by Lou Bradshaw
At two thirty, I nudged Ben, and he was instantly awake. His eyes were open for only a few seconds before he was fully conscious. By that time, I was rolling Tate out of his blankets and listening to him grumble. Cain was already up and was saddling horses. Leading our horses, we walked the short quarter mile. Normally any decent cattleman would have ridden that little distance, but the wind was in our faces, and we didn’t want our horses announcing our arrival. So we were ready to clamp a hand over the nose of any that started to make a noise.
Cain said they didn’t have a guard out. I guess they weren’t afraid of us, or maybe they figured we would be in no shape to come looking for them. Some folks just seem to calculate those kinds of maybe’s all wrong. As it was, we were able to walk right up to the camp… right through the front door so to speak.
Their fire had died down to a few burning chunks and a bunch of embers, so we added some fuel and moved the coffee pot on to the coals. As Cain went from man to man and disarmed them one by one Ben took an iron skillet and another pot from near the fire. He told Tater to take one end of the row of sleeping beauties and he took the other.
When everyone was in position, and we had them as disarmed as we could without waking them, Ben looked my way and nodded. As fast as I could, I emptied one of their pistols into the ground a few feet from several sleeping faces.
Blankets started flying and heads started popping up. The first two heads that popped up were greeted with a heavy iron skillet and a sturdy pot. Both heads went down. Four sets of bleary eyes looked at three Winchesters and a shotgun, and then they looked at each other… none of them liked what they were seeing.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Ben said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Seems a shame to ruin your beauty sleep cause you boys could use all you could possibly get…. But all you’re likely to get is some pain, a little of degradation, and maybe some short lived rope burns.”
“Hey, you ain’t got no reason to start talkin about rope burns over some cows we just happened to find.” One of them shouted out. Tate just stepped over behind that boy and gave him a resounding smack on the ear with that pan.
The rustler grabbed his bloody ear and doubled over in pain. “Mister,” Tate yelled into his other ear, “there’s some mighty good boys layin’ back there in fresh graves because you boys wanted some cows that didn’t belong to you. So you just shut your mouth unless one of us is askin you a question.” With that said he pulled the pan back and smacked him again.
“You there…Ralls. No need sittin’ there with your hat pulled down. I saw you when we took your guns. I don’t see any cattle, and I don’t see any Slack… You want to tell me about that?” Ben said.
Ralls lifted his head and then looked down again saying, “I ain’t got nothing to say.”
“I don’t have any more time or patience for your attitude, Ralls…. Tater, get him up and bring him over to the fire.”
Tate put his gun to the base of Ralls’ skull and got him to his feet. Then he shoved him toward the fire. Ralls was barefoot and made a poor showing of hobbling over rocks, and other debris. When they approached the fire, Tate tripped him and he fell partially into the fire. He came out in a hurry brushing and knocking embers off.
Ben grabbed the former trail boss by the back of his vest and threw him to the ground in a sitting position yanked off his hat and dropped a loop over his head. He then tightened it and jammed his hat back on saying, “We can’t have you catchin’ a moonstroke, can we?” I was looking at Ralls and he was sweating.
About that time one of the skillet and cook pot casualties started moaning. “Tater, if you would be so kind as to take some rawhide and bind that fella’s hands behind him, I’d appreciate it.” Ben asked, and Tate obliged him.
“Get to your feet, Ralls.” Ben commanded.
When Ralls was standing, Ben walked him over to a tree with a sturdy branch about ten feet above the hard packed ground. Then he tossed the rope over the branch and gave it an extra pull so that Ralls was standing at his full length, and then he looped it over the branch again, snugged it up and tied it off to the tree trunk.
Ben handed me his shotgun and said, “Max, if you’d keep these boys covered, we’ll get the rest of them fixed up like Ralls there.” I told him I’d be delighted to do whatever I could.
“Tater, Cain, let’s use the rope off their saddles… No sense wasting ours and they won’t be needin’ em anymore.” Ben told the boys.
