Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Frank could think of several things that would make him gladder to be alive, but he didn’t say anything. He just waited for Stafford to resume, which the lawyer did after a moment.

  “People have been drilling for oil in the San Fernando Valley on a limited basis for nearly twenty years now. They’ve been fairly successful, but there was never really a boom until a few years ago when a driller named Lyman Stewart sank a well that produced fifteen hundred barrels a day. That started a boom in the valley. It spread here to the city when a couple of prospectors named Doheny and Canfield dug a well with picks and shovels and wound up tapping into an even larger oil field.” Stafford shook his head. “My clients aren’t here in the city, though. The boom here is Los Angeles’s problem. What I’m concerned with is happening up in the valley.”

  Frank realized that like most lawyers, Stafford was in love with the sound of his own voice. He said, “Who are your clients?”

  “Our firm represents several of the prominent ranching families in the San Fernando Valley. Some of them, such as the Monteros, established ranches there long before California was even part of the United States.”

  “Ah,” Frank said. “The Californios.” That was the term by which the old families referred to themselves. Many of them had settled here while Spain still controlled the area, even before Mexico had broken free from its European parent.

  Stafford nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Why do they have lawyers from San Francisco instead of Los Angeles?”

  “Because the Monteros ranch has been here since Los Angeles was little more than a wide place in the road. When they needed assistance with legal matters, they had to go to San Francisco to find it. Francisco Montero retained the firm of Turnbuckle and Stafford more than twenty years ago, and we’ve always provided him with good service.”

  “So you’re working for the ranchers in the valley . . . doing what?”

  Stafford downed the rest of his cognac and followed it with a sip of water. “They’re being crowded,” he said. “Oil wildcatters are moving in all around them, and in some cases, actually on their range. The drilling disrupts ranch activities, the excess oil seeps into streams and ponds, and some of the ranchers have even lost cattle.”

  “Rustling?” Frank asked with a frown.

  “The drillers have to eat.” Stafford shrugged. “According to the ranchers, they regard the local herds as a source of free beef.”

  “I suppose a cow might get butchered every now and then like that,” Frank said, “but it doesn’t seem to me like a setup for widespread rustling.”

  “It’s becoming more prevalent all the time,” Stafford insisted. “And the problem is actually worse than that. Some of the riders for the various ranches have been ambushed. Several men have been wounded, and my clients are convinced that it’s only a matter of time until someone is killed.” The lawyer looked grim again as he added, “So am I.”

  Frank leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the excellent coffee. What Stafford was telling him was an old story with a new twist. Frank had seen dozens of range wars across the West, sometimes between rival cattle spreads, sometimes between cattlemen and encroaching farmers or sheepherders.

  This was the first time, though, that he had heard of a range war between cattlemen and oil drillers.

  “You’re sure the drillers are behind the trouble?” he asked.

  “There have been several out-and-out brawls between the two sides, followed by shootings the next day. No other explanation makes sense.”

  Frank nodded slowly. “I guess not. What have you advised your clients to do?”

  “Actually, I’ve been urging them to get into the oil business themselves. Beat the wildcatters at their own game, if you will.” Stafford shook his head. “They’re very resistant to the idea, though. I was out at the Montero ranch today, talking to Dolores Montero, and when I suggested again that she consider drilling, I thought for a moment she was going to have me thrown off the place.”

  “I thought you said a fella named Francisco Montero owned that ranch.”

  “He did until he passed away last year. Señora Montero is his widow. She runs the ranch now. And since it’s the largest one in the valley, she carries a lot of influence with the other cattlemen, too. If I could get her to go along with the idea . . .” Stafford sighed and shook his head. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen. She’s too set in her ways.”

  That didn’t surprise Frank. Most older folks were like that, and getting a mite long in the tooth himself, he knew that from experience. He had tried to break his own pattern of drifting by settling down in Buckskin, and in the end it just hadn’t worked.

  “What is it you want me to do?” he asked.

  “I need proof that the drillers are rustling cattle and ambushing the riders who work on the ranches. The Montero spread would be a good place to start, since the bulk of the trouble has been there.”

  “And you want me to get that proof?”

  Stafford spread his hands. “I need an experienced man who can handle himself. I’ve spent my career in offices and courtrooms. I can’t go gallivanting around the range on horseback. And when it comes to handling a gun . . . well, let’s just say that I’m no Frank Morgan.”

  Frank didn’t doubt that. He said, “So what you want is for me to be a sort of range detective for you?”

  “Exactly!”

  “And if I can find that proof you’re looking for, what will you do with it?”

  “The local law hasn’t given me a bit of help with this matter,” Stafford said. “I suspect that the county sheriff and the chief of police may be in the pay of the oil speculators. If they’re not actually being paid off, they’re at least being influenced by the wealth of the men involved.”

  “Seems to me like those big ranchers would have some influence, too,” Frank pointed out.

  “In the past, yes,” Stafford said. “But the amount of money that oil might produce for the area in the long run is astronomical compared to the value of the ranches. The city fathers know that, and so do the local lawmen.”

