by J. T. Edson
The arrangement had continued to operate in a satisfactory manner, despite the growing antagonism following the War, while there was only a limited market for the enormous numbers of longhorn cattle which flourished across the whole of the Texas range country and offered practically the sole source of income. l However, there were now vastly more lucrative sources of wealth li than those at the hide and tallow factories lii which had formerly presented the major means of selling the livestock. With the animals commanding far higher prices than the four or so dollars a head paid by such establishments, there began to be controversy over the ownership of the unbranded progeny of equally unmarked cattle that occupied the ‘Fork Range’. As the longhorn was notoriously a great traveler, the fact that they could be found to the north or the south of the boundary stream meant nothing.
Soon, a further cause of aggravation had ensued. Rumors had begun to circulate that Maudlin’s Leaning M insignia of ownership was being applied to calves whose mothers bore the Circle W brand of the Wensbury ranch and vice versa. None of the accusations had been proved, or disproved, so they had persisted. They had added to the exception taken by the younger Maudlins in particular to various Wensbury suggestions about the reason their family had stayed at home during the War.
One of the most strident of the protestors had been Japhet Maudlin. Youngest and most pampered of three brothers, he was hot headed and inclined to arrogant truculence. Although there had been several fist fights and plenty of verbal disagreements between the two families, it had been he who fired the shot that provided the breaking point beyond which there was little hope of obtaining a peaceable settlement However, it must be admitted that—on this occasion, at least—he had suffered a considerable amount of harassment from the Wensbury who had fallen to his gun and, as such things were judged west of the Big Muddy, the fight had been fair.
However, the latter fact had not influenced the feelings of the Wensbury family. They had issued threats of reprisals and a state of open warfare had come into existence. Nor had they been content to allow it to stay within the bounds of their respective kin’s participation. Within a fortnight, both sides had started to bring in professional gun fighters. Of the two, being considerably the more wealthy, the Maudlins had the advantage where the hiring of such expert assistance was concerned.
Furthermore, as was generally the case, the trouble had spread beyond the members of the opposing families and their hired help. With an eye to the future, or because of kinship ties, the majority of the population in Lampasas and the neighboring Counties started to favor one side or the other. Doctor Leroy was one of the few who had elected to remain neutral. As the only qualified medical man in the area, also being tough and independent by nature, he had declared that he would continue to supply his services where needed. He refused to take up with either faction.
Up to that late spring day, Leroy’s pronouncement had met with no objections from the two families. As his only son would be leaving for New Orleans, to commence studies at the Medical College of the Soniat Memorial-Mercy Hospital at the end of the month, they had decided to relax by spending a day hunting. So far, their efforts at finding any suitable game had come to nothing. However, a visit to the property of a widow at the joining of the Owl Fork with its parent, the Lampasas River, had brought information. They had seen a way in which they could combine their sport with doing a favor for the owner, who—in spite of living on the Maudlins’ side of the boundary—was also preserving neutrality.
After riding a couple of miles west along the Owl Fork, Doc and his father had come upon something which they felt might repay investigation. Dismounting and leaving their well trained horses ground hitched by allowing the split ended reins to dangle from the shanks of the bits, they had taken their rifles from the saddleboots.
‘What do you make of the sign, Lil Doc?’ Leroy inquired, standing with his Henry repeating rifle across the crook of his left arm.
Black haired, slightly over medium in height, but thickset and powerful—Doc inherited his slender physique from the maternal side of the family—Leroy was a good looking man whose always pallid face sported a neatly trimmed black moustache and chin beard. He wore the attire of a working cowhand much of the time, particularly when making house calls beyond the town limits of Lampasas. An excellent rifle shot, he was reasonably competent with the walnut handled Colt 1860 Army revolver that generally hung bolstered at his right thigh.
Holding a vertical action Lee single shot cartridge rifle at the wrist of the butt with his right hand and resting its barrel on his shoulder, Doc Leroy looked down. Even in those days, he could have passed as a Texas cowhand as far as his clothing went. An ivory butted Army Colt, won the previous year in a calf roping contest at the Lampasas County Fair, rode in a carefully designed and tied down holster on his right thigh.
