by Paul Colt
McSween wagged his head with a wry smile. “John, if you’re goin’ to do business in these parts the way you plan, you best figure out who you’re up against.”
Tunstall bristled. “James Dolan, plainly enough, what is your point?”
“Why do you suppose Brewer has you hiring gunmen?”
“He expects Dolan may take umbrage at my business interests. No surprise there. He seems to think Dolan may not feel bound by the rule of law. He thinks Dolan may become less than civil or even resort to violence.”
Widenmann nodded. “Brewer’s got the right of it. When Dolan plays rough, Jesse Evans and his gang do the dirty work.”
“Oh, dear, you don’t suppose he’d start that already?”
“Is the paint on your sign dry?” Ledger said.
Horses sounded in the street. All four men turned to the windows. John Chisum and Johnny Roth stepped down at the rail. They clumped up the steps to the door.
Chisum smiled and shook hands all around. “McSween, Marshal, Ty. You open for business yet, John?”
“I believe the sign says so. Lincoln County Bank is at your service, Mr. Chisum.”
“Good. Then I’d like to open an account.”
“Splendid. Initial deposit?”
“You’ll receive a draft from the Bank of Santa Fe directly.”
“I couldn’t think of a more lovely form of tender. Step right this way.” Tunstall let himself into the teller cage. Chisum stepped up to the counter.
Roth stuck out his hand. “Ty, good to see you’re still here.”
“Rob needed a little help so I decided to stick around.” He tilted his chin toward Tunstall. “Lord knows somebody has to look after the foolish and the innocent.”
“The innocent wouldn’t be Lucy, would it?”
Ty ignored the question. “Speaking of lookin’ after, a friend of yours hit town. He says he’s lookin’ for you. Your ridin’ in saved me a trip to South Spring.”
“And who might that be?”
“Crystobal.”
Roth puzzled. “You sure? I left that bastard shot good as dead.”
“Not quite that good by the look of him. Saw him myself.”
“What makes you think he’s lookin’ for me?”
“I was in the Wortley with Rob last month when he inquired after you. Couldn’t believe my eyes, but there he was. You took him once. No tellin’ this time if he’s after a fair fight or a back shootin’.”
“Where is he?”
“It appears he’s signed on with Jesse Evans.”
“That makes sense. He sent Patch to Evans.”
“At the moment he’s with Evans’ boys over at the Cantina.”
Roth’s eyes clouded over in thought as they drifted to the window.
“What the hell was that all about?” Evans stepped out from between the store shelves.
Dolan clenched his jaw. “Chisum’s throwin’ around rustling accusations he can’t prove again. He claims he knows where the last herd he lost went.”
“One of these times he’s gonna get close enough to give us a problem.”
“You gettin’ cold feet, Jesse?”
“No, I’m just sayin’.”
“No sense borrowin’ trouble. Maybe you best lay low for a spell. Besides I got another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The English bastard claims he’s opened a bank.”
“Don’t that take a lot of money?”
“Not as much as you’d think, ’specially if people trust you.”
“Who’s goin’ to trust that popinjay?”
“John Chisum, that’s who.”
“You think people will follow his lead?”
“Some may. Smart, I’ll give him that.”
“What do you figure to do about it?”
“I don’t know . . . yet.”
Evans stepped into the cantina. He let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The boys sat at a back corner table working on a bottle. He pulled up a chair and pulled a wad of bills out of his shirt pocket. He peeled two twenty-dollar gold certificates off the bundle for each man and pocketed the rest. He poured himself a drink and lifted his glass. A familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway beyond the rim. Evans eased the glass back down to the table, suddenly alert.
The boys around the table caught the change. Roberts and Baker cut their eyes to the door. Crystobal tensed unable to see the danger he sensed behind him. Evans lifted his chin toward the door. Crystobal eased his chair back as Roth and Ledger entered the saloon.
