Lone Star 01

by Ellis, Wesley

  “Thanks, but we’re awfully late as it is.”

  “I know a shortcut,” Daryl offered hopefully, and when Jessica didn’t refuse, he grinned, saying, “Wait a minute, I’ll saddle up.”

  As Daryl began sprinting for the corral, Toby yelled, “You ain’t leaving me ahind to rot, blast you!” He lurched up out of his rocker and chased bandy-legged after his son. “Hell, you get lost goin’ to the outhouse! You better let me do the pointin‘!”

  A short while later, the four were riding as a group across Spraddled M range, Daryl on a linebacked buckskin gelding, and his father on a tubby roan mare. They headed west northwest over mountain meadows and among thick stands of spruce, fir, and lodgepole pine, at one point spotting Spraddled M hands chousing a small bunch of young stuff down by some creek brakes. Then Daryl shifted to a slightly more northern track, and climbed higher along a tangent through the forested benches and rocky slopes.

  Eventually, their hard-breathing horses struggling with the steepened grade, they topped a ridge and Daryl reined in. Ahead stretched the vista of a wide, shallow valley, through which coursed the wavering thread of a stream. Beyond the stream was the distant outline of a ranch, its cluster of buildings vaguely resembling the Spraddled M‘s, a windmill in its yard briskly revolving, sunlight glinting faintly off the whirring blades.

  “Like the view?” Daryl asked cheerfully.

  Jessica nodded. “It’s beautiful out here.”

  “Well, it looks better’n usual. We had a good snowpack this winter, and spring’s been pretty wet so far, but generally we suffer from poor runoffs and low rainfall. A couple of years it’s gotten as bad as being drought-dry.” He jiggered his buckskin closer to Jessica’s bay, until they were almost touching stirrups. “That’s the Flying W you see down there. Actually, it was doing fine, despite the weather and all, till Waldemar met with his accident.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s going to hell in a handbasket. Frankly, I’m glad Dad is coming along. He and Uriah—Mr. Waldemar—loved feuding over cribbage a lot, and I think he misses him almost as much as he does my mother. But, ‘cept for the funeral, Dad hasn’t been by to pay respects to Mrs. Waldemar, and I know she must be feeling lonesome and miserable about everything, and could do with an old friend cheering her up some.”

  “You leave me to my own socializin‘, son,” Toby snapped.

  Daryl turned to his father, grinning. “You an’ Uriah, the orn‘riest pair of mules ever born, I swear.” He kneed his horse forward, and with Jessica following closely, Ki and Toby trailing a few feet behind, they began their slow, winding descent into the valley.

  Jessica said to Daryl, “That accident was pretty convenient. I understand Mr. Waldemar refused to sell out to Ryker.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by his death being convenient, Jessie, but yeah, Uriah wanted nothing to do with Cap’n Ryker. There was bad feeling ‘tween them right from the start, when the Cap’n first moved onto the Block-Two-Dot. It’s way over in the next valley, and it’s probably the largest and richest of the smaller spreads. Anyway, Uriah was a tough, stubborn, but honest cowman, and you know how some of them can feel about Easterners taking over spreads.”

  “The ol’ grunt-and-grab,” Toby added from behind.

  Daryl twisted in his saddle again. “Dad, you’re only saying that ‘cause that’s what Uriah used to say. But if you consider it from Ryker’s angle, he’s buying up a wad of mortgages and debts, offering a way out, often the only way out, from bankruptcy.”

  “Maybe,” Jessica said, “but he drives a hard bargain.”

  “Why shouldn’t he? He’s a businessman. We’re the damn fools who’ve bitten off more’n we can chew, trying to make a go with a handful of cattle and a wagonload of furniture. He’s not accountable if we end up dragging ourselves down into poverty and misery.”

  “He is if he helps do the dragging.”

  “He doesn’t have to, Jessie. Failure seems to come natural to some folks, just like it’s human nature to blame the winner who comes to buy up what’s left. A body resents it, resents what’s given.”

  “Maybe Ryker should grow whiskers and drive reindeer,” Jessica retorted, angered to hear Ryker described as a benefactor for gobbling up other peoples’ property and dreams. On the other hand, Daryl was speaking without having her information, her black book, her background and experience in dealing with such skunks. And at this point she didn’t feel ready to educate him, either.

