“By the way,” he remarked, “did you stop at the Deadfall on your way back to Oklahoma?”
Kane’s eyes narrowed slightly. The steely glitter in their black depths seemed to suddenly intensify.
“Why, yes,” he replied. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing,” Brant returned easily. “I was just wondering if Phil Doran was enjoying good health when you left.”
Without waiting for an answer, he whirled Smoke and cantered after Webb and the hands. Norman Kane set perfectly motionless in his saddle, staring after Brant. Cole Dawson had to speak twice before he attracted his attention.
Old John had cooled considerably by the time they got back to the ranch house, but he was still far from a good temper.
“I’ll even up with that hellion if it’s the last thing I do,” he declared. “And that blankety-blank Cole Dawson! I wish you had let the horned toad drown, or get hung!”
“Cole’s just a dumb shorthorn,” Brant returned. “I don’t figure there’s any real bad in him. He went on the prod because he figured he got a raw deal. He’s like a little boy who busts his toy wagon because it turns over. But let’s forget all that for the time being. What you want to do is get busy and make sure of your title to the outlying lands you’ve been using all this time. What happened today is just the beginning. I’ve been telling you a long time that things are going to change. You laughed at me, but right now you’ve had an example of what’s in store for the Panhandle open range. Get busy, Uncle John, you can’t afford to take chances.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Webb conceded. “I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to. Gettin’ so an honest man can’t figger to make an honest livin’. Why can’t them hellions of nesters and two-cowand-a-bull owners stay where they belong!”
“Perhaps there ain’t any place for them to stay,” Brant replied gently. “After all, they’re just looking for a chance to live and enjoy life a mite. Reckon it isn’t just right to refuse them the chance, Uncle John. When everything is considered, folks like you and I have had it pretty soft. Having it soft sometimes makes folks get hard. They shut their own front door and say the whole world’s warm. It isn’t, Uncle John. It’s mighty cold outside for some folks. Maybe it won’t be a bad notion to open the door a mite and let some other folks in where it’s warm.”
Old John stared at his young foreman. He tugged his mustache, rumbling in his throat. John Webb was far from being a bad man, but he was set in his ways. He had been brought up to look upon the conditions he knew as proper conditions. He lived within his own narrow sphere of influence, and lived largely in the past. Austin Brant, on the contrary, had the vision of youth, the broader understanding that came from travel, better education, and closer contact with his fellow-men. To him the Panhandle, Oklahoma, Kansas were all pieces of his native land and its people were all his fellow Americans.
Old John sensed this dimly, and there was a grudging admiration in the glance he bent upon Brant, though he still strove to look combative.
“We’ll see about it. We’ll see about it!” he growled.
Brant permitted himself an inward smile. He understood his Boss, and knew that this truculent growl was really a concession on Webb’s part, an admission that there might be two sides to the question, and that both might be worthy of consideration. Webb’s next remark confirmed the opinion.
“I’ll do as you say,” he grunted. “I’ll get in touch with the land office right away and protect myself. As for Kane, I hope he sets down on a tarantuler. To hell with him!”
But subsequent developments caused Webb to say some sulphurous things about the Flying V owner.
“The hellion’s fencin’ his land,” a line riding puncher told. Webb not long after his conversation with Brant. “They’re cuttin’ posts down in that canyon, haulin ’em up and settin’ ’em, and stringin’ bob wire on ’em.”
“The next thing we know, the sidewinder will be runnin’ in sheep!” roared Webb. “Bob wire fence in the Panhandle!”
“You’ll see plenty of barbed wire fence in this section before long,” Austin Brant predicted. “The big new spreads will be going in for it heavy. Particularly if they start improving their breed of cows.”
Brant was eminently right in his prophecy. Soon the great XIT spread would put up more than eight hundred miles of fence to enclose the ranch’s vast domain, at a cost of more than $175,000. Cross fences would increase the mileage to fifteen hundred.
