Land Grab: Jim Hatfield takes a hand in a range war! (Prologue Western)

by Jackson cole

  Hatfield spoke quietly.

  “It won’t last,” he said with conviction. “The flow will stop in a few hours. Keep on drilling.”

  Hatfield was right. Before nightfall the flow of water had completely subsided and the drilling was under way again.

  But Cranley was low-spirited.

  “I’ve a notion it ain’t goin’ to do any good,” he declared pessimistically. “I’ve got a mighty good hunch we’re done for.”

  “I’m riding down to the Tadpole,” he told Hatfield the next afternoon. “The spread owners are holdin’ a meetin’ there and figure on decidin’ what’s to be done.”

  It was late when Cranley returned from the meeting. He entered the living room of the ranch house where Hatfield awaited him. His face was lined and weary and he looked much older than he had a few short hours before. Sitting down, he fumbled out his pipe and stuffed tobacco into the bowl.

  “Hatfield, I’m pulling out,” he announced without preamble. “Yeah, we’re licked and we know it. Grimes of the Tadpole and Audley of the Bar A and McLeod of the Slash K are goin’, too. That accounts for all the west end of the valley, and I reckon the other boys won’t last much longer. There’s pretty good rangeland for sale cheap about ninety miles west of here, across the New Mexico line. We’re goin’ to run our herds there and start all over.”

  He smiled, a trifle wistfully, and his eyes were sad.

  “Sort of hard, beginnin’ all over again when you’re old,” he said in a voice that shook a little, “but I reckon there’s no help for it. Yeah, we’re goin’ to sell out here. We won’t get anything like what the property used to be worth, but we’ll get somethin’, enough to begin again, I hope.”

  “Who will you sell to?” Hatfield asked. “You told me there wasn’t any chance of borrowing on the spreads, the way things are. How come you expect to sell?”

  “Flint will buy our spreads,” Cranley replied, making a wry face. “He wanted to buy us out when he first come here, but we told him to go to hell. Reckon we’ll have to eat crow now, though. He’ll be glad to have the land, so he can bring in more nesters and fence ‘em in.” “But will he want to buy under present conditions?”

  “Uh-huh, reckon he will,” Cranley replied. “He knows the valley can be irrigated from Sinkin’ Crik. He’s got the money to run the irrigation canal, which us fellers haven’t. I happen to know he’s discussed that with folks.”

  “And you don’t figure he’ll take advantage of the situation and offer you as little as possible?” Hatfield asked curiously. “You know, you’ve always expressed a mighty poor opinion of Flint.”

  Old Clyde shifted uncomfortably and flushed a little.

  “Yeah, I know I have,” he mumbled, “but when it comes to a thing like this, I figure Flint is okay. You see, us fellers investigated him pretty thorough when he first come in here — tryin’ to see if we couldn’t get somethin’ on him — but we found out that though he’s a hard man and a fighter, he’s always been plumb honest in business matters and has the rep’tation of never takin’ advantage of a man who’s down. He’ll give us a fair price — exactly what he figures the land is worth to him. Of course, puttin’ that irrigation project into operation will cost plenty and he’ll deduct that from the price he pays for the land, but I reckon he’ll be fair. Oh, I ain’t got no use for folks who run in nesters and fence land, but give the devil his due!”

  He paused a moment, then continued in a tired voice.

  “I was born here, Hatfield, and my Dad before me. It’s goin’ to be a wrench to pull out and leave what I’ve always looked on as home, but I reckon I can do it.”

  He paused again, eyeing his foreman contemplatively.

  “Will you trail along and help me to get started again?” he asked abruptly.

  Jim Hatfield studied the other’s face.

  “Maybe,” he said quietly, “on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you promise to keep on drilling down there at the dry spring as long as you’re here.”

  Cranley stared at him in bewilderment. He wagged his grizzled head, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay,” he promised. “It don’t cost much to keep that damn rig jigglin’. If you want me to, I’ll keep it goin’, though why you want it done is beyond me.”

  Hatfield smiled, and did not explain.

  “Next Friday is payday for the spreads,” Cranley remarked with more animation of manner. “Reckon the boys will be out for a big bust, seein’ as it’s liable to be about the last payday hereabouts. I’ve a notion to join ‘em. Chances are it’ll be the last opportunity I’ll have for a celebration for a long time to come.”

