Badlanders

by David Robbins

  “Did I say that?” Dyson said. “I just don’t want you killed, is all.”

  “Why, Dyson,” Beaumont said, “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Are you kiddin’?” Dyson replied. “I’ve never had it so good as I do workin’ for you. You pay good, and you treat us decent exceptin’ when you’re mad, and you don’t get mad much.”

  “I’m a regular daisy.”

  Beaumont made for the batwings. He liked how men stepped out of his way without being told, liked the respect he was accorded. He ate it up with a spoon.

  “One more thing, boss,” Dyson said. “I heard that Scar Wratner and his pards have been there all day, drinkin’ heavy.”

  “So?” Beaumont said. He reached the batwings and stepped out into the welcome cool of night. “Wratner doesn’t work for Zimmerman. He’s nothin’ for us to be concerned about.”

  “If you say so,” Dyson said again. “But when he drinks a lot, he goes on the prod, and I wouldn’t want him to prod us.”

  “You don’t think you can take him?”

  “Scar Wratner?” Dyson said in amazement. “I’m good but I’m not his caliber, not by a long shot.”

  “Do you reckon you can take him, boss?” Stimms asked.

  “Easy as pie,” Beaumont said. “He’d never see it comin’.”

  “I don’t know,” Stimms said. “He’s cat-eyed, that one. Word is he’s bucked twenty men out.”

  “The word is exaggerated,” Beaumont said, striding along with his hands in his pockets. “I have it that he hasn’t killed more than twelve.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Dyson said.

  Beaumont laughed. “Why, Dyson, I do believe you’re growin’ a sense of humor. Will wonders never cease?”

  “Why do you say things like that, boss? Why do you poke fun all the time?”

  “I like to laugh, Dyson,” Beaumont said. “I like to enjoy life. Next to pokin’ a woman, laughin’ is the most fun I know.”

  “There’s drinkin’,” Stimms said, “and card playin’.”

  “I do like cards,” Beaumont admitted. “But that’s more work than pleasure. What’s your pleasure in life? Besides sneakin’ a poke with your mule every night.”

  “Oh, boss,” Stimms said. “Where do you come up with this stuff? I would never and you know it.”

  “That’s not what your mule told me.”

  Dyson cackled.

  Not many people were out and about. The wives were home where they should be. The doves were in the saloons. So was most of the male population. Nearly every hitch rail was full up. A lot of cowboys from the Diamond B were in town to wet their dry throats.

  The Tumbleweed stood at the next corner. It was only one story, and longer by half than the Three Aces. The batwings had been painted red, and the front window bore the likeness of a dove in a red dress.

  “That gal on the glass sure is pretty,” Stimms remarked.

  “Marry her, why don’t you?” Beaumont said. “Your mule will send her a thank-you note.”

  “Oh, boss.”

  Beaumont looked at them. “Enough frivolity. From here on out, we’re deadly serious. Stay close and cover me. Anyone goes for their hardware, and I do mean anyone, you blow them to hell and back. Do I make myself clear?”

  “We have your back, boss,” Dyson said.

  Beaumont grunted. He knew he could count on them. They were as dull as bricks but as loyal as hound dogs. Squaring his shoulders, he sauntered inside as if he already owned the place.

  Hardly anyone noticed, at first. Most every table had a card game going and the bar was lined with drinkers. The doves were mingling, as they were paid to do. At a table in the back sat Clyde Zimmerman, dressed like the Eastern dandy he was, with his three hired wolves.

  Beaumont started toward their table and caught sight of Scar Wratner, Grat, and Tuck at the far end of the bar. Wratner had already spotted him. Cat-eyed was exactly right. Beaumont smiled and nodded. Scar didn’t return the favor, but he did glance at Clyde Zimmerman and grin.

  Beaumont wondered why. An alliance between Zimmerman and Wratner didn’t bode well for his prospects. Out of the corner of his mouth he said to Stimms, “Keep an eye on Wratner. If he goes for his guns, use that cannon of yours.”