  They dropped out of the hills and onto the gently rolling floor of the valley, and for a while rode roughly parallel to the creek. Where the creek was bridged by a wagon road, they turned and followed the road until they reached the home pastures of the Flying W. The windmill appeared first, flickering in the sunlight atop the wrinkled steppes of a hillock. Then, as the road curved around the base of the hillock, the ranch itself came into view, sprawling in the mottled shade of a grove of cottonwoods.

  Riding into the yard, Jessica saw a couple of punchers moving around the outbuildings. When they saw who she was, they sped up, and Jessica, smiling inwardly, thought the crew must all be madder than a boil at her. Then, pulling up in front of the ranch house, she eyed its weathered clap-boards, dirty and paint-peeling, though its windows were washed and were framed by spotless curtains.

  They were dismounting as a graying woman came to the door. She appeared colorless and subdued, with a lurking sadness to her eyes, but she wore a clean house dress, and her hair was neatly plaited and pinned around her head.

  “Howdy, Am‘belle,” Toby greeted, lifting his hat.

  “How do, Toby, Daryl.” Her voice was throaty and warm. “And you must be Miss Starbuck. Please, all of you, come on in.”

  At the door, Jessica asked her, “Your crew told you?”

  “Did they ever!” Mrs. Waldemar’s lips perked with a wry smile. “They larruped in like a posse was after ‘em, and got to working bright and early, fit to beat the band. All save Lloyd. He quit.”

  Jessica frowned, recalling the aggressive Lloyd Nealon. “I’m sorry. That leaves you short a foreman, and that’s not what I had in mind. I guess I overstepped my bounds, and I do apologize.”

  “‘Tain’t accepted, Miss Starbuck. You did what Uriah would’ve done, and what I should’ve done if I’d had the gumption of a ninny.” She shut the door and headed for the kitchen, adding, “Now sit. I’ve got coffee on the stove, and an apple pandowdy in the oven.”

  Inside, the parlor was meagerly yet tastefully furnished. Jessica and Daryl settle on a horsehair tête-à-tête sofa, while Toby relaxed in an easy chair with his hat balanced on his knees, and Ki stood beside a French marquetry-work side table.

  “Don’t you want to sit comfortable?” Mrs. Waldemar asked Ki, when she returned from the kitchen bearing a loaded tray.

  “No, thank you. I feel quite comfortable standing.”

  “Ain’t used to a saddle, I betcha, and’s just sore from our ride,” Toby declared. Which was anything but the truth; Ki simply preferred to stand, finding most American stuffed furniture, including beds, too soft and spongy for his taste. But then, Toby probably didn’t believe what he was saying anyway, and promptly forgot about it as he started eating the fresh-baked apple pandowdy. “This is plumb scrumptious, Am‘belle. Best I’ve ever tasted.”

  “If you didn’t make yourself so scarce, Toby, you’d find I can cook more’n that,” Mrs. Waldemar replied, as she finished pouring coffee and serving wedges of apple pandowdy. “And you’d also find I’d whup you at cribbage worse’n Uriah ever could.” Setting the tray aside, she sat down in an armless reception chair and regarded Jessica appreciatively. “You received my letter. I truly didn’t expect anyone to come here about it, but I am most grateful.”

  “You still suspect your husband was murdered?”

  “I’ve learned nothing to change my mind, Miss Starbuck. I can’t say I don’t wish to have his killer brought to justice, but I doubt the crime will ever be solved, and nothin
g can bring Uriah back. No, I must put that behind me, and think of the ranch.”

  “Well, that’s why we’re here, Mrs. Waldemar. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to take a look at your books and some of your land, and see if we can’t come up with a few suggestions to help you.”

  “Feel perfectly free, and my prayers are with you. The banker and my foreman—that is, my ex-foreman—and others who should know have all insisted it’s too late, and there’s nothing left but to sell.”

  “Yes, to Ryker. Has he made you a reasonable offer?”

  “I can’t judge, and I’m not sure it’d matter if I could. It’s the only offer; no other buyer is willing to buck the Captain.”

  “You’re bucking him, Am‘belle, and good for you.”

  “You know why I am, Toby. Because Uriah would spin in his grave if I let Captain Ryker buy the Flying W. Besides, the ranch was profitable before, and I can’t help believing it can be made so again, if ...” Mrs. Waldemar paused, getting to her feet and pacing the room, looking troubled and embarrassed as she halted in front of Jessica. “If, Miss Starbuck, you’ll bring in some men. Some real men, who won’t scat to the tall timber whenever the rustlers cut our herd or torch our graze. Men who won’t hesitate to kill.”