  That night, Jim Hatfield sat for a long time in his darkened room, gazing out over the star-burned prairie. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, his black brows drawn together, a baffled look in his green eyes.

  “I’m getting exactly nowhere,” he told himself. “I suspect plenty, but I haven’t a thing to go on that would make a case that’d stand up. That gent is sure a hard one to smoke out. I’ve a notion, though, that this move on the part of Cranley and the other spread owners to sell may cause him to tip his hand. Don’t see how he can keep from it, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how he’ll go about it. He’s smart and salty, and it’ll be a shrewd move, whatever it is. Well, if I can’t drop a loop on him before Cranley and the bunch leave the valley, the chances are I never will.”

  His eyes subtly changed color at the thought, until they were as bleakly cold and gray as the shadows on the mountainside, looming gauntly against the star-strewn sky.

  As he sat still deep in thought, he heard the softly muffled beat of a horse’s hoofs on the driveway that wound from the trail to the house. A moment later a rider loomed amid the shadows and pulled up in front of the veranda steps. Hatfield recognized the cowboy Sam Pack who had been present when Tom Dennis got a slug through his shoulder some weeks before.

  Pack dismounted, climbed the steps with a furtive, slinking gait and crossed to the front door, which was never locked. Hatfield heard him mounting the inner stairs to the second floor, treading softly.

  The Ranger sat silent and motionless, his eyes fixed on the door. But Pack moved quietly down the hall, passing his room by.

  There was silence for some minutes, then Hatfield again heard steps in the hall and on the stairs, this time the tread of two men, both walking softly. The front door opened and figures descended the veranda steps. The second man was young Rance Cranley.

  Together Cranley and Pack moved to the stable, which was within Hatfield’s range of view. Pack led his saddled and bridled horse. They vanished into the stable’s interior. Shortly afterward Cranley reappeared, mounted on his tall bay. He rode almost motionless, watching the stable door.

  A little later Pack reappeared, mounted. He likewise rode slowly down the driveway into the shadows.

  Hatfield got lithely to his feet. He left the house and hurried to the stable. With swift, sure movements he got the rig on Goldy and rode the trail.

  A sliver of the moon hung low in the west, and by its faint and lurid light, he could just make out Pack riding westward along the trail and some distance ahead.

  Keeping in the shadows of the scattered growth that flanked the trail, Hatfield followed. A few hundred yards farther on, Pack turned north from the trail and rode swiftly across the rolling rangeland. By the time Hatfield reached his point of turning, the cowboy was almost out of sight, his pace increased.

  Hatfield also turned north, keeping Pack in view, taking advantage of every bit of cover that there was.

  But Pack never looked back. He seemed intent on reaching some point ahead as quickly as possible. Goldy had to exert himself to keep the quarry in sight.

  A final wide hollow and a low ridge, with Pack looming abruptly against the skyline, and the rocky slope that led to the bench hove into view. Hatfield saw Pack put his mount to the slope, scrambling up through a wide and
deep wash.

  Hatfield did some quick thinking and arrived at a decision. He knew he could not hope to negotiate the slope in the wake of the cowboy without the clatter of Goldy’s irons on the loose stones reaching his ears. He approached the slope somewhat east of the wash, dismounted in a thicket which would effectually conceal the sorrel from prying eyes, and stole along the base of the slope on foot. He reached the gully just as Pack made it over the lip of the bench and vanished westward along the track that ran there. Striving for silence, Hatfield entered the wash and mounted the slope on foot. After a hard scramble that left him breathing deeply, he reached the trail on the bench and stole along it softly.

  Pack was nowhere in sight, but in the silence of the night, Hatfield heard the faint clash of irons on the stones some distance ahead. He quickened his pace, carefully keeping in the shadow.

  More than a mile flowed behind him. Abruptly the sound of intermittent hoof beats ceased.

  Hatfield redoubled his caution, slowing his pace, taking advantage of every bit of cover that there was. Finally he paused, straining ears and eyes. He heard the stamp of an impatient hoof in a thicket nearby. He stole forward again, saw a narrow opening in the growth, an opening that sidled toward the lip of the bench. On softly treading feet, he slipped into it and crept cautiously forward.

