Remarque's Law

by Will DuRey

  Marty was lifting the first forkful of food to his mouth when he saw Davey Pursur leave town. When the foreman passed by without casting a glance in the direction of the cantina, Marty was able to relax and enjoy the meal. Shortly after, however, another rider caught his eye, this one, too, heading for the bridge across the Pecos. Hurriedly, Marty forked more food into his mouth, dropped some coins onto the table then rushed outside. He’d hitched his horse to a rail behind the cantina so that it wouldn’t attract the attention of anyone from the Long-R but he was soon in the saddle and riding clear of the town.

  The second rider had been Ben Joyner and, following the earlier confrontation with Gus Remarque, Marty deemed it unlikely that he was once more heading for the territory around the Long-R. He guessed that, like himself, Ben’s business was taking him north but their destinations were the homes of opposing forces. Marty’s horse covered the ground at a steady, loping run and he came within sight of Ben about two miles outside town.

  Following the events of the morning, Ben’s initial instinct was to place his hand on the butt of his pistol when he heard the sound of a rapidly approaching rider. He watched the horseman for several seconds before recognizing the riding style and eventually the features of his former Long-R companion. Ben halted his horse and waited for the older man to reach him.

  Marty’s first words contained no hint of a greeting, delivered in a growling tone that reflected the scowl on his face and signified an anger within. ‘Thought you’d left the territory,’ he said. ‘Gone to build a railway or find gold or push beef someplace where the grass is better than Pecos scrubland.’

  ‘I went. I came back.’

  ‘You should have stayed away. You didn’t want to fight when you were employed by Mr Remarque but you seem eager now to pitch in against him.’

  ‘Back then, I had no interest in the fate of either Mr Remarque’s cattle or the homes of the settlers, but that’s changed.’

  Marty pushed his hat to the back of his head. ‘The Skivver girl,’ he said, his voice still gruff, but its crustiness merely covering his understanding and an acknowledgement that the suspicions he’d voiced weeks earlier were now confirmed. ‘The settlers can’t win a fight against the cattlemen. If you want to help them then advise them to take up Mr Remarque’s offer for their land. No need for anyone to get killed if they quit the land.’

  ‘People have been killed already,’ Ben said, ‘but no need for anymore if the families are allowed to work their land in peace.’

  ‘The cattlemen need the grass,’ Marty said, knowing that those words hadn’t the power to sway his friend from the views he held.

  ‘And killers have been brought in to take it, to steal what is not legally theirs.’

  ‘Wilson and Stone,’ Marty said, naming the duo he supposed were uppermost in Ben’s mind. ‘I overheard them talking about you, discussing what they would do to you when they caught you. They found you this morning before I was able to warn you.’

  ‘That wasn’t their first attempt at my life.’

  ‘How did you get involved with them?’

  ‘They tried to steal my horse and I suspect I foiled their scheme to rob Mrs Tippett.’

  ‘Tippett,’ muttered Marty. ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘She was stranded in a small town across the scrubland. She’d come all the way from Ohio but her guide met with an accident and she needed someone to bring her on to Pecos.’

  ‘Tippett,’ Marty repeated, his eyes fixed on Ben. ‘What business has she in Pecos?’

  ‘Looking for her son and brother. Should have been among the families that settled hereabouts but they went missing after leaving Fort Worth. Everyone agrees that this was their destination.’

  Marty was unmoving, as still as a wooden Indian outside a small town emporium. ‘Who was her guide?’ he asked.

  ‘A man called Raine. Brad Raine. I guess it’s the same man who once worked at the Long-R.’

  Marty nodded. ‘Same man,’ he agreed.

  ‘He convinced Mrs Tippett that her men-folk came to Pecos so perhaps he met them. Did you come across them, Marty?’

  Marty Levin didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, ‘That woman is trouble.’

  ‘Trouble for who, Marty?’

  ‘You, if you persist in helping her.’

  ‘What do you know, Marty? Did you meet Henry Tippett and Carlton Wellwin?’

