The Cossack Cowboy

by Lester S. Taube

  “Well I never,” said Paul, his eyes lowering in thought. He looked up and held out his hand. “Forgive me, Ned, I spoke much too quickly.”

  “And forgive us, too,” said Mr. Blatherbell, “for what we were thinking.”

  Ned took Paul’s proffered hand. “So, that’s the story for now.”

  “What has happened since you were shot?” asked Paul.

  “They’ve run off the rest of the horses and cows, took everything they could lay their hands on from the main house, barns, stables, the bunkhouse, and all the range huts, burned them down, and patrolled the land like they owned it themselves. I was laid up for four months, then Wes Laughton and half a dozen of his hands took me to the deputy marshal in Rijos. The deputy stood guard while I rounded up a cook, a Chinese man, and a young boy who had spirit, then he came back to the ranch with us and stayed there for two weeks while we built a bunkhouse. I wrote to your uncle six months ago, then three months later asking what I should do, but he never answered. It takes three months to send a letter and get an answer. I was about to write again when I got your telegram. I don’t even know if your uncle got my letters.”

  Ned raised his whip and flicked the horses, sending them on their way again. They rode along, without speaking for several minutes.

  “Did the Birmans make any further attempts on your life after you came back to the ranch?” asked Paul.

  “Oh, they came by now and then and shot up the bunkhouse, but it was sorta half-hearted, like they were told to keep me from building up the ranch but not to cause any more trouble for a while. Anyhow, I built that bunkhouse to fight from, so it would have cost them plenty to finish us off.”

  “Do you have any idea why Upjohn wants everything, instead of just a passage through for his railroad?”

  “That’s pretty easy to figure out. Your ranch sits smack in the middle of the line of movement north to Pueblo and Denver and Cheyenne. When the railroad goes through, it will bring in roads and towns, so they’ll make more money from selling land than from the railroad itself. They’ve already been buying up property north of here and forcing out those who won’t sell.”

  “Did Mr. Upjohn make an offer for the ranch?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

  Ned turned his head. “Yes, he said he’d give fifteen thousand dollars for everything!”.

  Mr. Blatherbell almost choked. “Why, the land itself has a valuation of over one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “It’s worth more than that,” said Ned, “But only if you’re selling it for town-sites or to raise cows. Fifteen thousand dollars, like Upjohn wants to pay, that’s the price for desert ground, not the good grazing land and water you’ve got.” Ned pointed to a pole at the side of the road. “We’re on Three Barbs land, now.” He grinned at Paul. “I guess I should say, “Welcome home.”

  Paul looked about, his eyes drinking in the sight of HIS LAND. A month ago, a week ago, even a day ago, it. was merely a dot on the map that he had planned to sell so he could keep those appointments in Madrid and on the Riviera and at Baden Baden, but suddenly it was more than a pinprick on a map, it was the most beautiful, fertile, grazing land he had ever seen, studded with weird rock formations rising from the middle of nowhere, stark grey monuments in an endless sea of lush golden grass that enveloped clumps of trees and bushes seven feet high. The rolling ground had dips here and there so deep that a score of cattle could be hidden in each and not be seen a hundred yards away, gashed by occasional ravines, some half a mile long, and fed by streams running from the mountains on the west to the river on the east. There was a fresh, clean sparkle to the air, air that seemed alive under the warm rays of an autumn sun shining from a completely cloudless sky as blue as any eyes Paul had ever looked into. He breathed deeply of the invigorating air, and a love for this strange world welled up inside him, a love that had been building up for several days, but had finally crystallized at the instant he set foot upon his land.

  It was with a sense of spiritual loss that he pulled himself away from the enchantment the countryside had wrought and turned his mind back to the reason for his corning, which was still valid - to sell this land.

  “You mentioned my neighbor, Wes Laughton,” he said to Ned. “Has Upjohn bothered him yet?”

  Ned shook his head, both as a negative to Paul’s question and in evident wonder about the man. “That Wes Laughton, he’s as blind as a damnfool bat. He’s got twenty hands working his spread. I guess his ranch is two or three times bigger than yours - and in that bunch he’s got three or four who can use a sixgun right well. But Wes has the most damnfool idea that Upjohn is fighting just your uncle, and that when he’s ready to put through the railroad, he’ll buy a strip of Wes’s land for ten dollars an acre or some ridiculous price like that and not bother anybody any more. I’ve talked myself blue in the face with that man, but there just isn’t any beating into his head that Upjohn will work him over once he’s finished with us?

