The Kincaid County War

by Judd Cole

  No, damnitall! The transgression was wily Bill’s, and his alone. Damn his seductive hide. That poor little gal was no roadhouse whore—why, just look at her high-toned refinement! All Bill had to do was be a man and accept his destiny—his shared destiny with Jane, which Bill was fighting but would not whip, by the Lord Harry.

  The girl’s face began to lower closer to Wild Bill’s. Jane pulled the Volcanic pistol out of her bright red sash.

  “Honey, save that kiss for your mama. I got a pill here for what ails Bill,” Jane muttered. She thumbed the pistol from half to full cock.

  Nell’s lips were so close, Bill could feel the heat of them. Just as their flesh was about to meld, one final gunshot split the silence. Wild Bill bucked as if he’d been butt-shot, his hat flying off his head.

  This time Nell did scream, good and loud. Bill, however, knew damn well who must have made that trick shot—blowing his hat harmlessly off while his head was in a woman’s lap!

  All of an instant, Bill’s “pain and suffering” dissipated like smoke in the wind. He sat up quick as a finger snap, hopped nimbly out of the surrey, and retrieved his now-ventilated hat.

  “I best be moving on, Nell,” Bill said hastily.

  Nell had not missed this miracle cure. “I thought you were knocking on Death’s door?”

  “Nobody home, I reckon,” Bill replied lamely, trying to sidetrack her with a charming smile.

  Nell’s dark eyes flashed, then narrowed as indignation swept over her. “You kill a man, then exploit a woman’s shock and emotional turmoil to seduce her in sight of the corpse?”

  Bill was already fading back toward the trees where he’d hobbled his roan. “Tate’s past being offended,” he pointed out. “And you weren’t complaining a few seconds ago about being seduced.”

  Nell petulantly stamped one foot. “I want you to seduce me, you gorgeous idiot! But do you have to be so underhanded about it? I want to be taken, not had!”

  Well Christ, Bill thought in confusion. How can I take you without having you? But he wisely kept that thought to himself, knowing Calamity Jane was impatiently watching his every move.

  “Bill? Bill! Must you leave now?”

  “Two’s company, three’s a riot!” he shouted back. “I’ll see you soon, pretty lady!”

  Later that day, cowhands were sent out from the Rocking K to retrieve and bury Barry Tate’s body. Tate had been well liked by the Rocking K’s hands. There were plenty of somber, angry faces at the special meeting Johnny Kinkaid held that evening in the bunkhouse.

  “Boys, there ain’t no laurels to be won,” Johnny informed them. “But no matter how you slice it, this is a war. A buncha left-footed farmers are trying to drive the cattlemen off their own land! And now they’ve even called in a gun-slick to do their killing for them. Hickok killed Barry in cold blood, that murdering mercenary bastard.”

  Very few in the group gathered around Johnny knew anything about the secret plan to acquire Turk’s Creek for the Burlington. Johnny and Barry had cleverly controlled this “war” so it would appear the farmers were the troublemakers.

  The waddie named Danny Ford had been named ramrod in Barry’s place. He raised his bandaged right hand. “Hickok blasted my trigger finger off, the bastard! And then he grinned like it was real funny.”

  “You boys won’t have to mix it up with Hickok,” Johnny promised them. Those cold, stone-gray eyes of his surveyed the group while his right palm rested lightly on the metal backstrap of his big Cavalry pistol. “Hickok has pushed it to a showdown with me. I want you boys to take care of Dave Hansen and the rest of the hoe-men along Turk’s Creek.”

  “Take care of ’em how?” demanded Stoney MacGruder, a big, stupid man with close-spaced eyes.

  “You think I want you to powder their butts and tuck ’em in, you muttonhead? Kill ’em, for cripe-sakes! Barry ain’t taking a nap, you fool, he’s dead!”

  “We do that,” Stoney objected, “won’t Hickok have our hides?”

  But this time it was Danny Ford, not Johnny, who spoke up. Danny, a veteran of the postbellum Indian Wars, growled at Stoney: “Damn it, MacGruder, act like you own a pair! Didn’t Johnny just say he would take care of Hickok? How many times you ever seen any man outshoot Johnny Kinkaid? You think he practices hours every day with a short gun so prettified dandies in gold curls can outshoot him?”