  ‘I know they’re dead and nothing anybody does or says will change that. So pack up your roll, Ben, and get out of Pecos.’

  ‘You know they’re dead?’ Ben repeated, but it was the other man’s querulous manner rather than his words that had the greater affect on him. ‘What do you know about their deaths, what happened?’

  ‘There’s nothing more to say. Forget about it, Ben.’

  Ben didn’t agree with the Long-R rider. There was a lot more to say. ‘A woman has travelled across the continent to find out what happened to her son and brother. She deserves to know what happened.’

  ‘They were rustlers,’ blurted Marty.

  Ben Joyner almost smiled. All he’d heard about young Henry Tippett and his uncle had portrayed them as carefree ex-soldiers eager to find a place to settle down and work the land. No one had hinted that they were likely to operate outside the law. But as the accusation settled in his mind, so did the consequences that befell those who were caught with another man’s cattle. ‘You hanged them,’ he said. Even as the words left his mouth he recalled sitting alongside Marty under a tree from which two men had been hanged, and Marty telling him about the slaughter of Mexican shepherds and their flock but dismissive of the lynching of rustlers.

  ‘Did you catch them with the cattle?’ he asked.

  ‘What does it matter? What else would they be doing on Long-R ranch land?’

  Ben wondered if they had been on Long-R ranch land or open range, but he didn’t dwell on the matter. ‘Passing through,’ he suggested, then asked what reason they’d given.

  Marty removed his hat and swatted it against his chest as though trying to beat out dust. He turned his head and cast looks right and left to scrutinise the empty space around them.

  ‘What did they say?’ urged Ben. ‘I assume they were given the opportunity to defend themselves.’

  ‘They said they’d bought that stretch of land.’

  ‘Did they have a paper to prove it?’

  ‘Mr Remarque said that nobody was stealing anything from him. Neither stock nor grazing land.’

  ‘So you lynched them?’

  ‘That’s the way law is maintained,’ snapped Marty.

  ‘Remarque’s law,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Cattlemen’s law.’

  ‘The same cattlemen’s law used against the Mexican shepherds,’ Ben reminded Marty. ‘You know Gus Remarque was wrong then, and he was wrong to hang Henry Tippett and Carlton Wellwin.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Was Brad Raine involved?’

  Marty nodded. ‘He spoke up for the rustlers. Mr Remarque threw him off the ranch next day. Shortly after that, settlers began to arrive, building their little farms along this part of the river.’ He reset his hat and prepared to ride away. ‘Whatever happened in the past doesn’t alter the fact that Mr Remarque wants to reclaim the grazing land from the farmers. I’ve got messages to deliver. My advice to you is to get out of the area immediately.’

  Ben watched his former companion ride away. Thoughts of leaving weren’t in his head. Uppermost in his mind was Elsa Tippett and the probabilities that she knew her kinsfolk were dead. It was learning that he, Ben, had not arrived at the Long-R until after Brad Raine quit the place that had lessened the tension of their journey across the scrubland. Had she insisted on travelling with him because she suspected he’d been one of the crew who had lynched her son, what would she have done if he had been?

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the presence of Gus Remarque, Gatt Stone had sat upright in the saddle, hiding his suffering. Already, the rancher was reluctant to
keep him on the payroll and would surely renege on his promised payment if he surmised that the scuffle with Ben Joyner had resulted in him being less able to complete his job. It was the blow from the flailing horse hoof that had done the damage, striking him almost on the very spot where the bullet had punctured his flesh. But he’d kept a stoic expression and had tried to ignore the pain until he and Jarvis Wilson had ridden off to attend to the business that had sent them from the Long-R earlier that morning. Now, however, his body slumped in the saddle, his head drooped closer to his horse’s neck. Excruciating spasms engulfed his shoulder with every jarring stride. He moaned and cursed as he tried to keep pace with his companion, and his brow was wet with feverish sweat.