  “I’ll try, but he’s awful fast.”

  “I like a man with confidence,” Beaumont said.

  Clyde Zimmerman saw them and stiffened. He said something to the three gunnies that caused them to set down their cards and their drinks and place their hands on the edge of the table.

  “I do so hate to ruin a good frock coat,” Beaumont remarked to himself.

  “Boss?” Dyson said.

  “Remember, watch my back.”

  Beaumont came to within a few feet of the table and stopped. He needed to be in close. Smiling, he said to Zimmerman, “Surprised to see me, Clyde?”

  “It’s Mr. Zimmerman to you,” Zimmerman said sourly. He had oily black hair and a black mustache, and an ample middle. “Didn’t your simpleton give you my message?”

  “Which simpleton?” Beaumont replied. “I have more than one in my employ.”

  “The nerve,” Zimmerman said. “Offering to buy me out.”

  Beaumont wanted to keep him talking awhile so the other three would relax their vigilance. “It was a reasonable offer, reasonably made.”

  “You don’t fool me,” Zimmerman said. “You’ve let it be known you intend to take this town over, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “I confess I’m afflicted with a leaky mouth on occasion,” Beaumont said.

  “A leaky brain, too, if you expect me to sell to you. You’re not the only one with ambition. I’ve already made overtures to Garrison, but he turned me down.”

  “You have to say pretty please. He’s one of those sensitive souls.”

  “And what are you, besides a blowhard?”

  “Now, now,” Beaumont said, continuing with his friendly act. “Have I insulted you in any way? I have not.”

  “You insulted me by walking in here,” Zimmerman said. “You came to threaten me to sell to you, or else.”

  “Why, Clyde,” Beaumont said, doing his best to sound hurt, “that’s not why I’m here at all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Goodness gracious, no. I’d never be dumb enough to threaten someone like you. Everyone knows you can’t be blustered.”

  Zimmerman didn’t hide his surprise at the compliment. “You’re damn right I can’t. It’s smart of you to admit it.”

  “No, sir,” Beaumont said. “You can’t be blustered and you can’t be bought. You are too tough for the first and too dumb for the second.”

  “What?”

  “It takes intelligence to know when to fold. That’s why really fine poker players are so rare. Simpletons hold on to a losin’ hand long after they should.”

  “Did you just call me dumb? And a simpleton, to boot?”

  “Bein’ stupid is one of your more notable traits. Like that god-awful cologne you wear. And how your mouth twitches when you’re mad, like it’s twitchin’ know. Do you have fits on occasion? I once knew a gent who twitched like you do, and he was prone to fits.”

  Red in the face with anger, Clyde Zimmerman rose out of his chair and leaned on the table. “How dare you?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Beaumont said.

  “Insult me in my own place,” Zimmerman fumed. “Turn around and leave or I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of sticks and stones?”

  Zimmerman smacked the table so hard many at surrounding tables and at the bar stopped what they were doing to stare. “Gentlemen,” he said, and his three gun tippers looked at him.

  It was the moment Beaumont had been waiting for. His hands had never left his pockets, an
d now he pointed the short-barreled Colts at two of the three and fired through his frock coat. That close up, he could hardly miss. His slugs cored their heads, splattering hair and brains. The last hired gun, and Zimmerman, had no time to react as Beaumont sent lead into each one. He shot the third gunny in the head, but he deliberately shot Zimmerman in the chest.

  Clyde Zimmerman was knocked back over his chair and both crashed to the floor.

  Simultaneously, Dyson’s Remington cracked twice, and another of Zimmerman’s leather slappers, who had rushed to help his employer, clutched at himself and pitched to the floor.

  In the sudden and total silence, Zimmerman’s gurgles and gasps were unnaturally loud.

  Beaumont walked around the table and slid his Colts from their special pockets. “Told you that you were dumb.”

  A scarlet stain was spreading across Zimmerman’s shirt. He was struggling to reach a Smith & Wesson, worn butt-forward on his left hip. “Bastard,” he hissed, spitting blood.