Soon there were five rustlers standing upright under tree limbs. The only one left was the boy that Ben hit with the skillet, and he was starting to come around. I took someone’s canteen over and poured it on his head. He muttered and moaned then tried to sit up. It took him several tries before he could make it. He sat there confused and disoriented for a few seconds, then Tate and Cain grabbed him and hoisted him upright and dragged him to a tree, where he was noosed and stood up straight.
Next, Ben went over to the one who had been tied and cut his bonds. “Okay you sons of bitches, there’s over a thousand head of cattle missing from my herd, and I aim to have em back. Now you’re all in a pretty poor spot right now, but there are two ways that you can get out of this fix. You can reach up and grab that rope, and pull yourself up to that branch where you’ll have enough slack in the rope to get it off. Or you can tell me where my cattle are…. I don’t much care either way…. We’re going to get some sleep and have some breakfast, and move out at daybreak.”
Cain was asleep as soon as his head hit his saddle. Tate wasn’t far behind Cain. Ben sat there for a few minutes drinking coffee and finally stretched out and rolled over. Soon all three were asleep. Like I said before, being a gambler doesn’t lend itself to regular hours. So I just sat back against a tree where I could keep an eye on those boys and waited for the dawn. The coffee was black and strong, but I’d make a fresh pot before our bunch woke up.
I got up from time to time and just walked around the parameter. There wasn’t any reason for me to expect problems, but there wasn’t any reason why I shouldn’t. Once while I when I walked close to one of the prisoners he asked, “Say there cowboy, what’s that red haired galoot plannin’ to do to us?” It was the one who had been conked with the skillet. He seemed to be still a little goofy.
“First, he plans to get his cattle back. The man who can tell him where they are will probably be turned loose. The rest will most likely be left standin’ there.”
“That ain’t likely to be fun, but it ain’t the worse that can happen to a fella… I mean, it ain’t like gettin’ shot or goin’ to jail for a couple of years.” He reasoned.
“How long do you figure you can stand there with that rope around your neck and the sun beatin’ down on you?” I asked him.
“Wal… I could do her all day… if I had to.”
“And, just suppose no one comes along to turn you loose by night fall, and you have to stand there over night? Or all the next day too? Suppose you get so tired, weak, and sleepy that you just nod off? How long do you think you would live once you slump and that rope tightens?”
“Huh? You mean you’d just leave us out here?”
“Listen, friend,” I told him. “None of you are kin to any of us, and you boys caused us a passel of trouble not to mention the lives of our friends… and the lives of at least nine of your own bunch…. So yeah, we’ll just leave you here and let you choke to death. It’s not like we were hanging you. You’d be kinda like hanging yourselves.”
He didn’t say anything for a half minute and then he asked, “What about the one who tells you where them cows is?”
“That’s up to the big fella over there, but he’s not a mean gent. He’s just likely to turn that one loose and be done with it, or he might turn him over to the sheriff back there in Trinidad, but he won’t be one of them choking and gagging to death when he’s too tired to hold himself up.”
While he was pondering that possibility, I asked him about Slack. “Oh you mean the big shot. He went
off with the sheriff.”
“You mean the sheriff took him in?” I asked.
“Wal,,, not in the way you make it sound. That sheriff is the one what bought your cows.”
I had my knife out and his rope cut in nothing flat. Then I marched him, with a Winchester in his spine, over to where Ben was sleeping. I heard someone say, “Don’t tell ‘em nuthin, Curley. Keep your mouth shut.” But it was too late for keeping his mouth shut; the cat was already out of the bag.
Ben was in the process of waking up as he heard us coming. “Ben, I think you better hear what this fella has to say.”
Curley sat down beside Ben’s bedroll. He was almighty glad to get that rope off his neck. Glad enough to tell us everything we wanted to know and show us the way to the sheriff’s ranch. The eastern sky was starting to lighten up. So while Ben was grilling Curley, I went about building up the fire and putting together a new pot of coffee. I found bacon and bread among their supplies, so I sliced and fried up the bacon, and then I sliced the bread… It would do.