  Although Gatt’s initial injury, the bullet he’d taken in the shoulder, had been acquired in pursuit of Wilson’s desire for Ben Joyner’s chestnut, his companion offered no compassion. Indeed, the failure, once more, to gain possession of the chestnut had soured Jarvis Wilson’s mood and the other man’s continuous grumbling was as troublesome to him as a stone in his boot. He didn’t look back once, although they rode for ten miles before stopping.

  Beneath the grime and sweat, Gatt Stone’s face was ashen as he stumbled from the saddle. Gratefully, he leant against a tree, bracing his body against the waves of pain that washed over him. ‘Couldn’t have gone much further,’ he said.

  Jarvis Wilson offered no comment but he was thinking that they couldn’t go much further together. He wasn’t prepared to share his money if Gus Remarque refused to pay Gatt, and that seemed more probable every day. The sooner word was given to begin hostilities the better he would like it. He wanted this job completed as soon as possible, then he would be able to give his full attention to making that horse his own and, hopefully, killing its owner in the process. He walked to another tree and looked down on the farm below.

  They were hidden in the same stand of trees that had been used as a lookout point by Jonas Petterfield and Dick Garde’s son two nights earlier. From here he could see someone moving about in the yard, moving between a small animal enclosure and a barn. It only required a few moments observation to know that the activity undertaken by the slight figure he was watching had nothing to do with packing up belongings in preparation for departure. The people on this farm were staying put and that probably meant that the other families were, too. That satisfied Jarvis Wilson: it proffered the opportunity to impose his own tyranny upon them. They would be anxious to get out of the territory when his guns began to blaze, but by then it would be too late. It would be as easy as shooting ducks on a pond.

  ‘Think I’ll ride down there and tell them that their time is up and that they need to be gone before the sun goes down.’

  ‘We were told just to watch then report back,’ said Gatt, who wasn’t yet keen to get back on his horse.

  ‘You watch,’ said Wilson, ‘I’m tired of waiting.’

  Gatt was thinking of his money and didn’t want to give Gus Remarque any other cause to withhold it. The rancher had been clear about their task and adamant that they shouldn’t make contact with the farmers, but Wilson was already setting his foot in a stirrup and wouldn’t be swayed by any argument that Gatt could offer. At that moment, however, the wounded man saw movement on the trail to the north. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said.

  The wagon was bumping over a high mound still about half a mile from the copse where the pair was watching.

  ‘Well,’ said Wilson, his tone betraying an edge of amusement, ‘Mr Remarque can’t hold it against us if we encounter one of the farmers on the trail.’ There was a flash of triumph in the look he threw at Gatt. ‘Can he?’ Then he put spurs to his horse and was heading off in the direction of the oncoming vehicle.

  At first, Wilson had directed his mount towards the trail above, on a line that would intercept the route of the wagon, but he hadn’t gone far before he realized that the driver had changed course and was making a beeline for the farm below. A confrontation with the wagon driver would now occur in full view of anyone watching from the Skivver place. Wilson wasn’t troubled by that thought; in fact he relished the alarm he was likely to cause by a demonstration of violence. Another incident would surely hasten the departure of the dirt grubbers and bring the matter to a speedy end.

  During the months they’d been in the area, the settlers had developed a relay system for passing messages from farm to farm. Frank Faulds, being the Skivver family’s nearest neighbour, was the usual bearer of information to them from the more outlying homes. He was en route this day to tell Drew Skivver that Dick Garde, Jonas Petterfield and others were planning to drive into Pecos the following day for provisions. This was in accordance with the agreement that had been made at the meeting that had been held a couple of nights earlier. The trip to town had come earlier than Frank had anticipated, but if others were in need of supplies it seemed sensible to go along with them and replenish his own stock.

  It was a short journey from his own farm to the Skivvers’ place so he’d brought his young sons along for the ride. He was listening to their chatter in the back of the wagon when he saw the rider leave the cover of the small stand of trees and set his animal on a line that would reach him before he got to Drew Skivver’s gate. Instinctively, he knew that the oncoming horseman had no friendly intent, and his concern increased when he recognized the long, lean figure of Jarvis Wilson.