  “Oh, I’m that, and more,” Beaumont said, grinning. “I’m now the proud owner of two saloons. When I came in here I was the proud owner of only one.”

  Tears of rage filled Zimmerman’s eyes. “You . . . you . . .” He couldn’t seem to find an insult vile enough.

  “Maybe I’ll change the name, though,” Beaumont said. “The Tumbleweed is too ordinary. How does Zimmerman’s Folly sound?”

  “God!” Zimmerman practically screamed. He made a last effort to reach his six-shooter but couldn’t move his arm far enough.

  “Don’t bring the Almighty into this,” Beaumont said. “Sinners like us, we’re bound for that other place. Which reminds me. Say howdy to that gent with the forked tail when you get there.”

  Clyde Zimmerman closed his eyes and quaked.

  “Tell you what,” Beaumont said. “I can be as charitable as the next gent. Do you want me to end it quick or would you rather lie there and suffer?”

  “You miserable son of a bitch.”

  “Quick it is,” Beaumont declared, and bending, he extended the Colts so the muzzles were inches from Zimmerman’s face. “Thanks for the saloon,” he said, and squeezed both triggers.

  Beaumont turned to the onlookers. Some were in shock. Most looked as if they didn’t know what to do. Beaming, he called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Tumbleweed is under new management. In honor of the occasion, all drinks for the next hour are on me.”

  Glances were exchanged, whispers broke out, and then someone let out a hearty cheer. Others followed suit, and there was a rush for the bar.

  “So much for the dear departed,” Beaumont said, and chuckled. “Ain’t life grand, boys? Ain’t it truly and wonderfully grand?”

  “If you say so, boss,” Stimms said. “I’ve always thought it was kind of confusin’ myself.”

  Beaumont Adams laughed for joy.

  11

  Alexander Jessup was pleased.

  Alexander liked order more than anything. It was the key to his success in business. He imposed efficiency where there was inefficiency. Always with a view to increasing income. He was never ruthless or stupid about it. Some businessmen cut expenses to the bare bones to reap more profit. That often led to an inferior product, which resulted in a drop in sales and invariably brought their businesses to ruin.

  Alexander used a different approach. The dairy farms were a good example. He’d been hired to take scores of individuals’ farms and create a dairy empire, as it were. He’d succeeded by imposing order. By having the farms conform to standards and practices that made everything run smoothly.

  From what he could tell on his buckboard ride to the ranch house, Neal Bonner shared his philosophy.

  Alexander was impressed by how the herds were maintained. Herds, plural. Good graze was scattered over the Diamond B. The huge herd brought up from Texas had been broken into smaller herds, which in turn were driven to where they would best flourish. As hardy as longhorns were, they still needed graze and some water. With his knowledge of their habits and how much forage they needed to thrive, Neal Bonner wisely made sure that they were placed where conditions were ideal.

  Stumpy, their driver, told Alexander all about it. Stumpy proved to be a revelation. Once Alexander got him talking, he couldn’t shut Stumpy up.

  Stumpy told him that Neal had learned about cattle at an early age. That Neal had been taught the ranching business from top to bottom by some of the best foremen in all of Texas. He noted how Neal only hired hands who would be loyal to the brand, treated everyone fairly, and was friendly but firm.

  “He’s a good one.” Stumpy summed up his evaluation. “Me and the boys would do anything for him.”

  Stumpy went on to inform Alexander that with Neal running things, all Alexander had to do was sit back in the ranch house and take life easy.

  Alexander assured him that wouldn’t be the case. That he liked to become involved in every aspect of every business he ran. “I like to keep my hands on things,” was how he put it.

  “Be careful where you put those hands on a longhorn,” Stumpy replied, chuckling. “Some of them don’t take kindly to bein’ touched, and will gore you as quick as anything.”

  They encountered some of the Diamond B hands as they crossed the range. Again, Alexander was impressed. To a man, they had an air of competence about them. They all “knew cows from horns to hock,” as Stumpy put it.