  The growth thinned. The light from the low lying moon streamed through it and Hatfield saw Pack only a few paces in front of him.

  The lanky cowboy was crouched on the very lip of the bench, peering intently into the valley below. In his hands, the stock cuddled against his cheek, was a rifle.

  Hatfield glided forward a step. He heard a slight noise behind him and whirled.

  A streak of flame gushed from the shadows and the world seemed to explode in searing pain and roaring fire. Hatfield went reeling sideways into the brush that flanked the narrow lane between the growth.

  But even as he went down, he managed to whip a gun from its holster and fire two shots in the direction of that gushing lance of flame. Faintly, as from a great distance, he heard the boom of his gun, then the brush broke beneath his falling weight and he rolled into a little hollow to lie gasping and helpless, his paralyzed muscles refusing to do his bidding, wave on wave of icy blackness coiling down upon him.

  And through the deepening fog of shadow he dimly heard a crashing in the growth, then the clatter of horses fleeing madly westward down the trail.

  CHAPTER VI

  HATFIELD COULD NOT have been unconscious more than a few minutes when he was aroused by a noise on the slope below. Somebody was mounting the sag at a great rate, heedless of rolling stones and entangling growth.

  With a mighty effort, Hatfield sat up. His head spun crazily for a moment and he grew faint and giddy. He set his teeth and mastered the rising nausea. His gun was still gripped in his stiffened fingers. He sheathed it and raised a trembling hand to the ragged furrow just above his left temple.

  “Creased,” he muttered. “The hellion was smarter than I give him credit for. Had the other hellion up there guarding his back. If I hadn’t turned around when I did, I would have got it dead center in the back of the head. Reckon it was plumb luck and no smartness of mine that kept me from cashin’ in.”

  He got to his feet and made his way, although somewhat shakily, to the edge of the trail. The sky was brightening with the first light of dawn and objects were dimly visible.

  Below the crashing and scrambling grew louder. A moment later and a man burst from the growth and glared about with wild, apprehensive eyes.

  “Take it easy, Cranley,” Hatfield cautioned from the shadows. “Everything’s under control.”

  Rance Cranley jumped convulsively, hand streaking to his gun. He gulped with relief as Hatfield stepped into view.

  “Wha — what in blazes are you doin’ here?” he quavered. “What was all the shootin’ about? Where’s Verna?”

  “Home in bed, I’d say,” Hatfield answered the last question.

  “But she ain’t!” Cranley exclaimed excitedly. “She was to meet me here.”

  “Who told you she would meet you here?” Hatfield asked.

  “She sent me a note — Sam Pack brought it,” Cranley returned. “He’s carried notes for us before now. He knows a feller up to Flint’s loggin’ camp. Verna gives that feller the notes and he slips ‘em to Pack, in town. Pack brings ‘em to me.”

  “Got that note handy?” Hatfield asked. “Let’s see it.”

  Cranley fumbled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to the Ranger. Hatfield took it, and read:

  Dearest:

  Meet me at four o’clock tonight.

  The usual place.

  Verna

  Hatfield struck a match and examined the paper more closely. He motioned to Cranley.

  “See anything funny about the word ‘tonight’?” he asked.

  Young Rance peered at the paper. “Why, the paper looks sort of rough, and the ink’s run a mite,” he replied.

  “Uh-huh,” Hatfield nodded, “and if you look close under a good light, I’ve a notion you’d see that the word ‘tomorrow’ has been erased and ‘tonight’ substituted for it.”

  Cranley stared. “But — but what does it mean?” he asked.

  “It means,” Hatfield replied, “that Sam Pack was holed up at the lip of the bench with a rifle, waiting for you to show up. He brought you the note early, knowing you would take it easy riding across the prairie in the dark. He let you ride on first, then he hightailed fast across the valley by a short-cut and got here ahead of you. You came mighty nigh to being coyote bait this morning, Cranley.”

  “That — that double-crossin’ sidewinder!” Rance spattered. “Just wait till I get my hands on him!”