  “Ned,” said Paul. “Will Laughton buy my land?”

  Ned didn’t even take a second to think it over. “No. Wes runs six, seven thousand head of cows, and he has all the land he needs. Anyhow, everybody out here is land and cattle rich but hard-money poor. I tell you, if you didn’t have such good grass here and streams running across the range to the Canadian, it wouldn’t be worth more than what Upjohn wants to pay. This land is good - good enough even for crop farmers. But to get back to Wes, he’d be hurting himself if he sold off some cows to buy your spread, especially when he doesn’t need it.”

  “Then who would buy it?”

  “Wal - “ replied Ned, thinking deeply as he pushed his high-crown hat forward to shade his eyes from the sun, “if you shot Upjohn and the Birmans and built up the herd your uncle had, you’d be able to sell it easily.” A disgusted look crossed his face as he added, “and there’s always the dirt farmers you can sell lots to.” His expression brightened when he thought of something else. “But they’d be afraid to buy, with the Birmans ready to burn them out at the lift of Upjohn’s finger.”

  Paul leaned back in the seat. “That doesn’t leave many alternatives, does it?” he commented, not expecting an answer. He looked up at Ned. “What would you do?”

  Ned motioned about the range with his whip.. “There’s a hundred, maybe two hundred head of cows and dogies out there. I’d round them up, brand them, and keep them close to home.” He glanced at Paul and a smile crossed his lips. “I also have some money that belongs to you - nine thousand dollars.”

  “What?” shouted Paul and Mr. Blatherbell together.

  Ned’s smile became broader. “I told you I sold three hundred head before they ran everything off. I drove them to Denver and got eleven thousand dollars. It was just by luck that I arrived there when they needed cows something awful. I left the money in the Cattleman’s Bank, but spent two thousand to pay the hands and to hold out here.” He cleared his throat. “You owe me eight hundred dollars. I haven’t taken any pay since I was shot, only my keep.”

  Paul looked back at the solicitors. They had a strange expression in their eyes. “Thank you, Ned,” he said softly. “I’ll pay the eight hundred dollars now if you wish. I have gold pieces and letters of credit.”

  “Oh, there’s no hurry about it,” said Ned. “I was just thinking, that for nine thousand dollars we could go down into Mexico and buy near a thousand head. They’re a pretty runty, scraggly kind of cow, but with a few good bulls, we could build up the herd in no time at all. I’d take kindly to it if you’d let me buy some cows with my eight bundled dollars and keep them with yours.”

  It took Paul a long moment to answer and he had to clear his throat before doing so. “I’ll think about it Ned,” he said. That wasn’t quite true; he wasn’t going to think about it at all. Somewhere along the drive he had made up his mind that this land was going to remain his, and now he added a thought that Ned Fenton would share in it, come hell or high water. As his mind turned to how he would explain this to the three solicitors,
Ned suddenly stopped the horses, dropped the reins, and grabbed for the rifle under his feet. He fed a cartridge into the chamber with a swift movement, then spun round on the seat.

  Paul swiveled to the rear, his ears catching the sound of hoof-beats that had warned Ned. About half a mile away, four men rode swiftly towards them. In the lead was a tall man mounted on a powerful, long-legged red horse.

  “Upjohn!” hissed Ned. Then throwing the reins to Paul, he climbed awkwardly from the wagon and stood there in the middle of the road, the rifle held tensely in his hands.

  CHAPTER VI

  Stewart Upjohn was an utterly powerful man. He stood over six feet tall, weighed one hundred and ninety to two hundred pounds, and it was spread over him in fighting-man proportions, not the lean, rangy build of a slashing wolf, but the more rounded smoothness of a well-kept jaguar, perfectly controlled, instantly ready to pounce, prepared to explode into furious, overwhelming action without the least warning.

  He was in his late thirties, a handsome man, even to other men, his brown hair worn somewhat long and neatly groomed, with smoky eyes looking out firmly from a long, sun-tanned face, a straight high-bridged nose, wide, almost humorous lips, and a jaw that had determination written all over it.