“And speaking about improving breeds,” Brant remarked, “there’s something I want to take up with you. I see a chance for the Running W to get the jump on every outfit in this section, even Goodnight and his JA.”
He recounted his conversation with Nate Loring. Webb was interested, but pointed out objections.
“You could never bring them breed bulls all the way here from Oklahoma,” he reminded. “They couldn’t make the march over the rough ground. Their hoofs wouldn’t take it. A longhorn is equipped pertickler for hard goin’, but them blood critters has got soft from ablin’ around over easy pastures.”
“I’ve got a notion how it could be done,” Brant replied. “I figure it’s worth trying, anyhow.”
“We’ll talk about it again after we get the next herd ready for the north drive,” Webb decided. “Right now, the big chore is to get them cows ready for the trail.”
Others beside Webb had things to say about Norman Kane’s fencing project. There were some small owners occupying range directly south of Kane’s holdings. When Kane finished his fencing, these owners realized that their cows were cut off from the water. Naturally they didn’t take kindly to the new conditions. Their criticism of Kane was bitter. They did more than criticize. Kane’s wire was cut in a number of places. He repaired the breaks and set men riding to guard the fences. Shootings from ambush followed next. There was the making of a first class range war under way.
“Looks like the hellion is goin’ to get his comeuppance without any moves on our part,” John Webb chuckled, when informed of the troubles besetting his unwanted neighbor.
Austin Brant, however, took another view of the matter. “If it’s bad for him, it’s bad for us, too,” Brant declared. “There’s the making of plenty of trouble for everybody in this. All of a sudden we’ve got the honest ‘little fellow’ siding with the wideloopers and brand blotters. And this is only the beginning. With more wire coming there’ll be more trouble coming. Something has to be done.”
“What?” countered Webb. “Those jiggers down there can’t get their cows to water, and if the cows can’t get water, they can’t hold on. Which means the little fellers are goin’ to be ruined. They ain’t gonna take it layin’ down. If Kane insists on keepin’ his fences up, what can anybody do about it?”
“I’ve got the answer, if I can make Kane listen to sense,” Brant replied. “I’m going to take a chance on riding over to see him soon and putting a proposition up to him.”
While Brant was debating how best to approach the Flying V owner, Norman Kane proceeded to play into his hands by kicking up a row that gave even him pause.
One morning there appeared on a wall of the Tascosa post office, and in other places, a notice printed in heavy black type:
A FAIR WARNING
Anyone hereafter meddling with my wire will be risking death or serious injury. I am a law abiding citizen, but have received little protection from the law. Therefore I have taken mea sures to protect my property from the depredations of the lawless.
Heed this warning or pay the price!
(Signed) Norman Kane
Owner, Flying V Ranch
The notice was hotly debated in various gathering places that included general stores and saloons. Some held that Kane was justified in taking extreme mea sures. His wire had been cut; his men shot at. Others maintained that taking the law in your own hands is a bad business and likely to get you in trouble. The discussions raged furiously and didn’t tend to improve conditions that were already far from good.
There was much conjecture as to just what Kane had done to protect his property. Curiosity rose to a high pitch. Everybody was talking about the matter and making gusses, most of them decidedly farfetched.
Slim Lubbock and Bull Soderman, two of Wes Morley’s Bar M riders, were discussing the subject over glasses of red-eye in a Tascosa saloon. The hour was late, the likker potent, and Slim and Bull had been going it strong for most of the night.
“I shay,” remarked Slim, with owlish gravity, “what we should do ish ride over there and find out how he’s got that darn bobsh wire fixed so it’ll take care of itself.”
“We ain’t got no cutters,” Bull objected.
“Oh, we won’t do any cuttin’—that getsh you in trouble,’ replied Slim. “We’ll just look ’em over, careful like. Find out whatsh al ’bout.”
Bull was still a bit doubtful as to the wisdom of the move, but Slim finally carried the day. They left the saloon together, rather shakily, and managed to unhitch and fork their horses. Once in the saddle, life-long habit asserted itself and they had no trouble staying there.