  “You won’t,” Hatfield replied. “You won’t see Sam Pack again soon. By the way, didn’t Tom Dennis ride to town with him yesterday afternoon? And he didn’t ride back to the spread with him. Lucky for you Dennis has a bad shoulder and couldn’t be trusted to handle a rifle. Otherwise he would have been waiting here for you and Pack wouldn’t have needed to ride out. And I wouldn’t have caught on to it. Nope, you won’t see Pack, or Dennis either, at the spread again. But,” he added grimly, “I’ve a notion where to find them when the right time comes.”

  “But what is it all about?” Cranley demanded. “What’s Pack got against me? I never did anything to him.”

  “Don’t reckon that’s over hard to answer,” Hatfield said. “This morning your body would have been found down there. Then Pack would have come forward and told how he brought that note to you from Miss Flint. And then the big blow-up would have come off in this valley. A cute scheme, all right, cute and cold-blooded, and they mighty nigh got away with it.”

  Rance Cranley stared at the Ranger, a dazed look in his eyes.

  “Hatfield,” he said slowly, “it looks like you’ve sort of got into the habit of savin’ my life. If — if there’s anything I can ever do for you — any time — don’t wait a minute askin’ for it.”

  Hatfield nodded. “Okay,” he said, “there’s something you can do right now.”

  “What’s that?” Rance exclaimed eagerly.

  “Keep what happened tonight plumb under your hat,” the Ranger told him. “Don’t tell anybody a word about it, even Miss Flint. Promise?”

  Cranley shook his head in bewilderment.

  “I don’t understand,” he replied. “I don’t know why you want it. But I’ll do it.”

  “Fine!” Hatfield rejoined. “Now let’s hightail back to the ranch house before they miss us. The way I feel right now I could sure do with a cup of steamin’ coffee.”

  Rance Cranley rode to the bench again that afternoon.

  “You were right,” he told Hatfield when he returned. “She was there to meet me at four o’clock. That note had been meddled with, all right. I didn’t say anything to her about it.”

  “Good boy!” Hatfield applauded. He chuckled.

  “Funny how a feller get
s when he’s interested in a girl,” he said. “Reckon it never occurred to you to think it was sort of funny for Miss Flint to want to meet you up there at four o’clock in the mornin’?”

  “I didn’t think about it at all,” Cranley admitted. “I just wanted to see her. I was scared some other row had busted loose to make it harder for us to get together. It ain’t easy for us, Hatfield, with Dad and old Flint on the outs like they are. Verna thinks a lot of her Dad, and I think a lot of mine. But we got our own lives to live. Just the same, though, we both hate to do anything that won’t set well with the old folks. We keep hopin’ something will turn up to make ‘em stop pawin’ sand at each other.”

  “Maybe there will,” Hatfield comforted him. “By the way, Miss Flint knows Nelson Haynes, doesn’t she?”

  Rance nodded.

  “That’s right. I figure Haynes sort of likes her, but she can’t abide him. She says his eyes give her the creeps. Funny — I never noticed anything wrong with his eyes. But a woman sees things a man don’t, I reckon.”

  Hatfield nodded sober agreement.

  “She sort of goes out of her way to be nice to Haynes, though,” Rance continued. “Him and Dad is pretty good friends, and she says he’s always tried to be friendly with Flint. She hopes maybe he can help get Flint and Dad together.”

  This time Hatfield did not nod, but he refrained from commenting.

  The following morning, old Clyde rode to town in search of his two missing cowboys. He came back swearing.

  “Nobody’s saw hide or hair of the two hellions since night before last,” he told Hatfield. “I can’t figure what’s become of the work dodgers. I wonder if maybe them damn nesters could have done away with ‘em and hid their bodies? Wouldn’t put it past the buzzards!”

  “Maybe they just took a notion to slope back where they came from,” Hatfield suggested. “By the way, where did they come from?”

  “Don’t know,” Cranley admitted. “Don’t recollect ‘em ever sayin’ for sure. They come chuck ridin’ along here about a year ago. I hired ‘em for the roundup. They turned out to be top hands, so I kept ‘em on. Good workers. Pack drinks more’n he ought to, but he don’t let it interfere with his chores. I hate to lose ‘em. Had figured on takin’ ‘em along with me when I moved west, if they saw fit to go. I sure can’t figure what could have happened to ‘em. Both had nigh onto a month’s pay comin’.”