“Whiskey,” Ledger said. His eyes, shaded under his hat brim, drifted to the men at the corner table. The tall one with silver conchos on his hatband rose and turned toward the bar. His mouth twisted in a cruel sneer at the sight of Roth.
“Well, if it isn’t Crystobal’s old amigo. I’m surprised you came out from behind your woman’s skirts.”
Roth stepped back from the bar. “I heard you was in town, Crys. I’m surprised you didn’t come lookin’ for me. Had enough the last time maybe?” He laughed. Crystobal started forward. Roth leveled his guns in a blink. “Best stop there, friend, before I finish the job I should have the last time.”
Evans started to rise.
Ledger cocked his .44 and dropped it on a firing line. “Go ahead, Evans. Give me an excuse.”
Roth looked past Crystobal’s shoulder. “What brings you to town? You ride over from Fort Stanton to settle up with Dolan for fifty or so head of Long Rail cattle?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Roth. Now, you and your boy put your guns up and get the hell out of here while me and the boys still got our good humor. You got no chance against all of us.” Baker, Roberts and Morton slid their chairs back.
“Any of you sons a bitches so much as shoo a fly, you’re dead.” Widenmann stepped out of the back room behind the corner table, cocking both barrels of a sawed-off shotgun to make his point. “Your play, Johnny.”
Roth holstered his guns. “All right, Crys. This is what you want. Only this time you know what you’re up against.” His voice barely carried above a rattler’s hiss coiled to strike. “Last time you made a stupid mistake. I almost killed you. Sloppy of me I’m sorry to say. I guess I owe you. You know, make it right this time. Com’on have a go at it. I’ll make it up to you.”
Crystobal’s hands hung at his sides his fingers flexed. Roth read his eyes. Beads of sweat gathered at the bridge of his nose. “You talk a good game with all these guns at your back, Roth. Talk is cheap. We shall have our day soon, amigo, one day very soon. One day when it’s just the two of us.” He strode past Roth, his spurs ringing in the stillness.
“Com’on, boys.” Evans started to leave.
Chisum stepped out from behind Widenmann unarmed. “Next time you come callin’ on one of my herds, Evans, I’ll see you dance on the end of a rope.”
“I don’t know what your talkin’ about, Chisum, but any rustler worth his salt would shoot your sorry ass to hell before he’d let himself get caught by an old man like you.”
“Like your Mex friend says, Jesse, ‘Talk is cheap.’ ”
CHAPTER SIX
George Peppin’s ranch house sat on a low rise near the center of a broad valley surrounded by lush fields of winter hay turned golden in the slanting afternoon sun. At one time he ran a small cattle operation until his age and the pressures of the big producers convinced him he could feed the small ranchers’ herds at considerably less effort with only a small loss in income. As it turned out this year, he’d earned more than he ever had running his own herd.
A slope shouldered man in his middle fifties, Peppin had a wiry build, white hair, bushy mustache and an explosion of eyebrows, giving his watery blue eyes the look of perpetual surprise. The sun burned his fair cheeks red where the brim of his battered hat gave up its shade. He wore a rough spun shirt and a well-worn vest. He’d carved his ranch out of the Pecos valley at a time when a man had to hold it against roving bands of Comanche
and the rustlers and outlaws thrown off in the wake of the war. It accounted for a raw grit those who knew him came to admire.
He stood by the potbellied stove in the sparsely furnished ranch house, pouring a cup of coffee. Movement beyond the window caught the corner of his eye. Past waving hay and running clouds not much moved out here most of the time. The dark silhouette of a rider stood out on the landscape. Without thinking, he checked the Winchester leaning against the wall beside the door. He watched the rider come into view and relaxed. Jesse Evans, one of his regular buyers, come for his winter feed. This year he’d come too late.
Peppin waited until Evans drew rein in the yard before stepping out to the porch. “Afternoon, Jesse.”
“Afternoon, George. Fine day for November ain’t it?”
“Good as it gets this time of year. Com’on in. I just brewed a fresh pot of Arbuckle’s.”
“That sounds mighty good after a long ride.”