Slim was little and scrawny and liable to be cantakerous. Bull was big, beefy, good-natured. Both were tophands and well liked.
It was quite a ride to the Flying V wire, but they made it without mishap. They were more sober when they got there than when they started, but not enough to alter their decision. They were still determined to learn what Norman Kane was up to. The full moon was shining brightly in a clear sky, bathing the prairie in silvery light. The taut strands of rusty wire gleamed palely golden. The fence posts marched in a seemingly endless line.
Although still more than half drunk, Solderman and Lubbock had sense enough to choose what appeared to be a safe spot to approach the fence. There was no growth within hundreds of yards, no place where a fence guard could hole up with ready rifle. If someone was watching from afar, the two cowhands felt they’d have such a head start that distancing possible pursuit would not be difficult. They rode up to a hundred feet of the fence, gave the whole terrain a careful once-over and dismounted. They approached the wire with caution, not touching it at first. Then, emboldened by the deserted silence, they began a more thorough examination, tugging at the strands, shaking posts.
“Hey!” suddenly called Slim, who was some twenty feet behind his companion. “Here’s a post that ain’t in the ground. Just hangin’ loose. Bottom end sawed off. I can pull it way up and—”
Bull Solderman never knew what more Slim intended saying. There was a crashing roar, a yellowish flare that dimmed the moonlight. Bull was knocked end over end by the force of the blast. He lay for a moment, stunned, deafened and blinded. When he scrambled to his feet he was cold sober.
The sawed-off post, still stapled to the wire, sagged drunkenly over a gaping hole in the ground from which rose trickels of smoke and a smell of burned dynamite. Slim Lubbock lay some distance from the smoking crater, his face covered with blood, one leg twisted grotesquely. He was unconscious and moaning softly. Horrified and still dazed, Solderman ran to him.
“Slim! Slim!” he called inanely. “You all right?”
Slim was far from being all right. Bull realized that as his vision cleared and he dropped a loop on his scattered senses.
The horses had dashed away when the blast went off. Now they stood a hundred yards distant, snorting and stamping. Bull whistled and the well trained animals came to his call. A powerful man, he managed to fork his cayuse with Slim cradled in his arms. He rode madly away from the scene of horror.
It was many miles to the Bar M ranch house and Bull knew that Slim was badly in need of medical attention. On the other hand, the Running W casa was but a couple of miles distant. Bull headed for the Running W. He arrived there as the sky was graying with dawn. His yells brought the hands tumbling from the bunk house and Webb and Austin Brant onto the porch of the Bull Mansh.
Brant immediately took charge. He carried Slim’s unconscious form into the house and placed him on a couch. He ordered a hand to saddle up and ride to Tascosa for a doctor. Then he and Webb did a little rough surgery on Slim.
“He’s considerably bunged up, but I think he’ll make it,” Brant finally said. “That leg fracture isn’t compounded, and the head cuts aren’t very deep. Doesn’t seem to be any skull fracture. I can’t say about concussion. He may just be out from shock. We’ve done all we can and will have to wait for the doctor. And now, Bull, tell us what happened.”
Solderman told them, with plenty of profanity. Brant listened in silence, his face darkening.
“I’ve heard of that trick before,” he said when Bull had finished. “It was used down in Navarro County during the wire war along the Trinity. I think I know how it was worked, but I’d like to ride over to where that blast let off and make sure. It’ll be daylight by the time we get there. Come along, Bull, and lead us to the spot. Half a dozen men come along, too. Want plenty of witnesses to what we find.”
“What about those Flyin’ V skunks,” Bull asked, a little nervously, as they got under way. “Think they’ll be waitin’ there for us? They must have heard the racket at their ranch house.”
“I think that’s the last place you’ll find any of the Flying V outfit right now,” Brant replied. “Let’s go.”
Brant was right. When they reached the scene of the explosion, nobody was in sight. Brant gazed at the hole in the ground, above which the sawed-off post dangled. He pointed to the post.