  That seemed unlikely to Frank, but he realized that he didn’t know enough about the situation to make a valid judgment. Maybe Stafford was right. Maybe oil was the coming thing, and raising cattle would fade into insignificance, at least in southern California. Frank didn’t believe it for a second, but he supposed it could happen that way.

  “At any rate,” Stafford continued, “I need some evidence that the law can’t ignore, and I’m counting on you to obtain it for me, Mr. Morgan. If you can do that, I’ll take the proof to the authorities, and they’ll be forced to take action against the drillers.”

  That seemed to be the only course still open to Stafford, Frank thought as he mulled over the lawyer’s words.

  He didn’t have any stake in this dispute himself, other than the fact that he considered Claudius Turnbuckle a friend, and Stafford was Turnbuckle’s partner. After a moment, he said, “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  A smile appeared on Stafford’s face, replacing the hangdog expression that had been there a second earlier.

  “Excellent! Now, about your fee—”

  Frank stopped him with an uplifted hand. “Whoa, there, Counselor. Nobody said anything about a fee.”

  Stafford’s smile disappeared, and a puzzled frown replaced it. “But you’ve come all this way, and you’ve agreed to take on a job that may well prove to be dangerous. Surely, you deserve some sort of recompense for that.”

  “I agreed to come down here as a favor to Turnbuckle. That’s why I’m taking on the job, too. But like I told you, I’m not a hired gun.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  Having someone turn down an offer of money clearly had thrown Stafford for a loop. In Stafford’s experience, folks just didn’t do that sort of thing.

  Confronted with Frank’s level stare, though, all he could do was nod and accept what Frank had to say.

  “Very we
ll. But the least you can do is allow me to take care of your expenses while you’re here. I have a room reserved for you here in the hotel, and I’ll pay for it along with all your meals and supplies and whatever else you need.”

  Frank nodded over the coffee cup. “Now, that offer I’ll take you up on, Counselor.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how are you going to proceed with your investigation?”

  “It’s too late in the day to do anything until tomorrow. I thought I’d take a ride out to the Montero spread and have a look around. I reckon you can tell me how to get there?”

  “Of course. In fact, I have a map of the valley that I’ll give you. It has the location of the Montero ranch and all the other ranches marked on it.”

  Frank nodded. “Sounds like it’ll come in handy all right.”

  “If you’d like, I can ride out with you and tell Señora Montero why you’re here—”

  “Might be better not to,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “Have you told anybody that I was on my way down here?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  “Let’s leave it that way,” Frank suggested. “Might be easier to find out what I need to know if nobody knows I’m looking for it.”

  Stafford thought about that and began to smile again as he nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “You prefer to remain incognito. That means—”

  “I know what it means,” Frank said. He wasn’t as well educated as Stafford, but he always carried at least one book in his saddlebags and figured he was as well read as the lawyer, if not more so.

  “Yes, of course. I meant no offense, I assure you.” Stafford leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I have to tell you, Mr. Morgan, I feel much better now. I’m confident that you’ll get to the bottom of this and help me put a stop to all the lawless behavior that’s been going on around here.”

  “We’ll see,” Frank said.

  Chapter 5

  Stafford insisted on having dinner with Frank in the Nadeau Hotel’s excellent dining room. That was all right with Frank, who used the time to have the lawyer fill him in on the other ranchers in the San Fernando Valley who were having trouble with the oil drillers.

  “I told you the Montero ranch is the largest and most successful. Next would be Jorge Sandoval’s ranch. The Sandovals have been in the valley almost as long as the Montero family. Then there’s old Edwin Northam’s place. He was an English sailor who jumped ship in San Pedro back in the 1850s, made his way to the San Fernando Valley, and wound up owning a ranch there.”

  Those were the three biggest ranchers in the valley, Stafford explained, but his clients also included Ben Patterson, Dave Guthrie, Augusto Lopez, and Jaime Castillo. All of them had fairly successful spreads, Stafford explained, but not on the same level as the Montero, Sandoval, and Northam ranches.

  “And they’ve all had trouble with the drillers?” Frank asked.

  “To one extent or another. No one has lost as much stock as Señora Montero, but some of those smaller ranchers don’t have as much stock to lose. And their riders have all clashed with the oilmen here in town. This is where both sides come to drink, so you can well imagine there have been some confrontations.”

  Frank could imagine it, all right. Nothing made a cowboy proddy like being shot at or having cows widelooped.

  Stafford pushed aside the plates he and Frank had emptied, and unrolled the map to point out the locations of the various ranches. Frank had ridden through the San Fernando Valley earlier in the day and made a mental note of the landmarks, as he was in the habit of doing, so he had a pretty good idea where all the places on the map were.

  Frank glanced around the dining room. “See anybody here from either side?” he asked Stafford.

  “You mean someone who works for the drillers or the ranchers?”

  “That’s right.”

  Stafford studied the other diners for a moment and then shook his head. “No one that I recognize.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” Frank told him. “In fact, now that dinner’s over, it’d probably be best if we went our separate ways and kept some distance between us.”

  Stafford looked like he didn’t understand what Frank was getting at, but then his expression cleared. “Ah! You don’t want people to know about the connection between us.”