Ahead of the two men, the ground showed a disruption similar to that which could have resulted if hogs—wild, feral or domesticated—had been rooting. However, he knew that the former variety of the species Suidae did not exist in Texas, nor were die other two abundant in the area. What was more, the few hoof marks that showed were closer in their resemblance to sheep. Except, again, such creatures were not to be found anywhere around Lampasas County. Such scats as had been ejected by the animals’ bodily functions were larger and more segmented than the small, single pellets passed from sheep. Finally, a number of cactus plants in the feeding area showed teeth marks from between about eighteen and twenty-four inches above the ground.
‘Javelina, Sir John,’ Doc stated, using the corruption of the term ‘surgeon’ which he and his mother always employed when addressing the head of the family. ‘Likely the same bunch that played hell with the Widow Simcock’s truck garden last night.’
‘They look to be a mite bigger than most peccaries I’ve come across,’ Leroy pointed out, applying the alternative name for animals of the Tayassuidae family. liii ‘In fact, I’ve never seen such a high average size.’
‘Or me,’ Doc conceded, having done a fair amount of hunting and learned much about such things from the older members of the parties. ‘Anyway, they’re not too far ahead and should be lying up in the shade for the afternoon. How do you want to go after them?’
‘I know you don’t care for walking? Leroy answered, with a smile. ‘But we can move some quieter that way and won’t be so likely to spook them.’
Returning his father’s grin, Doc agreed with the comment. Having been the subject of a fair amount of hunting, most of the surviving wild animals had developed a healthy caution and mistrust where human beings were concerned. Some could even detect the difference between the sounds made by an unburdened horse and one which was carrying a rider.
There was another, more important, consideration behind the decision. A peccary could gallop at around twenty-five miles per hour for a short distance, but was unable to outrun a man on a horse. While Doc and his father could be numbered among those people who enjoyed the light colored, dry textured flesh of the little pig-like creatures, they were after sport rather than hunting for the pot. So they wanted the pleasure of making a successful stalk and did not particularly care whether they ended it by taking a kill or not. Going on foot would, therefore, be better fun and was more suited to their needs.
As a precaution, knowing that they might be away for about an hour, Doc and his father fastened their horses reins to the branches of a bush. Before moving off to track down their quarry, Doc took a .45 caliber center-fire cartridge liv from the box in his jacket’s left hand pocket. Normally, he would have been armed with a Henry. A toggle link in the mechanism had broken, lv so he had left it for repairs with the local gunsmith and was using the single shot Lee. There was a bullet in the rifle’s chamber, but he wanted to have a reserve readily available. With that in mind, carrying die Lee in what bayonet fighters described as the ‘high port’ and allowing it to be brought into action rapidly, he held the replacement round with its base gripped between the third and l
ittle finger of his right hand.
Before the hunters had gone a quarter of a mile, beyond a rim that they were approaching they could hear the steady, low monotone chatter of short grunts, soft yapping and barks by which the javelinas kept in contact with the other members of the sounder among the fairly thick bushes where they were feeding and resting. What was more, as the wind was blowing towards the human beings, it carried the pungent aroma from the large and open musk gland in the center of each animal’s back about eight inches ahead of the tail.
Approaching cautiously, down the more open side of a wide valley in the bottom of which their quarry was located, Doc and his father halted at the first sight of some of the sounder. They knew that the javelinas’ eyesight left much to be desired, but both hearing and sense of smell more than made up for the former’s deficiencies.
‘Whooee, Sir John!’ Doc breathed after staring at the animals for a moment. ‘I’ve never seen javelinas like these before.’