  He was elegantly dressed in a brown leather coat reaching half-way down his thighs, grey whipcord riding pants tucked into fine, hand-tooled leather boots with small-rowelled silver spurs, and topped with a broad-brimmed, high-crown pearl grey hat tilted forward to shade his eyes. His horse was a dark red beauty, and Paul’s heart turned over at the thought of owning it. Over sixteen hands high, it had a narrow, intelligent face, long slender legs corded with muscles, and the deep chest that spoke of great lungs. Even the saddle was unusual, of Mexican design with a silver ball on top of a high pommel and silver trim on an equally high cantle.

  The three men with him were obviously gunfighters, their sixguns in plain view under their unbuttoned wool jackets. One caught his eye immediately, a lean, swarthy man with a jagged scar on the left cheek running from his temple to his chin. He was a dark person, in color, in dress, in the malevolence of his black beady eyes.

  Upjohn and his men slowed their horses to a walk fifty yards away, then approached steadily until they were ten feet from the wagon. They stopped, and Paul felt four pairs of eyes focus on him. He eyed each one in turn, then stared insolently at Upjohn.

  Ned Fenton finally broke the silence. “You’re on Three Barb’s land,” he said grimly. “Nobody invited you on it.”

  Upjohn ignored him as be looked Paul up and down. “Are you Sanderson, the new owner here?” he asked in a soft, controlled voice.

  Paul tied the reins to the brake handle of the wagon and climbed down. He knew he would be dwarfed against the tall man on horseback, but it was exactly what he wanted. He stepped to Ned’s side and stood there staring at Upjohn.

  As the silence grew longer and longer, Upjohn realized that Paul was not going to answer him. A slight flush rose to his cheeks. “I asked you, mister, is your name Sanderson?” he said again, his voice remaining tightly under control.

  “Ned,” said Paul quite clearly. “I am going to speak with the leader of these intruders on my land. If any of them should make a move towards his weapon or take any hostile action against anyone here, you will kill the big one instantly. Is that understood?”

  “I sure do, Mr. Sanderson,” said Ned, almost happily. Paul had not taken his eyes from Upjohn’s. “My name is Mister Sanderson,” he said sharply to the mounted man. “lf you wish to speak to me, get down from your horse. If that does not please you, you have exactly five seconds to start off my land. Your time begins now.” He did not hesitate. “One, two, th…”

  He thought Upjohn would spur his horse and charge him, regardless of Ned’s rifle aimed straight at his chest, but suddenly he laughed and stepped down from his horse. He cocked his head at the smaller, golden haired man standing in front of him. “I guess there’s no sense saying I spoke out of turn and that I would like to shake your hand, is there?”

  “There is,” said Paul, making no move at all.

  Upjohn’s chuckle grew louder. “You don’t take any pushing at all, do you, Mr. Sanderson? I apologize - I spoke out of line.” He stepped forward and held out his hand.

  Paul’s expression remained completely relaxed when he took the proffered hand in his, then a thin smile came to his lips. “I accept your apology, Mr. Upjohn.”

  The tall man reached into his jacket and took out two cigars, handing one to Paul and lighting them both. Paul nodded his thanks and motioned to the three solicitors seated in the rear of the wagon. “These gentlemen are my solicitors - lawyers. Mr. Blatherbell, Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas.”

  As the three men rose and bowed, Upjohn waved his cigar at them in greeting. “Glad to meet you, gentlemen.” He turned back to Paul. “Being’s you know my name, I guess Ned has been filling your ear with all kinds of stories.”

  Paul puffed contentedly at his cigar, then passed it slowly beneath his nose, savoring its aroma. “Quite a fine cigar, Mr. Upjohn,” he said graciously, ignoring his comment. “Where is it from?”

  Upjohn’s eyes twinkled. “From Cuba, an island to the south of this country, not far from the coast of Florida.”

  “Fine,” commented Paul. “Fine tobacco,” He took another long draw on the cigar and let the smoke drift out slowly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “Well, that’s according to what Ned has been saying. Ned’s a right good foreman and as honest as the day is long, but he’s got some ideas that could use a bit of explaining from the other side.”

  Paul knew then why Upjohn had arrived right on his heels - to bullyrag him - for he had expected the staid type of Englishman, dismayed by the strangeness and wildness of the west United States. It was one of the oldest tricks in the art of intimidation - to place your print on a man so swiftly and unexpectedly that he would forever be in awe of you. The fact that the stranger had calmly ordered one of his servants to kill him had wreaked havoc with his plans, and he must therefore take a new tack.