  Johnny, his handsome features hard as granite in the stark lamplight, nodded gratefully at Danny. Johnny had sent word to Jarvis Blackford about this meeting. But Blackford was noplace to be found. Whatever, Johnny had made up his mind to take no more orders regarding Hickok.

  “You boys heard Danny,” Johnny said. “Stay frosty and stick together, we’ll see this thing through to the roundup. But if we let Hickok keep bluffing and blustering, he’ll sink all of us faster than you can spit! Once the hoe-men drive out the cattle, you boys will either learn how to bale hay or ride back east and get ‘factory jobs.’”

  This prospect caused a funeral silence throughout the bunkhouse. Nursing beeves was a dirty, rough job. But these weathered bachelors of the plains would rather prod beef for low pay than get rich at a job that took them off their horses.

  “We’re with you till the wheels fall off, Johnny!” sang out Mace Ludlow. “If any man is faster than Hickok, it’s you. You do for him, Johnny. As for the hoe-men, we’ll pack them seed-sucking sons a bitches straight to hell!”

  Jarvis Blackord, aka Richard Strickland and several other names, had far more in his bag of tricks than false names.

  The moment that Blackford learned Hickok had killed Barry Tate, the crafty profiteer realized the death noose was tightening around his own gullet. He packed up his belongings, checked out of his hotel, and retrieved his big claybank from the livery. By the end of that same afternoon, Blackford was well southeast of Progress City. He bore toward the railroad town of Torrington on the Wyoming-Nebraska border. He would set up a new center of operations there.

  Blackford had no plans whatsoever to give up this struggle. But from now on, he’d wage a long-distance battle. He knew Bill Hickok was thorough and never overlooked a crime. Even if Blackford could not be linked to any land swindles, he could certainly be linked to Barry Tate. Thus, that meant he could be indicted for conspiracy in the murder of Sheriff Waldo, among other crimes involving Tate.

  Which brought Blackford’s thoughts back to his literal bag of tricks—his right saddlebag, in which he always carried fresh horseshoes of a different type than the ones on his horse. He also carried the tools needed to reshoe his horse while on the prod.

  More than once Blackford had literally established a new trail, soon after a crime, by quickly changing shoes. In case Hickok decided to trail him, Blackford would use the same trick. If necessary, he might even nail the shoes on backward. Once before, he had sent a posse tracking north while he fled south.

  But even while he gloated over all this, Blackford became gradually aware that his claybank had begun to limp. It was minor, but troubling. Blackford drew rein, swung down, and began inspecting each leg of his horse.

  There it was. Left front foreleg. A very tiny crack had worked its way up from the hoof into the coronet, laming the animal. And ironically, it was caused by bad shoeing last time Blackford tried his trick—bad shoeing lamed more horses than any other cause.

  Blackford frowned, glancing all around the vast, open country. He felt like a bug inching across a giant soup bowl. He thought again about the rumor circulating back in Progress City: that kill-crazy renegades had jumped the Sioux rez, looking for white skin scalps.

  He glanced again at that tiny crack. Well, he should be all right, he decided, if he didn’t have to gallop. He’d nurse the claybank to Torrington, then sell it for glue. And meantime, he’d just hope to hell he didn’t have to flee from anyone, or else he was up Salt River.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Favoring his stiff left shoulder, Wild Bill dipped a hot soda biscuit in the pot liquor from supper.
<
br />   “Kid,” he told Josh, “way you cook? You could hire on with any cattle outfit in the West and name your salary. A good cook is worth three top hands.”

  It was heading on toward sundown. Josh and Wild Bill sat cross-legged before the fire pit in front of the old soddy. Josh could smell the pungent tang of crushed sage, hear the dusty twang of grasshopper wings. But all of it hinted at a peace that wasn’t really out there.

  The final showdown was coming. Josh figured a man could sense it without being told, like birds sense bad weather.

  With his inside eye, Josh saw Sheriff Waldo lying face down, the back of his head scraped off by a murderous rifle blast. For that crime, among others, Barry Tate was now maggot fodder. And the Kinkaid County War had reached its fever crisis. When that fever finally broke, there would be winners and there would be more dead men.

  Bill had fallen into a silent rumination, smoking and staring toward the sawing flames. By old habit, he didn’t look directly at the fire for fear of ruining his night vision.