  Frank considered gathering up his rifle from beneath his feet to counteract any threat that Wilson had in mind, but he didn’t. He glanced over his shoulder at his sons, who were playing a game they’d devised with an old sack they’d found tucked under the high seat. Any risk of gunplay would put them in danger. Even if he was forced to eat humble pie, their presence ought to be sufficient to deter Wilson from any act of violence. He swung the team so that it swerved away from a direct meeting with the oncoming rider. He was close to the fence that marked the boundary of Drew Skivver’s farm and hoped to reach the gate that was now less than four hundred yards away. Wilson, too, changed course and stopped, broadside on, forcing Frank to haul hard on the leathers and bring his wagon to a halt. The boys tumbled on the flat boards behind, giggling at the event.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Wilson’s question was asked in a menacing tone that spelt out his intention to disregard the presence of the boys.

  Their safety was uppermost in Frank’s mind but he was further dismayed by the appearance of another rider. Once more his thoughts strayed to the rifle that was pinned to the floor by his right foot, but once more he made no move to reach for it. ‘Visiting.’

  Wilson scoffed. ‘You’ve got no time for visiting,’ he said. ‘You need to go home, load your possessions on this wagon and be out of this country before morning.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Frank replied, keeping his voice firm.

  ‘You’re leaving even if I have to drag you out of here on the end of a rope.’ Jarvis Wilson let his gaze settle on the young boys, relaying the message that he would be happy to humiliate Frank in front of his sons. He reached out and grabbed the bridle of the nearest horse and began to lead it in a circle, pointing it back to the northern trail.

  Frank Faulds pulled the reins, let the team know that he was still in command and shouted resistance at Jarvis Wilson.

  Gatt Stone, too, was shouting as he drew closer. ‘Leave it,’ he told Wilson. ‘Someone’s coming.’ He pointed back to the hillside beyond the small stand of trees.

  Meanwhile, across the fence, another person had become aware of the situation that was developing close to her home. Lottie Skivver had watched the wagon descending from the trail and had witnessed the unconventional manner in which its progress had been arrested by the horseman. At first, with hesitation, curiosity had drawn her towards the scene, but now, still two hundred yards from the action, she was running, her unheard shouts demanding to know what was happening.

  Jarvis Wilson had released his hold on the team and had uncoiled the rope that he carried
looped over the saddle horn. Gatt Stone’s alarm call had had no immediate effect on him – the arrival of another farmer to bully would suit his purpose – but there was no guarantee that the newcomer was one of the settlers. Although he had no qualms about killing the farmer or his offspring it wouldn’t pay to do it in front of an independent witness. Such an act could turn squeamish neutrals against the cattlemen’s cause, which would displease Gus Remarque. But the farmer had to pay for his defiance; he couldn’t allow him to think he’d emerged as the victor of this encounter. Wilson’s rope flipped forward and settled over the other man’s shoulders. When he spurred his horse, Frank Faulds was jerked forward, his head collided with the solid haunch of one of his horses before his whole body thumped heavily onto the dry rough ground.

  Instantly, he was dragged along behind Wilson’s horse, his clothes and body ripped and scraped by the multitude of sharp stones that were embedded in the ground. He was pulled in a wide circle and released, bloodied, bruised and barely conscious against the front wheel of his wagon. Wide-eyed, the two boys looked down at their battered father.

  Wilson shook his rope free from his victim then drew his revolver. ‘Remember,’ he told Frank, ‘gone by tomorrow, otherwise,’ he pointed the gun, ‘pop.’ Then he raised it so that it pointed at the boys. ‘Pop, pop.’ Then he rode away with Gatt Stone following.

  If Wilson had known that the person Gatt had seen approaching the farm was Ben Joyner, he wouldn’t have been so lenient. If killing the Faulds attracted Ben to within range of his guns, Wilson would have done it with relish. Despite the lack of success so far in their encounters, Wilson had never lost the certainty that he was the better gunman and that the next time they met he would kill the man and take the horse. However, Wilson had no reason to suppose that Ben Joyner had business with the settlers so there was no sign of him or his companion by the time Ben reached the Skivver farm.