  Jessica studied the coffee in her cup. She finally answered, “Hiring gunhands isn’t a solution. It’d only mean we’d have two packs of wolves to get rid of, instead of one.”

  Mrs. Waldemar sat down heavily. “Of course. Two wrongs never made a right. I’m ashamed of myself for even thinking such a thing.”

  After a few more minutes of small talk, Mrs. Waldemar ushered Jessica into her late husband’s study, and showed her where the books were kept. Spreading the books and related papers out on the study’s battered rolltop desk, Jessica began a cursory investigation of the ranch’s financial status, and almost immediately found it to be deeply in the red, bordering on collapse.

  Beef receipts from the last co-op gather had been spent before Starbuck had paid off, the Flying W’s income going to back wages, supply and feed credit chits, and an overdue mortgage payment. Current expenses were not being met, other than a few of the worst bills, which apparently had been paid through withdrawals from Mrs. Waldemar’s savings account back in Boston. Rustlers had whittled at the Flying W stock until the latest tally recorded by Nealon revealed less than two hundred three-year-olds, yearlings, and heifers. Even if Starbuck accepted them at top market quotations, Jessica realized that it would barely pay the crew what they were owed.

  Squaring her shoulders, Jessica replaced the books and rolled down the top of the old desk. She returned to the parlor, where Ki and Daryl were standing by the sofa, watching Toby and Mrs. Waldemar play cribbage, the score-board and cards on the cushion between them.

  “I know, it’s as bad as I’ve been told,” Mrs. Waldemar sighed dejectedly, glancing up. “The Flying W is finished, beyond recovery, and I should resign myself to losing it to Captain Ryker.”

  “I’ll admit it can’t continue as it is,” Jessica replied. “But we’re here to try to save it, not bury it, and before anything’s decided, I want to take a quick tour of the property with Ki.”

  Daryl grinned. “Well, I’m your guide. Dad?”

  Toby shook his head, fuming. “Go ahead, son. Am‘belle’s just skunked me with pairs royal, but she ain’t going to get away with it.”

  Leaving the ranch house, Jessica, Ki, and Daryl spent the rest of the day in their saddles. The unfenced range of the Flying W took in the valley and some of the broken hills that surrounded it, much of the land having a short, tough grass cover that was not the best, but was adequate for grazing. The hands they encountered appeared to know more or less what they were doing, though the lack of supervision was evident in their choice of tasks. The spread would never be a gold mine, Jessica concluded, but it had once been healthy—and with a lot of luck, leadership, and hard labor, it could be again.

  Their inspection took longer than expected, and dusk had fallen by the time they returned to the ranch yard. Dismounting, Daryl asked, “Well, shall we go report to Mrs. Waldemar?”

  Jessica, glancing at the lighted windows of the cookshack, said, “Not yet. There’s one more thing I want to get straight.”

  She led the way to the cookshack, noting, as they went, the littered, unkempt appearance of the barn, sheds, and bunkhouse. It shocked and angered her to think how, in just the few short months since Uriah Waldemar’s death, the Flying W had declined through indifference and neglect. Amabelle Waldemar was a fine, decent lady who had no experience in running a ranch and, not knowing any better, had placed her trust in the wrong men. If Jessica did no more than turn the ranch around and keep Ryker from grabbing it, it would be adequate reason for having come to Eucher Butte.

  Inside the smoky cookshack, the Flying W crew lined both sides of a long plank table, demolishing platters of meat and potatoes, and steaming pots of coffee. At the head of the table was the empty chair of the foreman; Jessica sat down in it and reached for the coffee, while Ki and Daryl stood flanking the door.

  The crewmen studiously ignored their presence, other than to dart surly glances in their direction while they ate. Finishing their meal, the men shoved their plates aside and rose to leave.

  “Sit tight,” Jessica snapped. “You’re not through yet.”

  The crew hesitated, giving her hard, belligerent looks, then slowly settled back on the benches. In the tense hush that followed, Jessica sipped her coffee and thought how they all must be silently wishing she’d go away, preferably straight to hell. Well, she wasn’t about to go; she was going to stay and find out how many of them were going to go.

