more.
“You think you’re so damn funny,” Tuck said. “Keep it up and I’ll make you laugh out your ass.”
“Hush,” Scar Wratner growled. He was staring at Jericho.
Tuck hushed.
Scar went on staring. “The tinhorn over there says you’re the cock of the walk in these parts.”
Beaumont Adams straightened. “Hold on. I resent that, Wratner. I admit I’m not the most law-abidin’ gent, but I play square at cards. Ask anyone. I never deal from the bottom.”
“Good for you.” Scar hadn’t taken his eyes off Jericho. “Do you know what happens when there are two roosters in the same barnyard?”
“I do,” Jericho said.
“How about we get to it, then?”
7
To the considerable astonishment of nearly everyone, Edana Jessup picked that moment to step between Neal Bonner and Jericho and the three hard cases. Putting her hands on her hips, she demanded of Scar Wratner, “What is the matter with you?”
“Edana, no,” Alexander Jessup said. “Move out of the way.”
“I will not,” Edana said, glowering at Wratner. “I’ll ask you again, sir. What is the matter with you?”
Scar didn’t seem to know what to say or do. He looked at her and then at Jericho, who appeared equally nonplussed. “What is the matter with me?” he repeated. “What in hell is the matter with you? Listen to your pa and move or you’re liable to take lead.”
Beaumont Adams made a loud clucking sound. “No, no, no. You don’t want to do that.”
Scar glared at him. “Another word out of you, cardsharp, and you won’t like what happens.”
“How about a dozen words?” Beaumont said, and paused. “Harm a hair on her head and you’re as good as dead.”
“Oh, I am, am I?” Scar swiveled toward him. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Me?” Beaumont said in mock dismay. “It’s the rest of the town you have to worry about.”
“What are you jabberin’ about?”
“Look around you,” Beaumont said, and gestured.
All along Main Street, people had stopped what they were doing to stare. Riders, those on foot, a man in a buckboard, were so many statues, awaiting the outcome.
“You’re a braver man than me, Scar Wratner,” Beaumont continued. “I’d never threaten to put lead into a woman with a whole town listenin’. Not when females are so scarce west of the Mississippi and even scarcer here in the Badlands. Why, shootin’ one would be worse than horse stealin’. Especially ladies as pretty as these two. Can you imagine how upset that would make the male population? It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if every man in town was to haul you to the nearest tree and treat you to a strangulation jig.”
Scar looked up and down the street. “Son of a bitch.”
“If I was you I’d sheathe my horns,” the gambler advised gravely. “Do your shootin’ another time.”
“Do you want I should gun him?” Grat asked Scar. “He gets on my nerves with all his prattle.”
Scar shook his head. “No. He’s right. This ain’t the time to be slingin’ lead. We’ll go to the Tumbleweed and have us a drink there.” He went to walk off.
“Hold on,” Jericho said.
Scar looked at him.
“Let’s mosey on out into the street a ways and shoo everybody off and finish this.”
“I’d just as soon,” Scar said.
Before either could move, Edana Jessup whirled on Neal Bonner. “Are you just going to stand there like a lump of clay?”
“What did I do?” Neal blurted, taken aback.
“Not a blessed thing, and that’s the problem.” Edana jabbed a finger at Jericho. “Does he or does he not work for the Diamond B?”
“He does.”
“And are you or are you not the foreman at the Diamond B?”
“I am,” Neal said, becoming more bewildered by the moment.
“And are you or are you not employed by the Badlands Land and Cattle Company?”
“I am.” Neal liked how her cheeks flushed when she was mad.
“And is my father or is he not the ranch manager duly appointed by the aforesaid Badlands Land and Cattle Company, for whom you work?”
“The what-said?” Tuck interrupted.
“I didn’t hear your answer,” Edana said to Neal.
Distracted by her looks, Neal had to think before he could say “Your pa is, and I do.”
Beaumont Adams got into the act. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Isolda chortled.
“Father, tell him,” Edana said. “Tell both of them.”
“Tell them what, my dear?” Alexander said.
“If I hadn’t heard this with my own ears,” Beaumont said, “I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“Seriously, Father?” Edana said. “Have you lost all reason since we climbed down from that stage? Tell your foreman to tell his friend that under no circumstances is he to resort to gun play or you will fire the both of them.”
“I should think so,” Edana said huffily.
“You heard the lady,” Neal said to Jericho.
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Jericho addressed Edana, “you’re makin’ a mistake. If I don’t snuff his wick here and now, he might snuff one of ours later.”
Edana tapped her foot in irritation. “Oh, really? Is that true—Mr. Wratner, wasn’t it? Do you intend to make war on the Diamond B?”
“Hadn’t planned on it, lady, no.”
“Maybe we should,” Tuck said, “after how they’ve treated us.”
“I second the motion,” Beaumont Adams said. “After all, there’s only over sixty ranch hands, countin’ all the cowboys and everyone else, and three of you. It should be a fine massacre. I believe I could sell tickets like they do at those prizefights.”
“I think I hate you,” Tuck said.
Scar Wratner chuckled and headed off, saying, “Gambler, you sure are a hoot. Another time.”
Grat followed Scar, but Tuck fixed his bulging eyes on Beaumont Adams. “I don’t like bein’ called a toad. I’ll remember you said that.”
“It’s good you can remember something,” Beaumont said.
Hissing, Tuck wheeled and hastened after his friends. He looked back to holler, “You and me, tinhorn. One day soon.”
Beaumont grinned. “Goodness gracious. I do believe I’m paralyzed with fear.”
Isolda did more laughing, then became serious. “I doubt there’s much you’re scared of, handsome. Unless perhaps it’s a woman with marriage on her mind.”
“Enough of that kind of talk, daughter,” Alexander said sternly. “You’ve only just met the man.”
Edana uttered a hiss remarkably like Tuck’s. “Now you speak up, Father? After that horrible scene, all you can think of to do is to scold Isolda?”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” Alexander said. “Your antics could have resulted in some of us being shot.”
“He’s right, ma’am,” Jericho said, and glanced at Neal as if expecting him to say something.
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