  “The cattlemen must have poisoned their own cows,” Bill muttered, for he had been following this trail of thought for some time now. “That gave them supposed cause to move against the homesteaders. But why on God’s green earth would they be so keen to get title to Turk’s Creek?”

  “Maybe we should talk to the land office clerk again,” Josh suggested. “Maybe he—”

  “I ain’t asking for advice,” Bill snapped. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Man alive!” Josh exclaimed, tilting the blue-enameled coffeepot to examine the inside in the firelight.

  “What?” Hickok said absently.

  “The damned water hereabouts is leaving a ring of crust in this brand-new pot. I can’t even scrape it out.”

  Josh started to set the pot aside. But Wild Bill took it from him and examined it closely in the fading light. He borrowed Josh’s pocketknife and scraped at the ring.

  “Hard as petrified wood,” Bill confirmed. His eyes met Josh’s across the fire pit. “Wonder if all the water around here is like that?”

  “I get it!” Josh said excitedly. “You’re thinking, if it does this to a coffeepot, what’s it like in a steam engine?”

  Bill nodded. “’Course, if we’re right, that would mean water from Turk’s Creek should be different. Maybe you struck a lode after all, Longfellow— maybe I will talk to Sam Watson again. Nobody knows details like that better than the land office clerk.”

  Both men, distracted by this latest conjecture, were abruptly startled by the whinny of an approaching horse. Josh drew his pinfire gun.

  “Holster that thumb-buster, you young fool!” Wild Bill admonished him, his hawk eyes squinting to study the gathering twilight. “It’s a friendly.”

  A moment later Nell Kinkaid, wearing a split riding skirt and soft leather boots laced to her knees, rode up on a pretty little calico mare.

  “Wild Bill! Thank God I found you. There’s more trouble.”

  Bill helped Nell down from her horse. “There usually is, pretty lady,” he remarked, flashing her a smile under his neat mustache. “Me and junior here have got a boxcar full of troubles already. What can you toss in?”

  “It’s Johnny and the hands. There was a big meeting last night. About what, I can’t say. But then today, the men didn’t ride out to their usual jobs. They worked on their weapons, shot targets. Some were drinking whiskey in broad daylight despite my father’s strict rule about spirits! I don’t dare tell father that. Now the men are waiting to ride out later— maybe right about now.”

  Bill nodded, rolling all this around in his mind. The fact that Nell had not questioned Bill’s killing of Tate proved she understood clear enough what was happening.

  “Kid,” Bill finally told Josh, “dust your hocks over to Dave Hansen’s place. Pronto. Tell him to roust out the rest of the hoe-men and wait for me.”

  “At Dave’s place?”

  “No, it won’t be safe. Matter fact, tell them all to come here. And kid? Cover your ampersand while you’re out there. These half-cocked cowboys will be kill-crazy.”

  Josh nodded and whistled for his little blue, starting to rig him. While Josh tightened cinches and tested latigos, he hid on the Indian side of his horse, out of sight as he listened to more of the conversation.

  “Bill, all this lately is practically killing my father! He knows—well, he suspects that my brother is about to challenge you. Johnny always practices shooting, but he’s been relentless about it these past few days. Eight, even ten hours of nonstop practice. Bill, he’s ... frighteningly adept with a gun.”

  Bill laughed at her choice of words. “‘Adept’? I’ve seen him shoot, dumpling. He’s one of those rare men who aims with his instincts, not his eyes, and I’ve never seen a man who can clear a gun from a holster that quick.”

  “Are you listening to yourself?” Nell said, her tone miserable. “You just described Bill Hickok, too! Father is absolutely terrified about losing Johnny. If Johnny’s killed, so is the Kinkaid line of descent. Besides that, bad or not, he’s my brother, and I love him. But if you’re killed ...”

  Nell trailed off, her voice desperate as she made it clear: Either way, as she and Elmer both saw it, there could be no “winners” in a gunfight between Johnny and Wild Bill.

  “Bill? You have to try and understand about my brother. It’s not that he’s a good man. He’s not. Johnny doesn’t care at all what kind of low, mean things his companions do, he’ll drink with them.”

  “Murder included?”