  Draining her cup, she returned their harsh glares and said, “But in another sense, you’re through. Through for good.”

  One of the feistier hands protested, “Lady, it’s not—”

  “Miss Starbuck, if you please. And yes, it is.”

  “Miz Starbuck, okay, but it’s not right to fire us now. We came back and worked all day, like you wanted. It’s not fair.”

  “I don’t have to fire you. You’re firing yourselves, with all your hurrawing on the ranch’s time and money. And the rustlers are firing you too, by raiding and looting till the Flying W is stone broke, and Ryker can take it over as a favor.” She leaned forward, sternly eyeing the shaken crew. “Ryker says he’s planning to form a combine out of the ranches he buys, and you know what that’ll mean? It’ll mean most of you’ll be canned, and those who aren’t will have to work twice as hard for half the wages.”

  Another puncher shrugged. “Nothing we can do to change it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, dead wrong. You’re going to start tomorrow dawn, by weeding out the stock of everything four years and older, and shipping them to Starbuck. We need them like the plague, but it’ll help pay your wages, help keep you hired. And I want a couple of you to take some Giant powder to the west end of the valley, where the stream flows down out of that long canyon. I found plenty of tracks heading up it, and the cows didn’t get there by straying.”

  The second puncher nodded, brightening. “Not a bad idea. A little blasting up in the rocks oughta close that gap to rustlers.”

  “It’ll also dam the stream,” Jessica continued. “It’ll form a reservoir to provide extra water for the herd, and for crop irrigation.”

  That startled a third hand. “Crops? We’re not sod-busters.”

  Jessica favored him with a flinty smile. “It’s not hard to learn. And you’d better, because that whole section by the canyon will be fenced off for native hay and maybe some igar beets. What you don’t use for the ranch will be sold as another source of income.”

  By now the entire Flying W crew was gaping at her. Daryl, as well, was studying her in wonderment. She was moving fast and decisively, this Jessica Starbuck. She was ramrodding hard—which, though unsettling, was also generating fresh enthusiasm.

  And then she dropped the bomb. “You’re going to need
a foreman, what with Nealon gone—and from what I’ve seen so far, good riddance—so I’m going to ask Toby Melville to stay on awhile, as guest of Mrs. Waldemar. From now on, you’ll take your orders from him.”

  There was an outburst of voices, including Daryl’s: “But Jessi—”

  She shushed them with a wave of her hand. “Listen, Toby Melville’s forgotten more about ranching than most of us will ever learn. And you all get along with the Spraddled M crew, don’t you?” When she wasn’t contradicted, she forged on: “The two spreads will remain separate. I’m only talking about banding together till we’ve licked the rustling. A common herd can be defended by fewer men, freeing others for nighthawking—and fighting.”

  A fifth hand balked at this. “Fighting, like in shooting? Not me. I was hired to nurse cows, not toss lead.”

  Jessica nailed him with steel-cold eyes. “You’re hired to side the Flying W, a fact you’ve managed to ignore.” Surveying the others, she added, “You’re bogged down and sinking fast, and if you hope to save your ranch and your jobs, you’re going to have to lay your brains and guts and, by God, all your loyalty on the line.”

  “By damn, I’ve heard all the manure I plan to,” a puncher way in the back sneered, “and the only reason I say ‘manure’ is on account of a female’s present. Leastwise, she looks like a female.”

  Daryl stiffened. “Hold on, watch your tongue there.”

  The third Flying W hand who’d spoken now chimed in, “Yeah, Wylie, ain’t no call to—”

  “Shut up, Croft,” the man called Wylie snarled. “Maybe your spine is made outta smoke, but as for me, I’ve had my fill of bein’ lectured at by strange wimmen.” He got up from the table, a dark, squat man with a barrel chest and black, beady eyes. “I’m doin’ nothin’ till Miz Waldemar tosses these troublemakin’ talkers offen the ranch. If anybody else feels the same, come with me.”

  The two burly punchers who’d been flanking him on the bench rose and fell in, swaggering behind Wylie as he began shouldering his way toward the door. Apparently his close buddies, they laughed when he glared at Jessica and taunted, “Yeah, if I craved preacherin‘, lady, I’d go to Sunday school.” Then, turning to Daryl and Ki, he added, growling, “Step aside, ’lessen you wish to get busted apart.”