  “Neal wouldn’t hire no coffee coolers, nor empty heads,” Stumpy cheerfully assured him.

  “No what?”

  “Layabouts, nor those who don’t know diddly about cattle. Neal only takes on those who are cow savvy and like to work.”

  The land impressed Alexander, too. When he’d first set eyes on the Badlands back on the stage, he was struck by how alien everything looked. The towering buttes, the sheer bluffs, the sweep of rock in a myriad of shapes, seemed like a landscape from another world. But the more he saw of the countryside, the more he grew to like its bizarre beauty. On a prairie, there would be league after league of flat and grass. In the mountains, mile after mile of forested slopes. Much of it all the same. But not here in the Badlands. Here, nothing was the same. Every square mile was different from the square mile before it. Every part was unique.

  At one point on their trip, Alexander turned and looked past Stumpy at Isolda. “Are you all right, daughter? You’ve hardly uttered a word the whole way.”

  Her elbow on her leg and her chin in her hands, Isolda answered without much enthusiasm, “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  “Magnificent scenery, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so.”

  “What the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” Isolda said. “I was just hoping we’d stay in town a little longer. I could have used the rest after that long stage ride getting there.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to rest at the ranch.”

  At last she showed some interest, and sat up. “What will I be doing there, exactly? You haven’t said.”

  “Helping me, as always.”

  “But helping you how? From what I gather, you’re going to have Edana work closely with the foreman, overseeing the cow end. But what will I be doing? Feeding the chickens?”

  Stumpy chortled. “Sorry. I couldn’t help overhearin’.”

  “You’ll assist me with the bookkeeping, as you did with the dairy farms,” Alexander informed her. “Plus, you’ll have other duties.”

  “It doesn’t sound very exciting,” Isolda said.

  Alexander was surprised by her statement. “Since when does excitement enter into what we do? Unless you mean the excitement of running things smoothly and turning a tidy profit.”

  “Yes, Father, that’s exactly what I mean,” Isolda said in a tone that suggested it definitely was not.

  Alexander wondered what had gotten into her. He attri
buted her lackluster interest to fatigue. “You’ll feel better about things once you’re rested. Personally, I can’t wait to get started.”

  “You love being a businessman, Father. It’s what you do.”

  “Well, of course,” Alexander said. “It’s what we all do.”

  Isolda looked at him. “When were we given the choice to do anything else? You trained us from childhood to be your helpers. You never asked us if we wanted to help. You took it for granted we did.”

  Surprised, Alexander said, “You’ve never once objected in all the years we’ve been doing this.”

  “I never saw anything else that interested me.”

  “Are you saying that now you have?” Alexander asked, puzzled by what on earth it could be.

  “No, Father,” Isolda said. “I was just making conversation.” She bent and put her elbow on her leg again and her chin in her hand.

  “Give yourself some time, ma’am,” Stumpy interjected. “You’ll like this life. It grows on you to where you wouldn’t do anything else.”

  “If you say so,” Isolda said.

  “I know one thing,” Stumpy said, and grinned. “That sister of yours has taken a shine to Neal. They’ve been jawin’ and jokin’ and smilin’ like they’re the best of friends.”

  “Edana has a way with people,” Alexander said proudly. “She’s good at getting them to open up.”

  “Well, she’s sure opened Neal. I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen him jabber so much.”

  Alexander glanced over his shoulder. “It’s too bad Mr. Jericho has to ride back there by himself. He might like to join in the conversation.”

  Stumpy snorted. “Mister, that gal of yours couldn’t open him up with a can opener. Jericho ain’t like normal folks.” He quickly added, “Don’t get me wrong. He’s a top hand when it comes to cattle.”

  Alexander regarded the driver a few moments. “I’d like to ask you something and I want you to be honest with me.”

  Stumpy’s mouth curled in what might be annoyance. “No need to insult me, Mr. Jessup.”

  “I did no such thing.”