“Thought it might.” Peppin led the way into the house. A rough cut wooden table with a pair of worn barrel-back chairs stood beside the stove. “Have a seat and take the chill off.” He gestured to the table and poured Evans a cup of coffee.
Evans warmed his hands on the tin cup, savoring the smell. “Crop looks real good, George. ’Bout ready for cuttin’ I’d say.”
“I got a couple boys comin’ in to help with the cuttin’ next week.”
“Guess I’m right on time then. I’ll take the same order as last year.”
“Sorry, Jess, the crop’s all sold.”
“Sold?”
“Every last bale.”
“To who?”
“John Tunstall.”
“Tunstall! What the hell does he want with that much feed? He don’t even run cattle.”
“Said somethin’ about goin’ into the feed business. Bought my whole crop with options to buy the whole lot for the next two years.”
“So what am I supposed to do for winter feed?”
Peppin shrugged. “I’d say talk to Tunstall.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Sorry I cain’t help you, Jess. It’s a little late. You care to stay the night?”
“Thanks anyway, George. I gotta ride into Lincoln.”
South Spring
She smiled that inward smile of hers. The sound of the horses told her all she needed. He was back. She’d baked the pie, knowing it would be today. The smell of warm apples and cinnamon filled the house. She took the pan from the oven and set it on the sideboard to cool, glancing out the kitchen window toward the corral. Johnny stepped down beside Señor John. Soon they would see Padre Bernardino. It made her warm inside. She left the kitchen, crossed the dining room and opened the front door. The little warmth given by the winter sun disappeared quickly with the coming of sunset. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders against the chill breeze as she stood in the shadow of the front porch, waiting for Johnny and Señor John to reach the house. He waved as they crunched up the path.
Chisum smiled at Dawn Sky as he passed into the house, leaving the young ones to their greeting. They were in love. Nothing he could do for it, other than worry. The run-in with Crystobal confirmed his concern for Dawn. Roth might be a fine young man with all the best intentions toward her, but he was a man with a past, a past that spelled trouble.
Johnny slipped his arms around Dawn and she lifted her lips to his. The sweet scent of cinnamon said he was home. They followed Chisum into the house.
“Supper will be ready soon.”
Roth furrowed his brow with question. “How did you know we’d be home?”
Her eyes smiled.
Roth glanced at Chisum.
He shrugged. “I can’t explain it. Never could. You get used to it. How about a drink?”
“Sounds good.”
Chisum led the way into the parlor. Roth hung his guns on a peg beside the door and followed. He dropped into a chair across from the big stone hearth. Chisum threw a log on the fire and stirred it to light. The fire cracked and popped, giving off a light scent of mesquite. He brought a bottle and two glasses to the side table and poured. He handed Roth his glass and took his seat.
“How much trouble is this Crystobal likely to be?”
Roth cocked an eye. “You seen him. He went packin’ without much trouble.” Chisum accepted the answer. Johnny sensed more to the question. “Look, John, I know you’re worried about Dawn and me. You know I wouldn’t hurt her for the world.”
“Not you I worry about, Johnny. I worry about Dawn gettin’ widowed young. How many more skunks like that one are there to come after you?”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can, lessen some of ’em turn out to be back shooters.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“If you love her, think about what’s best for her.”
“Johnny best for Dawn Sky.”
Chisum winced. She stood in the doorway behind them.
“Dawn Sky sees the spirits. She knows.” She returned to the kitchen as though nothing more need be said.
Roth picked up the bottle and poured Chisum a fresh drink. “I’m told you get used to it.”
Chisum shot him a look.
“I hear you, John.”
Flying H
Tunstall rode down to the ranch, his face wrapped in a muffler against an icy blast of winter that escaped the mountains with a suddenness particular to mountain winter weather. Snowflakes swirled in the gray sky making it seem that much colder. Big Jim French and Henry Brown accompanied him. He admitted he knew nothing about gunmen, but he’d asked around. Both men appeared to have the requisite credentials. Of course, he’d made it clear to both of them that Dick Brewer had the final say.