Standing about twenty-five inches high, with a length of around forty-five inches, the nearest of the animals had the typical appearance of the Tayassa genus. Its sturdy, compact body had such a short, thick neck that it almost seemed nonexistent. It had slender legs with sharp pointed hooves and a tiny, thin tail. The head was large and wedge-shaped with small eyes. It tapered sharply forward from the tiny ears to a snout which could only be matched by that of a pig. Unlike a pig’s tusks, the upper pair were directed outwards and upwards and those in the lower jaw pointed outwards and backwards, the long canine teeth of its upper jaw pointed straight down and those in the lower jaw projected upwards.
However, as Doc noticed, the animal was somewhat larger than any he had previously encountered. In addition, it was black as opposed to the usual brownish shade and, instead of the collar of white hairs around the shoulders, had only a white area on the lower side of the head.
‘Or me, Lil Doc,’ Leroy whispered back. ‘But, although I’ll be damned if I know how they’ve got this far north, I’ve heard of them. They’re Mexican white-lipped peccaries and a whole lot meaner than the Texas collared javelinas we get around here.’
‘Do they taste as good?’ Doc inquired, in no louder tones.
‘I don’t know,’ Leroy admitted and snapped the butt of the Henry to his shoulder in a deftly performed motion.
‘Let’s find out.’ Then, throwing aside any attempt to silence, he gave a whoop of, ‘Yeeagh!’
Instantly, the nearest of the peccaries let out a barking, cough-like alarm call and spun around to dash for the nearest cover. Equally startled and alerted to the danger, the others duplicated the warning cry and started to dash away as fast as their apparently puny little legs could carry them.
Satisfied in having achieved their purpose of stalking the peccaries, neither Doc nor his father wanted anything so easy as a shot at the motionless animals. So Leroy had let out the yell to set their quarry into motion. However, part of the fun was in trying to take his son unawares. So 1m had given no warning of his intentions.
Having hunted with his father many times, Doc had anticipated what would happen. So his own rifle had risen even more quickly than the repeater. He was already squinting along the thirty-two and a half inch round barrel when the Rebel war yell rang out. Wishing that he was carrying his Henry instead of the more cumbersome Lee, he took aim and began to depress the trigger.
Lining his sights on one of the swiftly departing black-bristle covered shapes, Leroy learned that his ploy had not succeeded. Even as his rifle’s hammer was liberated and snapped forward, he heard the bark of the Lee from outside his range of vision.
Although Doc kept the barrel swinging—to compensate for the way his target was moving as the recoil kick came, his instincts told him that he had not held as true as he would have wished. Raked across the rump by the bullet, the largest of the fleeing pecarries let out a squeal of pain and increased the pace of its flight. At the same moment, conscious of the crack from the Henry’s detonation, much to his chagrin he saw another of the animals suddenly turn a somersault and crash to the ground. Then he heard the clicking as his father operated the lever to put the repeater through its reloading cycle.
Silently cursing the misfortune that had left him equipped in such an unsuitable manner, Doc struck the Lee’s hammer with the heel of his right hand. Doing so caused the breech to depress and, as the ejector tossed out the empty cartridge case, exposed the opening of the chamber. On being inserted, the rim of the bullet that had been held between his fingers caught and moved the extractor to its earlier position. Automatically, as the round was fully seated in the chamber, the mechanism’s two-piece mainspring went into action. One leaf operated the hammer, thrusting it back to the cocked position and the other closed the breech block ready for firing.
Although the Lee was a comparatively simple weapon to handle, by the time Doc was seating the bullet, his father’s Henry spoke again and a second peccary collapsed in its tracks. The rest of the sounder’s visible members disappeared into the thicker undergrowth with all the facility offered by having diamond-shaped bodies ideally adapted for rapid movement through such terrain. If the squeals and other sounds were any guide, their concealed companions were also taking an equally rapid departure.
‘What’s up, Lil Doc?’ Leroy inquired, obviously hiding a grin, as he lowered the smoking repeater and looked at his son. ‘I know that we want to scare them well away from the Widow’s truck garden, but I thought you’d at least try to down one for us to take to Reverend Gazem.’