“You’ll notice there’s a short section of wire fastened to the bottom end of that post,” he remarked. “Now scatter out over the ground and see if you can find anything.”
The cowboys dismounted and began poking about in the tall grass. A few minutes passed and one called, “Hey! here’s part of an old muzzle-loadin’ shotgun! The barrel’s all busted to hell.”
“Figured it would be,” Brant observed. “Any wire fastened to the trigger?”
“Uh-huh, a little short piece.”
Brant took the shattered weapon and turned it over in his hands.
“Tell you how it works,” he said. “A plumb devilish contraption, and plumb simple and easy to make. You just take an old muzzle-loader and put in a charge of powder. Drop a dynamite cap down onto the charge of powder. Then fill the barrel with dynamite and cork it tight with a wooden plug. Fasten one end of a piece of wire to the trigger. The other end to the bottom of the post that isn’t in the ground. Put a cap on the nipple and cock the gun, all ready for shooting. Then you put the gun in a wooden box, dig a shallow hole under the bottom of the post, put the box in the hole and cover it over with earth.”
“But what if the hammer happens to drop while you’re fooling with the darn thing?” a young puncher asked.
“You wouldn’t even know it happened,” Brant replied dryly. “The contraption is safe enough so long as the strands of fence wire are not tampered with. The wire between the bottom of the post and the trigger is a bit slack, so that a cow rubbing against the post won’t set it off. But if the fence wire is cut, the sawed post falls over, the end kicks up, the trigger is pulled, the dynamite is set off and pieces of shotgun are scattered all over the county. And usually pieces of whover did the wire cutting. Slim Lubbock just had a drunk’s luck, that’s all.”
The comments of the listening punchers were blistering, their opinion of Norman Kane and all he stood for not complimentary to Senor Kane, to say the least.
The story spread like wildfire, and there was merry hell to pay. It took all the argumentative powers of John Webb and Austin Brant to keep Wes Morley and the Bar M hands from riding to the Flying V and shooting it out. Even the larger spread owners, who had been rather inclined to go along with him, turned thumbs down on his fence bombs.
So when Austin Brant rode over with his proposition, Kane was in a mood to listen to anything that would lessen the tension between him and the small owners.
The chief bone of contention was a stream that ran south across Kane’s range, turned sharply we
st not far from his south wire and plunged into a canyon. This stream had been the foremost watering place for stock owned by the small ranchers to the south and east. There were waterholes on the range, but these were scant and were steadily drying up. Soon the little fellows’ situation would be precarious.
Kane was firm in his determination to keep his range fenced, but he was not pleased with the row he had kicked up. He listened to Brant when the latter submitted his plan.
After talking with Kane, Brant rode south and contacted the various small spread owners. As a result of his efforts, a truce was declared. Every available hand got busy with picks, shovels, plows and blasting powder. A channel was dug south from the stream. Into this was diverted a portion of the creek’s water. Ditches were dug to the various waterholes. New holes were excavated. The immediate problem was solved.
With their stock no longer threatened with extermination, the ire of the small owners cooled somewhat. But there was still plenty of cussin’ over the damned “bob” wire. The rusty strands with their bristling barbs were an affront to every believer in the open range. Horses and cows ran into the wire and suffered lacerations. These became infected with screw worms. Loss of stock resulted. The average cowhand regarded wire with about the same affection he would have lavished on a case of spotted fever.
“But there’s no use trying to set back the clock,” Austin Brant declared. “Wire is coming to the grass lands to stay. The time is coming when a jigger won’t feel like he’s in a city if he meets two men on the range in as many days. We’ve got to get used to changed conditions and regulate things accordingly. There’s still plenty of room for everybody, but from now on it is the smart jigger who can see things as they are who is going to come out on top.”
One day while the work of diverting the water was in progress, Brant ran into Cole Dawson. He was surprised at Dawson reining in his horse and holding up his hand for Brant to do likewise. Brant waited for Dawson to speak.
Longhorn Empire Page 9