  “What do you think Ned has been telling me?” asked Paul.

  “The same as he has been hinting all over the Territory -that I am responsible for the running-off of his cows and burning down of the buildings. Even having him ambushed.”

  “I’ll lay my life that you’re guilty as hell,” said Ned hotly.

  “That may just happen if you keep shooting off your mouth,” said Upjohn coldly, without turning his eyes away from Paul. “Your foreman, Mr. Sanderson, has been making those kind of remarks long enough. Libel laws don’t extend this far away from the courts, and here the usual method of answering libel is more violent than just legal action. Ned’s trouble is that he tangled horns with the Birman family over an entirely different reason and he has to find a scapegoat to explain away the results of his … indiscretion.”

  “Damn you.” whispered Ned.

  “Before I go any further,” said Upjohn, not at all nettled by Ned’s words, “I suggest that you order your foreman to ease up on that trigger. He’s just liable to pull a shot off accidentally. In that event, my men will kill everyone here, since I won’t be around to stop them.”

  Paul did not have to take more than one swift glance at Ned’s face to see the wisdom of Upjohn’s advice, He turned to the furious man. “Ned, I don’t want any shooting unless it’s necessary. If Mr. Upjohn’s remarks are going to upset you, whether they’re true or not, I’d like you to give me that rifle.”

  The foreman took a deep breath and relaxed the grasp on the weapon. “I’ll be all right, Mr. Sanderson.”

  “Good.” Paul turned back to Upjohn. “Why are the Birmans angry with Ned?”

  “Why, Ned’s been eyeing that Tina Birman like a stud gone wild.”

  Paul’s eyes flicked at Ned; he was barely retaining control. “Eyeing a woman doesn’t call for killing and stealing and burning.”

  “That m
ay be true where you come from, but the Birmans are a strange breed of people. I’d be the first to admit that so far as I know Ned never did anything which was actually improper, but when a man ogles a woman every time she comes into town and follows her from place to place to look at her, I mark that down as infatuation. There’s nothing improper with being infatuated if a man keeps a civil tongue in his head, and Ned has done so. But the Birmans consider it as just a step short of molesting that girl. They warned him to quit it, then jumped him.”

  “They warned you to stay away from the girl?” asked Paul of Ned.

  The foreman’s face was pale with fury. “That was their way of picking a fight with the Three Barbs, Mr. Sanderson.”

  Paul turned back to Upjohn. “I’m inclined to agree with Ned. If there was a personal antagonism between them, they would have struck at Ned, not the ranch.”

  “I’ll say it again, Mr. Sanderson, the Birmans are a strange breed of people. They may have wanted to go after the Three Barbs beef before Ned got them all excited about the girl. Maybe they used the girl as a pretext. It’s quite likely. But everyone in the Territory knows that old man Birman and his boys think more of that girl than they do of their own lives. But whatever the reason, it gave them the excuse to start a war and run off the Three Barbs beef. Ned has dreamed up the story that I sicked them on your ranch, and that’s not true. What reason would I have to attack you?”

  “You want to buy the Three Barbs Ranch, don’t you, Mr. Upjohn?”

  “Of course. I’ve made a very good offer for it, and I’m here to tell you that the offer still stands.”

  “Would you have bought the ranch as a going concern?”

  “No. I don’t need cattle, I need land.” He threw away his cigar. “I know what you’re driving at - that it is to my advantage to have the Three Barbs go out of business. Of course it is, and I won’t deny it. To be perfectly frank, it’s the nature of a businessman to make an offer when he sees someone is in trouble. And be assured of one thing, my offer is a good one. But that doesn’t mean I condone murder and arson to buy property.” He leaned closer to Paul. “I’m a builder of railroads, Mr. Sanderson. Twenty years ago the government passed laws permitting us to expropriate land to lay those rails across the country. It was almost a matter of national survival to link the east and west. That’s done, and now we’re trying to link north and south, but without government help to obtain land. Now we have to buy it at the best price we can get it for, and let me tell you, when some farmers and ranchers hear a railroad is going through, their prices go up twenty times. We don’t want to steal land and we don’t try to steal land, but we’ll fight like a bull with his tail twisted when somebody tries to hold us up. If I can’t buy your land and a piece from Wes Laughter, why you just take your ranch and eat it. I’ll run the line on the east side of the Canadian. It’s a little longer that way, but a lot less headache.”