  “That’s right.” Frank drained the last of the coffee from his cup and reached for his hat. “Tell the clerk at the desk that I’ll pick up my key in a little while. I’m going to check on my horses before I turn in.”

  “And you’ll ride out to the Montero ranch tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.” Frank smiled. “I might even ask Señora Montero for a job.”

  “Oh, that’s a fine idea! I hadn’t even thought of that. That way you’d have a reason to be in the valley without anyone knowing why you’re really there.”

  Frank nodded. Stafford was starting to catch on.

  Frank stood and settled the Stetson on his head. “I’ll see you later, Counselor,” he told Stafford, “but probably not until I have something solid to report.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I pride myself on being a pretty good lawyer, but I’m afraid I’d about reached the extent of my abilities with this case.”

  Frank nodded, tipped a finger to the brim of his hat, and walked out of the dining room.

  Instead of leaving the hotel through the front entrance and walking all the way around it this time, he followed a hallway toward the rear of the building and stepped out into the warm southern California night through a door back there.

  A lantern burned in the livery stable across the street where he had left Stormy, Goldy, Dog, and the packhorse, but the light had been turned low. Frank started toward it, crossing the street, which was empty of traffic now that night had fallen.

  Frank was halfway to the stable when the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled. He knew better than to ignore the warning. He might not have been consciously aware of it, but his senses had picked up something that wasn’t right.

  Following his instincts, he darted to the left, at the same time reaching for his gun. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness to his right, at the corner of the stable. Frank heard the roar of the shot and the bullet ripping through the air next to his ear at the same time.

  His revolver was already in his hand. He brought the heavy six-gun up in a smooth, unhurried motion that was still almost faster than the eye could follow. The .45 bucked against his palm as he pulled the trigger. The gun blasted twice as Frank aimed at the muzzle flash he had seen.

  Before the echoes of those shots had a chance to die away, Frank dived forward, rolled, and came up running. The bushwhacker fired again, but the shot went well wide of Frank. He didn’t hear the bullet whip past him this time.

  It was too dark in the alley next to the livery stable for him to see whether or not he had tagged the gunman with his return fire. If the man was hit, the wound wasn’t bad enough to knock him out of the fight. Two more shots sounded as Frank lunged toward the stable door.

  The door was open a couple of feet. Barely slowing, Frank lifted a foot and kicked it open more. He dashed into the wide aisle that ran down the center of the big, vaulting cavern of a barn.

  Dog stood in that aisle, fangs bared in a snarl and the shaggy fur on his back standing up. Frank snapped, “Outside, Dog! Hunt!” as he ran toward the stable’s back door.

  Dog disappeared out the front, moving fast and low to the ground. Frank’s idea was to get out the back of the barn and trap the bushwhacker in the alley with Dog on one end and him on the other.

  It might have worked if the gunman hadn’t had a horse with him. As Frank shouldered through the back door and turned toward the corner of the barn, he heard a swift rataplan of hoofbeats.

  Biting back a curse, he legged it toward the corner, hoping to get there before the fleeing bushwhacker, but the man had reacted too fast. He burst out of the alley on horseback, leaning
low in the saddle and spraying bullets around him as he emptied what must have been a second six-gun, since he hadn’t had time to reload.

  Frank hit the dirt again as slugs whined over his head. He triggered another shot, but in this bad light, aiming at a swiftly moving target, it would have been pure, blind luck if he’d hit anything.

  The bushwhacker never slowed down.

  Dog ran past Frank, giving chase. As fast as the big cur was, though, he couldn’t keep up with a galloping horse. Frank whistled, signaling to Dog to give up the pursuit and come back. Dog did so reluctantly, angry growls still coming from his throat.

  Frank stood up and dusted himself off, whipping his Stetson against his trouser legs. Light from the lantern in the stable spilled out through the open back door. Frank turned and studied his clothes in its glow.

  Luck had been with him tonight. He hadn’t been hit by any of the bushwhacker’s shots, and he hadn’t landed in any horseshit when he went diving to the ground those two times.

  Thumbing fresh rounds into the Colt’s cylinder to replace the ones he had fired, Frank went back into the livery stable. The elderly hostler he had talked to earlier peered out through a narrow gap around the office door. The man’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “Is the shootin’ over?” he asked.

  “It appears to be,” Frank said.

  “Are you hurt, mister?”

  “No. Whoever that hombre was, he wasn’t a very good shot. Not good enough anyway.”

  The office door opened wider. The hostler stepped out, using his thumbs to pull his suspenders up over his long underwear. He must have turned in already when the shooting started, and had grabbed his pants and hurriedly pulled them on.

  “You don’t know who was shootin’ at you?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope. All I know is that he wasn’t an amigo of mine.” A grim chuckle came from The Drifter. “Not a very good one anyway.”

  The old-timer ran a trembling hand over his whiskery jaw. “I don’t like a bunch o’ shootin’ around my place,” he said.

  “I don’t care much for it myself.” Frank slid the now-reloaded Colt back into its holster and turned toward the stalls. He wanted to make sure nobody had bothered his horses.