By the time breakfast was ready, Cain and Tater were crawling out of their blankets. We all ate a good breakfast along with Curley, and then Cain and I took bacon sandwiches and coffee over to the prisoners. They all looked pretty worn out, and they’d only been there for a matter of a few hours. They didn’t even say thanks.
Riding out just after first light, we were in sight of a herd, which we presumed to be MB connected stock. As it turned out, it was almost all MB connected stock, except for a scattering of Box X Ladder steers. It didn’t take an expert to see that the Box X easily covered the M and the ladder did a poor job of it but it covered the B.
We started moving the cattle into a tighter bunch as we worked our way around them. As we neared the far side of the herd, we heard voices and other noises coming from that direction. Next Cain smelled smoke, and we drew to a halt. We figured there was some branding going on up ahead and we didn’t want to go barging up to the fire like a pack of fools.
Ben pulled us back a ways, and we located the smoke coming from a brushy area where there were a few trees growing. I guess they wanted to work in the shade. The first thing Ben did was cut the bindings on Curley’s hands, and then he told him what to say and showed him the shotgun that would be aimed at his back.
Curley was a tall scruffy looking fella of mid twenties in years. He had broad shoulders and almost no meat on his bones. I reckoned that they could have called him Scarecrow as easily as Curley… either one would have been appropriate. His best feature was a mass of mousy brown tangled curls poking out from under his raggedy hat. I should criticize his hat? Me with one that was well ventilated? Under Curley’s mass of curls, slept a pea sized brain from all outward indications.
With that all straightened out we drew off a ways and jogged up to the branding area like we were company coming for Sunday dinner. As we drew closer, we could see six men and six horses. Four were on the ground and two were mounted, and they were all looking our way.
When we got close enough to make out faces, one of the men on the ground set down his rifle and shouted, “Howdy there, Curley. You got some more beef fer us?” Several of the others waved their hands and went back to what they had been doing.
As we pulled up, you could hear the ratcheting of cartridges being jacked into three Winchesters. The men on the ground froze, but one of the mounted men tried to get his rifle out of the scabbard. Cain cut him down.
Ben moved to the front and center, and the rest of us fanned out. ”You on the horse, get on the ground and over by the fire. And I won’t ask you twice… Move!” The man didn’t waste any time doing what he was told.
“Looks like you boys are doing a little running iron work on cattle that don’t belong to you. Who’s the boss here?” When nobody claimed the honor, Ben said, “I guess we’ll just have to hang the lot of you…. I sure hate to hang any innocent hard working hands just because they get stupid and won’t give up their boss, but….”
“Hey, wait a minute. Just hold on there.” The man holding the iron stammered. “Sheriff Bagley bought them cows just two days ago. I was there I seen the deal. Ain’t that right, Curley… He give four dollars a haid fer ‘em.”
“Now don’t that seem like one hell of a fine price for prime steers like these?” Ben asked.
“Well yeah, but we been buyin’ cattle from Ralls and Slack for years… They always give the sheriff a good deal. Why sometimes they bring beef in here a couple of times a year… Slack says we his best customer.”
Ben pulled back the hammer on that sawed off and said, “Mister, I just left Ralls and four men dangling from trees because nobody would give me any straight talk. You might note that Curley here isn’t among them. So if you want to eat your supper tonight, or if you ever want to kiss another dance hall gal, someone had better start talking and do it now.”
One of the men who had been holding the steer down said, “What is it you want to know, Blue?”
“You know me?” Ben asked.
“Yeah I know you, I was in the next room at that Rivertown whore house, the night Hickory Jack Moore shot Dan Coleman. Yeah I reckon I know you.”
“Then you know I don’t fool around, I like to get right down to business. First off, where is this John Slack? And where will I find Sheriff Bagley?”
Slack and the sheriff rode off together into town. I suppose Slack’s headin’ back to his ranch with three of his men. The sheriff’s probably still in town… he don’t come out here much, except when he’s got cow buyin’ business to take care of.”
“He buy a lot of rustled cattle?”