French was a bear of a man with powerful shoulders and a thick barrel chest. He had dark swarthy features and black eyes, possibly owing to some mixed breeding of indistinct lineage. Greasy black hair hung to his shoulders.
Brown was a lanky angular man with cropped brown hair, drooping mustache and eyes so dark they might be taken for black. A long neck, prominent Adam’s apple and gawky appearance gave him the look of a schoolmaster, made the more so for an ill-fitting black frock coat.
You could see Brewer’s hand at work before they even reached the ranch house. A sizable horse herd dotted the hills and meadows leading onto the rise west of Rainbow Creek. They came across Brewer and a couple of the boys checking for strays as they rode in.
“Afternoon, boss.” Brewer smiled through a cloud of steam.
“I say, things seem to be moving right along, Dick.”
“We got a fine start on a first-class remuda.”
Tunstall puzzled. “Re-mu-da?”
Brewer chuckled. “Horse herd.”
“Yes, quite so,” Tunstall covered.
“I see you brought company with you.”
“These men are interested in employment. This gentleman is Big Jim French. The other is Henry Brown. Gentlemen this is Mr. Brewer. He will make the final decision on your employment.”
Brewer nodded to the new men. “We can settle all that down at the house where it’s a little warmer.” He wheeled away at a lope.
Tunstall, Brewer and the boys arrived at the ranch. They drew rein at the corral and dismounted. Brewer took Tunstall’s horse and led the boys to the corral gate.
Henry Brown spotted him. “Rider comin’.”
Brewer followed Brown’s eyes. “You expectin’ more company, Mr. Tunstall?”
“Company? None invited.”
Brewer slipped the hammer thong on his gun, watching the rider come. “Hell, it’s only Frank Coe.”
“How do you know?” Tunstall asked.
“I recognize the mule. I expect I know what he wants.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Coe gets his winter feed from Oscar Tanner.”
“Splendid! Our first customer.”
“Big Jim, Henry, spread out. This here’s your on-the-job trial.”
“Afternoon, Frank. What can we do for you?”
“What the hell you doin’ here, Brewer?”
“I’m foremen at the Flying H now.”
“Then I suppose you know somethin’ about Oscar Tanner’s winter feed crop. I heard the fop who owns this place bought it.”
“That ‘fop’ as you say would be me. John Tunstall at your service.”
Coe narrowed a squint. “I need winter feed.”
“Splendid. We shall be more than pleased to accommodate you. How much will you require?”
“How much you charge?”
“Ten cents a bale.”
“Ten cents! Oscar charged three on account of the haul.”
“So he did. But that was last season. I do see your point about the trouble with drayage. I’m a fair man. I shall make an exception in a gesture of good will, and let you have it for eight cents a bale.”
“Eight cents ain’t good will. It’s robbery.”
“Robbery? Heavens no, my good man, merely the economics of supply and demand.”
“What the hell is he talkin’ about, Brewer?”
“Price of winter feed, I think.”
“We’ll see about that.” Coe reached for his old army Colt. Three guns cocked in rapid succession before he could clear leather. He looked from Brown to Brewer to French and back to Tunstall. “So that’s how you want to play it.”
“Eight cents a bale is more than fair. It is simply a matter of business. No reason for you to threaten violence.”
“This ain’t a game, Tunstall. Out here winter feed is life and death. It don’t get played like a business, yours or anybody else’s. You best understand that.”
“Oh, but I do. You see, I own the crop. I make the rules.”
“We’ll see about that.” Coe wheeled his mule and spurred up a lope.
Brewer cut his eyes to Tunstall. “I didn’t expect your little feed business to go over real well.”
“Oh, it will go over all right. As soon as his cattle get hungry enough. Mr. Coe will pay. Either that or we shall buy up his ranch sooner rather than later. And at the right price to be sure. By the by, I thought the two new men played their parts quite nicely, didn’t you?”