‘That’s why I only nicked mine,’ Doc answered, favoring the Lee with a malevolent scowl. ‘I’ve never forgiven him for taking a switch to my hide that time when I was a button and he caught me fishing on the Lampasas one Sunday afternoon.’
‘That’s mean, boy, real mean, holding a grudge for so long,’ Leroy pointed out cheerfully, starting to walk towards the nearer of the peccaries he had shot. ‘You must get it from your momma’s side of the family.’
‘Now it’s strange you should reckon that. Sir John,’ Doc countered, advancing at his father’s side. ‘Momma always lays my ornery streak on you.’
For all their conversation, the hunters held their rifles ready for use and kept a constant watch upon the two motionless animals. They knew that, mild as it might be under normal conditions, the Texas collared peccary was capable of inflicting painful and serious injuries with its tusks when roused or cornered. Being larger and even better equipped for offense, the white-lipped visitors from south of die Rio Grande was likely to prove a far more dangerous adversary. However, while neither regretted having done so, the precautions proved needless. Both of the javelinas had been killed instantaneously.
‘They must have had heart seizures,’ Doc commented dryly, ignoring the evidence of injury shown by each carcass.
‘Those bullet holes in their ribs could have had something to do with causing it, though,’ Leroy replied.
‘Now me,’ Doc drawled, ‘not wanting to ruin good eating meat, I was going for a head shot.’
‘Trust you to try for the easiest part,’ Leroy sniffed. ‘These fool critters are nearly two thirds head.’
‘No more than half,’ Doc objected and surveyed the dense undergrowth with some disfavor. Like any true sportsman, he would never leave a wounded animal to suffer a slow and lingering death if it could be avoided. ‘Well, I suppose I’d best go and take a look for it.’
‘We’d best trade rifles then,’ Leroy suggested. ‘That Lee’s a mite cumbersome to take in there and too slow to reload.’
‘I’ll leave it out here,’ Doc answered. ‘Happen you’ll back me with the Henry, I’d soon count on my old Colt in th—’ At that moment, the sound of rapidly approaching hooves came to the hunters’ ears. Looking around, they saw five riders—four of whom were carrying rifles—coming down the side of the valley at a gallop.
Identifying one of the party and guessing who the rest might be, Doc and his father doubted whether they were merely o
n a hunting trip and coming to discuss the possibility of obtaining some sport.
Ten – Being a Doctor Might Not Save You
‘What do you reckon you’re doing on our land?’ demanded the man who Doc Leroy and his father had recognized, as the five riders brought their horses to a halt in a rough half circle.
‘Your land?’ queried Doctor Eldridge Jason Leroy, M.D., studying the speaker coldly, but without ignoring his four companions.
About a year older than Doc, the same height and build, Japhet Maudlin sported the attire of a range-country dandy and carried a Colt 1860 Army revolver with fancy Tiffany grips in a low hanging holster. Brown hair, allowed to grow longer than the general fashion of the West, framed a somewhat weak face set in what he regarded as an expression of truculent arrogance.
Lounging on the well-made low horned, double girthed saddle of a fine palomino gelding, Maudlin scowled at the reply. He had never forgotten the occasion, some eight years ago, when he had attempted to bully the pallid and studious-looking new boy at the Lampasas schoolhouse. Much to his discomfiture, he had learned that Doc was well versed in self-defense. Although he had come through it unmarked, Leroy had been a noted boxer in his younger days and had taught his son to be competent at bare handed fighting.
Conscious of Maudlin’s thinly veiled hostility, Doc and his father were more interested in the other members of the party. With them at his back and, presumably, under his command, the rancher’s youngest son could be a dangerous proposition.
Even at so early an age, Doc had had sufficient contact with real and pretended hard-cases to be able to pick out the genuine from the would be. While all three were hired gun hands, in his opinion only one of them was worthy of notice. The rest were much alike. Dressed somewhat better than working cowhands, except when the latter were visiting town to spend a month’s hard earned wages, they were tough faced and their low tied guns gave a clear indication of how they earned their living.