“Like Earl told you, a couple of herds a year from Ralls and Slack, but he’ll buy from anyone if the price is right….. and he don’t care whose cattle they are or who brung, as long as the price is right…. In all fairness to Earl there, Mr. Blue, he probably don’t even know what’s goin’ on.”
“Alright then, you fellas shuck any weapons you might be carrying… Just toss em out here in a pile. I mean all weapons, guns, knives or clubs. Your friend here just gave you boys another chance to kiss that dance hall gal… don’t make me take it back.”
“Tater, would you mind gatherin’ up that artillery and get it out of their reach… Cain, you and Tate feel like taking a little rest and keeping these boys company while Mr. Bell and I take a little ride into town. That’s assuming that Max would like the opportunity to meet up with John Slack again.” I smiled and nodded the affirmative.
Damned right I wanted to meet Slack again; he’s been a pain in my side ever since that night at Izzy’s place. The sooner he was in jail or hung or shot the better, as far as I was concerned. So we mounted up and rode for Trinidad.
If I hadn’t mentioned it before, I’ll mention it now… Trinidad wasn’t much of a town. Like my pa used to say about those little southern towns, “Two stores, three whores and a grist mill.” I think Trinidad may have been short a grist mill, but they made up for it in extra whores and saloons. It was a wide open town, with more than a few hard cases hanging around looking for anything they could lay their hands on. Ben wasn’t a great fan of the Sheriff Bagley to begin with, and he sure as hell didn’t like him much now.
Pulling up in front of the Sheriff’s office, I noticed Ben slipping the thong off his sixgun and loosening the shotgun in its scabbard. I slipped the thong of my Colt; we got down, and looped the reigns around the hitch rail. We were standing in front of the door and Ben said. “You ready?” I said I was and he kicked open that big door like it was a curtain.
The door slammed into something behind it, and I could distinctly hear glass breaking. The jailer, who must have been tilted back in his chair dozing, lost his balance and hit the floor with a louder crash than the door had made. He came up sputtering and cussing, but Ben was towering over him, and the jailer seemed to wither under those green eyes.
“Where’s the sheriff?” Ben demanded.
The jailer mumbled something and Ben snapped, “Speak
up, man, I can’t understand a word you’re sayin’…. Now, where’s Sheriff Bagley?”
The jailer looked up at Ben and said, “He ain’t here.”
“I can see that, man. What I asked was, where he is!”
“Oh… Uh… maybe he could be at one of the saloons or at his house. Sometimes he goes down there when it ain’t too busy here.”
“What about Slack… John Slack, a rancher from down near Las Vegas? Is he still in town?”
“Nossir, he rode out this morning headin’ that way, so I guess he went on to home.”
“Is there a judge or magistrate here in this town?” Ben asked.
“Yessir, we got a magistrate that takes care of stuff till the circuit judge comes round… Name’s Doc Bennit. He’s the doctor too, that’s why they call him Doc Bennit. His office is just across the street and a few doors down… you really can’t miss it.”
Ben eased back from the jailer, picked up the man’s fallen chair, thanked him kindly, and shook his hand. The poor jailer was more befuddled by Ben’s change in demeanor than he was having his nap disturbed by a crashing door.
We walked across the dusty street, if street it could be called, to the Doctor’s office. Ben wasn’t nearly as aggressive toward the doctor has he was with the jailer. I guess he’d learned a thing or two somewhere down the line about handling people. He knew there were those you had to kick and those you had to stroke. Most western towns are thankful to have a doctor within fifty miles, and they know how vital they are, so they don’t take to being kicked real well.
A little bell tinkled when the door was opened, and a voice from the next room said, “Just make yourself comfortable. Be out as soon as I get this lad’s rear full of stitches, and get him back into his britches.” We heard some God awful yelling and crying coming through that door until at last it opened and a woman with a small boy in tow came out followed by a man in his fifties.
“He won’t be slidin down any cellar doors for a while, you can bet on that.” The doctor said. “Since neither one you look like you’re ailin’, and I don’t see any blood, that would lead me to think you’re here on magistrate business.”