  She swallowed, then nodded. “Murder included, I’m afraid. But... I think his Kinkaid pride keeps him from sinking quite to their level. I’ve never seen such goings-on among supposed Christians as we have around here lately. But I honestly believe Johnny himself had drawn the line at murder.”

  “Those who hold a candle for the devil,” Bill told her, “are doing the devil’s work.”

  By now Josh’s grullo was saddled. But he lingered in the shadows on the far side for a few moments, watching Nell step into Bill’s arms.

  “You bolted to the ground, Longfellow?” Bill demanded without even turning his head. “Take my message to Hansen. Every second counts now.”

  But you’ll have time to “comfort” Nell after I leave, Josh thought resentfully. Nonetheless, he stepped up into leather and kicked his pony into motion.

  About an hour and a half later, they met right behind the soddy in a moonlit meadow that had been grazed to stubble: Wild Bill Hickok, Dave Hansen, Lonnie Peatross, and a dozen other beleaguered farmers from the Turk Creek area.

  “Let’s look truth straight in the eye, boys,” Wild Bill exhorted them. “The cowmen will strike this very night in force. What they want is to catch each of you at home alone.”

  “Like they done to Dave’s cousin,” spoke up a man with wind-cracked lips in a thin, sharp-nosed face. Josh recognized the rifle under his arm as a Winchester .44-.90.

  “I know cowboys like most men know their wife’s geography,” Bill went on. “I was a cow town star-man. Cowboys’re tough at what they do, all right. But off the job, most of ’em are just hell-raisers, not killers. All holler and no heart. Sure, they like to toss lead. But very few of ’em got the stomach for a hard fight. So you’re going to fort up and give them a hard fight, if they want one.”

  “Fort up?” Lonnie demanded. “Here, you mean?”

  Bill shook his head. “This is open country, and that’s good. But open isn’t enough. Remember: Before they give up, they’re going to push hard just to see if you move. It’s got beyond fence-cutting and crop-trampling. So besides open country, take the high ground. Throw up a fortress. Store water, plenty of ammo, and bandage cloth.”

  Bill nodded toward a distant pocket of cattle grazing the far side of the meadow. “Kill some butcher beef, too. They’ve called you rustlers, shot you for rustlers, might as well put the deed to the word.”

  Josh realized no one was asking what Wild Bill had in mind for his own sh
are in this looming battle. By now, the word was all over the county that Johnny Kinkaid was spoiling for a showdown with Hickok.

  “Listen!” Dave Hansen called out. “Riders! Passing south of us.”

  “That’ll be our brave ranger force from the Rocking K,” Bill said sarcastically. “No doubt looking to catch their first farmer. You boys know what to do. I suggest you hump it.”

  After the sodbusters rode out to establish their bastion, Wild Bill and Josh were left to wait out an uneasy night.

  At first, they took two-hour turns sleeping and standing “fire watch,” as Bill called it. But as the activity of night riders increased all around them, both men finally gave up any attempt at sleeping.

  They heard plenty of shooting, occasional shouts and whistles, the thudding drumbeat of hooves as the marauding cowboys pounded their mounts across the county, raising hell.

  Toward dawn, Josh watched Bill carefully wiping out the bores of his Peacemakers with clean patches. Josh knew, both from study and firsthand observation, how Hickok operated. Once the man was sure he was plagued by a boil, his immediate reaction was to lance it.

  “You’re going to call him out after sunup, are’n’cha?” Josh demanded. “Johnny Kinkaid, I mean?”

  “No,” Bill said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

  Josh felt his jaw drop open. “Me? Bill, I can hit a target pretty good, but—”

  Wild Bill snorted at the kid’s misunderstanding. “No, you young idiot. After breakfast you’re going to take him a note from me. It’ll tell Kinkaid where to meet me. I’m damned if we’ll burn powder in front of Elmer and Nell.”

  “I’ll take the note,” Josh agreed. “But I’m coming to the fight too, Bill. And this time I ain’t asking you, I don’t care how famous you are. This is news, Wild Bill, history, and I got a right—why, a duty—to tell it.”

  Bill dismissed all this with a wave of one disassembled pistol.

  “Kid, just shit-can the highfalutin rhetoric, wouldja? Go where you want, I ain’t your mother. But speaking of her: If you get in the way and get yourself killed, don’t expect me to write to your ma about it.”